Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “He loved you, Kali.”

  “He had a funny way of showing it.” The words came automatically. But when I thought of the shoe box filled with letters, I felt a tug inside my chest. Maybe, in his own way, he had cared. For a moment the cloud of bitterness parted, and I was able to recall the pleasant roughness of his cheek against my own, the strong, solid arms that had so often swung me off my feet and high enough to touch the ceiling.

  “Yeah, probably so,” Benson said. The hint of a shadow darkened his face. “Your mother used to say the same thing.”

  I looked up.

  “Your dad was never very demonstrative, even before he started drinking.”

  “That’s pretty much all he did these last few years, isn’t it? Drink and brood.”

  “I didn’t see him very often. Couple of times a year we’d get together and shoot the breeze, but that’s about it. Your mother’s death hit him hard. He never got over it.”

  My mother’s death hit a number of us hard, but my father had overlooked that part. And in so doing, had compounded it.

  “But that’s not why you’re here.” Benson stood and reached for his jacket. “Come on, let’s go get a cup of coffee while we talk about the Marrero case.”

  We climbed into his car, an unmarked black Buick, and drove to the Denny’s near the edge of town.

  “So, what about Marrero?” Benson asked, pouring half a pitcher of cream into his coffee.

  “Is it true that his wife is a suspect?”

  “She is indeed.” He added two packets of sugar. “You her attorney?”

  “Does she need one?”

  He stirred the milky brown liquid with his finger. “She might.”

  “She didn’t do it.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I know Jannine. I’ve known her practically my whole life. She’s the warmest, most gentle person I know.”

  Benson stirred his coffee, took a long swallow, then looked me in the eyes. “I’ll tell you something, Kali. I’ve been a cop practically my whole life, and every person I’ve arrested has at least one friend or relative who says he couldn’t have done it.” Benson paused, offering a good- natured smile. “I’m not trying to give you a hard time, but you have to look at this objectively. Everything we’ve got points to the wife.”

  “You mean the gun? It was in her dresser drawer, for God’s sakes. Almost anyone could have taken it.”

  “She never reported it missing though.”

  I was ready to argue that one, but Benson didn’t let me. “Anyway, there’s more. Hers are the only prints we found on the gun. She has no verifiable alibi for Saturday afternoon. She and her hubby had a big fight that morning.”

  “Jannine told you that?”

  “The neighbor did. She heard them yelling at each other from all the way inside her house. Your friend apparently threw a vase or something at the coach and called him some pretty vile names. Said he was going to get what he had coming.”

  “That’s hardly a threat. Besides, every couple fights at some point.”

  “Maybe, but one of them doesn’t usually wind up dead a few hours later.”

  Their quarrel was clearly more than the “little spat” Jannine had led me to believe it was, but that didn’t make her a killer. Not necessarily anyway. Nonetheless, her half-truth to me chafed uncomfortably. “It’s your theory she killed him because of a fight?”

  “We leave the motive stuff up to the D.A.’s office. I’ll tell you though, we’ve got a source that says their marriage was headed south.”

  I interrupted. “You mean the neighbor?”

  “Someone else. You got a situation like that with a dead body, and nine times out of ten you’ve got yourself a pretty solid motive.”

  I knew the statistics, but I also knew Jannine. Or I’d thought I did. “What you’ve got is circumstantial, and tenuous at best. You can’t arrest her on that.”

  Benson set his cup down in front of him, then pressed his fingertips together and looked me straight in the eye. “We could and you know it, but we haven’t.” He paused. “We may be small time, but we’re careful.”

  Arguing wasn’t going to get me anywhere. What I really wanted was information anyhow, so I tried a different tack. “What about physical evidence? Did you find anything besides the gun?”

  Benson leaned back in his chair. “Not really. An outdoor, wooded area like that makes it hard. Sometimes you’ll get lucky and find a footprint or loose button, but usually not.”

  I nodded and let him talk.

  “He was shot in the chest,” Benson continued, “from a distance of about twenty feet. No sign of a struggle, no attempt to flee. That makes it likely he knew his killer. From the trajectory of the bullet I’d say the assailant was standing, Marrero sitting. We found blood on a nearby log, so that’s probably where he was shot. Looks like the assailant then dragged his body about ten yards and hid it under some leaves and brush. Coroner puts the time of death at three o’clock Saturday afternoon, or thereabouts.”

  “Did you check for fingerprints on the body?” I knew this was possible because our firm had once defended a client who’d left his bloodied fingerprint on the shirtsleeve of his victim. It took know-how, though, and some pretty sophisticated equipment.

  Benson smiled. “We’re not as backward as you city types like to think. Yes, we looked for fingerprints, even on the body; no, didn’t find any. We checked for hairs and fibers, too. Only thing we found was a strand of dark hair, like the wife’s. ’Course it could have been there for days.”

  “You have any idea what he was doing out by the South Fork?”

  “Nope. We checked his credit cards, ATM withdrawals, that kind of thing, to see if there’d been any activity that morning, but nothing showed up.”

  “He went by the high school after he left home,” I said, “Did you know that?”

  Benson shook his head. “I don’t see that it makes a lot of difference, but if you want to give me your source, I’ll send someone out to check on it.”

  I told him about the night watchman, omitting the circumstances surrounding our meeting. Then I thought of something else. “What about tire marks? Unless the killer rode with Eddie, wouldn’t there be a second set of marks?”

  “There’s about a hundred sets, all jumbled together and superimposed. That road’s so dusty you can’t tell a thing.”

  “If Jannine had been out there, her car would show traces of the same kind of dirt, wouldn’t it? Did you check?”

  “She took it to the car wash Saturday afternoon.” He paused, watching for my reaction. “The Prestige Special, with Wheel Bright and everything.” The sick feeling must have shown on my face, because Benson leaned forward. “Look,” he said, “we don’t really know who whacked Marrero. Maybe it was your friend, maybe it wasn’t. But fact is, there’s a lot says she did it and at the moment she’s all we’ve got.”

  “So you’re going to pin it on her just because it’s convenient?”

  Benson straightened, cricked his neck to the left and rubbed his shoulder. “We’re not pinning it on anyone just yet. And when we do, it won’t be for convenience. I know you lawyers don’t like to admit it, but when it comes to murder, the obvious answer is also most often the right one.” He paused, swallowed a mouthful of coffee, then leaned across the table and continued. “You want to help your friend, you talk to her about cooperating with us. Maybe she just meant to scare the guy. Or maybe it was self-defense. Hell, maybe they were taking target practice, and it was all an accident. There’s reasons and there’s ways, but it’ll be a whole lot better for her if she meets us halfway.”

  “She can’t, though, if she didn’t do it.”

  Our eyes met, and held.

  “No,” Benson said, after a moment. “She can’t.”

  Still, I had a few questions to put to Jannine. I had the sinking feeling she’d been less than totally straight with me.

  Chapter 12

  Stone Mountain M
all is a large discount complex located about forty miles west of Silver Creek in what had been, only three years earlier, open grassland. Now, in addition to the mall, there’s a Best Western Hotel and half a dozen fast food franchises. I guess that’s so you can make a weekend of it and literally shop ’til you drop.

  The stretch of highway between there and Silver Creek is on the main route to the Sierras, and it can be a real bottleneck. But mid-day, mid-week, in a season somewhere between winter skiing and summer escapes, the road was practically empty. I slipped a tape of Beethoven’s Third into the player and turned up the volume. With an eye on the lookout for the California Highway Patrol, I breezed along through the afternoon sunshine, hoping the Zen of driving would help me unwind.

  I could see the sign for Stone Mountain Mall from the highway. But by the time I’d found the exit and wound my way through the grid of frontage road turn-offs, I’d just about given up hope of actually getting there. Even the parking lot was something of a maze. Although it wasn’t crowded, I had to loop around a long concrete partition and a one-way drive in order to find a spot.

  Parking aside, the mall made a real effort at being “user friendly.” The shops, ninety-four in all, were arranged in clover-like clusters trimmed with fountains and flowers. Along the periphery were wooden benches for the weary, mostly men. And off to the side was one of the most elaborate play structures I’d ever seen. My semiannual excursion to Macy’s seemed pretty bland by comparison.

  Armed with a photo of Jannine and a description of the clothes she’d been wearing on Saturday, I began my trek with the Dansk store at the far left. From there, I worked my way around each cluster and then on to the next, stopping midway for a gourmet chocolate chip cookie. The mail’s claim to super-savings did not extend to the food.

  By the time I’d finished, several hours later, my voice was growing hoarse, and the muscles in my face ached from the effort of constant, forced smiling. Nobody remembered seeing Jannine. Nobody even paused or showed the faintest glimmer of recognition at seeing her picture. I found myself wishing she’d broken a china cup, or better yet, a whole rack of them. But she hadn’t, and I came up empty-handed.

  Just so the trip wouldn’t be a complete waste, I went back to Grifficcio and bought a soft calfskin wallet for Ken, whose birthday was coming up in a couple of weeks. The peevishness I’d felt earlier had dimmed considerably. I knew that by the time I got home and found myself on the receiving end of his smile, my bad feelings would be nothing but a distant memory. In fact, by then I might even wish I’d bought something less mundane, like the monogrammed red satin pajamas I’d passed up so quickly, or the matching his-and-hers black silk G-string briefs. I smiled at the thought of the latter. My last boyfriend would definitely have approved, but Ken probably would not.

  Sometimes I wondered whether we were a good match, whether there was any future in the relationship at all. Ken was so different from me, so different from anyone I’d dated before that it was hard to judge.

  The sun was dipping low into the west by the time I started home. Traffic was a bit heavier, but moving along at a good clip. I left the tape off this time and tried to figure out what I was going to say to Cheryl Newcomb. When I pulled up in front of the house, I still didn’t have a clue.

  Carla answered the door with the same snappish expression she had that morning. But a black spandex miniskirt had replaced the robe, and her hair was done up in some fancy top-knot instead of rollers. The cigarette was there in her hand again, along with a glass of something that smelled like whisky. The light of the television flickered in the background.

  “Sorry to bother you again,” I said, “but I’d like to speak with Cheryl.”

  Carla cocked her head and regarded me with amusement. “She isn’t here.”

  “When will she be back?”

  A shrug. “When she feels like it.”

  “Do you know where I might find her?”

  “With friends, probably.” She leaned against the door jam and took a swallow of her drink, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Like I told you, you’ll have better luck if you check at school.”

  “I did. Cheryl wasn’t there.”

  The news didn’t seem to trouble Carla much. She sighed in frustration, but her response was nonchalant “She wasn’t, huh?”

  I didn’t like the feel of this. “Mrs. Newcomb, when was the last time you saw your daughter?”

  “Uh, Sunday I think.”

  “You think?”

  She dropped the cigarette onto the porch and crushed it with her foot. “It was Sunday, I remember now. I worked that evening, and Cheryl was moping around the house when I left. She’d been in a snit all weekend.”

  “And you’ve no idea where she is now?”

  “With friends, I told you.”

  “Which friends?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly.” She hiccupped. “Kids these days, they don’t check in with you every time they step out.”

  And mothers, these days, apparently didn’t ask. “I don’t want to alarm you, but your daughter hasn’t been at school all week. They seem to think she’s home with the flu. They haven’t seen her. You haven’t seen her. Nobody’s seen her since Sunday.”

  She frowned. “It’s only been a couple of days.”

  “Why don’t you call around to her friends tonight, then check with the school tomorrow? If she doesn’t turn up, I think maybe you should notify the police.”

  “The police? That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

  A burly, dark-haired man wandered in from the other room and joined her at the door. He had a skinny little mustache that was all wrong for the size of him. “What’s this about police?” he grumbled.

  Carla sidled up next to him and ran the toe of her shoe up his leg. “This lady’s from the school. She says Cheryl’s been cutting classes all week.”

  “I’m not actually from, the school, I”

  “The little bitch,” the man said, interrupting my attempt to set the record straight “You ought to whip that butt of hers. You’re too soft on her, Carla. You let her walk all over you.”

  “Come on, Hal, you know what she’s like. It’s not a matter of my letting her do anything.”

  Hal grunted.

  “Did you check with Miss what’s her name, the drama teacher?” Carla asked. “Cheryl’s real involved with the production they’re doing. I bet she wouldn’t cut that class.”

  There was gunfire in the back room — television, I assumed, because it was followed by an equally appalling round of canned laughter. “I don’t think she was in drama either,” I said, stretching my limited knowledge to fit what I was sure was the reality. “I’m afraid she might be in trouble.”

  “She’ll be in trouble, all right” Hal said. “You let me have a go at her this time, Carla. I’ll knock some sense into that head of hers one way or another.”

  Carla tweaked his chin. “Mr. Tough Guy. You remember what happened last time you had a ‘talk’ with her.” Carla turned back to me. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Cheryl’s done this sort of thing before. But I’ll call around like you said. Thanks so much for letting me know.”

  The door clicked shut just as the Energizer Bunny was beginning his long march across the TV screen.

  The minute I got home, I called Nancy Walker and explained the situation. “Will you check on it and make sure something is done?” I asked.

  “First thing in the morning. I hope everything’s okay. Cheryl’s a sweet kid, shy and a little awkward. The kind who fades into the woodwork if you’re not careful.”

  “You know her?”

  “She’s in my fourth period creative writing class. I don’t think she said a single word all first semester, but she’s loosened up a bit since. Not a great student by any means, but at least she goes through the motions, which is more than I can say for some of them.”

  Loretta was wiggling around between my legs, and I almost lost my balance
. “What about the parents?”

  “It’s just the mother. One of these ‘if there ever was a father he was gone the minute the pregnancy test came back positive’ situations. From what I understand, there’s never any shortage of men in the house, however.”

  “I met one of them tonight. A real sweetheart What about this drama production? Her mother said she was very involved with it.”

  Nancy snorted. “I don’t know where she pulled that one from.”

  “Will you check on it anyway?”

  “Sure, but I’d know if she was. I hope nothing has happened to her.”

  “Yeah.” I was developing a surprising fondness for this girl I’d never met. Maybe because in some little way, she reminded me of myself at that age. I knew what it was to feel alone and adrift in a world where everyone one else seemed safely anchored.

  “Anyway,” Nancy said, “I’ll follow through and make sure it gets reported.”

  “Thanks.”

  With the Cheryl situation in good hands, I turned my thoughts to more immediate problems — my stomach and my career, but not in that order.

  Ignoring Loretta, I dialed Sara’s number again and left a message. Then I waded through the maze of boxes and checked the fridge.

  Empty, just as I’d feared, except for a wilted head of lettuce and the remnants of Monday night’s pizza, which was now stiff and lumpy. It would have to do though; I wasn’t getting in the car again.

  I’d kicked off my shoes while talking to Nancy, and slid out of my skirt while conversing with Sara’s machine. I was unbuttoning my blouse on the way to the bedroom when the doorbell rang. Hastily, I grabbed my father’s old rain coat from the top of the Goodwill pile and slipped it on, securing the front with my arms. Then I answered the door.

  “I brought you some flowers,” Tom said. Loretta abandoned her post by my legs, and started prancing around Tom’s. He reached down and scratched her head.

  “What for?” I asked.

  “To apologize for waking you so early.” He held out a magnificent spray of mountain lilac.