Act of Betrayal

by Shirley Kennett

  “We’re friends from St. Louis,” Schultz said. “I’ve been thinking about retiring here. Glen said he’d show me around.”

  The man blinked, evaluating the story. Hopefully Mandoleras had mentioned where he was from, so there would be at least a feeble confirmation of his story. The silence stretched out, but Schultz didn’t elaborate. He worked on the KISS principle—Keep It Simple, Stupid.

  Schultz saw the decision form in the man’s eyes.

  “He’s out,” he said. “Went out for dinner. Should be back in an hour or two. You can wait in the lobby if you want. Get yourself a snack.” He pointed his chin at the hole-in-the-wall shop across from the counter.

  Schultz reached into his pocket and put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, but kept his eyes on the man’s face.

  “He’s expecting me tomorrow,” Schultz said. “I got here a day early, and I’d really like to surprise him. I want to wait in his room.”

  Another slow blink, but no reach for a key. Schultz sighed and added another twenty. Maybe the cost of living in Tucson was high.

  The man reached under the counter, and for a split second Schultz thought he was reaching for a gun. In the space of a heartbeat, though, the man had palmed the money with one hand and produced a key with the other.

  “Room three-oh-two. The elevator’s down the hall.”

  “One more thing. Has Glen been out of town a lot lately? I’ve had a hard time getting in touch with him.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m new here.”

  Yeah, and I’m Mr. America.

  The elevator was small and tired. Lifting Schultz’s bulk to the third floor almost seemed more than it could manage at day’s end. It wheezed to a stop and he stepped off into the hallway. He’d opened the button on his jacket on the way up, and his hand rested lightly inside. The guy at the desk might be in cahoots with Mandoleras, and could have notified him that he had a visitor. After all, if the guy could be bought by Schultz, he could be bought by others.

  Three-oh-two was the first room on the right of a narrow but well-lighted hallway. The carpet was worn but freshly vacuumed and free of cigarette burns. Outside Mandoleras’s room was a flowery doormat that said “Leave Your Worries Behind.” It seemed so out of character for an ex-cop that Schultz pulled up abruptly.

  What the fuck? Mandoleras go batty?

  Schultz knew that Mandoleras’s wife had died twenty years ago and he’d never remarried. Or maybe he had, out here in Tucson.

  Schultz nudged the doormat gently with his toe. He wasn’t putting anything past Mandoleras. It could have been a trap of some kind. Nothing happened, so he pushed the doormat further until it wasn’t in front of the door anymore. There was nothing underneath, so he picked it up and replaced it.

  The key turned the bolt with a quiet snick, and Schultz pushed the door open a few inches and waited in the hall. No response. Feeling kind of silly standing on the flowered doormat, he ducked low and moved quickly into the room. The room was dark except for the glow of a night-light plugged in near the door. Not willing to stay in one place near the door as an obvious target, with his own eyes not adapted to the dark but maybe someone else making him out clearly, Schultz dove behind a large couch. He came up with the Glock in his hand and peered around the side of the couch.

  He found himself staring into eyes that glowed like tiny full moons, reflecting the night-light.

  “Ah!”

  The cat scurried away at the sound of his voice.

  Schultz pulled himself back behind the couch and waited for his heartbeat to slow. He was embarrassed that he had been startled by the cat, and worried that the noise he’d made had pinpointed him for a shooter.

  When nothing happened after a few minutes, he stood up slowly, his knees reminding him that even August in Arizona wasn’t enough to completely remove years of overburdening his joints. He listened closely. The only sound he heard was the air-conditioner, which was churning out gusts of cool air.

  Schultz searched the space thoroughly, making sure Mandoleras wasn’t hiding in the bathroom or closet or under the bed. He switched on a couple of lamps when he was certain he was alone, except for the cat. There were three rooms; a bedroom, a small living room and a bathroom. There were no cooking facilities, but there was a coffeepot in the bathroom and a small table with a couple of chairs tucked into a corner of the living room for those homey carry-out meals. The place must have been two adjoining hotel rooms at one time, converted into a tiny apartment for long-term living.

  Schultz spent the next forty-five minutes examining the contents of the rooms, looking for something to connect the occupant with the killings in St. Louis. He was accompanied by the cat everywhere he went. The cat was solid gray, young, and sleek, with an incongruously fluffy tail. It had huge white whiskers and soft green eyes, and batted at Schultz’s shoelaces. A couple of times Schultz bent over to stroke it and was rewarded with a jumbo-size purr. Glen Mandoleras might be a murderer, but at least he didn’t mistreat his cat.

  Mandoleras lived simply. The furnishings, which undoubtedly came with the room, were sparse and well-used. Schultz searched every drawer and cabinet, every hiding place he could think of, including the toilet tank and inside the refrigerator. In the bedroom, he found a lot of prescription medicine bottles lined up on top of the nightstand, but no gun inside it, or anywhere else in the two rooms. That could mean Mandoleras had a gun with him. There were two framed photos prominently displayed on the dresser, one of Mandoleras and his wife on vacation, possibly in Florida, and the other of Vince Mandoleras in his police uniform. The fact that Vince’s photo was there could mean Dad stoked up his hatred and anger every day by looking at it. Or it could mean that Dad simply missed his son, as he did his wife.

  Schultz’s own dresser held pictures of Julia, Rick, and PJ. What would someone searching his home make of that?

  There was nothing in the compact space that spoke to Schultz of brutal murder. He’d have to get that information directly from the inhabitant, who was expected to return any minute. He slipped off his jacket, which had been irritating his sunburned arms, and draped it across the back of the couch. Then he switched off the lamps and sat in the glow of the night-light, the Glock in one hand, petting the purring cat on his lap with the other.

  Twenty-one

  PJ STOPPED AT THREE convenience stores on Friday morning before she found one that sold chocolate chips. She didn’t want to arrive at Bill Lakeland’s house empty-handed.

  PJ felt the weight of her job lift from her shoulders the moment she arrived. Thomas answered the door and then threw his arms around her. She buried her face in his shoulder, marveling at the fact that it seemed only recently that she could rest her chin on top of his head. He had shot up in height in the last year, and his dancing dark eyes were level with hers.

  Bill greeted her with a more restrained hug. She closed her eyes and took in his clean scent. The man always seemed to smell good, which was more than she could say for Schultz.

  Breakfast was loud, messy, and great fun. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d tossed chocolate chips up in the air and caught them in her mouth. None of the others seemed to have the knack, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. The floor was littered with the failed attempts.

  “Aren’t you going to be late for work?” she asked Bill. It was eight-fifteen. He was a lab technician, and staffing was generally tight in his line of work, calculated right down to the projected number of tests for each hour of the day. She knew that coming in late was frowned upon.

  “I got somebody else to cover the first hour of my shift,” he said, glancing at the clock. “It’s about time to head out, though.”

  PJ gave the kitchen a hard look. There were pans and dishes in the sink, drips on the stove, and chocolate chips and pancake flour on the floor. There were hardly any surfaces that didn’t have sticky syrup on them. She shook her head. Too bad the Lakelands didn’t have a dog. At least the floor would be taken care of.
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  “You guys go ahead,” Winston said. “We’ll clean up.”

  Thomas nodded in agreement.

  PJ laughed. “That’s one thing I never thought I’d hear. I think I’ve died—”

  “And gone to heaven,” Bill finished for her.

  “Seriously?” PJ said, looking at the boys.

  “Seriously, Mom. It’s a done deal,” her son answered.

  Bill went off to change for work. PJ hugged her son again, and affectionately licked a drop of syrup from his chin.

  “Yuck!” he said, pulling back.

  “Isn’t that my line? I thought you were the one who did gross things.”

  “Hey, I’m thirteen. I’m grown-up. Gross is kid stuff.”

  “Well, Mr. Gray, I’ll leave you to your work,” she said, gesturing to the kitchen.

  “I like the sound of that. Mr. Gray. You should call me that all the time.”

  “Does Mr. Gray think he can fit a movie into his social calendar tonight?”

  “That’d be great, Mom. Winston and I get to choose.”

  “I had in mind a little mother/son kind of thing,” she said. “I think we could use some time alone, if you’re not ashamed to be seen with your decrepit old mom.”

  “Yeah, okay. It’s a date.”

  “I’ll call this afternoon. Maybe we can fit dinner in, too.”

  When she drove away, she waved until he was out of sight. Their push-pull relationship seemed to be improving at a time when most parents were losing touch with their children, during the early teens. Part of it was due to the scare he’d had months ago, when his exposure to evil had briefly driven a wedge between them. Since then he’d moved closer, putting himself into her protective circle, as a wolf cub might move close to its mother when it first senses danger. But there was no stopping nature—he was getting older, and more independent. The struggle in him was a hard one for her to watch, as it was for every parent of a teenager. It was amazing how lost she could feel as a parent at times, and she was a psychologist, who ought to have the inside track. She only hoped they made it through with their good humor and communication intact.

  Having a father would help, she thought. Images of Schultz with his arm around Thomas and roughhousing the way she’d seen the two of them popped into her mind. Instead of immediately squashing the images, she considered them. With the things she was learning about Schultz, would he make a good father?

  Then she dared to think it: Look at the way his own son ended up.

  PJ headed west on Interstate 70, after putting gas in the Escort at Warrenton. The storm the night before had left the countryside sparkling clean, and the sky was deep blue with spotty clouds of purest fluff. Rolling forested hills were interspersed with lush cornfields and pastures. She would have relished the trip as a break from her routine if it hadn’t been for the circumstances.

  She pulled off the highway to take a break and buy herself a pack of M&M’s. Using her cell phone, she contacted Dave. He had discovered that Jeremiah Ramsey hadn’t had a girlfriend—or boyfriend—during his stay on death row. She knew from the case file that there hadn’t been a significant other on the scene before the murder, either, so that path was ruled out.

  She went over the Ramsey case in her mind, trying to fit the pieces together and tie them to the recent killings: Rick Schultz, four-year-old Caroline Bussman, prosecutor Victor Rheinhardt. Elijah Ramsey was a man trained to kill in the military, one who had probably continued to practice that art as a mercenary. He had the ability to carry out the murders, including the expert knife attack on Rheinhardt. The photo of him in the case file showed a lean, hard-looking man. It didn’t take much imagination to cast him as a killer. But she had been led down the easy path before, where assumptions outpaced facts.

  It all came down to motive. Was Elijah a bitter man, as well as a violent one?

  She wondered if it was correct to lump Caroline Bussman in with the other victims. What evidence did she actually have that the hit-and-run was an attempt to frame Schultz? What she had was Schultz’s word, his ex-wife’s alibi for him, and an unexplained missing answering machine tape that might or might not support it.

  And the principle of innocent until proven guilty.

  She had raised the alarm and sent people scurrying off in all directions, based on the seed of an idea Merlin planted in her mind. Based on—admit it—a hunch. Maybe based on wishful thinking about Schultz.

  If nothing came of it, she was going to look foolish. She smiled grimly to herself. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last.

  Thinking about looking foolish, PJ remembered the day she had discovered her husband, Stephen, wanted a divorce so he could marry Carla. The affair had been going on right under her nose for months, and she hadn’t noticed. Her relationship with Stephen had been so distant by then she probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d moved Carla into the guest bedroom. Her cheeks burned at the memory, made especially painful by her more recent realization that the divorce hadn’t been entirely Stephen’s fault. It had taken PJ some time to come to the conclusion that she hadn’t worked as hard on the marriage as she could have. And the only reason she could muster to hold up to the cold light of analysis was that she had loved her job more than she loved Stephen. She’d had an affair too—with her career.

  Since that time she’d examined her priorities, and taken a giant step away from her all-consuming, high-powered position in state-of-the-art market research. Her work with the St. Louis Police Department was demanding, and she was deeply committed to it, but there were short lulls when she could recharge her batteries and spend time with her son.

  The turnoff to Jefferson City on Highway 54 came up, and PJ almost missed it. Putting aside her doubts about wild-goose chases, she focused on what information she wanted to learn from Libby. The Missouri River bridge came into view a half hour later. The dome of the Missouri State Capitol Building, an impressive sight from the bridge, glinted in the sun. It was a little before 11:00 A.M., too early for lunch, so she decided to check out Libby’s address. PJ got off Highway 54 and asked for directions at a gas station.

  It took one more stop for directions before she located Libby’s street. It was an area of small homes, little brick boxes with awnings. About one out of four had a detached garage in the back of the lot. Most of the houses were festooned with several window air-conditioners, keeping individual rooms cool for owners who were at work. What was the sense in that? PJ rolled down her window and discovered that the air-conditioning units actually gave the neighborhood an audible hum. She drove a few blocks and circled back. She had seen only a couple of children outdoors, and they were taking turns with a hose, squirting each other and giggling. There were few cars in the driveways.

  Libby’s house was tan brick with a concrete front porch edged with wrought-iron railings. The lawn was small and well-kept, but there were no flowers or bushes, just a single oak tree in the center of the yard that looked as if it might predate the housing development. There was no obvious sign that anyone was home.

  PJ parked a couple of houses down and across the street. After just a few minutes without air-conditioning, the car got hot and stuffy, so she rolled down the front windows on both the driver’s and passenger’s side in the hopes of getting a breeze going. Yesterday’s rain hadn’t had any effect on the temperature, which she was sure was in the nineties. She sat and sweated, and thought about her options.

  They were pitifully few. She didn’t know where Libby worked, if she did work outside the home. It was important to learn as much as she could about the family dynamics, particularly the attitudes of Elijah Ramsey, and she wasn’t getting that done while roasting in her car. Frustrated and hot, PJ decided to try the direct approach. She rummaged around in the backseat for the notebook she always kept there, slung her purse over her shoulder, then got out of her car and strode up the concrete steps as if she had every right to do so. She rang the doorbell. Just in case she actually found her target, PJ reached
inside her purse and pressed the RECORD button on the small tape recorder she had hidden there.

  A long minute later the door opened slightly. There was a security chain, and the person who opened the door stayed out of sight.

  “Yes?” It was a woman’s voice. She was cautious but not totally unfriendly.

  “I’m looking for Elizabeth Ramsey,” PJ said. “I understand she lives here.”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Roberta Lakeland, a reporter for the St. Louis Post. I’d like to interview Mrs. Ramsey. The Post is doing an article on how the death penalty affects the families of the prisoners.” PJ hadn’t known she was going to say that until the words were actually out. She thought it sounded pretty good. Mrs. Ramsey had been outspoken at the time of the trial. Perhaps she couldn’t resist the opportunity to get her side of the story out years later.

  PJ wondered how Bill Lakeland would feel if he knew she had taken on his last name. And she wondered why she didn’t have the confidence to simply identify her association with the police department and ask questions directly. She couldn’t imagine Schultz taking such a roundabout way to get information.

  “Ramsey doesn’t live here anymore.”

  PJ was almost sure her quarry was right behind that door. If she had Schultz with her, she wouldn’t have any trouble getting in. Either he’d think of something compelling or he’d bully his way in. She searched for inspiration.

  “Sorry to bother you,” PJ said. “Mrs. Ramsey was first on my list, and I was really interested in what she had to say. But I guess I’ll just have to use my second choice in Springfield. If I leave right away, I still might be able to get an interview this afternoon.”

  There was no reaction. PJ assumed she’d played it wrong. “Bye now,” she said. The disappointment in her voice was real. The door closed.

  And opened again, without the security chain.

  PJ recognized Libby from her case file photo, although the intervening years hadn’t been gentle. Libby was shorter than PJ, which put her at about five-foot-two. She was wiry, not a term often used to describe women, but that’s what came into PJ’s mind. She had short, curly, white hair that showed no sign of thinning, and clear gray eyes that shone with friendliness on the surface but held shadows in their depths. Her face was wrinkled as if from a lifetime of outdoor living, and reminded PJ of a jack-o’-lantern that was past its prime. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse and shorts, and the arms and legs that were revealed showed good muscle tone. She was probably a loyal mall walker, following the lines on the tile floor and daring any loiterers to get in her way.