“Yeah, I think that would be ok.” Sammy stuffed the money in his pocket and glanced briefly at the card before tucking it in his shirt pocket.
“Is there any way I can get ahold of you if necessary?” Hank asked.
Sammy laughed. “Nope. I cut my phone service off ten years ago, and the place where I’m staying has no address.”
“Is there any place we can find you?” Jake asked.
Sammy though a moment. “I’d rather not say. It’s kind of a secret place, and I wouldn’t want the city to make me leave.”
“Trust me, Sammy,” Hank said. “No one else would know. I have no desire to cause you any trouble.”
Annie added, “We’re just glad you have a safe place.” Hank could see she was drawn to this character as well. He had a certain good-natured charm about him that made him appealing.
Sammy squinted slightly and scrutinized them carefully. “All right,” he said slowly. “But you gotta promise you won’t say anything.”
They promised.
Sammy paused, pushed his cap back, and scratched his head before saying, “If you go under the overpass, where Front Street crosses Richmond River, on the north side of the river, right up the slope until you hit your head on the bridge. You won’t see it unless you’re right up under there.” He grinned. “That’s my current residence. It’s not much, but it’s all mine.”
Jake nodded. “I know the area,” he said.
“Are you sure you don’t want some money? Enough for supper?” Annie asked.
“Thank you, Detective Annie.” He patted the bag over his shoulder and smiled. “I have my supper, right here. And enough for tomorrow.” His smiled turned to a slight frown as he glanced at the bin, and back. “Do you know who she was?”
“We are pretty sure,” Hank said, “But we can’t say anything yet until we notify her husband.”
“Sure, I understand.” He looked at Jake. “If you need any help Detective Jake, just drop by my mansion and I’ll check my calendar. I may be able to fit you in.”
Jake laughed. “I may just take you up on that.”
Hank said, “Sammy, you’ve been a big help and we appreciate it.”
“Any time.” He nodded at Jake and Annie. “Goodbye, Detective Jake, Detective Annie.” Then more seriously to Hank, “I sure hope you find whoever did this.”
“We hope so too.” He offered his hand. “Take care of yourself, Sammy.” They shook, and Sammy watched them as they walked away, and then turned and ambled toward the street.
The forensics van was just leaving. Lisa Krunk and Don seemed to have vanished, the tape had been removed, and everything was back to normal.
Hank walked Jake and Annie to the Firebird. After the two had climbed inside, he leaned against Jake’s open window, and said, “Now I have to tell Anderson Blackley about his wife.”
“That shouldn’t be as bad as it usually is,” Jake said, as he brought the engine roaring to life. “He doesn’t seem to care much about her anyway.”
Hank nodded. “Yeah, but it’s still no fun,” he said, and then stepped back and watched the bright red Pontiac kick up a little gravel and roar from sight around the end of the row of units.
Chapter 25
Thursday, August 18th, 5:15 PM
SAMANTHA RIGGS had arrived at work this morning as usual. The only thing that wasn’t usual is Philip Macy wasn’t there yet. He was always in before her.
And then he had called. He wouldn’t be in today.
When Philip explained his wife had committed suicide the day before, Samantha was distraught, almost hysterical, and was barely able to make it through the day. Couldn’t keep her mind on her work.
It didn’t seem like Abby to take an overdose and end her life. She knew Abby was depressed, but she had known her for a long time. It just didn’t make sense. But, on the other hand, Philip had said the coroner had ruled it as suicide. Perhaps it was.
And now, as she shut down her computer, grabbed her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk, and flicked off the lights, she was feeling a little better. The blow that had overwhelmed her at first had now subsided to a numb sadness.
She felt sympathetic for Philip, and had promised to take care of things at work for as long as he needed. She hoped it wouldn’t be too long, though. It was a small firm, just the two of them now, and a receptionist. When Abby had stopped showing up a few weeks ago, it had put more pressure on the rest of them. And now, at least for a few days, Samantha would have to handle the client load by herself.
She locked the office suite behind her and waited for the elevator. She squeezed into the pack of departing workers; the elevator dropped two floors and the doors opened with a hiss. She stepped out, crossed the lobby, and followed the horde from the high-rise office building, through the spinning door to the street. She caught the first bus and crowded on, standing room only, holding onto an overhead bar as the bus jiggled her homeward.
Fifteen minutes later she stepped off, just a couple of minutes walk from home. But first. She went to a nearby deli for a prepackaged sandwich and some soup in a cardboard container, and then made her way from the main thoroughfare and down a side street to her mundane apartment building, a big square block of bricks and mortar.
Inside the lobby, she checked her mailbox. A couple of bills, a lot of junk, and a hand-addressed envelope. No return address. She stuffed the stack under her arm and climbed one flight of stairs to her apartment.
She dropped everything on her tiny kitchen table and selected a can of Pepsi from the fridge, a glass from the cupboard, and sat down.
She went through the mail as she sipped her soup. The bills would go in a stack to be paid later, the rest was garbage. Except for the curious envelope.
She slit it open with her thumb and withdrew a single sheet of paper. She unfolded it and started to read, her mouth dropping open, her meal forgotten.
Dear Sam,
I am sending this letter to you because I know if nothing happens to me, if I am still ok when you receive this, then you will keep this note, just in case, and not show it to anyone.
However, I am afraid for my life. In the event something happens to me, then please take this letter to the police.
Sam, you are the only one I have told in detail about who I witnessed murdering a woman on Sunday evening. Philip, my dear Philip, believed I saw a murder, but the police did not. And so, I am hoping if this letter has to be revealed, then they will take it seriously now.
The man I saw was Dr. Boris Hoffman. I saw him strangle a woman on the lawn of a neighbor’s house. The woman appeared to be half naked, dressed only in a red bra and panties. I couldn’t see her face and so couldn’t tell who she was.
When he saw me watching him, he chased me, but left when I got to the front door of my home. I am afraid he will return. Since I am a patient of his, he knows me. He had already told the police I am delusional. Believe me, I’m not delusional. I know what I saw.
If I die, I know it will be by his hand. I have no proof. Only what I saw that night.
If I’m dead, they will have to believe me now.
The note was signed and dated.
Samantha sat still for a while, staring unseeing at the paper in her hand, and then folded it carefully, thoughtfully, and stuffed it back into the envelope.
Philip had told her Abby had committed suicide. Did he really believe that? Did the police believe that?
Samantha didn’t believe it now.
She would have to call the police.
She stood and reached for the phone on the counter, picking up the receiver. She hesitated, and then hung it up. She stood for a moment, the note in her hand, and then finally bent down and tucked it carefully into the bottom drawer of the cupboard, safely hidden underneath a stack of magazines.
Thursday, August 18th, 6:18 PM
DETECTIVE HANK CORNING drove down the tree-lined street and squeaked to a stop in front of 90 Berrymore. He had never been here before, but he kn
ew the area well.
He squinted at the house. He wasn’t sure if Anderson Blackley would be home, but when he saw the black Subaru parked in the driveway, he shut off his vehicle and stepped out.
He strode up the pathway, climbed the steps to the front door, and rang the bell.
Blackley came to the door dressed in a housecoat. His hair was damp and needed a comb. Probably just took a shower.
“Anderson Blackley?” Hank asked.
“Yes.”
Hank showed his ID. “I’m Detective Hank Corning. May I come in for a minute?” he asked. “I need to speak to you.”
Blackley stepped back and allowed Hank to enter, leading him into the front room. He motioned toward a chair by the large stone fireplace. Hank sat as Blackley tightened the belt of his housecoat snugly around him and dropped onto the couch. He looked at Hank and waited.
Hank cleared his throat. “Mr. Blackley,” he said. “It’s about your wife.” He cleared his throat again and paused. “I’m sorry, but I have to inform you she has been found. She’s dead.”
Hank waited for Blackley’s response.
Blackley just stared at Hank, unblinking. Finally, he glanced down for a moment, and then back up. “What happened to her,” he asked calmly.
“It appears she has been murdered.”
“How?” Blackley’s voice was low, unemotional.
“She appears to have been strangled.”
Blackley crossed his legs and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He looked around the room, blinking furiously, as if holding back a tear.
Hank watched him, studying him.
Blackley took another deep breath and narrowed his eyes slightly. He looked directly at Hank. “Where did you find her?” he asked.
“She was left in a garbage bin. A homeless man found her there this afternoon and gave us a call.”
Blackley’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened.
Hank continued, “She had been there for three or four days. I just came from there. She has been taken to the city morgue.”
Blackley frowned and shook his head in disgust before saying, “I guess you know her and I were not on the best of terms. We pretty much lived separate lives.” He shook his head slowly. “But, I didn’t expect this. I didn’t want any harm to come to her. I certainly don’t hate her.”
Hank nodded. He understood how marriages could fall apart. His own marriage had not lasted long. Many years ago, after he and his wife had lost their own daughter, diagnosed with a brain tumor at six months old; they had drifted apart, never to get together again.
But he also knew, statistically speaking, most murders are for love or money, and in the death of a married woman, the husband is usually the first suspect. He watched Blackley carefully and said, “Mr. Blackley, the bin where she was found was behind Proper Shoes.”
Blackley stared, his eyes popping. Then he frowned deeply, cocking his head. “You don’t think... I had anything to do with this do you?” he asked slowly.
“At this point we have no suspects,” Hank said.
Anderson was quiet, unmoving.
Hank spoke again, “We’ll need you to identify her body.”
Anderson nodded. “Of course,” he said.
Hank jotted the address down in his notepad and ripped out the page. He leaned forward and handed the paper to Blackley. “Please drop down there any time this evening if possible, or tomorrow morning. This evening would be preferable, before the autopsy is performed, if one is necessary.”
Blackley took the paper and glanced at it briefly before setting it on a stand beside the couch. “I’ll come down right away,” he said.
Chapter 26
Thursday, August 18th, 6:22 PM
A BIG SIGN in front of the building said Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. Anderson Blackley pulled into the parking lot, slipped into a slot, and shut off his vehicle.
He sat there quietly, staring ahead.
What had Vera gotten herself into? He knew she was reckless at times, and her irresponsible nature had gotten her into difficult situations in the past, but he never suspected she would end up dead.
They’d had some good times in the past. When they had first met, he was sure she was the one. They seemed so much in love, nothing could change that. But it did. It wasn’t long after they were married before he suspected she was being unfaithful.
Little things. Like her not wanting to sleep with him as often. Or she was gone a lot, with no explanation of where she had been. And when he was out of town on business, who knows what went on? The last two years had been especially bad, but he had closed his eyes and buried himself in his work.
He sighed and swung the car door open, climbing wearily from the vehicle. He walked slowly to the large front doors of the building and stepped inside.
“Can I help you?” a pretty young receptionist asked as he approached.
“I’m Anderson Blackley. I’m here to identify the body of my wife, Vera Blackley.”
She smiled pleasantly at him. Not too much of a smile, but one probably aimed to put him at ease. She pointed to the side of the room. “If you would have a seat over there, Mr. Blackley, someone will be with you shortly.”
He nodded his thanks and turned around. There was a row of comfortable seats against the wall. He chose one at the far end and sat down. Just like in a doctor’s office, or maybe waiting to see the bank manager. Newspapers and magazines were stacked neatly on a small table in front of him. The smell of fresh flowers on an end table filled the air.
He glanced ahead to the doors leading into the bowels of the building. One would never know from appearances that the stench of death was lurking just behind that polished stainless steel portal. Beautiful lives and happy families, suddenly replaced by despair and interrupted dreams.
Not that this would affect him so much in that way. Suddenly, a strange sense of joy at his newfound freedom washed over him. He immediately felt guilty, banishing the thought from his mind.
He grabbed a magazine and leafed through it absently. His thoughts were far away until he was startled back by a voice beside him. “Mr. Blackley?”
He looked up to see a young man wearing a long white lab coat, waiting for an answer.
Blackley nodded. “I’m Anderson Blackley,” he said as he stood.
The young man smiled. “I’m Dr. Flanders. Please come with me.”
Blackley followed Flanders across the waiting area, through a swinging door, and into a small room, not much larger than his walk-in closet at home.
There was a window on the far wall, five feet ahead. The doctor motioned him forward. As he approached the window, he could see into a large room, sparkling clean, all white and sterile, with gleaming stainless steel everywhere.
He dropped his eyes. A metal table had been pushed up to the window. A large white sheet revealed the distinct shape of a body beneath its snow white covering. A woman stood behind the table, watching him, waiting until he was ready.
Dr. Flanders nodded. The sheet was lifted.
It was her.
There was no mistake. Even though it was white and lifeless, with pale, puckered lips, and shrunken features, he knew that face. The face that had beguiled him once, and had charmed and delighted so many others before him. The face that would attract men no more.
He felt a twinge of sadness. Not for himself, but for her. A small measure of pity for a life that was wasted, and was now gone.
He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. She had drained all his tears long ago, and there were none left. At least, not for her. The love he had once felt was now as cold and lifeless as the body in front of him.
He looked at the doctor and nodded. “It’s her,” he said.
Thursday, August 18th, 6:48 PM
LISA KRUNK was armed to the teeth. She had done her homework.
She hadn’t gotten much from Detective Corning, or the Lincolns, but after talking to the onlookers at the scene, she had gone around the buildin
g and banged relentlessly on the front door of Proper Shoes. An overtime office worker had finally succumbed and opened up. She barged in, and by asking the right questions, had managed to piece together what she needed.
She was pretty sure the body found was that of Vera Blackley.
Lisa supplied the name to her mole inside police headquarters, and a search through computer records had verified it. Vera Blackley, who had been missing since Monday, was now confirmed dead.
She had dropped off the Channel 7 van, and in order to gain the element of surprise, her and Don had used her personal vehicle, a nondescript gray Toyota that would be invisible as she waited at the curb for Anderson Blackley to return home.
It was a stakeout, and worth the wait, if she were to be the first to get this story.
She tapped lightly at the steering wheel, her fingers drumming out the rhythm of the music softly pumping through the speakers. She glanced over at Don. He was dozing as usual, slumped over sideways against the door, snoring quietly, his hands resting on the camera in his lap.
Lisa sat up straight. A car had just pulled into the driveway. She slugged Don on the shoulder and he awoke with a start, shaking his head back to reality.
“He’s here,” Lisa said, as she grabbed the microphone from the dashboard and shoved her door open. Don was right behind her as they dove out and hurried up the driveway to Blackley’s car.
They approached their target just as he stepped from his vehicle and slammed the door behind him. “Anderson Blackley?” Lisa asked.
He spun around. “Yes?”
Lisa had the mike in the air. She pushed it at him. “Mr. Blackley, I’m Lisa Krunk from Channel 7 Action News. May I ask you a few questions?”
Don stood to one side, the camera was humming, red light glowing, waiting for something juicy.
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