Saving Scott (Kobo)

by Terry Odell

  “Or maybe it’s because I’m lazy. It’s easier to start by focusing on one person. Helps narrow potential suspects.”

  “So, what do we know about the victim?” Kovak flipped the marker in his hand.

  “We, as in me? What was in the file I saw. She’s thirty-seven years old, single, and in debt up to her eyeballs. What do you have?”

  “Knocking on doors was basically a wash. I did get one comment from a—” Kovak consulted his notes. “A Belinda Nesbitt. She’s a relative newcomer. Runs a shop full of kitchen gadgets next door to the bakery. She, like everyone else, didn’t see anything. But unlike everyone else, she was willing to bypass the ‘don’t speak ill of the dead’ syndrome and suggested there might be a long list of boyfriends with potential motives.”

  “Names?” Scott asked.

  Kovak snorted. “We should be so lucky. I think a field trip is in order.”

  Scott’s blood started pumping. “I’d better clear it with the chief.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Kovak said. “Meet you out back in five. Use your detective skills to figure out which car is mine.”

  Scott didn’t question Kovak’s ability to get clearance from Laughlin. He made a quick stop at the men’s room, then went out the rear entrance and surveyed the parking area. Two black-and-whites and a crime unit van were obvious. A black Chevy Impala and a gray Dodge Stratus were possibles. The tiny hubcaps, radio antenna, and light bar in the rear window of the Stratus marked it as an official vehicle. He strode toward it and was leaning against the front fender when Kovak approached. The car locks popped open.

  “Next time, give me a hard one,” Scott said, buckling his seatbelt.

  “You got it because Iliff’s Tahoe isn’t parked out here.”

  “Budget cuts haven’t hit personal vehicles yet?” Scott asked. “You don’t have to share? You’ve got it better than I did.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be next, especially since we’ve changed to working alternating three and four twelves instead of five eights. But the chief isn’t going to remind the bean counters.”

  Minutes later, Kovak stopped the car in front of an old but well-maintained redbrick apartment building. Scott eyed the dozens of steps leading to the entrance.

  Eight, he counted. It only looked like dozens. He could do eight. Hopefully, without embarrassing himself. Kovak trotted up the stairs without a backward glance. When Scott reached the top—thankful for only minimal outbursts from his leg—Kovak stood at an open apartment door, thanking a man Scott assumed was the building manager. A reasonable assumption, since there was a plaque on the door that said Manager.

  Haven’t lost your chops.

  The man closed the door. Kovak waved a key and started walking toward the elevator. Inside, he pressed five. “She was two months behind in her rent. The manager’s impatient for any legal necessities to be finished so he can rent it again. He was carrying her because she’d fallen behind once or twice before and always made good. And no, he never saw her bring men home.”

  “His reaction when you reported the death?” Scott asked.

  “He’d already heard. News travels fast around here. Expressed appropriate mumblings of shock, sadness.”

  “Not truly mourning her demise, then,” Scott said. “Already looking to fill the void in his checking account. Your take? Any possible reason to add him to the list of suspects?”

  “I got the impression he was simply being pragmatic. This renter is dead, long live the renter. But I can’t see it as a motive to kill her.”

  Although Scott hadn’t observed the conversation firsthand, he trusted Kovak’s instincts. The elevator doors slid open on the fifth floor. Kovak exited, hesitated, then pointed to his left. Scott followed.

  “Five-seventeen,” Kovak said, stopping at a door halfway down the hall. He went to slot the key into the lock.

  Scott tapped his arm. “Might be prudent to knock first.”

  “The manager said she lived alone. Quiet. Model tenant. Another reason he cut her the slack.”

  Scott fought a rising tide of anxiety. “Still doesn’t mean the apartment is empty.”

  Kovak’s eyes widened. “You mean you think the killer is inside?”

  “Not really. But expecting the worst can extend one’s life expectancy.” Scott fisted his hand and rapped on the door. “Pine Hills Police.”

  ***

  Without thinking, Ashley dashed out of the office behind Maggie and followed her to the parking lot. “I’ll come with you.” She pulled open the passenger door of Maggie’s meticulously maintained Saturn sedan and buckled herself in before Maggie had a chance to protest.

  As they drove toward the Women’s Center, Ashley couldn’t help but notice everything about Maggie seemed tight. Her lips, her hands on the steering wheel, the set of her shoulders.

  “Did Kathleen say what happened to Lorna?” Ashley asked.

  “No, but I’ll bet a year’s supply of Menghai tea that her no-good husband is behind it. Whatever it is.”

  “What can we do? You said she wouldn’t leave him.”

  “First we see what the problem really is. Kathleen’s not one to go off the deep end, but she’s been known to exaggerate from time to time.”

  Ashley hesitated before asking the question that had been rolling around her brain. “What can you tell me about Lorna’s situation? You said she was in an abusive relationship, but when she came to the bakeoff committee meeting, she didn’t look like her husband beat her—at least not physically.”

  “She’s never admitted to him hitting her. But you saw how she dressed that night. She’s always covered from head to toe.”

  “Have you met him? Seen him hit her?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No, although I’m sure he’d seem perfectly normal. Most abusers manage to keep that side of themselves out of the public eye.”

  Ashley wondered what had possessed her to tag along. She wasn’t good in personal crises. How long had she let her parents and Barry dominate her? Easier to be submissive. No wave-making. No following dreams, much less believing they could come true.

  Then again, she had found her inner strength. Maybe she could share some of it with Lorna.

  As if she didn’t already have enough on her mind.

  Maggie swung her Saturn into a parking slot. Ashley hurried to keep up with Maggie’s determined stride. Kathleen Duncan met them at the door.

  “She called me about half an hour ago.” Kathleen fretted with her string of pearls. “I didn’t know what to do. I told her to meet me here. I know it was my turn on the hot line, but—”

  Maggie took Kathleen’s hands. “You did the right thing.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to be on the call list yet.” Kathleen wrenched her hands free and smoothed her hair. “I—what if I say the wrong thing?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Maggie said. “Where’s Lorna?”

  “In the second meeting room,” Kathleen said.

  “You left her alone?” Maggie asked.

  “Only for a minute. I saw your car drive up. I have to go, though. I’m due at the store.”

  “Go ahead. We’ll take over,” Maggie said.

  Relief flooding her face, Kathleen backed away, then turned and rushed for the door.

  Maggie strode down the hall, her red curls bobbing, Ashley at her heels.

  Inside the meeting room, wearing faded jeans, with her face hidden inside a hooded sweatshirt, Lorna sat in a folding chair. Her sneaker-clad feet tapped a rapid cadence on the tile floor.

  Maggie rushed to her side, sat in the chair beside her and rested a hand on Lorna’s shoulder. “What happened, Sweetie?”

  Lorna raised her head and slid the hood off her face. Ashley couldn’t control the gasp when she saw the swelling purple bruise under Lorna’s eye.

  “I tried believing what you said. That it wasn’t my fault. That I wasn’t a bad wife.” Her face went crimson. “He’d said I wasn’t … you know … in bed. I bought
some fancy nightgowns and tried to … you know. He called me a slut and slapped me.”

  A tear trickled down her cheek. “Then I told him I wasn’t going to stand for any more of his … flings.”

  Ashley lowered herself onto the chair on Lorna’s other side. “Is this the first time he’s hit you?”

  Lorna shook her head. “The first time he’s done it where it shows.” She sniffled. “I’m going to leave this time. I really am. But I don’t know where to go, or what I’ll do when I get there.”

  “You can stay at the center for a while,” Maggie said. “Do you have family? Anyone else you can go to?”

  Another head shake. “My parents died when I was little. My great-aunt took me in, but she—well, she did the best she could. When I met Thad—he made me feel like he cared about me. He was so … charming. And—” She ducked her head.

  “He was a way out,” Ashley said. “A new and better life, right?”

  Lorna raised her eyes. “Exactly. How did you know?”

  “I almost fell for the same kind of guy. Except I don’t think he would have abused me. Just stifled me.” Ashley took Lorna’s hand. “You have to believe in yourself. I won’t pretend it’s easy, but you can do it.”

  “Ashley’s right,” Maggie said. “You’ve taken the first step. You’ve let Thad know he’s not getting away with the way he treats you. Now for the hard question. Do you want to try to work things out?”

  Lorna tugged on the sleeves of her sweatshirt. After a moment, she bobbed her head ever so slightly. “When things are good, they’re good. If I knew why he gets so upset, maybe I could fix them.”

  Maggie looked like she was going to say something, then frowned. After a heartbeat or two, she rested a hand on Lorna’s shoulder. “I’ll set up a private counseling session for you tomorrow morning. Then you can decide where to take it. Did you pack a bag before you left?”

  Lorna pointed to an oversized tote under one of the tables against the wall. “Not a lot, but enough for a night or two.”

  After making an appointment with a counselor and getting Lorna settled into one of the guest rooms, Ashley and Maggie headed back to That Special Something.

  “You think she’ll be all right?” Ashley asked.

  “That’s up to her.”

  “But what about her husband? He’s the one who’ll have to change. Do you think he will?”

  Maggie sighed. “I’ve never met him. But plenty of his type. He’s got to want it. I have to believe it’s possible. I’ve tried to get Lorna to understand it’s not her fault. It’s all too common for a woman to believe she’s to blame. I hope the counselors will help her see that the truth of the situation. And that her husband will be willing to attend sessions. So many men refuse to think they could possibly be in the wrong.”

  As they pulled into the parking lot, Ashley said, “I need to check on things at the bakery.” She wasn’t ready for a heart-to-heart with Maggie, who undoubtedly would want to know what Ashley had meant when she’d told Lorna she’d been in her situation.

  She let herself in through the back door. Her cleaning supplies hadn’t done their work by themselves. She started with the floor, scrubbing with more vigor than the task required. The added benefit was that the sheer physical exertion helped disperse some of the pent up anxiety.

  A tapping at the back door interrupted her labor. Ashley tiptoed across the wet floor to answer it. Belinda stood there, the solemn expression on her face contrasting with the cheery yellow apron she wore.

  “Ashley, a cop came by this morning asking about Felicity. He said they found her in your bakery. What a shock. Are you all right?”

  Ashley nodded. “They’re still trying to figure out why she was in here.”

  Belinda craned her neck, looking past Ashley into the bakery. “Was it—gross?”

  “I never saw the body.” She shuddered at the thought of Felicity as a body. “And there wasn’t any blood or anything. But I’m still cleaning.”

  “Well, I told the cops they should be checking into Felicity’s love life. She definitely had a string of boyfriends.” Belinda lowered her voice. “Sometimes more than one. Could be a jealous lover.”

  Ashley made a mental note to ask Scott if the cops had followed up. Belinda squeezed Ashley’s hand. “I have to get back. If you need anything, or someone to talk to, give a holler. I’m a good listener.”

  Belinda dashed through the alley, the ties from her apron floating behind her like yellow butterflies. Ashley closed the door and resumed her cleaning detail.

  Finally satisfied that all traces of Felicity’s death had been scrubbed and disinfected into oblivion, she started on the kitchen appliances. Although there was no reason to believe they’d been contaminated, she knew she couldn’t prepare food until she’d personally cleaned everything.

  Pounding on the back door pulled her away from the sink. Who now? More gossip seekers? She wiped her hands and crossed to the rear of the shop.

  “Ashley Eagan?” A male voice, one she didn’t recognize. She ran through outstanding deliveries and utilities hookups. Right. The phone company had said they’d be by.

  She opened the door to a rotund, balding man. Shoving a recorder at her face.

  “Miss Eagan? Howard Vossler with the Pine Hills Bee. What was it like, finding a dead body in your store?”

  Chapter 12

  After rapping on the door, Scott stepped aside. Cops didn’t call doorways vertical coffins for nothing. Doors didn’t stop bullets. His skin went clammy. His breathing accelerated.

  “Hey, you all right?” Kovak’s voice brought him back.

  Not trusting his voice, Scott nodded. Damn, this was nothing like what happened at the bank. Transference, or something like that, the shrink had said. Part of why he’d quit. Any semblance of a potentially dangerous situation sent him to what he’d named his Dark Place. As if giving it a name made it easier to cope with.

  “Nobody’s answering,” Kovak’s stare bored into Scott. “I’m going to unlock the door now.”

  Resentment replaced anxiety at Kovak’s tone. Damn, Scott liked it better when he was up on that stupid pedestal instead of being treated like a rookie. Yet despite logic saying this was an empty apartment, his eyes automatically sought Kovak’s weapon. Kovak’s lips flattened, but he unsnapped the holster.

  “I’ll go in first,” Kovak said, tapping the butt of his SIG Sauer, as if to reassure Scott that he would take care of him. “I’ll let you know if it’s clear.”

  As soon as Kovak entered the apartment, Scott leaned against the cool wall beside the door, sucking air. Cursing himself for succumbing to a trip through his Dark Place, he dug his fingernails into his palms, the pain centering him.

  It’s broad daylight. You’re awake. Kovak’s got the weapon. It’s standard procedure for him to clear the room.

  Scott was a civilian. A consultant. He’d never have let anyone enter a potentially dangerous situation when he was a cop. Kovak was doing the right thing. No need to feel like he’d been relegated to the kids’ table at the holiday dinner.

  “Clear.” Kovak’s voice preceded him to the doorway.

  As soon as Scott stepped inside, the constriction in his chest eased. This was as routine and familiar as the burnt sludge at the station.

  Home.

  “I’m going to run down and get my kit,” Kovak said. “You can start looking around.”

  Scott stepped into the living room, closed his eyes and took a breath.

  All right, Felicity Markham. Who were you, and who wanted you dead?

  Felicity’s decor suited the character of the older building. Comfortable sofa, overstuffed chair with a matching ottoman. A large rag rug under the oak dining room table. He moved into the kitchen, not surprised to see shelves of teapots along one wall. Some were plain ceramic, in a variety of colors. Others had patterns on them, from florals to modern geometrics. Some were red clay, and didn’t look big enough to hold more than a tiny cup of tea.
/>   Kovak’s footfalls disturbed Scott’s contemplations. “Got a camera?” Scott asked.

  In response, Kovak started shooting pictures. “Man, who needs that many teapots? Think she hid something inside one of them? Something the killer wanted? Connor’s going to love printing all of them.”

  Scott perused the shelves. “Not sure that’s necessary. Look at them. Perfectly aligned. I can’t imagine someone looking inside each one without messing them up some.”

  “Maybe the killer took the whole thing.”

  “There are no gaps in the shelves. Unlikely he’d take the time to rearrange them so the spacing is even again.”

  Kovak cocked his head. “You’re saying ‘he.’ I thought poison was a woman’s crime.”

  “True. But I tend to lump bad guys into the masculine until I have actual suspects.”

  “Works for me. Since drugs are front and center, I’ll check the bedroom and bathroom.” He reached into his kit and pulled out latex gloves, snapping his hands into a pair and handing the other to Scott.

  Definitely feels like home.

  “I’ll take the rest of the kitchen.” Scott donned his gloves, then opened cabinets. The usual suspects. Dishes, pots, pans. His pulse quickened when he found a shelf of what appeared to be medicine bottles in the cabinet next to the sink.

  Vitamins from A to Zinc, and supplements he’d never heard of, but not even an aspirin bottle. Because he was thorough, he opened each bottle, looking for any pills or capsules that didn’t seem to belong, although he didn’t buy that Felicity Markham would have hidden painkillers amongst her vitamins.

  “You find any drugs?” he called to Kovak. “From what’s in here, she’s a health nut.”

  “I’ll buy that. Nothing here more potent than toothpaste. And it’s some kind of organic brand I’ve never seen before.”

  Scott joined Kovak in the bedroom, where the detective was opening night table drawers. “Reinforces our homicide over suicide, I’d say.”

  “So, what else can we learn about our victim?” Scott asked.

  “I looked at the second bedroom. Dedicated exercise room. Mirrors on one wall. Television. Music setup. Treadmill, bike, and one of those rubbery mat things. Yoga or Pilates, probably.”