“Okay?” I said.
His expression was still agreeable, so I went out the door again.
I started off slowly, jogging as smoothly as I could, but Deeks’s weight shifted on my back as I ran, which threw off my gait. It wasn’t awful, but it was fatiguing enough that I cut my usual loop short. I dropped into a walk about a block from my house, breathing hard despite having gone less than a mile. As I approached my house, I met Dr. McDermott coming down his sidewalk with some letters in his hand. He was a family-practice doctor who had retired before I moved into the neighborhood.
“Hello,” he said. “I timed it right.”
“Hi. I’d like you to meet the new boy in my life. Deacon, meet Dr. McDermott.” I twisted to get Deeks out of my shadow, cast by the streetlamp.
Deeks yapped and tried to climb out of the backpack up onto my shoulder, but he didn’t make it.
“Hey, little guy,” Dr. McDermott said. He reached out his hand, but drew it back when Deeks gagged, then vomited undigested kibble onto my shoulder.
Dr. McDermott looked at me, his lips pursed.
“It’s probably not a good idea to jog right after eating,” I said, using the edge of my hand to sweep off the kibble that had stuck to my shoulder.
“No, probably not.” He took a step back.
“He’s harmless. Has little needle-sharp teeth, but he’s gentle with them.”
“I’m not worried about his teeth. I’m thinking about that vomitus you’re slinging everywhere, not to mention the possibility that you might throw up next. I’ve got to protect my new shoes. Like them?” He turned his ankle out. “I got ’em at Academy.”
They looked like black walking shoes.
“Very nice,” I said.
“Twenty-five bucks,” he said.
“They have some good deals at Academy.”
“What do you do with your dog during the day?” he asked.
“We’re still figuring that out.” I told him about Deeks getting out of the backyard.
“Is he house-trained?”
“We’re working on that, too.”
“Well, when you get it worked out, let me know. I may be able to help you.”
Chapter 9
I didn’t know what to do with Deeks when I left for work the next morning. As of right now he was evidently too small for the backyard to hold him. Somewhere there was a gap in the fence undetectable to the human eye, yet large enough for the little guy to wriggle through. Between the time he got too big to push through the gap and the time he got large enough to leap over the fence, there should be a month or two when I could leave him outside, but I hadn’t yet hit the magic window.
I moved his crate to where he could see through the French doors, then called Dr. McDermott.
“You still have a key to my house, don’t you?” I asked after identifying myself and ascertaining that he had had a good night’s sleep.
“Yes, I’ve still got it. Is this about the dog?”
“Deeks, yes.”
“I thought you said his name was Deacon.”
“He’s such a little guy for a name like Deacon. About half the time I call him Deeks.”
“Okay. What can I do for you and the little guy?”
“I’m leaving him in his crate, but I don’t think he can last the day. If I don’t make it back for lunch, could you let yourself in and let him out in the backyard for a little bit?”
“I guess I can do that.”
I stopped by the police station on my way in. McClane was alone in the homicide division, and he didn’t look all that pleased to see me.
“Hi,” I said brightly.
He didn’t answer until I got to his desk. “You’ve been busy,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Talking to witnesses, showing them pictures of some random woman and asking if it wasn’t Natalie Stevens.”
“I never mentioned Natalie’s name. I just asked if it was the woman they saw.”
“With no reason to think it might have been.”
“I wanted to know what the woman looked like. I had to start somewhere. I asked what about the woman was different from the woman they saw. No one could identify any differences.”
“So whose picture was it?”
“Chloe Stevens, Natalie’s mother-in-law.”
“You think maybe I should put her in a line up?”
“You could.”
“Course now they’d just be identifying your picture.”
“If they’d picked out Natalie, they might just be identifying the picture you showed them,” I said.
He chewed the inside of his cheek as he studied me. “I don’t think I like the way you do business,” he said.
“Did Beecher pick out Natalie?” I asked.
“No. He couldn’t be sure, he said. I’ve got someone else coming in this morning, but I understand you’ve been out to the motel now, you and your cell phone.”
“It may go better than you think. Devon’s seen your suspect’s photograph and knows who you wanted her to identify. Most people want to help out the police.”
“Not Beecher, evidently. Not enough.”
I had to think that was a good thing. “The reason I came by, I wondered if the autopsy report had come in.”
“You might have called, saved yourself a trip.”
“I like to give my winning personality a chance to do its work.”
“Your looks, you mean?”
“I like to think my personality is my real asset.”
“Give me a break.”
I didn’t know whether he was complimenting my looks or dissing my personality. “So the report hasn’t come in?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What then?”
“As I said, I don’t like the way you do business. From now on, I’m gonna let you get your information through the district attorney’s office.”
He rubbed his forehead, and I noticed that the wedding band was back on his ring finger. It didn’t look like we’d be discussing the case over coffee anymore, or discussing his exercise routines, either. As I walked to the door, all but feeling the focus of McClane’s eyes, I decided I was okay with that.
My phone rang a little after ten o’clock. “Ms. Starling, there’s an Austin Reed here to see you.”
It took a second for the penny to drop. “Thanks, Carly. I’ll be right out.”
The girl who stood when I came out into the lobby was tall, a six-footer maybe, and thin to the point of gauntness.
“I’m Austin Reed,” she said, not smiling, keeping both hands thrust into the pockets of her down jacket.
“Robin Starling. Come on back.”
She seated herself in one of the client chairs and crossed her legs. Her jeans were in tatters, and I could see most of one thigh. “So what’s this about Natalie?” she said.
As I related the story Kim Beecher had told, her almost lipless mouth curled in apparent disbelief.
“Doesn’t sound like Natalie?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
“Is she dating anyone?”
“How is that relevant?”
“The case may not be a hit-and-run. There was a motel room rented in her name Sunday night. It may be that the victim was killed in the room, then transported to where it was found and dumped.”
“That sounds like a hit man, not Natalie. Are you suggesting she was hooking up with someone in the motel room? And something went wrong, and she what—bashed him on the head? Stuck him through the ribs?”
“Shot him. Right now I’m just guessing as to cause of death, though. Pretty much everything else, too, for that matter.”
“Well, Natalie isn’t seeing anyone. She has friends of both sexes and probably does things one-on-one with any number of them—not sexual things, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I turned my hands palms-up on my desk. “I’m not thinking anything.”
“She was going out with some guy for about three weeks
back in the fall.”
“Who?”
“Do you really need to know that? It can’t be him.”
“Why not?”
“He proved to be a very unsatisfactory boyfriend. There’s no way she would have gone back to him.”
“Why not?” I asked again.
“Well, take their first date, for example. They were going to do dinner and a movie, and he was supposed to pick her up at seven. You know when he showed up? Nine-thirty. She’d already changed out of her date clothes, but she put them back on and went with him.”
“Which did she get, dinner or the movie?”
“Popcorn at the movie. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, he said. Woke up, jumped on the phone all in a panic. She was like, okay, anybody can make a mistake. Second date, he picks her up for dinner, and he’s got a buddy with him, a guy Natalie doesn’t even know. All through the meal, the two guys talk about some dumb-ass video game and pretty much ignore her.”
“That doesn’t sound very satisfactory,” I acknowledged. “You’re sure she was over him?”
“As sure as I am of anything.”
“How long have you known Natalie?”
“Since the beginning of the year. We’re both on the soccer team, and they put us in the same dorm room.”
“But you feel like you know her well?”
“Yes.”
“Why would Natalie be in a motel room?”
“What’s her alternative? Home alone with stepmom while daddy’s out of the country?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Did you know she was renting a room?”
“No, actually. I’m surprised to hear it.”
“But you think—”
“I can’t think of any other reason she’d have done it.”
“The boy she was dating,” I said. “Is he over her? Is it possible he’s continued to pursue her, to show up here and there, maybe at the motel? Maybe he didn’t take rejection well, maybe he—”
Austin looked suddenly interested. “Was Natalie marked up pretty bad?”
“Well, no. Not at all that I could tell.”
“I don’t see it then.”
“He’s out of it for sure?”
She nodded decisively.
“But you won’t give me his name.”
She shrugged.
“Why protect him? At worst, I call him or go see him, and he’s a little annoyed.”
She rolled her eyes. “Have it your way.” She gave me a name. “I think he’s from Lynchburg.”
A two-hour drive. It seemed nobody could just be from Richmond.
“Let me bounce one other idea off you,” I said. “I don’t know anything about this dead man, his age, his race, his hair color, anything. I had the impression, though, I don’t know where it came from, maybe it’s just a completely unfounded assumption on my part…”
“Are you gonna say it?”
“Before I knew anything about the motel room, I was thinking this hit-and-run victim was older, not a college kid.”
“How old, were you thinking?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“You mean like thirty or something?”
“Maybe. Is it possible Natalie was seeing someone in his late twenties, early thirties, maybe someone who had a wife…”
Austin was shaking her head. “No way,” she said. “There’s no more chance of that than that she was seeing a woman. Or a hermaphrodite.”
“And she’s not…”
She glared at me, her mouth a straight line. I raised a hand in an effort to placate her. “I won’t say anything else,” I said. “I’m in a hole, and I’m just going to stop digging.”
The phone rang when I was looking through my computer files for an old Request for Production I could use as a model for the discovery document that would get me a copy of the autopsy report. My eyes still on the screen, I picked up my phone.
“Robin Starling.”
“Ms. Starling, this is Chloe Stevens. I think you need to get over here right away.” Her voice became a loud stage whisper: “The police are here.”
“Where is here? Your home?”
“Yes, the house, of course.” I let her give me the address, though I had copied it off the ten-thousand-dollar check she had given me and had already gone out there. “How fast can you get here?”
I calculated. “Be close to twenty minutes,” I said.
“They’ll probably be gone by then, but hurry.”
Chapter 10
There were no marked police cars on the street in front of the Stevens’ big sprawling house, but there was a Chevy Impala that looked like Tom McClane’s: The backseat held a familiar-looking collection of fast-food sacks and protein-bar wrappers. One of the house’s twelve-foot-high double doors was standing open, so I poked my head past the edge of it and, seeing no one, went inside.
An octagonal table was in the entrance hall, on it some kind of crystal sculpture that consisted of towering stalagmites going every which way. It almost obscured the larger-than-life oil painting of Chloe Stevens that occupied most of the wall behind it. I could hear voices, but there were openings going in four different directions, so I paused to try to get a sense of where they were coming from. I took my best guess and went right.
They were in a casual living room with four sofas and a couple of easy chairs surrounding a big, square coffee table that looked as if it might weigh as much as my car. There were three of them, Chloe, McClane, and a thin man with wispy blond hair and watery blue eyes. The conversation cut off as I entered the room, and all of them looked at me.
“It’s you,” McClane said by way of greeting.
“I was going to say the same.”
Chloe said, “They found a gun in Natalie’s room.”
“Did you give them permission to search?”
“We had a warrant,” McClane said. “I think you’ll find a copy on a counter in the kitchen.”
“What’s the significance of the gun?” I asked.
“I think you know enough to figure that out.”
“What kind of gun?” I asked Chloe, and she looked appealingly at McClane.
“Glock 32,” he said. “Found it between her mattress and her box springs.”
“Not a very imaginative hiding place, was it?”
“She was arrested no more than twelve hours after she dumped the body. She may not have had time to explore a lot of options.”
So it was no longer a hit-and-run. “Easier to dump a gun than a body,” I said. “I’m assuming the bullet you took out of the wall at the Best Western could have been fired by a Glock 32?”
He exchanged glances with his partner, who said, “It was a .32 caliber, so from what we know right now, sure.”
“Hi. I’m Robin Starling.” I extended my hand, and the thin man took it in a hand with fingers so bony there might have been no flesh on them at all.
“Matt Tarrant.”
“You work with Tom McClane?”
He nodded. They were roughly the same height, but McClane probably had forty pounds on him.
“Is the pistol—revolver?—registered to Natalie Stevens, or do you know?”
“Compact pistol. We don’t know, not yet.”
“I assume you’re taking it with you. Leaving the house with anything else?” To Chloe I added, “They’re supposed to give you a receipt.”
Tarrant moved his head in a quick birdlike gesture. “Some shoes, two towels and two wash cloths.”
“Where are they?”
McClane said, “Sergeant Burrow took them with him. You should find the receipt in the kitchen with the search warrant.”
“So we’re all done here,” I said.
They looked at each other.
“Unless someone would like a beer?” Chloe interjected.
We all looked at her incredulously.
“I’m afraid all we have is Bud Lime, which sounds awful, but Mark likes it. He says it reminds him of the radlers he has somet
imes in Europe.”
“No, thank you,” McClane said. “Middle of the work day and all that.” He jerked his head at his partner. As Chloe and I followed them out of the room, I lifted a framed eight-by-ten photograph of Natalie with a dark-haired man who looked as if he might be in his mid-forties. I raised my eyebrows at Chloe, asking for permission to take it, but she smiled at me uncomprehendingly, so I tucked it into my briefcase. I could deal with uncomprehending.
We stood in the doorway as McClane and Tarrant got into the Impala and pulled away from the curb.
“I guess that’s that,” Chloe said.
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing. What could I tell them? It looks just terrible for poor Natalie, doesn’t it?”
“Not if it’s a hit-and-run. You don’t run over someone with a compact pistol.”
“But Tom said…”
I eyed her. She was on a first-name basis with McClane.
“I have a nice zinfandel open in the refrigerator,” she said. “Why don’t we have a glass?”
“No. Thanks.”
“Well, I’m having one.”
I trailed her back to the kitchen. “I would like to talk about Natalie’s bail,” I said. “Have you talked to a bail bondsman? Would you like me to?”
“Well, I haven’t yet. It’s all happening so fast.” The wine glass thrummed as she slipped it out of the rack. She worked the cork out of a half-full wine bottle and poured.
“What are you waiting for?”
“I’m trying to get hold of Mark.”
“He called me yesterday morning,” I said.
“Did he? What did he say?”
“When did you talk to him?”
“Yesterday morning, I think.”
“So you knew about bail being set at seventy-five thousand dollars when you talked to him?”
She shook her head, took a sip of her wine. “It was a short phone call. I didn’t think about bail until it was over, and then I couldn’t get him back. Are you sure you won’t have a glass? This is a really good wine.”
Dog Law (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) Page 8