by Joseph Badal
“Why’s that?” Susan asked.
“Hizzoner the mayor called and told me to pull out all stops on Victoria Comstock’s autopsy. The politicos are already breathing loud and hard on the backs of everyone associated with this case. I got a call from the sheriff, too.”
“No surprise there,” Susan said. “Maxwell Comstock’s got influence.”
“What do you have for us?” Barbara asked the pathologist.
“Next to nothing. No fingerprints; nothing under her fingernails. No blood other than the victim’s. No footprints. Found a few hairs the lab’s working on now. Other than that, not a damned thing.”
“No fingerprints on the murder weapon?” Susan said.
“The spear handle had a straw wrapping. Couldn’t pick up a print.”
“Maybe the hairs will give up some information,” Barbara said.
“Yeah, if there’s a match with someone in the database.”
“Anything else?” Susan said.
The morphology tech said, “We did a full body cat scan before removing her clothes. Then we x-rayed the body. There was nothing there. All the wounds were consistent with the weapon found at the scene.”
Barbara felt a bubble of bile hit the back of her throat as she remembered the image of the African spear stuck in Victoria Comstock’s chest.
Barbara and Susan left the OMI offices and drove downtown. When Barbara walked in through the squad room door, the glare from the overhead fluorescent lights stabbed painfully through her eyes and into her brain. She dropped into her desk chair and pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. She felt as though sand had been ground into her pupils. The only thing that could make her feel worse than she already did was if Vince Gabelli walked in. Since it was Saturday and he wasn’t working an active murder case, she doubted he would show up.
She dropped her hands and turned to look at Susan as her partner entered and moved behind the adjacent desk. “I was stupid last night. I know you worry about me. I . . . .”
Susan turned in her chair to face Barbara. “I was out of line. It’s none of my business how much you drink.”
“You’re wrong, Susan. It is your business. Especially if I put you in danger because I’m drunk or hung over and can’t do my job.”
Susan shrugged.
Barbara smiled at her. “By the way, my eyes look like shit because I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”
“Your eyes have more red lines than a road map,” Susan said, as she reached in a desk drawer and brought out a bottle of eye drops.
Barbara reached for the bottle. “Oh, you’re a lifesaver.” She applied the drops, dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex, and sighed. When she handed the small bottle back to Susan, she noticed the skeptical look on her partner’s face and realized Susan believed more than too little sleep had given Barbara bloodshot eyes. But Barbara had stopped with that one bourbon at home. She’d scoured the psychology textbook, tried to understand everything in it about borderline personalities, and then had accessed the Internet on her home computer. She’d surfed the net for more information for three hours. Then she’d stayed up even longer to eavesdrop on chats between people who actually suffered from borderline personality disorder.
“You didn’t look so good at OMI,” Susan said.
“Lack of sleep and blood and guts. Not my idea of a great way to start a day.”
Barbara jumped when the intercom on her phone crackled. A female voice announced that Marge Stanley was in the first floor lobby.
“You still got this gal on our suspect list?” Susan asked.
“Yeah,” Barbara said, without much enthusiasm. “She’s got plenty of motive.”
“Based on what we’ve learned about Victoria Comstock’s personality so far, who doesn’t?”
“Good point.”
Susan rose from her chair and rounded her desk. “I’ll bring her up, if you make fresh coffee for the three of us.”
“Deal,” Barbara said, grateful she wouldn’t have to go all the way down to the lobby. Another jerky elevator ride, with the car’s terribly bright lights and groaning motor, would be cruel and unusual punishment. Her head still pounded and her eyes needed more drops.
Susan soon returned with Marge Stanley in tow. Marge was a pert, blue-eyed blonde, with flinty eyes and sinewy, tanned arms. She wore a sleeveless blouse, jeans, and worn, sturdy paddock boots. Her jeans hugged her like a second skin. Barbara had seen many such women in New Mexico—horsewomen. Marge, though, wasn’t some fancy, high society dame for whom horses were a hobby. It was obvious from her appearance she didn’t just ride horses, she worked them. A distinctly pungent equine odor had followed her into the squad room.
Susan introduced Marge to Barbara. As soon as they got her seated at an interrogation room table, Marge announced, “I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible. There’s a quarter-horse show out at the fairgrounds.”
“We appreciate you dropping by,” Barbara said.
“No big deal,” Marge said. “I had to be here for the show anyway.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, as though everyone knew what would come next but no one wanted to begin.
Finally, Susan said, “I’m going to read you your rights, Ms. Stanley, and then we’ll need to record our interview.” Stanley nodded and Susan Mirandized her. Stanley waived her right to an attorney being there.
“So, I guess I’m a suspect,” Marge said.
“Should you be?” Susan asked.
“Hah,” Marge blurted and looked down at her hands on the table. Her fingers were intertwined, as though locked in prayer. “You bet your ass.” She looked up at Susan and smiled.
“Victoria and I met at a horse show. We hit it off from the start. We were inseparable. Went to shows, had lunches, even took a couple shopping trips together. My husband and I took her to dinner on several occasions. I could tell he was enchanted by her. But what man wasn’t? Then one day, I came home and found them in my bed.”
“What happened?” Susan said.
Marge closed her eyes as though she was re-running the experience through her head. When she looked back at Susan, she said, “My heart dropped into my stomach. Victoria and my husband were my two best friends. My first instinct was to scream at them, but something switched inside my brain.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that, my feelings for both of them went from ten to zero. It was like I had no feelings at all. In an instant, they meant nothing to me. I told them to get out of my house and turned to leave the room. Victoria’s words stopped me in my tracks.
“ ‘Why don’t you take off your clothes and join us, Margey,’ ” she said to me. “I didn’t turn around; didn’t say another word. Just walked out.”
“You must have hated her a lot,” Susan said.
“I hated Victoria as much as I ever hated another human being. I didn’t know I had that much hate in me. She broke up my marriage, caused my husband to kill himself, and turned my daughter against me. She gave me more heartache and sleepless nights than any person should have to endure. If I hadn’t been afraid of my daughter’s reaction and thought I could get away with it, I would have killed Victoria myself. But I didn’t kill her. And I hope you never find the saint who did.”
“Saint?” Susan said.
“He did me and a lot of other people a big favor.” Marge’s eyes narrowed and her lips compressed to a thin, cruel line. “Victoria left a trail of broken hearts and broken lives.”
Barbara had placed her notebook and pen on the table. Now she picked them up. “Give us some names, Ms. Stanley. You’ve got a daughter who’s high on the list of suspects; why don’t you help us think of other suspects.”
Marge sighed deeply and named several people. She outlined each of their relationships with Victoria Comstock and the damage Victoria had inflicted on each one.
When Marge finished, Barbara asked, “What was Mrs. Comstock up to? I mean, what was her game?”
“Victoria manipulated p
eople like they were pawns on a chessboard. She played with people’s lives. But it wasn’t just a game to her. It was both hobby and passion. I think she would have taken her own life a long time ago if she hadn’t been able to exert power over other people.” Marge coughed a half-laugh. “Without her looks she might not have been able to do all the terrible things she did. It’s too bad she was so damned beautiful.” Then Marge asked, “Are we done?”
“Just one other question,” Susan said. “Have you heard from your daughter since Mrs. Comstock was murdered?”
Marge’s face sagged; her chin quivered. She cleared her throat. “No, not a word. In fact, I haven’t talked with Connie in almost a year.”
Barbara handed Stanley a business card. “I would appreciate a call if you do hear from Connie.”
Marge nodded and walked to the door. She gripped the door handle, then turned around and faced Barbara. “If you need more dirt on Victoria, you should call Shawn Navarro.”
“Shawn Navarro?” Barbara asked.
“Shawn’s a private investigator. I hired him to find Connie. When he discovered she lived with the Comstocks and that they had just initiated legal action to adopt her, I filed a lawsuit against them for alienation of affection. I also hired Shawn to dig up everything he could on Victoria.” She recited Navarro’s telephone number from memory. “I think you will be interested in what he learned.”
Marge was about to step out of the room when Barbara stopped her.
“Oh, Ms. Stanley. When was the last time you saw Victoria Comstock?”
Marge paled. “When I found her in my bed with my husband.”
After Marge left, Barbara and Susan went out to the squad room. On a whiteboard, Barbara wrote down names Marge Stanley gave them:
Fred & Janet Gibson
Robert & Carol Jameson
She added Marge Stanley, Maxwell Comstock, Judy Turner, and Connie Alban to the list.
“That’s an impressive list of potential killers,” Susan said. “Jameson was a judge and his wife was on the City Council.”
“You know what worries me?” Barbara said, after she stared at the whiteboard for a second. “Based on what Marge Stanley told us, this suspect list, as long as it is already, could be just the beginning.”
CHAPTER 11
Barbara looked up at the squad room’s wall clock: 6 p.m. Susan had already left. There was a sinister air that hung in the quiet room. The photographs of the Comstock crime scene pinned to the cork board behind her desk just made the atmosphere in the room worse. She felt as though a veil of evil had fallen over her. The information they’d gathered about Victoria Comstock disturbed her, made her fear that her efforts for justice were impotent against evil. Victoria Comstock was a victim of evil, but she seemed to represent a new sort of evil herself. Barbara had never had a case like this before. She needed to get out of here, but she didn’t want to go home. Maybe she’d call Susan to see if she wanted to meet her for dinner. But then she didn’t have the strength to make the effort to make the call, and didn’t want to be turned down.
Defeated and exhausted, she walked to the parking structure to get her car. As she headed out of downtown, she ran through a list of her favorite watering holes. Pictured each one. The mental images warmed her. She decided on a neighborhood joint on Montgomery Avenue, drove in that direction, but then changed her mind, fought the urge. She momentarily felt exhilarated. She had won. Mind over booze. But then the desire for booze grew. She wanted a drink; she needed a drink. Perspiration beaded on her forehead. It seemed as though her car was an accomplice in her dependency. It drifted toward the left lane. A turn at the next street would take her to the bar.
The blare of a car horn startled her. She’d nearly cut off an SUV. As the SUV went past, Barbara looked over at the angry face of its female driver, and at the fear on the face of a little boy in a car seat.
Barbara gripped the steering wheel so hard her fingers ached. She had two things in her life: work and booze. No, that wasn’t quite true. In addition to work and booze, there were loneliness, depression, and heartache. With a surge of self-loathing, she headed for home.
After she locked the door behind her, Barbara tossed her bag, jacket, and pistol onto the living room couch, and finger-kissed Jim’s photo. She took her notebook out of her bag and found the telephone number Marge Stanley had given her: Shawn Navarro, Private Investigator. She decided the best thing she could do for herself was try to ignore everything but work. She called the number and got a recording. The voice on the machine was deep and mellow, with a slight trace of a sing-song Northern New Mexican accent. She hadn’t expected to find Navarro in his office late on a Saturday. She just wanted to keep busy. She left her cell number and then walked to her bedroom, stepped out of her skirt, and unbuttoned her blouse. Her cell phone chirped on her bed where she’d tossed it.
Barbara’s voice took on a false vitality. “Hello.”
“You called, Detective?” a man said. The same mellow, deep voice. “This is Shawn Navarro.”
“That was quick,” Barbara said.
No response.
“We need to meet,” Barbara said.
“What about?”
“Victoria Comstock.”
“Heard someone whacked that crazy bitch.”
Barbara couldn’t believe how matter-of-fact Navarro’s comment was about a murder victim. “How about tomorrow—”
“Gotta be in Denver tomorrow. What are you doing now?”
“Where are you?”
“My office. But I’m headed to the strip joint at Osuna and the frontage road.”
“Really?”
“Thirty minutes,” he said.
Oh shit, she thought. A strip joint. Navarro was just another sleaze bag. “I’ll be there. How will I know you?”
“Ask the bartender.”
She rebuttoned her blouse, stepped back into her skirt, and grabbed her jacket, purse, and pistol off the sofa on her way out. At least the strip joint wasn’t too far away.
Shawn Navarro wasn’t what Barbara expected. He had blond hair and pale blue eyes. His cheekbones were sculpted and he was tall—at least six-three. He was broad-shouldered and had the presence of someone who was afraid of no one. He looked as though he spent a lot of time in a gym lifting weights. The accent Barbara had detected on the telephone was even more pronounced in person. And he was neither impressed nor intimidated when she showed him her badge. As far as Navarro was concerned, she assumed, she might as well have been a ticket taker at a movie theater. He ignored her offered handshake and stared in the direction of a stage with a runway. In the middle of the runway, a woman, naked save for a cowboy hat, boots, tasseled gloves, and a G-string, gyrated to a recording of Mel McDaniel’s Stand On It. For no more than a beat, Barbara envied the woman. Since putting on so much weight, Barbara wouldn’t disrobe in front of a blind man in a dark room, let alone strip down in front of a bunch of strangers, under spotlights.
She jerked her gaze back to Navarro. He now leaned both elbows on the table and looked at her over his folded hands.
“You come here often?” Barbara asked disdainfully.
He smiled. “Um, once in a while.” After a pause, he added, “Are you always so judgmental?”
Barbara felt her face go hot. She stared hard at Navarro.
Navarro met her stare and leaned closer. “The only reason I’m here, Detective, is because I’m on a job,” he said in a gravelly whisper. “See the toupee over there, next to the runway?”
Barbara slowly twisted in her chair and picked out a forty-something guy with a very bad hairpiece. She looked back at Navarro and nodded.
“He drops a couple hundred bucks a night here. Meanwhile, he’s behind on his court-ordered alimony and child support. The cowgirl up there tallies the tips the bastard slips into her G-string every night. She was happy to help me out when I told her his kids don’t get enough to eat. He’ll have a tough time convincing the judge he can’t afford child support w
hile he feeds Annie Oakley two bills a night.”
Barbara rolled her eyes. I wonder if I’d still be eligible to join a convent, she thought. Some place safe. Away from the scum of the world. “I’ve got a couple questions.”
Navarro straightened up, leaned back on two chair legs, and raised his eyebrows. “You want a drink, first?”
“Whatever you’re having,” she said, after a brief internal struggle.
Navarro waved at a waitress and held up two fingers. Then he leaned again toward Barbara. “You mentioned Victoria Comstock?” He said the name as someone might refer to serial killers Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy.
“Yeah. My partner and I are working her murder case. Tell me what you can about her.”
Navarro’s demeanor changed. He didn’t seem as confident as he had been a minute earlier. He dropped the chair back to the floor and pushed it away from the table. Barbara saw what might be fear in his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face. His eyes now had a determined look, although some of the fear was still there.
“What’s the most scared you’ve ever been?” he asked.
Barbara started to answer him, but the waitress intruded and placed two glasses of amber liquid on the table. Barbara picked up one of the glasses and took a solid pull on the drink. When the liquid hit the back of her throat, she coughed and sprayed Navarro and the table.
“What the hell!” she blurted. Her throat burned and her eyes teared.
“Ginger ale’s hard on the throat when it’s fizzy,” he said. “I’ve been off the sauce for three years now.”
The look on Navarro’s face made Barbara think he was about to lecture her on the evils of liquor. Too many reformed alcoholics become overzealous, try to reform others. But instead, he just repeated his question. “What’s the most scared you’ve ever been?”
She closed her eyes for a moment and decided she wouldn’t tell Navarro the truth. The most scared she’d ever been was the night Jim died, when she faced life without him. “I guess that would be the time I chased a guy down an alley and he turned on me with a Bowie knife.”