by D P Lyle
“Don’t know. Probably an alarm went off by accident.”
“All those cars? I don’t think so.”
“Maybe a burglary.”
“In this neighborhood?”
“Is Walter here or not?” I asked.
“No. He’s doing a deposition later today so he’s at his office prepping.”
“I’ll catch him there.” I turned and headed toward the drive.
“Jake, you need an appointment.”
I waved and climbed in the car. Tammy walked off the porch into her yard and stared down toward the Plummers’ house. I knew she’d go check it out. It was in her nature to nose into everything and this would be too much to pass up. Then she’d call Walter. Not good. I wanted to talk with him before she had a chance to tell him what was going on. Of course, if he did indeed kill Barbara, he already knew. The evidence at least suggested he just might have been the last person to see her alive.
Was that why Barbara hadn’t walked him to the door last night? Locked up after he left? Last night I had assumed she was too tired to get up, after a couple of hours of horizontal dancing with, as Nicole put it, the “Animal.” But maybe she’d been too dead to get up. Things didn’t look good for old Walter.
“Where to?” Nicole asked when I climbed back in the SL.
“Walter’s office.”
“Where’s that?”
“Orange Beach. The Wharf.”
“Got it.”
“And step on it,” I said.
“Music to my ears.”
The tires spun and squealed and we were off. Should have taken fifteen minutes. Took about seven.
CHAPTER NINE
TAMMY WATCHED THE red SL slide around the corner and out of sight. Jake and his goddamn girl toys. She was absolutely sure it was that golf-course-loving bitch in the car. Her hair seemed a little longer and a little straighter but it was just as blond. Had to be her. She was also sure he had brought her along just to rub it in her face. All those years of him hiding his escapades and now this? He was such an insufferable prick.
She couldn’t deal with that right now. She had other fish to fry. She turned her attention toward the Plummers’. What the hell was going on? Was it a burglary? Something worse? Whatever it was, this many police meant it was juicy. And she was damn sure going to find out before Betsy Friedman did. Then a disturbing thought—What if Betsy already knew? She did live directly across the street from Barbara and Henry. And her nose could sniff out a story in a nanosecond. Gossip was high-value currency in this neighborhood and one-upping Betsy was Tammy’s top priority. Tammy would be the one to dig up the facts. She would be the one everyone invited over for coffee, the one they relied on for information. Not that bitch.
She stepped back inside and inspected herself in the mirror that filled one wall of the entry alcove. Her face was flushed, her hair a mess, sweat stains on her clothes, no makeup. Maybe a shower and a change of clothes first. But that might be just the delay Betsy needed. Screw it. They were just cops after all. Not really important. Well, maybe important when you needed them, but right now she didn’t. Except for whatever tidbits of information she could weasel out of them.
She gave her reflection a closer look. Did she really want to go out in public looking like this? What if someone took a photo and posted it online? Of course, the cops wouldn’t, but Betsy sure as hell would. She’d done it before. Last summer. On the beach. Said she only posted it so her grandkids up in Minnesota could see the sun-drenched beach. Sorry that Tammy’s butt protruded into the picture. Lower right corner. Hanging out of her bathing suit at just the right angle to appear saggy. And that was one thing she did not have. She worked hard at keeping it high and tight.
She turned sideways, inspecting her rear. Perfect, even if she did say so herself. So to hell with Betsy and off she went.
As she neared the Plummers’, two uniformed officers climbed into one of the squad cars and raced up the street. A third walked up the sidewalk toward the front door.
“Excuse me?” Tammy said.
The officer stopped and turned toward her. She recognized him. Couldn’t remember his name but he was the guy from the other night.
“Mrs. Horton,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Now she saw his name tag: Officer B. Cooper.
“What’s going on?” Tammy asked.
“I take it you know the Plummers.” Cooper said. It was sort of a question but more a statement the way he said it.
“Yes. They’re very close friends.”
“I’m sorry.”
She didn’t like the sound of that.
Cooper continued. “Mrs. Plummer was murdered last night.”
Her breath literally left her body. She felt dizzy and staggered a step.
He grabbed her arm, steadying her. “Whoa. You okay?”
“Murdered? When? How? Who?” The questions in her head went to war, each trampling the other in an effort to get out.
“Can’t tell you any more than that. Just that Barbara Plummer was murdered.”
A man in jeans, a white golf shirt, and a gray jacket came down the front steps toward them. “What’s going on here, Cooper?” he asked as he drew near.
“Lives up the street,” Cooper said, as if that explained anything.
“I’m Tammy Horton,” Tammy said. “I live right there.” She pointed toward her house.
The man didn’t bother to look that way but rather kept his eyes focused on her. His gaze seemed overly intense. As if she were a suspect or something.
“I’m Detective Bob Morgan,” he said. Then, “You related to Walter Horton?”
“My husband.” She couldn’t resist a glance toward Betsy’s house, half expecting to see her charging across the street. Trying to steal her gossip before she even had it. No Betsy. She looked back at Morgan. “What happened?”
“Can’t say.”
“But Barbara was murdered?”
Morgan now leveled a harsh glare at Cooper, but when his gaze came back to her it seemed to soften. He gave her a slight nod. “That’s correct.”
“Who would have done such a thing? Here in this neighborhood?”
“That’s what we’re trying to uncover,” Morgan said. “Did you see anything unusual last night?”
“Like what?”
“Anything out of the ordinary. Maybe someone driving by? Or walking around the area? Anyone who shouldn’t be here?”
Tammy shook her head. “Not last night.”
“Not just last night. Any time lately.”
“Just Jake. My ex. Snooping around my house.”
Morgan glanced at Cooper. “That the incident you told me about?”
“Yep.”
Then to Tammy, Morgan said, “You know anyone who might have issues with Barbara Plummer?”
“No. She was a lovely woman.”
He shrugged. “What about her and Henry? Any troubles in paradise?”
“Lord, no. They were a perfect couple. Loved each other very much. You don’t think Henry did this, do you?”
“Do you?”
“Of course not. Henry’s a sweet man. He would never . . .” She couldn’t even finish her thought. Henry? Kill Barbara? Not possible. How could this detective guy stand here and ask such questions? She wasn’t stupid. She knew that’s what cops do. Suspect everyone. Especially the spouse. Even the cops on TV did that. But here? On The Point? Maybe up in Birmingham or over in Atlanta such things happened but not here.
“Heard that before.” Morgan shrugged. “But Henry has a pretty good alibi. He’s in New York.”
“That’s right. I forgot.” She looked at the house, its image blurring as tears collected in her eyes. “Does he know?”
“Yeah. I called him. He’s scrambling for a flight home right now.”
She sniffed and wiped a hand across her nose. “This will kill him.”
He nodded. “I might have more questions for you later.” He handed her a card. “If you th
ink of anything, let me know.”
She didn’t look at the card, her gaze fixed on Barbara and Henry’s front door. What had happened in there? As images from movies, from all those Forensic Files shows she watched, began to form she yanked her thoughts back.
“I’ve got to call Walter,” she said more to herself than to Morgan. She turned toward her home but stood there for a minute. Her feet seemed frozen as if she had forgotten how to walk. “I’ve got to call Walter,” she repeated.
CHAPTER TEN
THE WHARF WAS one of those mixed-use areas that had a marina, popular with fishermen and recreational boaters, both sailors and powerboaters; a coffee shop that also served pastries, salads, sandwiches, and free Wi-Fi; three busy restaurants; a bank of expensive condominiums; and a two-story professional building that housed the offices of Horton, Levine, and Steen; Walter Horton being the founder and senior partner.
Nicole and I took the stairs to the second floor, pushed through double glass doors, and entered Walter’s world. Classy. Top drawer all the way. Soft colors, deep sofas, and smooth jazz that seemed to ooze from the walls. Two people occupied the waiting area: a young woman working on a laptop; an older, well-dressed man thumbing through a copy of Field and Stream, the cover showing a slick green largemouth bass arching from the water, a red-feathered lure hooked in its lip. A middle-aged, stern-faced woman looked up from her anchorage behind the reception desk. The name plate identified her as Constance Streelman, Executive Assistant. She wore a white blouse beneath a gray jacket, glasses hanging from a gold chain around her neck, and a frown that suggested she wasn’t having a good day. When she looked up she did manage a smile. Sort of. Seemed a bit forced.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Need to talk with Walter,” I said.
“And you are?”
“Jake Longly.”
Her gaze shifted to Nicole, a disapproving look, and then back to me. “You don’t have an appointment.”
“I know. But I think he’ll want to talk to me.”
“About?”
“It’s private.”
“I’m sorry. He’s very busy.”
“Let him know I’m here. I think he’ll find the time.”
She hesitated as if deciding exactly how far to push this and then snatched up the phone. After buzzing through to Walter, explaining that Jake Longly “desired a minute,” her exact words, she hung up and stood. “Follow me.” She was not happy.
Walter’s office was spacious, also classy, and definitely expensive. He sat behind his massive desk, top littered with stacks of paper, a thick binder open before him. He stood. His eyes traveled to Nicole.
I dropped in one of the chairs that faced Walter’s desk, Nicole in the other.
“This is Nicole,” I said.
“Nice to meet you.” Then to me, “What can I do for you, Jake?”
“Barbara Plummer. You know her?”
The look on his face suggested that that’s not exactly what he expected. Tension lines formed at the corners of his eyes. Not a good reveal for a poker player. Or a trial lawyer, for that matter. But that was Walter. One of those faces that was an open book.
“Sure,” Walter said. “She and Henry live near us. Why?”
“How well?”
Now he was full-on flustered. “How well do I know her?”
I nodded.
“They’re friends. Why?”
“That’s it? Just friends?”
He settled back into his chair. “What’s this about?”
“When did you see her last?”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a simple question.” I opened my hands toward him. “When was the last time you saw Barbara Plummer?”
He shuffled some pages on his desk, buying time. The tension lines in his face deepened. “I’m not sure. A few days.” He couldn’t look at either of us, keeping his attention on the papers.
As a lawyer, Walter was accustomed to asking questions, not answering them. So I guess I could cut him a dab of slack for being out of practice. Or was it fear that I detected in the creases around his slightly narrowed eyes? If so, my next question would likely cause him to implode.
“Not last night?” I asked.
His gaze snapped up to me. “No. Why?”
“She was murdered last night.”
He paled and wavered in his chair as if blown off-balance by a strong wind. His pupils expanded, gobbling up the blue of his eyes. Was this news to him or was he surprised things were moving so fast? I couldn’t be sure which.
“Barbara? Murdered?” He swallowed hard.
I didn’t respond. Waited him out. Be cool.
“When? Where?”
“Her home. Where you were last night?”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
“I could show you the video.”
“Video?” A slight patina of sweat now frosted his forehead. “What are you talking about?”
“Nicole and I filmed you visiting the late Barbara Plummer. You left a little after midnight.”
He looked at Nicole. She nodded. “It’s true. The video is amazingly clear. So is the audio recording.”
“Jesus.” His head fell forward and he stared at his desktop.
“Tell me, Walter.”
The intercom buzzed. A jerk of surprise and then he punched the button.
“Your wife is on line two.”
Tammy. That didn’t take long. Not that I thought it would. I was sure she had ventured down the street to see what all the action was about. And that had given us just enough time to reach Walter, see his reaction to the news firsthand, before Tammy could scurry back home and call. Nicole’s NASCAR mentality did have certain advantages.
“Thanks, Connie.” He took a deep breath and picked up the phone but said nothing, listening. Tammy’s voice spilled from the handset. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but the timbre was high, almost hysterical, and the words came out rapidly. It sounded like Minnie raging at Mickey. The half of the conversation I could hear went like this:
“I know. Jake’s here.”
“He was?” He looked at me.
“I know. I can’t believe it either.”
“Calm down. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“I have that deposition.”
“No, I can’t cancel it. It’s already been rescheduled twice.”
“I’ll be home early.”
He hung up.
More paper shuffling. Buying time again. Collecting thoughts, I figured. Finally he looked up. “Why were you two outside Barbara’s last night?”
“Can’t say. You know that.”
“Henry? Did he hire you?”
I stared at him.
Walter loosened his tie. I noticed his fingers trembled and his face seemed even paler, the patina of fear-sweat even more pronounced.
“Look, Barbara and I’ve been seeing each other,” Walter said, his voice weak and hoarse. “A few months.” He hesitated. “Actually nearly a year.”
“And last night was another conjugal visit?” I asked.
Walter’s eyes narrowed in a brief flash of anger but then relaxed. “Yes.”
“Let me guess. She was alive and well when you left her?”
“Asleep actually.”
That could explain why she didn’t see him out last night. Again, I waited. Better to let him stew a bit.
“I swear,” he said.
“Doesn’t look good, Walter. You sneaking in and out. Her turning up dead.”
“Do the police know? About Barbara and me? About the video?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. But they will.”
Walter sighed and massaged his temples. “This is a goddamn nightmare.”
I stood. “We’ll leave you to your work.”
Before we could reach the door, Walter said, “Jake? A word?” He glanced at Nicole. “In private.”
“I’ll wait outside,” Nicole said.
> After she left, he said, “Two things. First of all, can’t you keep this under wraps?”
“Can I? You’re the lawyer. What would you advise a client under such circumstances?”
Walter’s face collapsed. “To turn everything over.”
“Then there you go.”
“When will you give them this video?”
“When they ask. And I suspect that’ll be soon.”
“Why?”
“Because I was in the neighborhood night before last. On a case for Ray. Your always-charming wife hammered my car with a golf club. A cop showed up. Then I saw him again this morning when I stopped by the Plummers’ to see what was going on. So, he definitely knows who I am, and I’ll definitely be one of those infamous persons of interest.”
Walter nodded. “And when they do, you’ll have to tell them everything.”
“I suspect so. But if and when will be up to Ray. I work for him.”
Walter now massaged his neck. “This is unbelievable.”
“Did you kill her, Walter?”
“God, no. I . . .”
“You what?”
His eyes glistened. “I loved her.”
That was definitely not the answer I expected. Maybe that Barbara was a distraction. One of those things that just seem to happen. A mistake. But this? This was not even in the ballpark. This wasn’t even the same sport.
“Oh boy,” I said. “Does Tammy know anything? Or suspect anything?”
“No.”
“I don’t envy you that ordeal. Been there. It ain’t pretty.”
Walter nodded, his gaze focused on nothing. The thousand-yard stare. Sometimes the light in the tunnel was indeed a train. Guilty or not, Walter was about to be trampled by the system. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Didn’t quite make up for the hammering old Walter had laid on me during the divorce. Old story. Common story. Woman files for divorce, guts the soon-to-be ex, and then ends up running off with her attorney.
“And the other thing?” I asked.
“That girl.” He nodded toward the door.
“Nicole. Her name’s Nicole.”
“Yeah. I don’t appreciate your airing this in front of her.”
“It’s okay. She’s cool. And she was there. Remember?”