Death by Jury (Alo Nudger Series Book 9)

by John Lutz

  He returned to the front room of the apartment, where Blaumveldt stood waiting for him. Nudger put on his coat. It was an old London Fog raincoat with a zip-in acrylic fur lining, much like Blaumveldt’s, and equally inadequate to the cold. Blaumveldt at least had rubber galoshes. Nudger was going to get wet feet.

  They went down the stairs and got in the Jeep. The kids sent them off with another volley of snowballs. It was very cold in the Jeep, and Nudger didn’t hope for much relief from the heater. He could feel the wind whistling around his ankles. The Jeep had more rust holes than his Granada. “You get this used from General Patton, Walter?”

  “I borrowed it from my next-door neighbor, soon as I got the call from the Illinois State Police. I knew I was going to need four-wheel drive to get to where they’d found the body.”

  “Where was that exactly?” Nudger hadn’t pressed Blaumveldt for details the first time around. He wasn’t particularly eager to hear them now. His stomach twitched.

  “In the woods off Highway HH, seventeen miles south of Springfield.” He wrestled with the wheel as they bounced through a rutted intersection. “They never would’ve found it if they hadn’t had such a good description from their tipster.”

  “It was an anonymous phone call?”

  Blaumveldt nodded.

  “Do the cops have any idea—”

  “Sounded like a man’s voice. That’s all. They traced the call to a pay phone in Springfield.” That rueful twist of a smile came and went from Blaumveldt’s face. “I don’t think there’s anything much to the tipster, personally. Just some guy who didn’t want to get involved. The body wasn’t buried very deep. And we’ve had a lot of rain this fall. So our guy is hunting or walking his dog in the woods and he sees Karen’s hand sticking up through the ground.”

  Blaumveldt took his own hand from the wheel and held it up. “Just the bones.”

  Nudger’s stomach quivered again.

  “By the time I got there they’d put up a tent around the grave. If you can call it that. Otherwise the snow would have buried her again.”

  “How’d they make the ID?”

  “Her purse was underneath the body. There wasn’t much left of the leather, but her driver’s license was in good shape. State of Missouri, Karen Witt Dupont.”

  “Anything else? Credit cards, money, papers?”

  Blaumveldt shook his head.

  Nudger put a hand over his stomach, hoping to calm it. Here came the tough question. “Were they able to make a positive ID?”

  “There’s not enough of her left. The maggots got to the soft tissues—face, breasts—and the entrails. They’re very thorough.”

  Nudger took his hand away from his stomach. It wasn’t helping. He reached into his pocket for his roll of antacids.

  “But there’s no doubt it’s Karen,” Blaumveldt said. “I just got off the phone with the State Police. They’ve matched the dental records. It’s her all right.”

  “What about cause of death?”

  “Skull fracture. Somebody beat her head in.”

  “Jesus,” said Nudger.

  Blaumveldt turned to him. His expression was weary and bitter. “Guess I’ve made a real ass of myself. I was so sure Karen was still alive.”

  “Have you been looking for her all this time?” Nudger asked.

  “I’ve stapled HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? posters to half the telephone poles in the Midwest. My contacts at the FBI and Interpol have been sending me reams of stuff every week, and I’ve gone through it all. Leads so thin anyone else would’ve laughed at ’em, I’ve checked out. If she was above ground I would have found her. So you’d think I’d know what to expect. But right up to the moment I got that phone call last night, I figured she was alive.”

  The insurance investigator sank into his gloomy thoughts. They came to an intersection and turned onto Grand Avenue. It was a main artery and traffic was moving intermittently. The center of the roadway had been churned into gray slush. They trundled north.

  Has the Medical Examiner got an estimated time of death yet?” Nudger asked.

  “No, and he’s not going to. The body’s too badly decomposed. Karen could have died as little as two months ago. Or she could have died at the time she disappeared, back in May. ”

  “Then it could have been her husband who killed her,” Nudger said, “And the cops have taken their shot at him and missed.”

  “Well, maybe that means something. Like that he didn’t do it. The cops couldn’t find enough evidence against him to convince a jury. And they investigated him thoroughly. They never really investigated anybody else. Been six months since the trial and they haven’t developed another suspect.”

  “You think it’s somebody else who killed her, then,” Nudger said.

  “I have my theories.”

  And apparently he meant to keep them to himself, because his wraithlike smile played about his lips and he kept silent.

  “If you don’t think Dupont did it, how come we’re going to see him?”

  Blaumveldt looked over at him. “Because he’s the beneficiary. Remember, Nudger? You said there were two reasons Roger couldn’t collect on his wife’s policy. First was if he was convicted of her murder. Well, he got off. Second was, if the body wasn’t found, he’d have to wait seven years for her to be declared legally dead. Well—”

  “Yeah,” Nudger said. “That’s taken care of now too, isn’t it?”

  Blaumveldt nodded. “So, very soon my company’s going to have to pay him half a million bucks. Unless some kind of foul play comes to light.”

  “But you think Roger’s innocent.”

  “I don’t think he murdered his wife,” Blaumveldt replied. “But I would never say Roger is innocent.”

  By now they were on Highway 40, following the flashing lights of a salt truck through the swirling snow. Nudger was surprised when Blaumveldt took the Skinker Boulevard exit.

  “Roger’s moved,” Blaumveldt said, in answer to his questioning look. “Sold the house in U. City. He’s got an apartment now.”

  Roger Dupont had evidently decided on a major change of lifestyle, but he hadn’t come down in the world. Skinker Boulevard, despite its name, was an elegant street, a St. Louis version of Central Park West. Forest Park stretched along one side, while the other was lined with fine old houses, churches, and apartment buildings.

  Walter turned into the semicircular drive of the tallest of these apartment buildings. The doorman was surprised to see callers on a day like this. He put on his green uniform cap, hustled around his panelled console, and just managed to beat them to the door. Blaumveldt gave both their names. The doorman called up to Dupont’s apartment, got his okay, and waved them to the elevator.

  “I’m a little surprised he’s willing to see me,” Nudger said, as they ascended. “I had the feeling last summer that I sort of bugged Dupont.”

  “That’s why I asked you to come along,” Blaumveldt replied.

  Dupont opened the door of his apartment and waved them in. He didn’t greet them, because he was talking into a portable phone. The conversation was about P/E ratios and fundamentals: he must be talking to his broker. Nudger wasn’t interested. He’d once dipped a toe into the stock market, and it had been bitten off. There were piranhas in there.

  Dupont looked fit. His skin had a healthy glow. There was less gray and more brown in his hair—and in his bushy eyebrows. Nudger wondered fleetingly if people actually dyed their eyebrows.

  He led them into the living room, padding across the glossy parquet floor in stocking feet. He was wearing a hand-knit sweater that was almost as attractive as one of Claudia’s ski numbers, and jeans.

  He waved them to seats, and Blaumveldt gingerly sat down in a contraption that, if Nudger remembered right, was called a Marcel Breuer chair. It was an intricate arrangement of steel bars and leather straps. Once Blaumveldt was suspended in it, he made Nudger think of an Easter egg about to be dipped.

  Nudger remained standing, looki
ng around the room. Like the Breuer chair, the other furniture was spare and expensive: a glass-and-steel coffee table, a low, sleek sofa, and a high, marble-topped chess table with stools on either side. By the mantle stood a vending machine—a glass bubble filled with jawbreakers—and on the wall was a large framed photograph of the Judds, mother and daughter, resplendent in clouds of hair. Nudger was struck by a sudden thought. This odd mixture of chic and tacky was strangely familiar. He’d seen decor like this before. Where?

  Roger Dupont finished his call and sat down on the sofa. He hitched up his pants to do so, and Nudger noticed there were creases in them. Dupont was having his jeans ironed. Informality didn’t come easily to him. Nudger perched on one of the stools by the chess table.

  Blaumveldt began, “I expect the police have notified you—”

  “Yes. Their call woke me up early this morning.”

  “Must have been a terrible shock.”

  Dupont dropped his eyes. “Yes. I’d given up all hope that I’d ever see Karen again. But still it was a shock to hear she was dead.”

  Nudger and Blaumveldt exchanged a look. In Dupont’s voice there was no expression, not even feigned expression. He was like a lazy, arrogant Broadway star who’d done a hit play too many times. He’d realized he could get away with simply parroting the lines, and he did so.

  Nudger asked, “Do you have any idea what happened to Karen?”

  Dupont turned and looked at him, as if noticing him for the first time. “Nudger. How nice to see you again. Check with your colleague here and you’ll find he’s been pestering me for the last six months, asking if I’d heard from Karen or of her, and the answer’s always been no.”

  “But you were married to her for four years,” Nudger said. “You must have been thinking about her. Must have some ideas about what might have happened to her.”

  “Well, she said she was going to Chicago, and her body being found near Springfield would certainly indicate that’s what she did.” Dupont paused for a moment. “She must have gotten involved with bad characters there. Chicago’s a big, dangerous city, and Karen was impulsive.”

  Impulsive. The same word he had used to describe her last summer. Almost the only word. Either he was a lazy liar, or he hadn’t known his wife at all. The questioning was getting them nowhere. Nudger glanced at Blaumveldt: your witness.

  “I understand you’ve left the bank, Roger,” Blaumveldt said.

  “You certainly keep your ear to the ground, Walter,” Dupont replied. Animation came into his face; he was interested now. “I quit my job. Got tired of reviewing other people’s loan applications. Figured I was a lot smarter than any of them and I might as well start my own business.”

  “What sort of business is that?” Blaumveldt asked.

  “I’m going to open an antique shop.”

  Nudger looked around the apartment. Now he remembered where he’d seen decor like this before: in Vella Kling’s apartment. “Do you have a partner, Mr. Dupont?”

  “Yes. Matter of fact I do.”

  “Would her name happen to be Vella Kling?”

  Dupont smiled. “It would happen to be, yes.”

  “Last summer, you told me you didn’t know Vella Kling.”

  Dupont nodded thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps I’ve met her in the interval,” he suggested.

  Nudger sighed. There was no way to make a dent in this guy. He got up from his uncomfortable stool and walked to the window.

  It was actually a sliding glass door, and beyond it was a snow-covered balcony. It had a splendid view. On a clear day you’d be able to see the downtown skyscrapers and the Gateway Arch. Just now the overcast obscured all that. The snow-covered hills and dales and the gaunt black trees of Forest Park seemed to go on forever. Directly below, on the edge of the park, a couple were striding along on cross-country skis. They looked tiny. Roger Dupont’s apartment was on the top floor of the building. He seemed to enjoy looking down on people.

  “Frankly, Roger, the timing of your decision to go into business on your own troubles me a bit,” Blaumveldt was saying. Nudger listened without turning. “It’s almost as if you expected to come into money. The payoff from Karen’s life insurance policy, I mean.”

  Dupont didn’t reply. The silence stretched on and on. Nudger turned.

  He was in time to see Dupont rise to his feet. His face was flushed. “Just answer me one question, Walter.” Dupont kept his voice low, but it was trembling with leashed-in anger. “Do you have something personal against me, or are you insurance people always tight-assed bastards about paying up?”

  “Take it easy, Roger,” Blaumveldt said.

  “I won’t put up with these damned insinuations. I’ve been cleared by a court of law. Isn’t that enough for you people?”

  Blaumveldt didn’t seem rattled by the outburst. He looked as comfortable as anyone could look in that peculiar chair. He said mildly, “Just wondering where you got the money to start the business, Roger, that’s all.”

  From the sale of my house in University City,” Dupont replied. “One of the reasons I moved out of the neighborhood and quit my job was that I was tired of being notorious. Of being pointed at and whispered about. I’m an innocent man. And I’m damned if I’ll put up with being investigated anymore. If your company doesn’t send me a check soon, Walter, you’ll be talking to my lawyer.”

  Then he turned to Nudger, who wondered if it was his turn to be threatened. But Dupont only looked at him. It was a long, appraising look that made Nudger feel queasy.

  Dupont said, “I’ll see you out.”

  As the elevator doors closed on them, Blaumveldt said, “Well? Still think he killed her?”

  Nudger considered for a moment, frowning. “Two things. If he did it, he’s a pretty inept murderer. Left incriminating evidence all over the place.”

  Blaumveldt nodded.

  “Secondly, he’d have to be the bravest guy in the world. He was looking at the death penalty all through that trial, and he never blinked. No matter how badly things went for him, he wouldn’t plea-bargain.”

  “True. So, what’s it mean?”

  Nudger slowly shook his head. “Means Dupont has me as baffled as ever. I’m glad it’s not my case anymore. Are you going to keep on investigating?”

  Blaumveldt nodded again.

  “In spite of what he said?”

  “Sure. Roger’s right about one thing. We insurance guys are tight-ass bastards when it comes to paying off a claim.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It turned colder overnight, and in the morning Nudger’s Granada wouldn’t start. The battery was dead and would only make an odd sound like a chicken clucking. Nudger sat behind the wheel considering his options. He could call the service station on Manchester and ask them to send over the tow truck to give his battery a charge. Problem was, they’d charge Nudger, too.

  The other alternative was Danny. He kept jumper cables in his trunk, and he had felt a certain responsibility toward the Granada ever since he’d persuaded Nudger to buy it. But Danny would be at the shop by now, and in the middle of his morning rush. He wouldn’t be able to come over for a couple of hours.

  Nudger leaned his forehead against the cold window of the car.

  He knew what Claudia would say if she were here: Nudger, your office is less than a mile away. An easy walk. Move! Make your own heat. Lift your spirits. Don’t succumb to winter.

  So who cared what Claudia thought? Nudger reflected irritably. She’d sent him back to his own bed after last night’s movie. She really hadn’t liked his leaving her alone to go off with Walter Blaumveldt. For the rest of the day she’d been . . . well, not sulky, but a bit guarded. She hadn’t let on to him whether she was still planning to go to Colorado.

  Still, Nudger had files to work on and calls to make. If he went to the office, he might even find a new client waiting. It had happened.

  And the cold vinyl of the car was freezing his backside.

 
He got out. Pulling down his hat and buttoning up his collar, he strode off down Sutton Avenue.

  By the time he reached the corner of Manchester, he knew why his raincoat was called the London Fog and not the St. Louis Wind. He was shivering helplessly.

  The Manchester Road merchants were doing their best to promote Christmas cheer, with banners stretching across the street and colorful displays in their windows. But this morning they hadn’t yet arrived to salt and shovel their sidewalks, and that was bad news for Nudger. Manchester, being a main artery, had been plowed yesterday. All the snow that had been in the street was now on the sidewalks and was packed hard.

  Gingerly Nudger set out over the slick, lumpy surface. He felt like a mountaineer crossing a glacier. He should be wearing crampons and leaning on an ice ax. Instead he was wearing loafers and grabbing desperately for parking meters.

  Straightening up after a near-fall, reluctantly letting go of the parking meter, he chanced to look back. He was surprised to see another pedestrian in the block behind him. The man must have had better shoes than Nudger, because he was striding along slowly but steadily. His head was up. In fact he seemed to be staring right at Nudger.

  Nudger felt that familiar prickling sensation in his stomach. But he couldn’t be sure the man was staring at him, the distance was too great. He was an awfully large man. Perhaps that was the key. They always said a big, heavy car was best in the snow. Maybe the same went for people.

  Nudger turned and went staggering and sliding on his way, but the thought of the other walker kept bothering him. At the corner he turned to look. The man was still there, no closer to Nudger, no farther away.

  Nudger went on his way again, but the back of his neck was tingling now, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

  When he reached Danny’s door, he turned to look again. The man was nowhere in sight. Maybe he hadn’t been following Nudger. Or maybe he was satisfied about where Nudger was going and had sought some warm place to wait while Nudger was in the office. Nudger shook off the unwelcome speculations and went in.