Suspicion of Betrayal

by Barbara Parker

  In her own room, the windows were the colorless gray of approaching night. She looked down at the front yard, able to see a slice of driveway. What had Charlie Jenkins wanted? Checking to see if she had a spare job for him to do perhaps. She remembered the baseball cap and work boots, the paunch, and the smile in a short black beard. Such an open, friendly face. What was it that people said when they found out that the man next door was a serial killer? He seemed like such a nice guy, never any trouble at all.

  She dropped the suitcase and garment bag on the carpet, burdened by fatigue so bone deep it had taken her breath. She needed to rest. To go home. Calling Anthony earlier, she had said that word without effort. Home. What time will you be home? At the Pedrosa house the family would be making final plans for their annual Fourth of July party on Friday. They would be trooping en masse across the golf course to see the fireworks at the Biltmore Country Club, then home again to a salsa band.

  Gail unzipped the garment bag on the bed, wanting to be out of there before dark. An unreasonable fear, but even so, her senses were alert to every sound— an engine in the driveway, the creak of a stair tread. From her closet she took a short black cocktail dress, two tailored dresses for the office, a beige linen jacket, and two pairs of shoes. She hung the bag on the door, went across the hall with the suitcase, and flipped the switch at the door to Karen's room.

  The light was in the ceiling fan, whose wooden blades began to revolve, picking up speed.

  Gail took a few steps before her movements became jerky. She froze, staring across the room. A man was lying on Karen's bed, looking back at her. His mouth was open, and his beard was red.

  Her knees hit the carpet. "Ohhh . . ." A low groan caught in her constricted throat. The room revolved with the fan, and her vision dimmed. She braced her hands on the floor, and when she looked up, he had not moved.

  She saw work boots and jeans, a big stomach. The man was leaning against the headboard, falling sideways on a pillow trimmed in yellow ruffles. Blood from his nose and mouth had reddened his beard and soaked the front of his white T-shirt. His pants were unzipped.

  Crawling backward, she dragged herself up on the door frame, then fled downstairs.

  The police had found a gun on the floor, a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver. They had found gunpowder residue on Charlie Jenkins's hand, along with blood spatter from the wound. Pending the medical examiner's report, it appeared that Jenkins had inserted the barrel of the .38 into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Gail sat in the kitchen, as far away from the activity as she could get—feet thumping up and down the stairs, red and blue lights flashing through the living room windows, the squawk of radios. So far the reporters had been kept at bay. Neighbors stared from the other side of the crime-scene tape. None of the neighbors reported having heard a gunshot—not surprising since this time of year windows were closed and the air conditioners were humming. In any event, gunshots from the bad side of the Grove were so common no one paid much attention anymore.

  She had decided not to disturb Anthony at his office in the middle of trial preparations. She had, however, called Digna Pedrosa to explain why she might be late getting home, and if Anthony finished early, to send him to Clematis Street.

  Detective Michael Novick put a mug in front of her. Gail had told him where the instant coffee was, and he had made himself at home. She had told him everything she could remember. Another of the detectives had gone to find Payton Cunningham.

  Wooden chair legs rattled across the floor. Novick sat down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.

  "We found three photos on the bed of Karen—one taken at the playground and the other two on the swings out there in your backyard. The angle is from the door to the terrace. He probably used a zoom lens to get close." Novick hesitated. "He had taken a pair of your daughter's panties out of a drawer and wrapped them around his genitals. His pants were open."

  "Oh, God." Gail's hand lifted to cover her mouth. Her fingers were icy.

  While she caught her breath Novick told her what else they had found—a loose house key in the back pocket of Jenkins's pants, which Novick had tried in the front door before bagging it as evidence. He asked Gail how Jenkins might have obtained a key to her house.

  "I have no idea."

  "Perhaps you keep a spare on a rack? Some people do."

  She shook her head. "We don't. But ... he could have taken it from Karen's backpack. She would routinely leave it downstairs. Last time I saw it, I put it in her closet."

  Novick leaned back in the chair far enough to see out the kitchen door. He told the uniformed officer standing there to go look in the girl's closet for a backpack and bring it down here.

  "Weren't you going to change your locks?" he asked Gail.

  "I intended to," she said, "but—" She lifted her hands off the table. "This has not been a good week."

  Novick told Gail that they had found a note on a piece of paper torn out of the spiral notebook on Karen's desk. In block print were the words, Hell is waiting for me. Jenkins's signature was at the bottom. "We'll have the document examiners compare it with a signature from his apartment, on a check or a letter."

  Gail said, "Why? Aren't you sure?"

  "I don't like to start assuming I know the answer. If we assume that Charlie Jenkins was a pedophile, then what do we make of the threats to you? I can understand his stalking Karen and taking photographs of her. That fits. But you have to ask, Why did he write 'die' on your car in red paint? Why did he send you the cat's head?"

  "I don't care why. Just tell me he did it so I can bring my daughter home."

  His partner came into the kitchen with a red and yellow backpack dangling from one finger. "Mike, is this for you? One of the officers said you wanted it."

  "It's for me," Gail said. "The key you found might have been in here." Holding the bag on her lap, she unzipped the various pockets. "It's not here!" She looked at Novick. "Well? He must have taken it."

  Sergeant Ladue took another mug out of the dish drainer. "May I?" Gail said to go ahead.

  Novick asked Gail if Karen had noticed the key missing.

  "She didn't say anything. She wouldn't have noticed if I let her in with my key."

  "Where else might she have carried the bag, other than camp?"

  "To her father's place sometimes, or to my mother's, if either of them picked her up, but other than that, it was always here. He could have taken it easily the day he fixed my wiring."

  Novick asked, "Did he ever show any unusual interest in Karen?"

  "Well . . . not in front of me."

  "Maybe a comment about her being a pretty girl, anything like that?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Give it up, Mikey. The guy ate a bullet." Ladue tapped instant coffee into his mug.

  Novick looked at him. "I'm not saying he didn't. However, since you bring it up, where's his van?"

  Ladue filled the mug with hot water. "Down the street."

  "They found it?"

  "Just now. My theory is, Jenkins moved it out of the driveway so Karen would find him first. If the van is there, and no one is in it, Ms. Connor might call the police. She won't let her daughter go in the house. But if they come in as usual, and Karen goes up to her room—"

  "They aren't living here now," Novick said.

  "Well, he didn't know that, did he?"

  "He knew Karen was gone," Gail said. "I told him when he called today that she was out of town."

  "He thought you were lying to him." Ladue sipped his coffee.

  "Apparently so," she said.

  Novick said, "Except for a few traffic offenses and one arrest for petty theft, which was never prosecuted, his record is clean. I'm surprised we didn't find a history of violence. Cruelty to animals, an assault and battery, stalking—"

  "You know what we have here." Ladue gave Novick a tap on the shoulder with his fist. "Ten dollars says he's got kiddie porn all over his bedroom."

  When Ladue had left th
e kitchen, Gail said, "Detective Novick? Tell me what the problem is. Charlie Jenkins killed himself on my daughter's bed looking at her photographs and masturbating into her panties. My house key was in his pocket." Her voice shook. "If he isn't the one, then who is? Do we have someone else out there? Or can I bring my daughter home?"

  Novick studied his laced fingers, tapping his thumbs together. Then he looked up at her and smiled. "Life is messy. Not much about it fits. Sure. Bring her home."

  Anthony arrived just as Gail was about to turn the house over to the police. He asked if she was all right, chastised her a bit for not calling him, then had a talk with Novick and Ladue. By then Charlie Jenkins's van had been searched, and crime-scene technicians had found a camera with zoom lens in the console between the seats. Inside a wooden chest in the back they had found, wrapped in an old towel, a hunting knife with black fur caught in the serrations on the blade.

  Anthony went upstairs to get the clothes Gail had left in the bedroom. She wrote him a list of things to put in the suitcase for Karen.

  Coming back down five minutes later, Anthony told Gail that Charlie Jenkins's body had been moved from the bed to a gurney and zipped into a bag.

  The clock showed 12:45 a.m.

  "Anthony? Are you awake?"

  "Mmhmm."

  "Anthony, wake up."

  "I am awake. What is it?"

  "I have to tell you something. This is not easy. Please try to understand. I have done something stupid. I did it, I think, because ... I didn't want Karen to be disappointed in her father. That's the main reason." She paused to assemble her words in the proper order.

  Anthony said, "What are you trying to tell me?"

  She took a breath. "I told you about Dave's contract with Marriott, remember? A week ago he came up to me outside Karen's school—that was when Hector Mesa saw us together—and he was desperate. If he didn't make the final payment to purchase the name of the business, Old Island Club, then he would lose everything. The closing was set for Monday, and he could pay me back. So ... I lent him the money."

  "How much?"

  "A hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars."

  "Ay, mi Dios."

  "I gave it to him out of my trust account. Now Marriott is holding up the deal, and he can't pay me, and my checks are bouncing, and a client is threatening to turn me in to the Florida Bar if I don't have money from a personal-injury settlement for her tomorrow, which I promised to her last Friday." Gail could feel the tension in Anthony's body. "I know what you're thinking— How could she have done something so stupid? To have gone behind my back? I'm sorry for that most of all—not telling you. I was afraid to. I'm not anymore. After seeing Charlie Jenkins . . . Right now there isn't much I'd be afraid of. But ... I am afraid of losing you. Afraid you'll forget that I love you."

  She came to a stop, not sure what else to say. She listened for a reply, but there was none. Crickets were chirring outside the window.

  "Anthony, please say something." She turned over to look at him. It was not too dark in the room to see that his eyes were wide open. "Anthony . . ."

  With a rustling of sheets and comforter, he slowly sat up. The long curve of his back was visible in the dim light from the windows, and his arms lay unmoving in his lap. Gail sat up too, trembling. Waiting. Quietly he said, "How much do you need?"

  She stared at him.

  "Tomorrow. How much cash do you need?"

  She found her voice. "Twenty-eight for my client, and another twelve to cover my account. It's twelve thousand in the red."

  "Which brings your balance back to zero. That's not good. All right. Forty thousand in cash to your office, and another eighty-five thousand to your account. A check would be all right for that, no? Or a wire transfer. That would put the money in your account the same day." He nodded. "We'll do it that way."

  "You're so . . .calm. I thought . . . you would . . ."

  He waited, then asked what she had thought he would do.

  "Scream. Threaten to kill Dave. Hit me. Throw me out. I don't know." She said, "I'll pay you back."

  "No. I don't expect you to."

  "If I get anything from Dave, you can have it. I'll sign over my interest in the house—"

  "I said I don't want it." Anger ricocheted across the bedroom. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  Gail's voice was tight. "Anthony, can you forgive me?"

  "Forgive you. I think . . . the best thing to do . . . is to forget about it."

  "How can we? Won't it keep going through your mind?"

  "No. It's done. Over. The wedding is less than a month away, we'll be married, and there is no reason to discuss this again." He reached out and put his arm around her neck. She nestled against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin. "Listen to me. I want you to close your office. It's too much for you." He kissed her gently on the lips. "Will you do that? For me?"

  Limp with relief, she could only nod.

  "Good. We'll talk about it later. Now go to sleep. I have to make some arrangements." He threw back the comforter and stood up.

  She buried her face in her pillow.

  Tying his robe, he came around the bed. "Gail? Sweetheart." He bent down to kiss her and stroke her hair, murmuring in Spanish, telling her it was all right, to stop crying, he loved her. Olvídate de eso, cielito. Tú sabes que te amo.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Theresa Zimmerman arrived at Gail's office at 9:05 the next morning. She signed a receipt for the $28,650.27 in cash that she had demanded, then announced she intended to write a letter to the Florida Bar regardless. When she was gone, Gail went upstairs and told Charlene Marks everything. Not to worry, Charlene replied. Gail would receive sympathy, not censure, after what she'd gone through the last month. Who would not forgive such a lapse, under the circumstances? Then Charlene had hugged her. "You and Karen are damned lucky to be alive."

  Gail had called her mother the night she found Jenkins's body. She called her again in the morning about the money. She and Anthony had talked, and everything was fine. It was wonderful. He had been incredibly forgiving. Irene was happy to hear it, and even happier that Karen could come home.

  By Friday other facts about Charlie Jenkins became known. The film in his camera produced more photographs of Karen at play. A search of his apartment turned up colored markers, copies of photographs, and the electronic device he had used to terrorize Gail in the telephone calls. His signature on the suicide note matched the handwriting on his canceled checks.

  There was a woman he occasionally dated, but she hadn't seen him in a couple of weeks. The woman, his friends, and his family were all shocked that Charlie Jenkins had led a secret life. In the end, his shame must have been too much to carry. Jenkins had used a key stolen from Karen's backpack to enter the house. In her bedroom he had written his last words, Hell is waiting for me. With her underwear in his pants and her image in front of him, he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Gail read the latest details in the newspaper at breakfast on Friday, which had been sent up to their room. Anthony gulped his coffee, kissed her, and was out the door for a meeting with a bunch of Little Havana políticos at the mayor's residence. Ernesto had asked Anthony to fill in for him, a lousy thing to do to someone on a holiday.

  Still exhausted, Gail went back to bed, hoping to sleep till noon or so, but she found herself watching the French doors, where a shaft of sunlight slowly moved across the carpet. She thought of Karen, who would be coming home tomorrow. Tonight Karen would see the fireworks with her father and grandparents in Delray Beach, and Dave would bring her back on Saturday. It was not Karen's return, precisely, that Gail was thinking of, but Charlie Jenkins. He had not seemed like the sort of man to have an interest in little girls. On the other hand, he would hardly have printed "pedophile" on his T-shirts.

  Of course it had been Jenkins. And yet Detective Novick had asked why. Why had he written "die" on Gail's car? Why had he sent her the cat's head? Why did he hate her? Sure
ly not because she had hassled him about giving him cash the day he fixed the wiring. He had come to the house a month or so before the first phone call. Had she done something then to offend him? And how had he known about her dead sister?

  Gail was dropping a sundress over her head when she heard a querulous voice coming from outside the house. She quickly fastened the buttons, then went over to the French doors to look out. She heard it more clearly, a man yelling in Spanish. Stepping onto the narrow terrace, she held the wrought-iron railing and looked over the edge. From this angle she saw a straw hat and the shoulders of a tall, gaunt figure wearing a short-sleeved white guayabera. Ernesto Pedrosa. She saw the bushes move and heard a metallic snipping sound. The gardener came into view with a big pair of clippers. Pedrosa pointed with his cane, shouting, "Mir'allí, ¿no tiene ojos?", asking if the man had eyes. The nurse stood nearby with the wheelchair, but clearly Pedrosa was in no mood to be coddled.

  "What's going on?" Gail asked.

  The hat swiveled around, then tipped up. Ernesto swept it off and held it over his heart. "Buenos días, mi niña."

  "Buenos días, señor."

  "The bushes have to be trimmed away from the house. People can hide there and look in." He glanced at the gardener, who had stopped working. "Córtalo al suelo. " The gardener murmured something and gestured toward the bush, shaking his head. "¡Al suelo, te digo!" He raised his cane, and when the gardener rushed toward the bush, Pedrosa laughed. The clippers flashed through the foliage and the branches fell to the ground.

  Pedrosa backed up to be able to see Gail more easily. "Manolo doesn't listen. I want the bushes removed, but he tells me no. What do you do with a man like that?"

  Gail asked, "Why are you taking the bushes out?"

  "So no one can hide there."

  "But who would hide in the bushes?"