A Specter of Justice

by Mark de Castrique

  I drove up the back way to the Kenilworth Inn Apartments, planning to lug my laundry through a door avoiding the lobby. The rear lot was nearly empty as most residents had left for work. I spotted several spaces close to the door.

  “Sam, you idiot,” I muttered. “It was right under your nose.”

  I pulled beside a silver Honda Civic. Although it was parked facing out, I had no doubt the plate would match the number in my pocket.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Maybe you would have found the car earlier if it had been tied up with a big red bow.” Detective Tuck Efird knelt and peered under the Honda’s front bumper.

  “It wasn’t my job to find it,” I said. His sarcasm didn’t bother me. Lenore Carpenter’s car was literally in my backyard.

  “Damn Japanese cars. None of them ever leak any oil.”

  Efird was checking what I’d looked for before phoning Newland, signs for how long the vehicle had been parked.

  He stood and brushed the dirt from his knees. “So, don’t tell me. This is another attempt to frame Donaldson. The killer left Lenore’s car in the vicinity where Donaldson was assigned last Friday night.”

  “Hewitt Donaldson isn’t stupid.”

  Efird stepped closer to me. “No, he’s not. He’s cunning. He knows he’s going to be a suspect so he frames himself. He’s a guy who can convince a jury black is white and Adolf Hitler was misunderstood.”

  I let him rant. Newland and I would have a more productive conversation later. He’d stayed at the station for his interviews and let Efird take charge of the forensics team at the car.

  “Speak of the devil.” Efird looked past me to the other side of the parking lot.

  Hewitt’s Jaguar swung wide of the patrol cars and stopped in a space at the far edge. The morning sun glinted off his NOT-GIL-T license plate. It had been a statement about his clients. Now it was his own plea.

  Efird licked his finger and stuck it in the air. “Go keep your pal downwind. I don’t want him claiming any hair or fibers we might find blew off him while he was standing by the car.”

  I stared at him a few seconds. “Really? Then I expect a full disclosure on everything you find as soon as your team’s finished. Red bow or no red bow, I found the car less than an hour after Newly gave me the tag number. You had six days.” I spun around and headed for Hewitt’s Jaguar without waiting for a reply.

  I’d phoned Hewitt immediately after notifying Newland. I knew he’d come to see for himself, but I was surprised when Tom Peterson emerged from the passenger’s seat. Hewitt led his new protégé by a few steps, his eyes intent on the Honda.

  “Hold up,” I said. “Efird doesn’t want us any closer.”

  “I don’t see any crime tape,” Peterson argued.

  “No, but I was given a direct order. There’s nothing to be gained by antagonizing them.”

  “Okay,” Hewitt said. “What can you tell us?”

  “Not much. I kept my distance and I kept my prints off the car. But I don’t believe it’s been here the whole time.”

  “How can you be sure?” Peterson asked.

  “Because that’s where I parked last Friday night. The weather was bad and I was surprised to get a spot so close to the door. Nakayla was with me.” I turned to Hewitt. “You called us from the Thirsty Monk at eleven. We’d already been here half an hour. The earliest Lenore’s car could have been parked was six-fifteen the next morning after I drove to the office.”

  “Was Nakayla with you then?” Hewitt asked.

  “No. Her car was here and she came in later.”

  Hewitt stared across the lot to the Civic. “Did you tell Efird that?”

  “No. But I’ll have to tell Newland.”

  Hewitt nodded. “Somebody’s being a little too cute. He probably didn’t want to move the car in the middle of the night on the off chance someone would come in and remember it. But early morning wouldn’t be that unusual and the search for Lenore’s car really hadn’t gotten underway.”

  My phone vibrated. I checked the number. It was familiar but I couldn’t place the caller. “I’d better take this.” I stepped a few yards away. “Sam Blackman.”

  “It’s Collin.” The photographer’s voice was tense. “We need to talk right away.”

  “What about?”

  “I’ve been summoned by the police again. I told you something that wasn’t true, and I want to talk to you before I see them.”

  “Didn’t tell the truth about what?”

  “Angela Douglas. That’s all I’m going to say till we meet.”

  “Where?”

  “Are you at your office?”

  “No, but I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Good.” He hung up.

  Hewitt and Peterson had been watching me and I’d made no effort to hide my surprise.

  “That was Collin McPhillips. I’m going to meet him.”

  “Has he already talked to the police again?” Peterson asked.

  “No. He wants to clear something up with me first.”

  “What?” Hewitt asked.

  “He said he told me a lie about Angela Douglas.”

  “What lie?” Peterson exclaimed.

  “That’s all he said and that’s all I know.” I started for my car. “I’ll brief you later.”

  Although I made it to the office in only fifteen minutes, Collin was already there. He must have phoned from the front of our building. Nakayla had served him a cup of coffee and they were making small talk while waiting.

  “There’s a fresh pot,” Nakayla told me.

  “Thanks. I’m still coffeed out.”

  Collin stood up from the sofa and we shook hands.

  “So, what’s up?” I gestured for him to sit and I took the chair beside Nakayla.

  “There’s a message on my phone from Detective Newland. He called at seven-thirty this morning when I was in the shower. He’s got more questions about that photograph I took.”

  “I’m not surprised. Yours was the only one showing a piece of the killer’s clothing. They’ll introduce it at the trial.”

  Collin patted his camera bag beside him like it was a beloved lap dog. “I know. And I won’t take credit for something I didn’t do.”

  His statement confused me. I leaned forward, anxious for an explanation. “What didn’t you do?”

  “Choose the framing. Angela told me to include the top of the bridge. Everyone jumped to the conclusion I’d composed the photograph. The truth is I’d have shot horizontally because I knew Molly was supposed to walk out from behind a bridge support, but I didn’t know from which side of the road.”

  The prickle in the back of my neck alerted me that the investigation had taken an unexpected and dramatic turn. “Did she say why?”

  “Yeah, that she wanted the shot to line up better with a vertical newspaper column. I was going to humor her and then get more photos with the framing I knew was best. But when the body fell…”

  “Everything went crazy,” I said. “The framing would be the last thing you’d remember.”

  He nodded. “Not until you asked about it, and since it seemed like a good thing, I took the credit.”

  “But you don’t want to say that under oath,” Nakayla said.

  “No. But that’s not my main concern. Suddenly, I get the feeling I’m a suspect. I think the police believe I knew in advance Molly’s body was going to drop from the top.”

  Because you are a suspect, I thought. At least you were. “Has Angela said anything about that photograph?”

  “No. And we haven’t spoken since Tuesday.” He wiped his palms on his knees. “And that’s why I’m here. I don’t mean to get her in trouble, but if the police are suspicious of me, then they should also be suspicious of her.”

  “Did she say anything else to
arouse suspicion?” Nakayla asked.

  Collin gritted his teeth as if the question pained him. I remembered the young man had been attracted to Angela and I wondered if this whole conversation was a reaction to spurned affection.

  “No, she didn’t say anything.” He emphasized the word say. “It’s what she wrote.”

  “I thought she hadn’t finished her article,” I said.

  “She hasn’t. And she hasn’t written anything else I can find. When we disagreed over the style and direction of the story, I searched for other things she’d done. Maybe I was wrong and her instincts were correct. But nada, man. No newspaper bylines, magazine credits, scripts like she touted at our organizational meeting, none of it exists.”

  Nakayla started to rise from her chair. “I can show you some short pieces she posted on abuse.”

  Collin waved her to sit. “I saw those. They’re blogs at best, like ten million other amateurs write. Unless she wrote under another name, the woman is a fraud. Claiming to be a writer is the easiest job to fake. I mean who the hell reads anymore?”

  “Did you confront her?” I asked.

  “No. I just lost interest in the project. Until all the fuss about the photograph. What do you think I should do?”

  I looked to Nakayla. She nodded for me to take the lead.

  “Go straight to Detective Newland. Tell him you talked to us and we advised you to share your thoughts—not accusations. He’ll make of it what he will. If this turns out to be a misunderstanding, you never accused Angela Douglas of anything.”

  Collin visibly relaxed. “Okay. He was the one who contacted me. I’m just anticipating what he’s going to ask.”

  “Exactly. Nakayla and I will explore this through our sources. Do you know where Angela lives?”

  “She’s got an apartment at River Ridge. I don’t know the number.”

  “The ones near the city golf course?” Nakayla asked.

  “Yes.”

  Nakayla stood. She was anxious to get to work. “I should be able to find the address without any trouble.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  Collin grabbed his camera and got to his feet. “No. I’d better get going.”

  I walked him to the elevator. “I advise you to avoid any contact with Angela until this is sorted out.”

  “No problem.” He stepped into the elevator and turned to face me. As the doors closed, he said, “I can smell a big story, Sam. Keep me informed.”

  I let the doors close without answering him.

  When I returned to the office, Nakayla handed me a slip of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “Angela Douglas’ address. I have a friend who works in the rental office. Angela signed a short term lease.”

  “Then I’m going to see her now. What’s your priority?”

  She turned back to her computer. “Playing a hunch. Collin said Angela might have written under a different name. I want to determine if that’s the case. I also want to look for a link between Angela and Jerry Wofford. One thing that’s always bothered me is the match of the Hawaiian shirt to the one Hewitt was wearing.”

  “Everyone knows Hewitt has a penchant for Hawaiian shirts, even in cool weather.”

  “Yes, but the same colors? Someone had to have seen him earlier in the day and planned accordingly. Wofford stopped by when Hewitt was picking up his two-way radio from Nathan, something that Junior Atwood didn’t do. We’ve got to take a look at Angela and Wofford, not Collin and Wofford or Collin and Junior.”

  “Then go for it. Call me if you learn something I can leverage against either one of them.”

  Although I’d never been to the River Ridge apartments, I’d seen the entrance in pursuit of other interests, namely the Highland Brewing Company and its neighbor, Troy and Sons Distillery. One of Asheville’s first craft breweries, Highland had a tasting room and a venue for live music. Troy and Sons specialized in moonshine. Not the rot-gut made in backwoods stills or radiators, but a quality whiskey that I’d serve at the White House if I were president. They couldn’t sell their wares on the premises, but a tour of their operation included sampling the fruits of their labor.

  I glanced wistfully at their sign as I turned right instead of left and entered the landscaped grounds of River Ridge. True to its name, the apartments had been constructed in clusters on the side of the ridge. I imagined rents got higher the farther up the mountain and the more spectacular the view.

  Angela Douglas’ cluster was about halfway up. I located her ground floor unit on the end of a two-story building. Her cement walkway looped around the side where her entrance was protected from the view from the parking lot. Plenty of spaces were available, and I had no idea if her vehicle was one of the few left.

  I pulled beside a pickup with oversized tires that raised the cab so high the driver must have needed an oxygen mask. As I approached Angela’s front door, I noticed the blinds were open, but I saw no movement behind them. I knocked on the front door. It swung open a few inches. The latch hadn’t been fully engaged.

  “Angela? It’s Sam Blackman.”

  No one answered.

  “Angela,” I shouted. “Your door is open.”

  I tensed. She was a single woman living alone who shouldn’t leave her front door unlocked at any time. I nudged it wider until I could peer inside.

  The apartment appeared nearly vacant. To the right, a worn brown sofa sat against the far wall with a scarred coffee table in front of it. No pictures hung on the walls. To the left was a card table and four folding chairs. A cup and saucer were near the edge closest to the kitchen.

  “Angela, I’m coming in.”

  A hallway lay directly across the room from the front door. I stepped to the left, moving closer to the kitchen where I would be out of the line of fire should someone spring from what I assumed must have been a bathroom and at least one bedroom. My Kimber pistol was in my desk drawer back at the office.

  Stopping at the card table, I dipped my finger into the coffee that half filled the cup. Still warm. I strained to hear the slightest sound. A dog yapped outside and someone yelled, “Quiet, Grady.” A small plane droned overhead. Nothing came from the back of the apartment. My apprehension grew in the silence. Two women connected to the ghost tour fundraiser had already been murdered.

  “All right. I’m leaving.” I walked to the door and closed it from the inside. I stood motionless for a full five minutes. Then I moved quickly to the hall, saw an empty bathroom on my left and a single bedroom on the right. Bed sheets were rumpled into a pile beside a mattress on the floor. There was no frame or box springs. The dresser with three open drawers looked like it had come from the same salvage store as the rest of the furniture. A closet held only empty hangers.

  I returned to the bathroom. The mirrored medicine chest was open, but it too was bare. A small white waste bin under the sink contained only a squeezed tube of Crest toothpaste.

  Back in the kitchen, I checked the refrigerator and found a lone can of Diet Coke and a quart of milk sitting on the top shelf. There was nothing else. On the counter, a small coffee maker and bag of ground coffee explained the lukewarm contents of the cup. If Angela lived here, she certainly didn’t own much. Not even a television.

  “Grady, don’t step in your own poop.” The words of wisdom sounded outside the front door.

  I opened it. A lanky, gray-haired man bent over the adjacent grass with his right hand encased in a plastic bag and his left holding the leash attached to a black miniature schnauzer who had his own idea where he wanted to go. The man picked up the dog’s droppings, reversed the bag, and turned at the sound of the door’s creak. The schnauzer started barking.

  “Quiet, Grady!” The man pulled the dog closer to his side. “Sorry, you startled us.”

  “It’s okay, sir. Maybe you can help me. I came by to visit
my friend and found the door open. There’s no sign of her.”

  “The blond woman?”

  “Yes. Angela. Do you know her?”

  “Not really. We’ve said hello a few times when I was walking Grady.”

  The dog wagged his tail and tugged at the leash. I knelt down. “It’s okay. I’m a dog person.”

  The man gave the dog some slack and Grady licked my outstretched hand.

  “I hope she wasn’t your girlfriend,” the man said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Grady and I saw her when we started our walk about fifteen minutes ago. She was carrying suitcases and a bunch of hanging clothes to her car. She must be going on a trip. Did she know you were coming by?”

  I stood. “I thought she did, but maybe I got the time wrong. I guess it’s a good thing I did come by. At least I can lock the door.”

  The man chuckled. “Can’t be too careful these days. That’s why I have a killer schnauzer.”

  I went back inside what I now suspected was Angela’s abandoned apartment. I phoned Nakayla.

  “I think she flew the coop.”

  “When?” Nakayla asked.

  “About twenty minutes ago. Her apartment’s stripped, and there wasn’t much to begin with.”

  “Do you think someone tipped her off?”

  “I wonder if Newly talked to Wofford or Junior and spooked either one. We don’t know what kind of alliances have been formed.”

  “Maybe,” Nakayla said. “I found what might be a possible connection. Jerry Wofford’s wife Margaret signed an open letter along with twenty-five other people to the Colorado Department of Social Services protesting the foster care situation in Denver. It was published on the Op-Ed page of the Denver paper. And we know the Pendleton children were in foster care about that time. I’m going to make my own inquiries using some of the other names that appeared.”

  “Good plan. I’ll call Newly and then I want to follow up with Wofford. Keep me posted.”

  I got Newly’s voicemail. He was probably still conducting his interviews if he was seeing Collin, Wofford, and Junior back to back. I left a message that Angela Douglas might have skipped town and to call me immediately. Then I headed for the office to cool my jets until something broke.