I straightened up. “She didn’t want to share the wealth with his kids.”
“Looks that way.”
“So she killed her husband and set up her lover.”
“And left him holding the bag.”
“And I helped.”
O’Malley didn’t answer.
I looked over, grateful for his silence. “What’s the next step?”
“The Feds ‘ll throw the book at Manstead. Fraud. Embezzlement. Whatever else they can hang on him.”
“What about Lisa?”
“They’d pick her up if they could find her. After all, she did commit murder.”
I thought about it. “She won’t leave any tracks. She’s obviously been planning this for years.”
O’Malley shrugged again. “You never know.”
***
Over the next few weeks, jonquils sprouted, and the drip of melting ice off the eaves promised renewal, but my gut was a congealed mass of anger. Susan was contrite, too, and our walks included long spates of silence. Like everyone else, I’d underestimated Lisa Kaiser. Her stint in corporate PR had served her well. She’d analyzed her audience—me—and suckered me in with just the right mix of reticence and modesty. All the while pulling slick moves on everyone else.
I was making dinner one night, wondering whether I’d ever learn that sharing space and time with someone doesn’t automatically confer trust, when I called up to Rachel. “We’re ready, sweetie.”
“Be right there.” I heard the soft click of keys on the computer. “I just want to finish this message.”
“I thought we agreed. No IM before homework.”
“This isn’t IM. I’m emailing Sam.”
“Sam Kaiser?”
“Yeah—but his mother doesn’t know.”
I raced up the stairs and burst into her room. “You’re in touch with Sam Kaiser?”
Rachel looked up and nodded. “After they moved, his mother said he couldn’t email anyone, but he figured out a way.”
“How?”
“He’s using his neighbor’s computer.”
I stared at Rachel. I knew she didn’t realize the significance of what she’d just said. E-mails can be easily tracked. Especially by the Feds.
“Pretty slick, huh?” She said.
I smiled as I picked up the phone. “You said it, kiddo.”
THE END
My novel, DOUBLEBACK,(Octover 2009) features both Ellie Foreman and Georgia Davis as co-protagonists, and I’m often asked how they originally met. Georgia made an appearance in A PICTURE OF GUILT, and then more substantively in AN IMAGE OF DEATH, but they already had a passing acquaintance. How they met is explained in this story, written and published in 2009 but takes place before AN EYE FOR MURDER. The story was published in a limited numbered edition and can be found on audio at www.sniplits.com.
THE MURDER OF KATIE BOYLE
Katie Boyle had a perfect body, a beautiful face, a terrific sense of humor, and a law degree. So it wasn’t surprising that people hated her. Still, when I found her body in the closet of Bodyworks, her exercise studio, on a sunny spring morning, I was stunned. Murders don’t happen on the North Shore of Chicago—not often, anyway.
I wouldn’t have found her at all if I didn’t have the annoying habit of being early. Promptness on the set is non-negotiable in my video production business, and it’s spilled over into the rest of my life. When I’m early, as was the case that Monday, I help Katie haul out the weights, bands, and other paraphernalia she uses to torture us.
The studio occupies an area of the village we euphemistically call downtown, but is really not much more than a couple of strip malls on both sides of the street. I parked in the lot, went inside, and climbed the steps to the second floor. I stopped in the hall. The door to the studio was unlocked, but the lights were off. I was mildly surprised. Katie usually arrived well before class, steaming cappuchino in hand.
I flipped on the lights and went into a tiny reception area. I love the smell of coffee even more than the taste, but there was no rich, dark aroma wafting through the air. Instead, I noticed a stuffy smell, as if the studio had been full of people and needed airing out. But there’d been no early class this morning.
Maybe she was in the bathroom. “Katie?” I called out. “It’s Ellie.”
No answer.
I peeked into the studio. It was a large comfortable room with a thick rug—one of the only carpeted exercise studios I’d ever seen—and mirrored walls. As I looked around, I caught a glimpse of myself frowning.
“Katie…” I called again. “You there?”
Still no answer.
I ran a hand through my hair. Maybe she went back to her car for a pair of socks or a headband. I checked the clock. Still eight minutes until class. Mondays are usually an interval class combining aerobics and strength training; I should pull out the equipment from the closet. I went over and twisted the door handle. I felt a weight on the other side. I opened it. That’s when Katie’s body tumbled out, her head bloody and misshapen.
***
Georgia Davis was just sitting down for breakfast with Matt at the village diner when the call came in. Part of her wanted Matt to ignore it. Although they were both on the force, he was a detective; she was patrol. During the day their paths rarely crossed, and if they did, they were careful to keep their relationship quiet. The force had strict fraternization rules. Matt’s partner, Dan O’Malley knew—how could he not? But to everyone else, they were just cop-friends, who, like other cops, would rather share a meal with each other than civilians.
She stole a glance at Matt. People should only know what else they shared. He gave her back one of the looks he usually kept private. Her stomach flipped. Physically, they were opposites: his black wiry curls so different from her straight blond hair; his dark eyes so different than her Nordic blues. His softness. Her sharp edges. Different. Still, she couldn’t get enough. She ached for his touch, his smile, his attention. It went way beyond sex, even beyond passion. Which was why she hated anything or anyone who stood in her way.
Matt’s cell kept chirping. He shrugged regretfully, as if he could read her mind, and picked up. He was quiet. Then, “The one right around the corner? You’re shitting me. Okay. I’m there.” He disconnected, slid out of the booth, and looked at Georgia. “You’re not going to believe this. Apparently, we have a homicide. I’ll tell dispatch you’re coming with me.”
***
Ten minutes later, the morning quiet was shattered by a phalanx of cops, detectives, and technical-looking types in bio-tech uniforms. I learned later they were all part of a North Shore Task Force that was activated whenever there was a homicide or violent crime. Meanwhile, the dozen or so women who showed up for class were shooed home, but they saw me inside, and I reckoned I’d have a slew of calls on my machine when I got home.
I hunched nervously in a corner. I’d already been questioned by a uniformed cop when two more showed up, a woman in uniform, and a man who wasn’t. Although the woman stayed in the background, she watched every move the man made. When he approached me, she took a step forward. I couldn’t tell whether she was protecting him or just wanted to eavesdrop.
“Ms Foreman, I’m Detective Matt Singer. I understand you found the vic—I mean Ms. Boyle.”
I nodded.
“I know you’ve already told Officer Parker what happened. But do you mind telling me again?”
I shook my head. “Are you—do you know how she died?”
His tone was surprisingly gentle. “Officially, we won’t know until the autopsy results, but it looks like blunt trauma to her head.”
“Someone bashed her head in.”
“Something like that.” He cleared his throat. “Now, it’s your turn.”
He prompted me with questions, many of which I’d already answered, but I got the sense he was really listening, so I didn’t mind. The other officer who’d questioned me had looked bored.
“Were you a friend of�
��Ms. Boyle?”
I nodded. “I liked Katie.”
“Did she have a lot of friends?”
I bit my lip.
Detective Singer caught it. “What?”
“Katie was—well…” I glanced at the female officer.
Singer looked over his shoulder, as if just now noticing she was there. “Oh, this is Officer Davis. She’s with me.”
A thin smile flitted across Davis’s face. I caught that. He turned back to me. “You were saying…”
“Katie—well, Katie was one of those people you either love or hate.”
“How so?”
“She is—was—a beautiful woman. And smart. And fit. She has two great kids. A nice house in Glenview. The whole nine yards.” I glanced at Davis. “You know what I mean?”
Davis’s face stayed blank. Singer answered for them both. “No. Tell me.”
I blew out air, feeling flustered. “It’s—well—I feel kind of uncomfortable saying this—but I could understand some women being jealous.”
“Jealous.” He repeated.
“You know, the woman who has everything.” I looked at Davis again. She gave nothing back.
“Were you jealous?” Singer asked.
I sputtered. “M—me? No. I wasn’t. I’m not. Wasn’t.”
“Because…”
I paused. “Because Katie’s life—wasn’t as perfect as she let on.”
One of his eyebrows arched. “How so?”
I hesitated. Then I sighed. “Katie and her husband were divorcing. It was—acrimonious.”
“Why?”
I paused, longer this time. “She was having an affair. With Paul Munson, one of the instructors here.”
***
“I want you to take the lead,” Matt said as Georgia headed west to Waukegan Road an hour later. Georgia was driving the cruiser; Matt was riding shot gun.
“But I’m not a detective.”
“You will be one day. It’s good practice.”
She flashed him a smile. Matt always looked out for her.
He pulled out a pocket notepad, put on his glasses, and thumbed through his notes. Georgia liked it when he wore his glasses. They gentled him.
“So, what did you think of Ellie Foreman?” Matt asked.
“In what way?”
“Any observations? Was she a reliable witness? Was she hiding anything?”
Georgia felt her brow furrow. “She’s was okay, I guess. One of those North Shore women.”
“What does that mean?”
She could tell from his tone he was edgy. She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Sweetheart, you can’t keep that chip on your shoulder. Just because you didn’t grow up here. I didn’t either.”
She looked over. “That’s not true. Skokie is on the North Shore.”
“By a whisker.”
“Still, it’s a far cry from the West side.”
Matt changed the subject. Probably figured it was better than having an argument. “I liked her.”
“Who?”
“Foreman,” he said. “You can tell she’s a video producer. She sees things. Picks up details.”
A pang of jealousy stabbed Georgia. She forced it back down. Foreman was no threat. She was only a witness, for Christ’s sake. A witness in a homicide.
Still.
She pulled up to a four-story apartment building in Glenview. She and Matt got out of the car, went inside, and pressed the buzzer opposite the name Paul Munson.
There was no response. Georgia rang again. Then a third time. Finally the buzzer sounded back and the door unlocked. They took the stairs to the third floor.
The man who opened the door looked like he’d just woken up. Wearing a gray t-shirt and white shorts, he was young and handsome, and seemed to be in great shape. Thick sandy hair, sculpted arms, and blue eyes that, even sleepy, were checking her out. Georgia could tell he liked what he saw.
“Paul Munson?” She said.
His eyes turned guarded. “Yeah?”
“I’m Officer Davis. This is detective Singer. Do you know Katie Boyle?”
“She’s my boss.” He didn’t appear to be dissembling. He looked confused.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Last night…” He stopped suddenly, as if he’d realized he shouldn’t be so free with information. His chin jutted out. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Georgia took a breath. “I’m sorry to tell you, but Katie Boyle has been the victim of a homicide. She’s dead.”
Munson’s hand flew to his mouth, and he reeled back. He looked sincere to Georgia, although she wasn’t experienced enough to tell when someone was acting. Or what they were thinking. No. That wasn’t true. She could always tell what was on Matt’s mind by the look in his eyes or the set of his mouth. She forced herself back to Munson. His face went ashen, and he clutched the door for support.
“May we ask you a few questions?” Once the words were out of her mouth, she realized it should have been a statement, not a question. He didn’t appear to notice. In fact, he opened the door wider. “Of course.”
His apartment was what you’d kindly call spare. She and Munson sat on a threadbare brown couch. Matt took the only chair.
When Munson wasn’t teaching three classes a week at Bodyworks, he said, he conducted personal training sessions for wealthy North Shore women. Business was good. Everyone wanted to be fit.
“What about your personal life?”
“What about it?”
“You’re not married. Are you seeing anyone?”
His answer surprised her. He looked at Georgia, then Matt. “You mean, was I sleeping with Katie?” He slumped. “Katie and I were—well, yes. We were lovers. She was in the process of leaving her husband for me.”
“You and she were going to be—together?”
He nodded. Georgia picked up on his pained expression. “We were making plans.”
“Who knew about your affair?”
“No one. Well, maybe one or two of the women who come to class.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s hard to keep your hands off someone you love when you work with them every day.”
Georgia felt her cheeks get hot. She wondered if Matt’s were too. She didn’t dare look. “What about her husband? Did he know?”
“Eventually. Katie told him when they separated.”
“How did he take it?”
“He was furious. Threatened to take the kids from her. Said he’d make her pay.”
“Tell me what you know about him.”
“Steve is volatile. He can’t keep a job. That’s why Katie went to law school. She had to support the family. She was looking for a job when—” He stopped abruptly and swallowed. “That’s how we—the affair—started. We were having a beer after class one night, and she poured out her heart. I’d always thought she was so together, you know?” Tears welled in his eyes. “She made me feel like I was the only one who could—patch her up. Put her back together.” A tear rolled down his cheek. He was either a terrific actor, or was extremely distraught. “And now, you tell me she’s gone? What am I going to do?”
***
Sure enough when I got home, I found at least five messages on my machine. I returned all the calls and commiserated with my fellow exercisers. They might not be close friends, but when you work out with someone every morning for ten years, you get to know them. Then I called Susan Siler, my best friend.
A few minutes later we were hiking around the village, an activity during which we solve the world’s problems as well as our own. Katie Boyle’s life might have looked perfect, but Susan’s really is. Her husband Doug is a lovely man, she has cute kids, and she works part time in an art gallery. She’s gentle, modest, and creative enough to put Martha Stewart to shame. Her only flaw is that her voice squeaks when she’s upset. At the moment, she sounded like a trapped mouse.
“I can’t believe it! Who would want to kill her?”
“She was having an affair.”
Susan looked down her nose at me. “Really.” It wasn’t a question.
“With one of the exercise instructors.”
We power walked around the corner. “Male?”
My turn to look down my nose at Susan.
“Did her husband know?”
“They separated because of it.”
“Bingo.”
“I’m not so sure.” I was in middle of a contentious divorce myself. That was one of the reasons Katie and I had became friends—we had a lot in common. My soon to be ex, whom I’d found in bed with his secretary, was making life impossible. Still, I wasn’t out to kill him. He was Rachel’s father.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
I sped up. “I am not having an affair. Although sometimes I wish I were. It would make life more fun.”
Susan kept pace and peered at me. She never criticizes, but one of her looks says it all.
“Anyway, Steve Boyle has an alibi. Apparently he was bowling the night Katie was killed. Then he went to Hanson’s for drinks. Lots of people saw him.”
Susan was quiet. Then, “How is Rachel these days?”
“It’s rough. Most of the time she sequesters herself in her room and talks on the phone. When we do interact, she’s angry. You know how it is.” Susan was a child of divorce. That’s why I knew she and Doug would stay together forever.
“Maybe she should see someone.”
“I don’t have a lot of discretionary income these days. And Barry’s no help.”
Her voice held a cautionary note. “She’s your daughter, Ellie.”
***
Katie Boyle’s husband Steve looked volatile, Georgia thought. And Irish. Stocky and squat, he had carroty hair, a bristly mustache, and pale blue eyes locked in a perpetual squint. Georgia and Matt had shown up at the house around dinnertime on Monday, and before they rang the bell, they heard him swearing in a loud voice, presumably at one of his kids. Georgia knew fathers like that—macho men who fell apart when their wives disappeared. She’d had one. She felt for the kids.
“Katie never played well with others,” he said once they started questioning him. Georgia fidgeted. Despite her visceral dislike, Boyle’s alibi had checked out, and his answers showed no hesitation.
Nice Girl Does Noir -- Vol. 1 (Intro by William Kent Krueger) Page 7