Ulterior Motives

by Terri Blackstock

  Ben’s breath was coming faster. “What do you mean, something worse?” He paused, and his face drained of color. “If you’d just tell me, straight out, what you want, I know I could get it. Why won’t you just say it? Just tell me, and—” He looked up at her, his eyes dismal. “He hung up.”

  Sharon’s eyes were as defeated as his as she watched him hang up. “What did he say?”

  Ben closed his eyes. “He could tell when he saw the bag that it wasn’t what he wanted. I folded it over when I laid it down, and that clued him. It must be bigger. Longer. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a painting. But which one? There’s nothing of mine that’s valuable enough for murder. Even the pieces I was restoring weren’t that important. And there were some reproductions in the gallery, but who would kill over a reproduction?” In frustration, he threw a pillow across the room. “I just don’t know what he wants!”

  She tried to sort it all out, but she was too tired. “Well, there’s no point in hashing this out right now. I’d go to bed if I were you. There’s nothing more you can do tonight.”

  “You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll call the police station and report this call. At least they can pull Larry and Tony out of there. No use having them stay there any longer for nothing.” He blew out another frustrated breath. “If only I’d had time to hook up a recorder before that call. The cops still don’t believe the first call ever came, and they’re sure not willing to use their own resources to prove it.”

  Wearily, Sharon got up and padded to the doorway, then turned back. “Anne said to wake her up when you got home. She wanted to hear.”

  He nodded. “I’m glad she slept. It’s been a while. I think I’ll just let her keep sleeping.”

  “Whatever.” She paused awkwardly for a moment, then finally whispered, “Good night.”

  “Good night,” he said, then picked up the phone and started to dial.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The crying baby woke Sharon in the middle of the night, and she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling and waiting for someone to quiet him. The crying went on for fifteen minutes, and finally she got up and pulled on her robe. Someone was going to have to attend to him. His parents were so tired that they might not wake up.

  Quietly, she padded up the hall toward the room where she had put his crib, stepped in—and jumped when she saw Anne rocking the screaming baby in a rocking chair.

  “Oh! I didn’t know you were up.”

  Anne shot her a contemptuous look. “You thought I was just letting my baby scream?”

  Sharon sighed. She really wasn’t in the mood for this. “I’ll just go back to bed, then.”

  “I’m sorry he woke you up,” Anne said. “He’s sick. He’s got a fever.”

  Sharon hesitated at the door, then turned back and bent over the baby. She touched his forehead; he was burning up. “Do you need a thermometer?”

  “Yes,” Anne said quietly. “If you have one.”

  Sharon went to the kitchen and found the thermometer, the pediatric Tylenol syrup, and an infant measuring spoon. She brought the thermometer to Anne and watched as she stuck the digital thermometer under the baby’s arm. “Can you give him this?”

  “What is it?”

  “Tylenol,” she said.

  “It might help.” Anne took it, and under her breath, added, “Thank you.”

  Sharon stood there a moment, waiting to see what the temperature was. The little thermometer beeped, and Anne took it out from under his arm. “A hundred one,” she said.

  “He’s pretty congested,” Sharon said, “so he may have an ear infection. Mine used to get them all the time.”

  “I’ve already thought of that,” Anne said wearily. “I just don’t know what I can do about it.”

  “Well, do you want to take him to the doctor?”

  “I can’t afford it,” she said through clenched teeth, shifting the baby to hush him. “We have no money. Don’t you understand?”

  Sharon felt slapped down again. “Look, I’ll be happy to pay the doctor bill.”

  “I don’t want any more favors from you.”

  “Your child is sick!” Sharon blurted. “Besides that, no one in the house can get any sleep until he’s well. Will you please take him to the doctor and let me pay the bill?”

  Tears came to Anne’s eyes as she stared off into the darkness. “All right,” she said. “I guess I have no choice. I’ll take him in the morning.”

  Sharon stormed back to her room and flopped onto the bed, her blood boiling. What had she done to deserve this woman’s wrath? After all, it was Anne who had broken up their family, who had come between Sharon and her husband. How dare she come in here and act like Sharon was her enemy? And while Sharon was trying to help her, for pete’s sake.

  She tried to pray but the words wouldn’t come, and as the baby continued to cry late into the night, she lay sleepless and exhausted, desperate to figure out a solution to this problem that seemed to have no end.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The police station was less chaotic than last time, Sharon thought. She stood just inside the door scanning the desks for Larry or Tony. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and she felt as though she had been beaten during the night.

  As she spotted Tony slumped over his computer, looking just as tired as she felt, she resolved to do something about that situation right now. She headed for his desk, but he didn’t look up from his computer as she approached. He had the weary, distracted look, yet his face reminded her of a younger version of Robert Redford.

  Since the first time she’d met him, she’d been wary of him, for his good looks were like a big red warning sign to be careful. Ben had been too handsome for his own good, too, before he’d grown his hair so long and cultivated that bohemian, too-creative-to- care image. Good-looking men needed constant affirmation and consistent hero worship—if they didn’t get it, they strayed, and told themselves they were right to do so.

  But Tony didn’t look as if he’d spent a lot of time in front of the mirror this morning. He had shaven, but his hair looked more rumpled than usual. His eyes were bloodshot, and she suspected he’d gotten about as much sleep as she had.

  She cleared her throat to get his attention, but still, he didn’t look up. She stepped closer and tried again.

  “Excuse me,” she said. He looked up unappreciatively, but when he saw her, his face changed instantly.

  “Mrs. Robinson,” he said, standing up and reaching to shake her hand.

  “Sharon,” she corrected. “I do still use Robinson, but I dropped the ‘Mrs.’ six years ago. I was hoping you’d be in this morning. I was a little doubtful, since it’s Saturday and you worked so late last night.”

  He gestured for her to sit down and sat back in his own chair. “Yeah, nothing like wasted time.”

  She sat down and leaned forward, trying to keep her voice low enough that others wouldn’t overhear, but loud enough that he could hear her over the din in the station. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I was worried that what happened last night might have led you to believe that . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she struggled to find the right words.

  “That Ben might have been leading us on a wild-goose chase to get himself out from under the glass?”

  She shrugged. “Something like that. I was afraid that you’d come back here and stop investigating—just write the murder off to an angry employee, and quit looking for the real murderer.”

  He leaned his elbows on his desk and took a deep breath. “Sharon, you’re very loyal. That’s admirable. But has it ever occurred to you that your ex-husband may really have done this?”

  “No,” she said with certainty. “Not for a second. It goes completely against everything I know about him. And I’ve known him for twenty years. Two before we were married, twelve years during, and six after.”

  He clasped his hands in front of his face and studied her as she spoke. When he didn’t answer, she leaned back hard in her chair. “Why w
ould I be so intent on proving him innocent if I didn’t believe that?”

  “Because you’re the mother of his children,” Tony said. “Most mothers don’t want their children growing up with the stigma of having a father in prison.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, leaning forward again. “It goes completely against his character, in every way. He’s a make-love- not-war kind of guy. If you knew him like I did, you’d know how absurd this all is.”

  “I’ve seen his temper, Sharon. He’s even admitted to losing it with Dubose.” Tony’s gaze didn’t leave her face as he asked, “When he cheated on you, did you feel you knew him then?”

  She sat slowly back and held Tony’s gaze. “How do you know that’s what happened?”

  He nodded toward his computer screen, and she saw Ben’s name in a block at the top. He had been looking into his background.

  “When I count back from the birth of his next child, I don’t have to be a genius to see that wife number two was pregnant already when the divorce papers were filed.”

  Sharon was getting angry. Was he making her out to be a liar now? “So you know what led to my divorce. I don’t see your point.”

  “Point is, you don’t always know people as well as you think you do.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “And, if he lied and cheated once, maybe he could do it again. Maybe he could have had some motive strong enough to make him want to kill his boss. Maybe it was anger, or maybe it was something else.”

  “Why would he do it?” she asked him. “He’d lose his job, his home, his credit cards, his income—why would he do something so stupid?”

  “He’d already lost those earlier that day.” He turned back to his computer and scrolled down. “I’ve been looking over his history here, Sharon. He looks like a man who doesn’t do a lot of planning. His financial state is a good indication that he flies by the seat of his pants. He doesn’t always think things out.”

  “All right,” she conceded. “He’s definitely guilty of that. But that doesn’t happen to be against the law.”

  “No, but it could be a clue that the man isn’t always going to be predictable. That maybe sometimes he could act in a fit of passion. Artistic temperament can be very bizarre sometimes. Remember Van Gogh?”

  “Van Gogh was insane,” she said. “Ben is not. He’s a little irresponsible, a little self-absorbed, a little scatterbrained, but he is not insane. And he’s not a killer. How could I let him and his family move into my house if I thought for a second that he was?”

  “Instead of proving the probability of his innocence, Sharon, that could just prove the probability of your state of denial.”

  “Denial?” She got to her feet and leaned over his desk, putting her face close to his. “You think I’d take in the man who cheated on me and the woman who wrecked my marriage and the children she rubs in my face—all because I was in denial? Trust me, Tony, there’s no denial here. Neither Ben nor Anne are my favorite people, and frankly, my first instinct is to let them sink or swim. Last night was close to the worst night of my life. This woman hates my guts for existing, and instead of being grateful that I put a roof over her head, she’s spitting nails and acting like I’ve locked her in there by force. If I were in denial, Tony, there might be a lot more harmony around my house right now. But my only thought is to get them out of there as soon as humanly possible. The only way I see to do that is to help Ben prove his innocence. And it looks like I’m going to have to depend a lot on you to do that.”

  Her eyes seared into his, and he sat motionless as she unloaded.

  “Now you can take the easy way out and stamp this case solved, or you can consider some other probabilities. For starters, the probability that I am an intelligent woman who wouldn’t be in the position I’m in unless I had complete faith in Ben Robinson’s innocence. If for no other reason than that, you should at least keep looking. Consider the probability that someone really did call him last night. That I wasn’t hearing things when the phone rang. That someone threatened him and told him to make a delivery at the airport. That he doesn’t have a clue what they want. Could you do that, Detective? Could you just consider it? Just in case you really don’t have all this figured out, and there’s some killer still out there who’s laughing his head off at the St. Clair police for falling so easily for this frame-up?”

  Tony took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes, then leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “For your information, that’s why I came in today, even though it’s my day off and I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’ve already started working on locating other people who may have had vendettas against Dubose. We’ve been in touch with some of his other colleagues, some of his friends, some of the art dealers who frequented the gallery. We’re looking for other motives, Sharon. That hasn’t stopped just because Ben has been charged. But that doesn’t mean that I’m optimistic about finding anything. Ben is the most obvious suspect. Those phone calls—frankly, Sharon, they prove nothing. So he has an accomplice. I’d have guessed that anyway. Probably a woman, based on his history. Sharon, everything points to Ben.”

  “Yeah, like a neon sign. Like big red arrows. What kind of fool would leave that much evidence behind? It’s so obvious that it was a setup. And now this maniac is calling my house, making threats, and I’m afraid of what might happen next!”

  “But you’re not frightened of Ben?”

  “No!” she said too loudly, then realized others were looking her way. Trying to calm herself, she lowered back into her chair. “How many times do I have to tell you? He can’t even spank his children. He barely raised his voice to me in twelve years of marriage.”

  “That is some feat, considering your temper,” he said with a half-grin. “Did you ever get in his face like you did in mine just now?”

  She lowered her face into her hands and gently massaged her tired eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m a little on edge. This may be just another case to you, but it’s altering my whole life. It’s serious.”

  He softened then and looked down at his hands. “I realize that. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I was taking it lightly. I’m really not. I’m working hard on this case because I don’t want to make any mistakes. Whatever you may think about the St. Clair PD, we’re very thorough. Ask Lynda. She knows firsthand.”

  “Well, you can ask Lynda about Ben, too. We’ve been friends a long time, and she’s heard it all.” She was getting very tired, and she felt that her body showed it. She studied him for a moment. “Have you ever been married, Tony?”

  He shook his head and grinned slightly. “Can’t say I’ve had the pressure.”

  She lifted her eyebrows at the play on words. “Then it’s no wonder that you can’t understand how sure I can be that Ben is innocent.”

  Tony stared at her quietly for a moment. “I guess you’re right. I can’t understand it. But I’ll respect it. And I’ll keep it in mind. Fair enough?”

  She nodded and got to her feet again. “It’s fair as long as you find the killer. Do you think whoever did this will come after Ben? Or that he’s a threat to any of us in the house?”

  Tony shook his head. “Sharon, if Ben was set up, then he’s the last one the murderer would want to touch. He wouldn’t want to give himself away. And he sure wouldn’t want to do away with his scapegoat.”

  She considered that. “I guess you’re right.” She reached out to shake his hand again. “I appreciate your time, Detective.”

  “Anytime,” he said, getting to his feet and holding her hand a little longer than necessary. “In fact, if you ever feel like you need to escape the pressure for a while, just give me a call and we’ll go get a cup of coffee or something.”

  She smiled. “I will.”

  “And if you think of anything else I need to know, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  She said good-bye and headed back across the precinct, feeling a little better than she had
when she’d come in. She wasn’t sure whether the visit had been merely therapeutic, or actually helpful. She got to the door and waited as several people came in, then looked quickly back over her shoulder.

  Tony was still watching her.

  Her heart jolted, and she told herself that she’d have to take him up on that cup of coffee soon. As she hurried out the door and back to her car, she had the gentle beginning of a smile on her face.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ben unlocked the door with Jenny’s key, and opened it for the girls. They had gone to the art store to buy supplies for their mural on the tree house, which Ben was determined to paint in spite of the mess he was in. The children were chattering nonstop as they bounced into the house. Then suddenly they fell silent.

  Over their heads, Ben saw the open pantry, the cans that had fallen on the floor, the cabinet doors. The two little girls gasped. “What happened?”

  Jenny grabbed his arm. “Dad, somebody’s been in here.”

  Ben motioned for her to stay back and went into the den. The cushions were on the floor, and books had been pulled off the shelves. He saw that the girls had not obeyed his silent order, and had followed close behind him. He hurried into the living room, and they stood gaping at the scattered cushions and the open closet, its contents spilled out onto the floor.

  “Dad, who could have done this?”

  “Get the girls and go next door,” he said quickly. “Then call the police. Wait there until I come for you.”

  “Why?” Jenny asked. “Do you think whoever did this is still here?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Just do it.”

  She grabbed the girls’ hands. “Come on, kids. We have to go.”

  “But who made this mess?” Christy asked. “Mommy’s gonna die.”

  “I don’t know. Just come on.”

  “What about Daddy?”

  Jenny didn’t answer as she pulled them out the door.

  The police were there in ten minutes, and while Ben followed them around the house, making sure that no one was hidden there, Larry and Tony came in.