Her pale fingers toyed with her napkin. The nails were blunt, without polish. “I can’t be quoted,” she blurted out. “Whatever I tell you is background and you can’t divulge the source. Is that agreed?”
I did so reluctantly, after trying without success to persuade her to talk on the record.
“Did she call him?”
“Many times. I could lose my job over this.” She leaned forward, lips tight. “I’m in trouble if I lose this job, but I don’t want to go to jail.”
“If your boss did something wrong, why should you be implicated? You’re just an innocent bystander, working for an honest living in a town where it isn’t easy.”
“I’ve never been in trouble,” she said, “not even a jaywalking ticket.” She used her napkin to blot away a tear with a quick embarrassed motion.
“I’m sure,” I said. “How did he know Kaithlin?”
“She was the mystery woman,” she whispered. “The one I was never supposed to see.”
“But you did see her?”
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“When she called, it was always a major occasion. I’ve never seen him as excited about a client. He even called in the Digger.”
“The Digger?”
“You know, that private detective. Dan Rothman. Everybody calls him the Digger. He’s the one my boss always uses when he has to hire an investigator.”
The mystery woman first called Kagan nearly eight months earlier, Frances said. She left no name or number, but twenty-four hours later a manila envelope arrived, no return address. Kagan’s new prosperity arrived with it, flourishing as more envelopes followed.
“He bought a new Cadillac, new suits, began to update the office equipment,” she said.
“So he did some legal work for her?”
Frances shook her head. “Not that I saw. No legal documents were ever drawn up, no letters dictated, no official file opened. I don’t think he knew exactly who or where she was. He kept urging me to try to get her name or number, but she always refused to leave it. Caller ID only indicated that her calls were from out of the area. Call return was blocked. Eventually he called in the Digger. But everything was secret. They’d stop talking when I walked in.”
“Did they seem worried or apprehensive?”
“Quite the contrary.” She gave a little laugh. “A couple of months ago, they were absolutely giddy, celebrating and high-fiving.”
“There have to be records.”
“There is something”—she lowered her voice—“a fat folder. I saw it open on his desk one day after the Digger came in. But he never sent it out to be filed. He keeps it locked in his desk.”
The mystery woman often called Kagan for lengthy conversations. Envelopes arrived about once a month. Several weeks ago, Frances said, the routine suddenly changed. The mystery woman called and, for the first time, left a number, insisting he contact her at once. The number was local.
Startled, the lawyer canceled all other appointments and hastily summoned the Digger to a private conference. When the woman called again, a face-to-face meeting was arranged.
“So, that’s when you saw her?”
“I wasn’t supposed to. My boss sent me home early, something he never does. He insisted, practically shoved me out the door. I suspected something shady or a sexual liaison. That’s happened before. But he usually doesn’t care if I’m there. He just says he doesn’t want to be disturbed. After I left, I stopped at the post office and then, on my way to the Metro Mover, a storm began to blow up all of a sudden. The sky was getting dark. I have a long walk to make my connection and he’d rushed me out in such a hurry I forgot my umbrella, a little collapsible one that I keep in my desk. So I went back to get it, let myself in with my key, and heard them in his office. She was already there.”
“What did you hear?”
“Quarreling; they were threatening each other. It was frightening, as though they might come to blows.”
“What were they saying?”
“I didn’t hear it all. But she was upset about something she’d seen on television. Called him a liar and a thief, said he could be disbarred or go to jail. He laughed, called her names, and said she was the one who stood to lose everything, not him. They accused each other of all sorts of things, extortion, blackmail, lying, stealing. It was horrible. I slipped out the door before they heard me.
“It was already raining. I was under the awning of the building next door, opening my umbrella, when she came out. She was upset, her face red, crying. She walked right past me, to a cabstand. She was putting on big sunglasses and a scarf, but I got a good look at her face first.
“A day or two later, they spoke on the phone again. I only heard snatches of what was said, but it sounded as though they’d calmed down and reached some sort of agreement. She refused to come to the office again; I heard that. He said he would see her, go to meet her, that evening. She never called again.”
“What did she look like?” I asked.
“Very attractive. I never saw her in person again after that day,” she said, “but I saw her in your newspaper, after they identified her as the dead woman on the beach. When I saw the story, I counted back the days. Her body was found the morning after he arranged to meet her. You realize what that means?”
She stared bleakly across the table at me, shoulders sagging, her fingers working nervously together.
“I didn’t have my glasses on when you walked in this morning. For a moment I thought you were her. I knew, of course, that you couldn’t be. I guess I was somehow hoping to be wrong…”
“Will you tell all this to the detective?”
“I can’t.” Her mouth quivered.
“Why? How important is keeping your job if—”
“It’s more than that,” she interrupted. “If he committed a crime, he won’t go down alone. That’s what he’s like. I could be in serious trouble. If he even suspected that I talked to you—.”
“That won’t happen,” I assured her.
“Oh, my God,” she said suddenly, “look at the time! I have to get back. Remember, we never talked.” She folded her untouched pastry into a paper napkin and gathered her things.
She carefully checked to be sure no one was watching before exiting my car two blocks from Kagan’s office, then rushed away, nearly stumbling on the curb in her haste.
I walked into the newsroom, scooped up my ringing phone, and slid into my chair.
“I saw you,” the caller said softly, “early the other morning, jogging in the rain.”
He had been watching. “Yes, that was me.” I tried to sound cheerful.
“You demonstrate an admirable dedication to physical fitness, or you have trouble sleeping. Which is it?”
I didn’t answer.
“Saw you start to limp. Hope you didn’t pull a muscle. Looked more like a charley horse or a cramp,” he said.
“Oh?” I said, as though I didn’t recall.
“You never looked up,” he said accusingly. “You knew I was there.”
“Tsk, I forgot,” I said lightly. “That’s right, your building is somewhere along that stretch.”
“I have something for you.” He lowered his voice to a suggestive register. “A story.”
“Oh?” I rolled up to my terminal and opened a file.
“Yes but, tsk, I forgot.”
“Don’t tease me, Zack. I’m in no mood for games. Come on,” I coaxed, “spill it. I won’t forget again.”
“One of those big earthmoving machines the city uses for beach maintenance backed over a sleeping sunbather. An older man. Tourist, I think.”
“Oh, no. How badly is he hurt?” I took notes.
“He didn’t look good. The medics worked on him. He was trapped underneath. They had to jack up the whole damn machine to get him out. They took him away a little while ago. The cops and the driver are still there.”
“You should have called me right away,” I said.
“
I did, but you didn’t answer.”
“I just walked in the door. Thanks, Zack. I appreciate it.”
“Wave next time,” he demanded.
I trotted up to the city desk and asked Tubbs to assign a reporter. He scanned the room. “You’ll have to take it, Britt. I’ve got nobody else.”
“But I’m working Jordan full time,” I protested.
“Is there a new development for the street? I didn’t see anything from you on the budget.”
“No,” I admitted, “but I’m working leads.”
“Britt?” Gretchen glanced up from her editing screen. “If you’re tired of your beat and want a change, say so. Until then, I suggest you take this story and follow your leads later.”
She smirked as I left.
The scene was precisely as Marsh reported. The machine operator was distraught, either because of the victim’s injuries or the joint the cops had just found in the cab of his bulldozer. His boss, his union rep, an assistant city manager, and a city attorney were present. None looked happy to see me.
The uniformed cop handling it said that the driver had been rearranging the beach, eroded by heavy winds and waves the night before. The driver insisted that as he pushed drifted sand, the tourist must have spread out his beach towel and reclined behind one of the artificial dunes being created. The operator was backing up and never saw the man, he said, until passersby screamed that someone was caught under the machine.
The victim’s leg was broken and his pelvis crushed, among other injuries.
I ignored the creepy sensation that I was centered in the crosshairs of a zoom lens focused from above. At the first opportunity, I waved.
About to leave, I saw Emery Rychek trudging across the sand. “Hey, kid, it’s déjà vu all over again.”
“They have you working this too?” I protested, aware the city would require an intense investigation and mountains of paperwork due to the potential liability.
“I’m the man,” he said grimly. “Looks like you’re off the story too.”
“They didn’t have anybody else.”
“Welcome to the club,” he said.
Once greeted by the city hall staffers, Rychek was too busy to talk. Besides, I told myself, Frances had sworn me to secrecy, and neither Rychek nor Fitzgerald would consider a twenty-year-old news flash about Kaithlin’s baby more than ancient gossip. That did not explain why I didn’t tell my editors. Would the sordid story about the Jordans’ secret love child interest them? I was afraid it might. Myrna Lewis’s crack about garbage and gossip must have stung more than I realized.
I called the ER at county hospital on the way back to the office. The hapless tourist was still alive, en route to surgery.
As I drove toward Biscayne Boulevard moments later, my cell phone startled me.
“Britt! This is Onnie, in the library. I think I’ve got a hit! I think I found her!”
“Great! You’re sure?” I hit the brake and swooped off the exit ramp, a red light ahead.
“Hell, no. No way to be sure. But she definitely looks good.”
“I’m five minutes away. I’ll be right there.”
14
“Her name is Shannon Broussard, a Seattle woman reported missing by her husband, Preston, three weeks ago!” Onnie handed me the printout, her face as excited as I felt.
“Is there a picture?”
“No, but her description fits Kaithlin Jordan to a T. Husband owns a software company. Two little girls, five and seven.”
Shannon Broussard had failed to return from a three-day shopping trip to New York. She had boarded her flight in Seattle but never checked into her Manhattan hotel, the story said.
Onnie hovered behind my chair as I called Broussard’s Seattle company, my heart pounding. His personal assistant said he was not in the office and not expected.
“I’m calling about his wife,” I said.
“You have news?” she said quickly.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s possible.”
She took my number. He called in less than five minutes.
“You’re in Miami?” He sounded bewildered. “My assistant said you called about Shannon.”
“She hasn’t been located yet?”
“No,” he said, disappointed. He clearly hoped I had called with answers, not questions. “She disappeared in New York City. I just returned from there—with nothing.”
“Was she originally from Miami? Did she ever speak of it?”
“No. She’s from the Midwest.” He sounded weary.
“You have her confused with someone else.”
“When did you meet your wife? How long have you known her?”
“What is this?” he said angrily. “What kind of question is that? We’ve been married for almost nine years.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just hoping to eliminate the possibility up front.”
“What possibility?”
“A few weeks ago,” I said carefully, “a woman was found dead in Miami Beach. We’re trying to determine where she came from, attempting to match her to missing persons reports.”
Silence. “Are you still there?” I asked.
“This…woman, she—she hasn’t been identified?”
“She has and she hasn’t. It’s a long story that I won’t burden you with unless the possibility exists that she might be your wife.”
“How—how did this woman die?”
“She was murdered, drowned in the ocean.”
“That’s not my Shannon,” he said quickly. “She was in New York, not Miami. She’s an excellent swimmer. And she’s not the sort of person anyone would deliberately hurt.”
Children’s voices clamored in the background. “Daddy, Daddy,” one called, “is it Mommy?”
“Please hold on,” he said. I heard him ask someone to take the children into another room.
“Sorry,” he said, upon his return. “They miss her. We all do.”
“Mr. Broussard,” I said, “is there an inscription engraved in your wife’s wedding ring?”
“The same that’s in mine,” he said. “You and no other.”
I felt no elation. Instead, my eyes blurred.
“Mr. Broussard,” I said softly, “I think you should call our medical examiner’s office or the police detective on the case.”
“Oh, my God,” he said. “No! It can’t be.”
He took down the names and numbers I gave him.
“It’s still possible,” he said, voice cracking, “that this is all a coincidence. Isn’t it?”
“I hope so,” I said, certain that it was not.
I replaced the phone in its cradle gently, as though it was something fragile that might shatter.
“You did it,” I told Onnie, who waited, eyes expectant. “The poor guy. I could hear the kids in the background.”
We began a computer check of Seattle newspaper files for background on the Broussards.
The husband called back in less than thirty minutes, his voice shaky and distraught.
“I couldn’t reach the detective,” he said. “They left me on hold, then said he was out. The people at the medical examiner’s office say they have the woman you mentioned under another name: Jordan. I don’t understand. Can you please tell me what’s going on? I’m on my way, but I couldn’t get a direct flight so I won’t be there until late. But I need information, some clue as to what’s happening.”
As I described the life of Kaithlin Jordan, “murdered” by her husband a decade ago, he began to sound relieved, repeating, “That isn’t Shannon. That’s not Shannon,” over and over again.
“She wore an earring,” I finally said. “A small open heart, in gold.”
His breathing began to sound labored, as though he needed oxygen.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“No,” he gasped. “Last Mother’s Day,” he finally whispered. “I took the children to Tiffany’s. They picked them out. She always wore them.”
I had dozens of questions but he was rushing to the airport for the long flight ahead. He promised to call when he arrived, no matter how late.
“I hated it,” I told Onnie later. “I could hear his heart break.”
“We did him a favor,” she said flatly. “It’s better than never knowing, jumping every time the phone rings, searching faces in every crowd, always looking for his wife.”
“But Onnie, he still doesn’t realize she never was his wife. That it was all a lie.”
“Nine years and two kids sounds more married than Kaithlin and R. J.”
“Who, unfortunately, were never divorced.”
The desk opted to hold the story until Kaithlin was positively identified as the woman Preston Broussard knew as his wife, Shannon.
Our computer search of Seattle society pages revealed that, though considered one of the city’s best-dressed women, Shannon Broussard was notoriously camera-shy, a charming eccentricity which, in retrospect, made perfect sense. She raised funds for local charities and won trophies in amateur golf and tennis tournaments. Kaithlin the achiever, I thought.
A charming feature photo of her two children, Devon, then four, and Caitlin, age seven, with their father, a tall, lanky fellow, at a country club Easter-egg hunt indicated they had all been living the good life. What on earth brought her back here to a bad death?
I called Fitzgerald’s hotel and left word canceling our dinner date because I had to work. Hopefully I’d be able to interview Broussard before police whisked him away and the media pack picked up his scent.
Lottie and I grabbed sandwiches in the News cafeteria. “Wonder if he’s another R. J.,” she drawled, as I filled her in. “You know how we tend to repeat our mistakes.”
Was I oversensitive because the truth hurt? I wondered. I had confided to Lottie about Fitzgerald. Did she mean me?
“I doubt it,” I said. “The guy sounds sweet. They have kids; apparently they were happy.”
“If playing house with him was such a fun trip, what from here to Hades was she doing in this town? Lord knows, she’d been through enough to know you don’t squat with your spurs on. Did ya see how good Eunice Jordan looked in some of the pictures I made at the airport? That woman’s gotta be pushing seventy.”
You Only Die Twice Page 17