Deadly Guild (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 3)

by Renee Pawlish

  “She hadn’t counted on the doorbell cam.”

  Tara shook her head derisively. “Yeah, that’s tripping up more and more people.”

  “What about drowning?” I asked. “Did Eve want to know what happens when a person drowns?”

  “No, nothing on that so far, but I’ll keep looking.”

  I pursed my lips. “Maybe she assumed a drowning death would be easy, not traceable,” I said, trying to convince myself that Eve murdered Jonathan Hall. It wasn’t working very well. I couldn’t see her being able to hold down a big man like Hall. I continued to look at Tara’s monitor. “What else have you discovered?”

  “I’m still working on it. It looks like she belonged to some various chat groups. A couple of them are pretty secretive. It’ll take me some time to see if I can get any chat history.”

  I nodded. “I’d like to know who she was talking to, interview them to see if she’d said anything about her activities.”

  “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

  “I don’t suppose she kept some kind of online diary, or anything that documented what she was doing?”

  Tara shook her head. “No, we’re not that lucky. Apparently, she knew that her internet search history couldn’t convict her, right? It’s considered circumstantial evidence.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. It doesn’t prove anything. But if she wrote down what she was doing, that’s a different thing.”

  I stared at Tara. “What am I missing?”

  She didn’t reply.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I left Tara with her research and circled back with Oakley. “Let’s take separate cars to the hunting shop, in case we need to split up later. And bring the knife.” Oakley nodded at me, and we headed out of the room. Twenty minutes later, I parked behind his Chrysler sedan in front of the hunting and fishing store. I joined him on the sidewalk.

  “You’re going to take this?” he asked as he took off his sunglasses. “Since you talked to him before?”

  I nodded, took the warrant from him, and he politely opened the door for me and we went inside. Palmer was with a customer at the back counter. He looked up at us, his face neutral. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  We stood off to the side and browsed while he chatted with the other customer, a burly man with a beard. They were discussing rods and reels, and Palmer was in no hurry to move him along. The man finally decided on a particular rod, paid for it, and left. We approached the counter. I reintroduced myself and held out the envelope with the warrant.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “It’s a warrant. For the list of people you made that particular folding knife for.”

  Oakley held out the baggie with the knife inside. “This one.”

  Palmer glanced through the warrant, then stared at him. “I know which knife you mean.” He didn’t look pleased now. “My customers aren’t going to like this.”

  “You’d think they would be happy to help, if they’re helping us track down a killer,” I said.

  “Give me a moment.” Palmer moved to the end of the counter where a computer and monitor sat. He perched on a barstool and began typing. “I’ll print you a list. There are six people I made that particular knife for.” His printer croaked to life, then spat out a piece of paper. He handed it to me. “That has the customer names. Those are the addresses they gave me when they paid. As you can see, two of them are out of state.”

  I scanned the list. “You shipped the knives to those two?”

  “Yes.”

  “What can you tell me about these customers?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I deal with a lot of people, so I don’t know.”

  Oakley took a step toward the counter, subtly threatening. “Nothing stands out about them?”

  Palmer shook his head. “Sorry.”

  Apparently, Oakley’s attempt at subtle intimidation hadn’t worked. Palmer had given us the customer names, and even if he did know more, he wasn’t going to tell us. And the warrant didn’t specify that he had to. He frowned, his face saying he was already feeling bad that he’d had to divulge the information he had. Oakley glanced at me, and I signaled to him that we should go.

  “Thanks for your time,” I said to Palmer. “If we need anything else, I can assure you we’ll be back.”

  Palmer had his hands on the counter, and didn’t respond. We walked out of the building. Outside, Oakley donned sunglasses. “How do you want to handle this?”

  I stared at the list. “There’s four men who live locally. Let’s go back to the station, find out what we can about each one, and we’ll split up and talk to them,” I said.

  He glanced at his phone. “I have another update with the chief later. I hope this leads to something.”

  “Me, too.”

  An hour later, I was headed to speak to one of the men on the list, Clive Worchester. At the station, I’d done some research on him, along with another individual, Quinton Myers. I’d called Ernie, and he was going to talk to Myers. Oakley was on the hunt for the other two local names on the list from the hunting shop.

  Clive Worchester, age thirty, came from a wealthy family who lived in the Cherry Creek neighborhood. Clive had graduated from Yale, and from what I could tell, had been at the same job since graduating. He lived in a pricey, high-rise condominium in north Denver. I called his employer and was told Clive had called in sick.

  I parked behind a sleek blue Mercedes, then walked up the street to Clive’s building. The lobby was large, with a waiting area, large art pieces on the walls. A young doorman stared at me as I approached his desk. I showed him my badge. He’d been trained well: his expression didn’t change.

  “How can I help you?” He acted more casual, his demeanor not like James Hackenberg’s butler.

  “I need to talk to Clive Worchester. Is he available?”

  “All visitors must be announced,” the doorman said.

  “No problem.” I smiled at him as he picked up a phone on the desk. He dialed, spoke for a moment, then hung up. He pointed to the elevators at the far end of the lobby. “He’s on the eleventh floor, unit B.”

  I thanked him and strode to the elevators. The ride was quiet and smooth. I barely noticed I was moving. On the eleventh floor, I went to unit B and knocked. A moment later, a man with a shock of blond hair opened the door.

  “You’re Detective Spillman? Did I get that right?” He smiled politely. He wore blue shorts and a white shirt.

  I nodded. “Yes. I was wondering if I could take a few minutes of your time.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I’m in the middle of a murder investigation and you may have information pertinent to the case.”

  He frowned. “That’s bizarre. I’ll help anyway I can, but I think you’re wasting your time.”

  He stepped back and opened the door wider. The condo was a typical, modern open floor plan, with steps down from the door into a huge living room with glass windows that looked out on the Rocky Mountains. The room was sleek, with black leather furniture, modern coffee and end tables, metal lamps, none of it cheap IKEA. His cologne lingered in the air, and rock music played from another room.

  He gestured for me to sit at a couch, and he took the love seat. He crossed one leg over the other and looked at me. “What can I do for you?”

  “I called your office. They said you were sick.”

  He touched his forehead. “A bit of a headache. I took some medication, and I’m feeling better.”

  I’d taken a picture of the knife before I’d left the station, and I handed it to him. “Does this knife look familiar to you?”

  “Yes, it does. I had a knife like that.”

  “Had?”

  He handed the paper back to me. “Yes. I gave it to a friend of mine.”

  “That’s a custom-made knife.”

  He stared at me, blue eyes indifferent. “Yes, that’s true. I used it a time or two, and didn’t like it as much as I thought I wo
uld. So I had something different made for me. My friend had commented that he liked the knife, so I gave it to him.”

  “Did Pete Palmer make the other knife for you?”

  He shook his head. “No, I went somewhere else.”

  “When did you buy the knife?”

  “About a year ago.”

  That matched the information Palmer had given me. “And you gave the knife to?”

  “Bryce Mueller.”

  “When did you give Mueller the knife?”

  Now he cupped his hands around his knee. “A few months back, something like that.”

  “What’s Mueller’s contact info?”

  “You really need to talk to him?”

  “Yes.”

  He stared at me, then pulled out his phone. “Here’s his number. He works downtown, at the Denver Financial Center. He should be at work now.”

  I wrote that down, then flicked a finger at the paper. “What is this knife used for?”

  “Hunting, fishing.”

  I glanced at my surroundings. “You hunt and fish?” I was trying not to judge, but he didn’t look the type.

  “Yes, I do. Not as much as I would like, but I try to get out occasionally.”

  “Which one do you like more?”

  He stood up and went to the windows, hands clasped behind his back. “Either one. It’s a chance to get away. I went with my grandfather, when he was alive. My father detests hunting, but I love it.”

  “Do you ever go down to the Platte River?”

  He turned, his face showing nothing. “No. If I fish, I head out west, get into the mountains.”

  “What can you tell me about Jonathan Hall?”

  “Who?”

  “The name means nothing to you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Where were you a week ago, Tuesday overnight?”

  He gave that thought. “I would’ve been with Bryce. We went out, I had too much to drink, and I crashed at his place.”

  “What about last night?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Again, with Bryce, until very late. Then I was here, alone.”

  “What about Olivia Childress?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Tell me what you know about Nicole Lockwood.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Have you been to the Princeton Motel?”

  “No.” He stared at me. “Detective, what is this about?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t share the details.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “I see. I’m afraid you’re looking in the wrong direction. I don’t know the people you mentioned, and I’ve not been to the Platte. As I told you, I gave that knife to my friend.”

  “You didn’t get the knife back?”

  “No.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to ask him, so I stood up and thanked him for his time. He led me to the door and let me out without another word.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Clive had said that Bryce Mueller worked at the Denver Financial Center, two high-rises on Lincoln and Sherman Streets. It didn’t take me too long to get there, and I parked in a lot across the street from Tower One, a large structure with reflective windows. I called Mueller’s office, found out he was there, and disconnected before the receptionist put the call through. I wanted to take him by surprise, as much as I could, assuming Clive had called him.

  The elevator was crowded and made multiple stops, and I was impatient by the time I got off on the twentieth floor. Freedom Financial Consulting took up the entire floor, and I hurried to the receptionist and asked for Mueller’s supervisor. I wanted that person to clear me to talk to him. The receptionist eyed me curiously as she reached for the phone, then stopped when a man about Clive’s age strode into the lobby.

  “Bryce,” she said. “This woman wants to talk to you.”

  Mueller was in a dark, three-piece suit, striped tie askew. He kept going, and the receptionist called out louder. He turned around, mumbled something about not hearing her, and looked at me warily. “I’m headed out for a quick bite. Can you walk with me?”

  “Of course.” I hurried to the elevator with him. On the ride down, he said, “Clive told me you’d be calling. I really don’t have much to say to you.”

  “Sure, I understand. I’d still like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Okay, but you’re wasting your time.”

  The elevator stopped a few times on the way down, and Bryce clamped his mouth shut. When the doors opened at the lobby, he practically bolted out. I have long legs, but I was having trouble keeping up with him. We went through revolving doors and out into the sunshine. A breeze whipped up, ruffling his dark hair.

  “Clive said he gave you a folding hunting knife,” I began.

  “That’s right. Maybe a few months back.”

  That matched what Clive had said. I pulled a strand of hair out of my face. We stood at the corner of Sherman and Eighteenth and waited for the light.

  “Do you have the knife now?” I asked.

  He hesitated. “Sure. Well, not with me now. It’s at my apartment.”

  “Could you get it for me?”

  “What’s this about? He gave me a knife, big deal.”’

  The light changed, and we hurried across the street.

  “When exactly did he give you the knife?” I went on.

  “Like I said, a while back. I don’t remember the exact night. We went out to eat, and he gave it to me.”

  “What restaurant?”

  “I don’t know. Do you remember exactly what you were doing months ago?”

  We kept walking down Sherman, and he dodged people headed for lunch.

  “Why do you need that kind of knife?” I asked.

  “Because I hunt,” he said.

  “Oh, where?”

  “Sometimes in the mountains, but usually out of state. You sure are nosy.”

  I took no offense at that. “It’s a pretty nice knife; did you pay for it?”

  “He gave it to me.”

  I switched topics, trying not to give him time to think. “What were you doing last night?”

  “I hung out with Clive, and then I went home.”

  “Alone?”

  “My girlfriend was there.”

  “What about a week ago? Tuesday overnight?”

  “Clive and I went out, and then he crashed at my place.”

  “Was your girlfriend there?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Can she verify that?”

  “You’re not going to bother her with questions.”

  “So you won’t let me talk to her.”

  “No.”

  “Where did you and Clive go?”

  “The Palm. Do you know it?” he asked skeptically.

  “Yes, actually I do, at the Westin Hotel. I’ve been there a time or two. You’re sure that was the restaurant?”

  “Yes.” He appraised me. “Okay, so you have your answer.”

  We crossed Broadway and he stopped in front of the Brown Palace Hotel. “I have to meet somebody for lunch.” He put one hand in his pocket and stared at me. “I don’t know what these questions are all about. Clive said something about a murder investigation. But you’re barking up the wrong tree. I didn’t have anything to do with any murder. I don’t know a Jonathan Hall or an Olivia Childress, and I haven’t been to the Platte.” He sneered. “Yeah, Clive told me all about it. Like I said, you’re not getting anything from me.” He took a step back. “I don’t have anything else to say to you. I need to meet my friends for lunch.”

  With that, he spun around and walked into the hotel. I had a feeling he was lying to me, so I went around the corner of the building, then peeked back at the entrance. Sure enough, a minute later, Bryce walked back out of the hotel and headed in the opposite direction. I ran after him, and as I drew close, I yelled. He whirled around, saw me, and swore.

  “What do you want?”

  I jerked a
thumb at the hotel. “You lied to me.”

  “Get off my back, okay? I don’t have anything more to say to you.”

  “If you’re lying about meeting someone for lunch, what else would you be lying about?”

  He glared at me. “You want anything else from me, you’ll have to do it through my lawyer.”

  He whirled around and walked away. I watched until he disappeared down the next block, then went back to my car.

  “You think this guy Bryce Mueller is a killer?” Ernie asked me.

  “I don’t know. He’s an A-1 asshole, that’s for sure, and acted guilty as hell, but I don’t know much about him. And of course, we’re back to motive.”

  I was back at my desk. Ernie had just returned from talking to Detective Yamamoto, and he’d been to Olivia Childress’s crime scene. It was still too early in their investigation, and Ernie didn’t have a lot of details, other than that Yamamoto and his team were combing the neighborhood near the park where the girl had been found, talking to everyone they could, and looking for anyone who had surveillance cameras. Oakley had also returned, and we were going over all our information about the knife owners, trying to put things together to find a killer.

  Spats walked in. “Eve Godwin’s husband says there’s no way Eve would’ve killed that teenager, Olivia Childress,” he announced.

  “You believe him?” I asked. “I just want to be sure we can eliminate Eve from this killing.”

  “The husband covered for her before,” Ernie added.

  “Good point.” Spats paced around our desks. “So Eve killed Nicole Lockwood, and then she killed Childress sometime before Sarah talked to her, but nobody discovered the body?”

  Oakley held up a hand. “Or do we have another killer, someone who owned this knife?” He held up the baggie with the folding knife.

  I looked at him. “The two men you talked to still had their knives?”

  “Yep, I saw both knives,” Oakley said.