by Mike Lawson
“What! Are you serious?”
“Right before Shannon was killed you accused her of having an affair with your husband. Shannon wrote that you threatened her.”
Carly didn’t speak for a moment, then shook her head. “That was pretty stupid of me. I saw her talking to Jim one day when I’d had too much to drink, and I said a few things I shouldn’t have.” She hesitated. “My husband’s a good-looking man and women are always throwing themselves at him and sometimes I get a little jealous, especially if I’m drinking. But it was just the booze talking and I never would have killed her. And I can tell you right now, my husband is going to be pretty upset that you came to our house and accused me of murder. You don’t really want to piss off the law in this town and my husband is the law.”
“I’m not accusing you of murder. I said you were one of the people who had a motive. And I can take you off my list pretty easily if you’ll answer a couple of questions.”
“Who else is on your list?”
“It doesn’t matter. Do you own a small-caliber pistol?”
“Half the women in Wyoming own small-caliber pistols. They keep them in their cars or their purses for self-protection.”
“Yeah, but do you own one?”
“You said you had a couple of questions. What’s the other one?”
“Where were you the night Shannon was killed?”
“Right here. I’m almost always right here, except for maybe once a week when I get together with a couple of the other moms.”
“Can anyone vouch for you being here?
“Yeah. My boys and my husband. Now I’m going to do you a favor, Mr. DeMarco. I’m not going to tell Jim you were here today because I’m afraid he’ll forget that he’s a cop and beat the living hell out of you. Now I wouldn’t really mind that, seeing as how you’ve insulted me, but he might lose his job. So go away and don’t come back or I will tell Jim you’re hassling me.”
Because she couldn’t stop herself, Carly went to the kitchen and pulled from the refrigerator a half-full bottle of white wine and filled up a jelly jar glass. Normally she didn’t drink until at least four p.m. At four, she’d have a couple of glasses of wine while making dinner before the school bus dropped the boys off. Then after dinner she’d sip wine until she went to bed, making sure Jim and her sons didn’t see how often she refilled her glass. She never got drunk when her sons were home; she just maintained a pleasant glow. The times she really drank were when she went out with her girlfriends, which, as she’d told DeMarco, she did once or twice a week. Jim had told her she was drinking too much and even though she knew he was right, she’d pretty much told him to go fuck himself. He was the reason she drank.
She wondered how long after they got married that he started cheating on her. She guessed it hadn’t been that long, as the first three years they were married she’d been pregnant about half the time and Jim would have had his pick of a lot of women who didn’t have a belly the size of a microwave. Whatever the case, she knew he’d slept with other women in the fifteen years they’d been married. There’d been too many nights when he’d come home with the scent of some bitch on him. And what had she done about it? Not a damn thing.
She had two sons. How would she support them as a single mother? She’d never worked outside the home, never finished college, and she didn’t have any marketable skills. She imagined Jim would pay child support if she divorced him—he loved his boys—but that was never certain. Then there was the fact that she knew Jim didn’t really want a divorce. He loved his sons and in his own way, he loved her too. And that was the root of the problem: love. She loved the son of a bitch, she didn’t want to give him up, and she’d do anything to keep from losing him.
And now, as if her life couldn’t get any worse, she had DeMarco accusing her of murder. There was no way the sheriff’s office would investigate her or even think she was a viable suspect, but what if it wasn’t the sheriff’s office who did the investigating? It was the FBI who’d arrested Sonny Bunt.
She was pretty sure she hadn’t killed Shannon Doyle. She’d wanted to kill the bitch, no doubt about that, but she didn’t think she had. The problem was, she wasn’t positive. That night . . . Well, it was a blur. All she had were fragments of memory, and mostly of things she didn’t want to remember.
She gulped down the wine in the glass and went into the garage. She opened the passenger side door of her car, sat in the passenger seat, opened the glove box, and pulled out the little .22 auto that Jim had given her for a Christmas present ten years ago. He’d actually put it in her Christmas stocking.
She pulled the magazine from the gun and shucked the shells out into her lap. The magazine held seven bullets; there were only two bullets in it. She reached back into the glove compartment and pulled out the small box of ammunition. There were only three bullets rattling around in it; the box held thirty.
The last time she’d used the gun—or at least the last time she remembered using it—was about three months ago. The boys had needed new tennis shoes and they’d gone shopping in Rock Springs. On the way back they passed this spot where there was a high sandy bank and where the locals would go for target practice. As they were passing it, the boys begged her to stop and let them shoot her gun. They knew how to use the gun, of course. In a house filled with firearms, Jim had given them gun safety training when they were about eleven. So she stopped the car and they fired about twenty or so shots at a bunch of tin cans and afterward she forgot to clean the gun and reload the magazine.
And she was almost positive that was the last time she’d used the gun—but, goddamnit, she wasn’t sure.
She took the gun and the box of bullets into the house and got the gun cleaning kit. She poured another glass of wine and started to swab the barrel when she thought: What in the hell are you doing? If they got her gun and did ballistic tests on it they’d be able to prove it was the murder weapon whether it was clean or not.
That is, they’d be able to prove it if it was the murder weapon.
She finished the wine in the glass, then got a quart-size baggie from a drawer and dropped the gun and the bullets in it. She grabbed the baggie, her car keys, and her purse and went back to the garage, where she got a shovel and tossed it into the trunk of her car.
She’d bury the damn thing someplace out on the prairie, someplace where she could recover it after that damn DeMarco was gone. That is, she’d recover it if she could remember where she buried it.
34
DeMarco had noticed that Carly Turner hadn’t denied owning a gun. In fact, she’d pretty much confirmed that she did. As for her being with her husband and her boys the night Shannon was killed, he couldn’t figure out a way to prove if she was lying. Oh, well, he’d accomplished what he’d intended: He’d made sure all his possible suspects knew that he was pursuing them and didn’t intend to stop.
As he drove back to his motel, he checked in his rearview mirror. Tommy was behind him.
DeMarco and Tommy had lunch at Harriet’s, although Tommy sat at the counter while DeMarco ate at one of the tables. When one of the other customers asked Tommy what he was doing in Waverly, Tommy pointed across the street at the trailer park and said, “Waiting for parts for my Airstream. The generator’s on the fritz.”
Following lunch, DeMarco returned to his motel room while Tommy parked in the lot where he could see DeMarco’s room. After ten minutes DeMarco called Tommy and said, “There’s no point you hanging around all afternoon. I don’t think anyone’s going to try anything in broad daylight.”
“That BLM agent was shot in broad daylight,” Tommy said.
“Well, if somebody shoots me with a rifle from half a mile away, there won’t be anything you can do about it anyway. Go sightseeing or something. I’ll meet you down at the Grill for dinner at seven.”
“The Grill?
“The Hacienda Grill. It’s the only other place to ea
t in this town.”
“Okay, but keep the damn vest on.”
Tommy drove off and DeMarco stood in his room for a moment, trying to decide his next move. There wasn’t much to do until one of his suspects took some sort of action, assuming any of them actually would. It was hot in the room and the air conditioner wasn’t working, even though it had been working the night before. He wondered if Lola could have something to do with that. There was a slight breeze outside, so he took the chair from the room and again placed it on the walkway. The walkway had become his balcony, his porch, his front yard.
As he sat there, he wondered why he hadn’t heard from Mahoney. He’d been in Wyoming over a week. Certainly, Mahoney would have returned from China and Vietnam by now.
He used his phone to google Mahoney. Mahoney made the news almost every day by doing or saying something outrageous or picking a fight with one of his brethren across the aisle.
Google informed him that Mahoney was indeed back in the country, but he wasn’t in Washington. He was in Boston. Yesterday some nut had decided to shoot up a Boston shopping mall for reasons no one yet understood and fourteen people had died. Mahoney had gone back to his district to console the survivors and rant about the Republicans’ failure to do anything substantive when it came to gun control. DeMarco was sorry about the reason his boss was too preoccupied to call him and ask what he was doing about the leaker—but he was grateful, nonetheless.
DeMarco looked up from his phone just as a BMW convertible drove through the parking lot, the BMW having come from the area behind the motel where the trailers were parked. He could see Lisa Bunt at the wheel—and at that moment she saw him sitting in front of his room, his chair propped up against the wall. She slammed on the brakes, put the BMW in reverse, and burned rubber steering to a spot in the parking lot near DeMarco. She flung open the door, and without bothering to close it or shut off the BMW’s engine, she strode toward him, looking mad enough to kill.
DeMarco’s first thought was that he’d been wrong about someone not willing to kill him in broad daylight. He was glad he was wearing the vest. His second thought was that he’d been right about Turner calling Lisa after he’d met with Turner in his office. The good news was that Lisa wasn’t carrying a purse or holding a gun in her hand, so DeMarco didn’t move. He just sat there, trying to look nonchalant.
Lisa stopped about two feet from him and pointed a finger at his face. She said, “Listen to me, you jackass! I didn’t have a thing to do with Shannon being murdered. And if you say anything to a reporter about me, I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”
DeMarco said, speaking calmly, “If you didn’t have anything to do with her death then you have nothing to worry about. Where were you the night she was killed?”
“Fuck you!” Lisa screamed and returned to her car. She drove out of the parking lot, her tires squealing on the asphalt, and turned onto the highway without stopping first.
DeMarco was surprised that Lisa had confronted him. He’d figured that if anyone would lose control, it would be Carly Turner. He could see Carly having a few drinks, working herself into a rage, and threatening him the way she’d threatened Shannon. He’d thought that Lisa was different, that she was a woman who wouldn’t allow passion to affect her judgment; there’d certainly been no passion involved in her marrying Hiram Bunt. On the other hand, she was having an affair with Jim Turner, so maybe she wasn’t as cold and rational as he’d thought.
DeMarco and Tommy had dinner at the Hacienda Grill, again sitting apart. DeMarco ordered a pre-dinner martini and a ribeye steak. He was feeling good because he’d spent the day riling people up, which might eventually result in something positive. Tommy didn’t order any alcohol with his dinner, but not because he was on duty. Tommy had sworn off booze some time ago.
About nine, as it was growing dark outside, they left the restaurant, DeMarco departing first and Tommy immediately after him.
DeMarco pulled into the motel parking lot, and into a vacant parking space twenty feet from his room. The only parking spot Tommy could find was at the far end of the parking lot, a good fifty yards from DeMarco’s room, but he could see DeMarco’s door from his position. The plan was for Tommy to stick around for a while and see if any of DeMarco’s suspects came to pay him a visit. When DeMarco turned out the lights in his room, to indicate he was going to bed, Tommy would go back to his trailer. DeMarco would call Tommy if he had any late night guests and Tommy knew DeMarco was smart enough not to open his door to anyone who came a-knockin’.
DeMarco had almost reached the door to his room when two men got out of a van that was parked close to DeMarco’s room and started walking rapidly toward DeMarco. Tommy hadn’t been able to see the men when they were sitting in the van, but now he could see that one of them was holding something in his right hand. A pistol with a long barrel? Whatever it was, Tommy flung open his car door, pulling his gun from its holster as he did, and started jogging in DeMarco’s direction—but he could tell the men were going to reach DeMarco before he could.
DeMarco had his back to the two men as he was inserting the key card in the door to his room. The men were now only a few feet from him. One of them was a tall, fat man with greasy black hair hanging down to his shoulders. He must have weighed almost three hundred pounds. He was wearing a floral-patterned Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts that reached below his knees, and flip-flops. The other guy was shorter than the fat man but had the build of a weightlifter; he was wearing a white wife-beater T-shirt to show off his muscles. Both men were holding pieces of pipe that were about eighteen inches long.
Before DeMarco could open his door, the fat man called out, “Hey! We want to talk to you.”
DeMarco turned to face whoever had spoken—and saw it was two men holding pipes. He thought: Aw, shit. Fortunately, he could also see Tommy coming up rapidly behind them.
DeMarco said, “What about?”
Neither of the two men answered. Instead, they rushed DeMarco and that’s when Tommy also saw they were holding pipes. Tommy thought for a second about shooting one of them in the back but didn’t; he didn’t want to kill anyone. The weightlifter, being faster than the fat man, reached DeMarco first and swung his pipe at DeMarco’s head. DeMarco ducked and the pipe hit the cheap door behind him hard enough to crack the wood. DeMarco immediately charged the weightlifter before he could swing again, wrapping his arms around the man’s thick torso, but by then the fat guy was close enough to swing at DeMarco. His pipe was in position, high above his head, ready to deliver a blow that could possibly be fatal—and Tommy fired a shot into the air.
Both men jerked their heads toward Tommy and DeMarco released his grip on the weightlifter and shoved him away. Tommy said, “Drop those fucking pipes or I’m going to shoot you.”
Tommy was aiming at the two men, holding his pistol in a two-handed grip and moving it from one man to the other. Tommy’s face was grim and it must have been apparent to DeMarco’s attackers that he wasn’t bluffing. The weightlifter looked over at the fat man for guidance. The fat man was looking at Tommy. The fat man finally dropped his pipe on the ground, where it clanged off the concrete walkway, and the weightlifter followed suit.
Tommy said, “Lay down on the ground.”
“Fuck you,” the fat man said. “You’re not a cop. We’re leaving and you can’t stop us. This was just a . . . a misunderstanding.”
Tommy didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger and the bullet hit the motel’s siding, about a foot from the fat man’s head. “Son of a bitch,” the fat man shrieked.
Tommy said, “The next shot’s going to be in your kneecap. Now lay the fuck down.”
The two men knelt—the fat man grunting as he did—and lay face down on the walkway in front of DeMarco’s room. Tommy said to DeMarco, “Call the cops. If these two pieces of shit move, I’ll shoot them.”
Before DeMarco could do anything, a voice called ou
t, “What the hell’s going on?” DeMarco turned his head to see Sam Clarke limping toward him as rapidly as he could. Sam said, “I heard a gunshot.” Then Sam saw Tommy pointing a gun at the two men on the ground.
Sam started to back away when DeMarco said, “Call the sheriff, Sam. These two assholes just tried to kill me.”
The fat man said, “We weren’t going to kill you. We were just going to tune you up a bit.”
“Shut up,” DeMarco said.
Sam returned to his office to call the sheriff. DeMarco kicked the fat man in the side and said, “Who sent you?”
“Fuck you,” the fat man said.
For the next ten minutes, no one said anything. The fat man and the weightlifter remained on the ground, the fat man wheezing, while DeMarco and Tommy stood over them, the pistol in Tommy’s hand pointed at the fat man’s thick left thigh. Sam Clarke had returned from his office after calling 911, but was observing from several feet away. Sam didn’t know what was going on, but he had no intention of getting close enough to get hit if Tommy should fire. A siren could be heard coming down the highway, and a moment later Jim Turner’s cruiser pulled into the parking lot, the light bar on the roof flashing blue and red.
Turner killed the siren but left the roof rack lights spinning and got out of his car. DeMarco noticed that Turner was in civilian clothes, not his uniform. He might have been at home when the call came in about the shooting at the motel and he may have decided to respond himself because he didn’t live that far away.
When Turner saw Tommy was holding a gun, he immediately pulled his service weapon, pointed it at Tommy, and yelled, “Drop that gun!”
Tommy said, “Yes, sir” and put his pistol on the ground.
“What’s going on here?” Turner said. Turner had been so preoccupied with Tommy that he hadn’t noticed DeMarco, but now he did. Turner said, “What the hell? DeMarco, what’s this all about?”
“These two assholes tried to bash in my head in with those pipes,” DeMarco said, pointing to the two pipes laying on the walkway near the fat man and his companion.