by Joseph Badal
Barbara said, “So, you haven’t talked with your daughter for nearly a year, since she started as a freshman at the University of New Mexico?”
“That’s right,” Marge Stanley responded.
“Do you know where we might find her?” Barbara asked.
“Probably with Victoria Comstock.”
Barbara was stunned by the venom in the woman’s voice. She had heard plenty of angry remarks in her career as a cop, but this woman made ‘Victoria Comstock’ sound like a curse. She raised her eyebrows at Susan. “Ms. Stanley, what’s your daughter’s relationship with Victoria Comstock?”
“What did you say your name was, Detective?”
Susan noted that Marge Stanley’s voice was firm and strong.
“Barbara Lassiter.”
“Detective Lassiter, my daughter’s relationship with Victoria Comstock is—how do I put this?—complex. It would take a while to explain.”
“Uh huh,” Barbara said.
“Why do you want to talk with Connie?”
Susan lifted her shoulder and made a “why not” gesture with her hand.
“Someone murdered Mrs. Comstock at her home last night,” Barbara said. “We learned Connie lives with the Comstocks and we want to find out if she saw or heard anything.”
Marge Stanley went silent for at least five seconds. Then she coughed and asked, “Is she all right?”
“I have no clue, Ms. Stanley. We have no evidence that she’s been harmed.”
Stanley paused again and then asked, “She’s a suspect, isn’t she?”
“Everyone’s a suspect at this point,” Barbara said.
“Detective Lassiter, I’ll tell you something and I want you to remember it. Connie might be on your list of suspects because she lives in the Comstock house, but there is no way she could kill that bitch. She thinks . . . thought Victoria Comstock walked on water. Connie’s head was so messed up by that woman she believes Victoria can . . . could do anything.”
“List of suspects?” Barbara asked. “You say that as though there might be other people we should talk to.”
“Hah!” Marge Stanley blurted. “Other people? So many people will be thrilled Victoria Comstock is dead we could have a parade.”
The image of Victoria Comstock on the DVD popped into Susan’s head. Beautiful in her riding outfit, radiant smile, sparkling eyes. She felt empathy for the woman; wanted to find the monster who had mutilated her. She suddenly resented Marge Stanley’s attitude.
“Ms. Stanley,” Barbara said, “Victoria Comstock died a horrible death.”
No response.
“You want to tell me why you feel so strongly about Mrs. Comstock?”
“I’d be happy to. Back when Victoria Comstock was Victoria Gibson, she was my best friend. Until I discovered she was screwing my husband’s brains out.”
“I see,” Barbara said.
“Oh, but you don’t see,” Marge said. “When I discovered Victoria and my husband in my own bed, I sued for divorce. This upset my husband, but he was even more upset when Victoria dumped him right after the divorce was final. Victoria didn’t want him anymore once I didn’t want him. My husband had problems with depression. Victoria dumping him pushed him over the edge. He put a bullet in his brain.”
“Then why is your daughter with the Comstocks?”
“Victoria convinced Connie I was responsible for her father’s suicide. She was just a little girl—six years old—when her father shot himself, so she has no real memory of it. Victoria made me out to be the evil one, responsible for his death. You see, Detective, Connie is the person who is most important to me; therefore, Victoria wanted to take her from me. Just as she took away my husband.”
CHAPTER 6
Thirty minutes after they stopped for lunch at The Grove on Central Avenue, Susan said, “Barbara, You hardly touched your sandwich.”
“Maybe I’ll take it with me.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Just not hungry,” Barbara said.
“Uh-huh. Got the picture of Victoria Comstock in your head.”
“That too.”
Barbara and Susan returned to the squad room at 1:10 p.m. There were only two other detectives there: Gabelli and McMurtree. Barbara felt her back and shoulders tense as she walked down the center space between the two rows of desks. She wondered what the next verbal assault might be. But neither one of the men said a word. Each had his head down, apparently hard at work.
After she got a cup of coffee from the ever-brewing pot, Barbara sat at her desk and pulled up the Albuquerque Journal’s website. Coverage of Victoria Comstock’s murder blanketed the site. A “glamour” photograph of Victoria in an haute couture outfit accompanied the story. The Comstocks had been major players in Albuquerque society. Victoria had sat on the boards of a museum, a micro lending organization, and a women’s shelter. The newspaper’s account of her life made her appear to be the model citizen, practically a saint. It could have been written by a public relations firm. Most of the coverage concerned her life since she married Maxwell Comstock, and on a few facts and plenty of vapid speculation around her death.
By the time Barbara finished with the website, several of the other detectives had come into the office. The men participated in good-natured banter that became louder and louder. But none of it was aimed at her or Susan. She waved at Susan and pointed to an interrogation room next to Lieutenant Salas’s office.
“What’s up?” Susan asked as she pulled the room door closed behind her.
“The squad room’s too noisy for me to concentrate. Besides, I want them to think we came in here to talk about harassment charges.”
“The boys have been on their best behavior,” Susan said.
“Just like little kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. But, don’t get your hopes up,” Barbara said. “This too shall pass. A few more days and they’ll be back to their obnoxious selves.”
“I’ll enjoy it while I can.” Susan flipped open a manila folder and looked quickly at some notes. “Well, we know Judy Turner, the ice princess, lied to us about Maxwell Comstock catching a flight last night.”
Barbara bit a thumbnail and closed her eyes for a couple of seconds. “Possibly. Maybe Maxwell Comstock changed his flight and didn’t tell her. Maybe he missed the eight-thirty evening flight and made his own arrangements to catch the next available one.”
“But why was she so nervous when we asked her about it?” Susan said. “I think Turner has a thing for old Maxwell.”
“That’s a leap.”
“Trust my instincts, partner.” She consulted her notes again. “Comstock said he’d take the first flight he could get back to Albuquerque. I checked. That should put him into the Sunport in about an hour. Let’s go talk to Judy Turner again, before she and Comstock have a chance to meet and coordinate their stories.” Susan smiled and added, “Then we can drive out to the airport and see if she shows up there to meet her boss. I’d like to witness their reunion.”
Barbara called Comstock’s office but got a busy signal. By the time they arrived at his office, Turner was gone. At least the door was locked and nobody answered when they knocked.
Barbara glanced at her watch. “It’s only four-thirty. Must work a short day.”
“Or she’s on the way to the airport to meet poor Maxwell.”
“Or she went home.”
Susan tapped her forehead with a finger as though to jump-start her brain. “Well, let’s see,” she said in a sing-song, “She could have gone to the gym to work on her abs, or she could have had a date tonight, or maybe she went home to be alone.” Susan swept her hair back from the left side of her face a la Greta Garbo. “I vant to be alone.”
Barbara laughed. “Don’t give up your day job. An actress you’re not. Let’s go out to the airport. We should take separate cars in case we have to separate Comstock and Turner. Don’t want them putting their heads together to fabricate a story.”
Susa
n wagged a finger at Barbara and said, “You watch. I’ll bet Comstock has been slipping it to the ice princess.”
“That’s not the impression we got from the maid. She said he treated Mrs. Comstock like a queen.”
“We’ll see,” Susan said. “I’ve just got a feeling.”
The next Southwest Airlines flight from Los Angeles was scheduled to arrive at 5:30 p.m. Barbara parked her Crown Victoria outside the first baggage claim exit at 5:10 and badged the security guard who patrolled the arrivals area. On the top level of the terminal, she found that Susan had already arrived. Inside, the flight arrivals screen showed Comstock’s flight as On Time. Turner wasn’t among the small crowd of people who waited outside the security checkpoint on the airport’s upper level. Barbara stood behind a pillar about twenty yards from the checkpoint, while Susan chose a spot just inside a gift shop entrance. They each had a photograph of Comstock they had copied from the man’s company’s website.
The arrivals screen now showed the Southwest flight as At Gate. Barbara did a quick surveillance of the area. There were about fifty people who waited for arriving passengers—everything from young families with kids, a middle-aged man holding a rose, two teenaged boys in cutoffs and tank tops, with a two-hundred-pound Saint Bernard in tow, to elderly couples and men and women in military uniforms. These people clogged the space between the security checkpoint and the down-escalators. There was no sign of Judy Turner.
A few people were in the Mexican restaurant behind Barbara. A half-dozen people moved around a curio shop across the way. Another ten or so people occupied the gift shop next to it. Still no sight of Judy Turner. Maybe Susan’s assumption that Turner would pick up her boss was incorrect.
Barbara looked past the revolving doors where arriving passengers had to enter. She saw a gang of people moving up the long pastel-colored, Mexican Saltillo-tiled concourse toward the revolving doors. Then she caught a wave from Susan, who pointed toward the far edge of the meet-and-greet crowd. Turner had just gotten off the up escalator.
Barbara peered around her pillar. Turner stopped halfway between the gift shop and the revolving doors, no more than ten yards from Susan, who had turned away and pretended to examine a gift-shop display case crammed with curios.
Susan turned slightly to glance at Barbara, who tipped her head in acknowledgement. In that instant, Judy Turner stepped into the wave of deplaned passengers and approached a silver-haired man. He wore a custom-tailored blue pinstripe suit completed with a yellow power tie, a dark-brown leather briefcase, and a leather garment bag slung over a shoulder. The guy looked exactly as Barbara had imagined—tall and erect, trim, handsome, slicked back salt and pepper hair, master-of-the-universe. Turner threw her arms around his neck, snuggled into him, and kissed his cheek. Just as every secretary greets her boss, Barbara thought.
From their observation posts, Barbara and Susan moved quickly.
“Mr. Comstock?” Barbara asked. She flashed her badge, deftly took his arm, and moved him away from Turner and out of the stream of passengers. Susan grabbed Turner’s arm and pulled her a few feet in the opposite direction.
“That’s right,” the man replied. He shook off her hand.
“Can’t you leave him alone?” Turner exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. “My God, his wife—”
“What do you want?” Comstock demanded of Barbara as Susan moved Turner farther away.
“I’m Detective Lassiter,” Barbara said. “I talked with you on the phone earlier today. That’s my partner, Detective Martinez, with Ms. Turner. I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Can’t this wait?” he asked angrily.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Comstock. I know this is a rough time for you. I offer my condolences, but, no, this can’t wait. You and Ms. Turner need to come downtown. We need to get statements from both of you.”
Comstock’s face turned apoplectic-red. He turned to look at Turner, then looked back at Barbara. “Your timing sucks.”
In an interrogation room at the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department, Judy Turner no longer had the cool ice princess persona she’d displayed in Comstock’s office that morning. Perspiration had formed on her upper lip and her face was flushed.
Susan read Turner her rights, then waited a full minute before she said, “You’d better think about saving your ass, lady. This is murder we’re dealing with. If you and Comstock offed his wife, there’s not much I can do for you. But if you’re just covering for him, you’ve got a chance to get out of this without prison time. You’d better think about it good and hard.”
“What are you talking about?” Turner shouted. “Murder!”
Turner breathed so rapidly now that Susan thought she might hyperventilate.
The woman gripped the edge of the table between her and Susan as though it was a lifeline and lowered her head. “Maxwell wouldn’t hurt his wife. Couldn’t hurt her. He loved Victoria. He was obsessed with her. That bitch made his life miserable and he still loved her. I’m nothing but a part-time replacement. Someone to go to for affection, for sex, to complain to about how Victoria treated him.” She broke down into shuddering sobs. It was a while before she was able to talk again.
“I love Maxwell. I would do anything to make him love me.”
“Well, we know you’ll lie for him,” Susan said.
“What . . .?”
“You told a little white lie this morning when we met with you at your office. About Comstock’s flight to L.A. What else would you do for him? Kill his wife?”
Turner turned to meet Susan’s gaze. She nodded. “If he had asked me to, I would have killed his sick bitch of a wife. I would do anything for Maxwell.”
“Why do you refer to her as a ‘sick bitch?’ ”
Turner closed her eyes, lowered her head, and shook it back and forth several times. When she looked up again, her eyes were wide, as though she had seen the face of evil.
“I can tell you a lot of stories, Detective. But this is one I’ve never been able to get out of my head. Victoria came into the office one day when Maxwell was in an important meeting with investors from Switzerland. She was glowing. From previous experience, I could tell she was on cloud nine about something. She wanted to see Maxwell immediately. When I told her he couldn’t be disturbed, she went from happiness personified to the scariest person I had ever encountered. Her expression changed so quickly, so dramatically; the anger and hatred on her face shocked me. It was as though I’d been assaulted. I fell back into my chair, speechless. She called me a bitch and then breezed into Maxwell’s office. I heard nothing for a couple minutes, then violent shouting and screaming.”
“She and her husband argued?” Susan asked.
“No. Victoria did all the shouting. When she exited a couple minutes later, she was cursing. She swept everything off my desk and threw an ashtray at me.”
“I’ve seen a lot of people lose their temper, Ms. Comstock. What you—”
“I’m not finished, Detective.”
Susan waved at her to continue.
“Later, I learned that Victoria wanted Maxwell to buy her a horse.”
“All he said to her was that they could discuss it when he got home that night. He didn’t tell her he wouldn’t buy. After all, he was in a business meeting.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That horse was a national champion hunter-jumper. The owners wanted four hundred thousand dollars for him. When Maxwell went home that night, Victoria was still angry. She screamed at him for hours. He finally gave in to her and agreed to buy her the horse.”
Susan snickered. “All’s well that ends well.” She couldn’t believe someone would pay that kind of money for a horse that jumped over obstacles.
“Not quite, Detective. When the horse was delivered two weeks later, Victoria took an ax to it. Killed it. Then she told Maxwell what she’d done and said to him, ‘That’s what happens when I don’t come first.’ ”
Susan shuddered. She forced her voice to r
emain calm. “Did you murder Victoria Comstock?”
Turner’s jaw dropped and her eyes went wide with amazement. She swallowed several times before she could say anything. Finally, a high, thin sound escaped from her throat. She coughed. “Are you crazy? Of course I didn’t kill her.”
CHAPTER 7
Barbara looked at Maxwell Comstock through the one-way glass of an interrogation room. Anger seemed to radiate off him like heat off a furnace. She let him stew for ten minutes, then flipped the switch on the recording equipment, entered the room, and read him his Miranda rights.
“I know my timing isn’t the best,” Barbara said, “but I presume you want us to find your wife’s murderer.”
Comstock made a dismissive hand gesture. “Ask whatever you want. Let’s get this over with.”
“You were booked on an L.A. flight last night, but you didn’t fly out until early this morning.”
“What of it?”
Barbara felt her blood pressure rise. She remained quiet to see if he would say more.
“That’s correct,” he finally said. “My meetings didn’t start until 9:00 a.m., L.A. time. I didn’t need to leave last night, after all. I changed my plans at the last minute.”
“So you were home? The night your wife was killed.”
“No.”
“You weren’t home last night?”
Another pause. “Look, Detective, I don’t want to involve an innocent woman.”
“I understand,” Barbara said. She thought she knew where he was about to go and, if he did say what she expected, she had to grudgingly admit Susan may have been correct. “Why don’t you tell me where you were last night and then I can decide whether we can avoid involving an innocent woman.”
Comstock sighed and pulled the pressed linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit coat to wipe his brow. “I told Victoria I had a flight to L.A., but I spent the night at Judy Turner’s place.” He took several deep breaths. “Oh, jeez,” he moaned. “What have I done? If I’d been home, maybe . . . .”