A Real Basket Case

by Beth Groundwater

  He settled into his chair and waited while she gulped some water and blew her nose. “Tough day?”

  Claire shredded a tissue. “You don’t know how much I wish I could live yesterday over again. If I hadn’t agreed to a massage, Enrique Romero would be alive and Roger would . . . Roger would still be living with me.”

  Wilson frowned. “I heard he made bail. But he’s not returning home? Where’s he staying?”

  “At Dave Kessler’s place.” Seeing the detective’s puzzled expression, Claire said, “His lawyer.”

  He nodded and asked for Kessler’s address and phone number. After writing those down, he leaned back in his chair and peered at Claire. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  With Roger’s rejection of her, convincing the police that someone was out to frame him became even more important. If she got them to drop the charges, maybe Roger would talk to her. Maybe she could convince him to return home. She licked her lips and groped for the right words.

  “Roger said he got a message at work yesterday that I called and needed him to come home. But I didn’t call him. When I talked to his receptionist today, she said she had assumed it was me, because the caller said so, but the caller spoke with a Hispanic accent.”

  Wilson shrugged. “Someone who knew about your liaison with Romero wanted your husband to find out. Doesn’t matter much who, because I’ve got to tell you, Mrs. Hanover, it still places your husband at the scene with the murder weapon in his hand.”

  He plucked a piece of paper off one of the piles on his desk. “The lab sent a fingerprint report this morning. Only Mr. Romero’s and your husband’s fingerprints are on the gun. Your husband’s were on top. And he had GSR on his hand.”

  “What’s GSR?”

  “Sorry. Gunshot residue. Shows the gun was in his hand when it was fired.”

  Claire fought to suppress her rising panic that the detective already had his mind made up. What happened to being innocent until proven guilty? “But I told you. When I screamed, Roger jumped and fired the gun by mistake.”

  “There’s no way to prove whether he fired the gun once or twice. We only know he did fire it. Tell me about the gun. A nine-millimeter semiautomatic is not your typical household-protection handgun. How long have you owned it?”

  Confused, she said, “Owned it? Do you mean the gun Roger held in his hands?”

  Wilson peered at her. “Ye-es.”

  “We don’t own a gun. I won’t allow them in the house. I’ve never seen it before. Roger said he never saw the gun before, either.”

  “Where’d he get it?”

  “He said he found it lying on the hall floor.”

  Wilson pursed his lips. “Told me the same story.”

  Claire’s eyes narrowed. Was the detective trying to trip her up? Did he think she planned this murder with Roger? “Then why did you ask me?”

  “Thought he might tell you something different.” Wilson made a note. “I’ll have the gun traced. Anything else?”

  Claire grabbed another tissue and dabbed at her nose to give herself time to think. Detective Wilson seemed uninterested in what she had told him so far, except for trying to catch Roger in a lie through her. She suspected he wouldn’t show much interest in what she had to say next either, but she had to try. “Roger said he didn’t do it. Didn’t shoot Enrique.”

  Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe him?”

  She couldn’t lie, much as she wanted to. “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think I’d know if he were lying to me. He sounded so certain.”

  “Most of the people we lock up claim they didn’t commit the crime they’re accused of. Maybe some can’t even admit to themselves that they’re capable of committing a crime. Later, many of them admit their guilt. But the others . . .” He shook his head. “The prisons are crammed with guys who still claim they’re innocent after they’ve been tried and convicted.”

  He leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk. “I also have the ballistics results. The bullet that killed Enrique Romero came from that gun. You saw the gun in your husband’s hand, and, as I told you, only his fingerprints and Romero’s are on it. This is a cut-and-dried case.”

  A whirlpool of panic sucked at Claire’s feet. A cut-and-dried case? No, it couldn’t be. Not when there were still unanswered questions. “But what about the gun? Where did it come from? Aren’t you supposed to tie up all the loose ends in a case?”

  “I said I’d trace the gun, but tying up that loose end won’t change the conclusion.” He swept a hand over the stacks of case files on his desk. “With this many active cases, I can’t afford to chase rainbows on one I consider closed. I’d have to see something a lot more substantial to change my mind.”

  ___

  Claire drove home late Friday afternoon in a dejected daze. First thing, she checked the answering machine in the kitchen. Regina had returned Claire’s call. With dread, but before she could back out, Claire picked up the phone. She explained the situation to Roger’s sister, who grew more agitated by the minute. Finally, Regina cut her off and asked how she could get hold of Roger. Glad to pass off the burden of calming the woman, Claire gave her Dave’s phone number.

  Returning to the hall, she opened the closet to hang up her coat, then stopped with her hand in mid-air and stared. Stuffed in among the coats and ski jackets, Enrique’s leather jacket still hung on a hanger.

  She had forgotten to tell Detective Wilson about it, and the police probably assumed it was Roger’s.

  Her despair changed to hope. Maybe the jacket could offer the “something a lot more substantial” the detective had talked about. She reached for the jacket, then shuddered and drew back.

  C’mon, it’s just a jacket. He wasn’t even wearing it when—no, don’t think about that. Pick it up. Now.

  Before she changed her mind, she grabbed the jacket and thrust her hand into a pocket. After finding the outside pockets empty except for a pair of gloves, she checked an inside pocket and pulled out a letter. Enrique’s name appeared in the top left corner, above an address in Colorado Springs.

  The envelope was addressed to a Lucia Romero in Nogales, Mexico. His mother? Or a sister? Guilt knotted Claire’s gut. Had the police found this Lucia and notified her of her son or brother’s death? Was the woman grieving even now as Claire held the last letter to her from Enrique?

  She dropped the letter as if it burned her hand, then took a deep breath. C’mon, Claire, if this can help Roger, you need to use it. She forced herself to retrieve it.

  Carrying the jacket and letter, she walked into the kitchen and picked up a pad of paper from the telephone desk. After she had written down both addresses from the envelope, she tried the other inside jacket pocket. She found a scrap of paper containing a name, Leon, and a phone number. These, too, she added to her pad.

  Then she opened her phone book to Romero. Enrique’s name appeared halfway down the page. The address matched the one from the letter. Claire wrote his phone number on the pad. On impulse, she picked up the phone and punched in the number.

  After the third ring, a young-sounding woman said, “Bueno?”

  Claire slammed down the receiver. Trembling, she stared at the phone. Did Enrique have a wife? A live-in girlfriend? Maybe she was the Hispanic woman who had called Roger’s office. But how would she have found out where Roger worked?

  Claire paced the kitchen. She had something, but not enough to impress Detective Wilson. She imagined his voice dripping with sarcasm. So Romero had a Hispanic girlfriend. What a surprise. Now that’s a real case breaker.

  She shook her head. She couldn’t call Wilson yet, but she had to do something with this information. She snapped her fingers. Of course.

  She thumbed through her address book until she found the entry for her former college roommate, Deb Burch, a Ute Indian. After serving as a tribal police officer on the Southern Ute reservation in Ignacio, Colorado, Deb had become a private investigator in Denver. She would know what to
do.

  Claire called Deb and spent half an hour updating her on the situation.

  “You believe Roger’s innocent?” Deb asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So do I. Roger’s no killer. And it sounds like the cops won’t help you.” Deb paused. “Damn, I’m tied up on an investigation. I have to fly to L.A. tomorrow morning then zip back here in time to testify in court Thursday. Otherwise, I’d drive down to the Springs and do some digging.”

  “What should I do?” Claire couldn’t keep the edge of desperation out of her voice.

  “First, examine the envelope. How thick is it?”

  Claire picked up the envelope and shook it. Something inside slid back and forth. “Not very.” She held the envelope up to the light. “It appears to be a check. No letter.”

  “He’s probably sending dinero home to mama. Write down the address. We might need to interview her later. The next step I would take isn’t tough . . . for me, that is. Maybe you could do it. In fact, it makes more sense for you to do it.”

  “Me?” The word came out as a squeak.

  “Yeah, you, Minnie Mouse. Go to Romero’s address tomorrow. When the woman answers the door, give her the impression you work at the gym and knew him. Worm your way into the house.”

  “Why?”

  “So you can find out more about this Romero guy.”

  Claire’s mouth went dry. “I don’t think I can do that, Deb. You know I’m terrible at lying.”

  Deb laughed. “Remember that time you tried to lie your way out of taking an art history exam you hadn’t studied for? By the time you finished, your dear departed Great Aunt Maude had died of liver failure with complications of psoriasis and typhoid fever.”

  “And I was stammering so bad, it took me three tries to say ‘psoriasis.’ That professor could see through me like a pane of glass that had just been Windexed.”

  “Do you want to wait until I return?”

  “I can’t sit and do nothing for a week.” Oh, God, what am I getting into?

  “Then you’ll just have to screw up your courage and do it. Here’s what you say . . .”

  ___

  At ten-thirty the next morning, Saturday, Claire sat in her car across the street from the two-story brick apartment building where Enrique had lived. She clenched the steering wheel, licked her dry lips, and peered out the window.

  The faded sign in front proclaimed “One-Bedroom and Efficiency Units for Rent, with Cable TV.” Even though the building sat end-on to the street, from Claire’s vantage point she could count fourteen apartments, seven on each floor. Metal stairs led to a walkway in front of the second-story units. Since Enrique’s apartment number started with two, Claire guessed his must be located upstairs.

  A biting cold wind blew tattered newspapers, a balled-up McDonalds bag, and a Tecaté beer can skittering down the street. The can bounced off pockmarks in the worn asphalt. The pavement cracks mirrored crooked lines left by flaking paint on the sides of the small, dilapidated houses lining her side of the street.

  Claire wondered if her BMW would be safe while she made her visit. Maybe calculating eyes already peered from behind frayed curtains or stained blinds at the expensive automobile, estimating what could be gotten for the wheels or the car itself. For the umpteenth time, she wished Roger hadn’t bought her the showy car. She would’ve been happy with a Toyota.

  Move, Claire. She flipped up her coat collar and stepped out of the car. In one shaky hand she held a shopping bag containing Enrique’s jacket. She was glad she thought to bring the jacket. Since it wasn’t on his body, it couldn’t be evidence. Beside, using its return as an excuse to visit made her lie more plausible.

  After locking the car and setting the alarm, she resolutely turned her back on the small haven of security and marched across the street. She climbed the stairs to the second-floor balcony. Scanning door numbers, she walked along the metal railing until she found Enrique’s apartment—second from the rear. After taking a deep breath, she knocked.

  “Quién es?”

  Oh, God. Claire hadn’t figured on speaking Spanish. Maybe this woman also knew English. “Hello?”

  A deadbolt slid sideways, the door opened a few inches, and a dark-haired young woman peered out. Her bleary eyes and the robe she clutched at her throat told Claire she may have come too early and roused this woman out of bed.

  Already, Claire was starting off on the wrong foot. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

  The woman opened the door a little wider and looked up and down the walkway. Apparently satisfied Claire was alone, she said, “No, I was reading the newspaper. What do you want?”

  Claire felt a surge of relief that she wouldn’t have to rely on her rusty high school Spanish. “I’m from the gym where Enrique worked.”

  “You’re not a cop?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Good. I want no more questions about Enrique.”

  Heartened by the news that the police had done that, at least, Claire held up the shopping bag. “I have something for you. May I come in?”

  The woman held the door open.

  Claire stepped into the dimly lit room. She noted the shabby furnishings—a couch covered in an ancient plaid fabric, a recliner with a torn vinyl seat, a TV perched on a bookcase overflowing with Spanish scandal sheets and magazines, and a scuffed pine kitchen table and chairs. An open newspaper and a coffee cup sat on the table.

  As Deb had instructed, Claire took off her coat, draped it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and sat, as if she planned to stay awhile. She clutched her hands under the table, to hide their shaking. “That coffee smells good.”

  The woman didn’t take the hint. She sat at the table across from Claire and stared at her. “You worked with Enrique?”

  Claire adopted the ditzy persona Deb said would work best. “Everyone at the gym is just horrified about what happened. You poor dear. We feel awful about the whole thing.” She reached over to pat the woman’s hand.

  The woman withdrew her hand into her lap. Her dark eyes flashed. “I bet the ladies in his class miss him the most.”

  Damn right. Claire feigned innocence. “Oh, yes, I’m sure they do. Enrique was an excellent instructor.”

  “Excelente, yes. A little too excelente.” The woman laughed dryly. She picked up her cup, then slammed it down without drinking any coffee. Brown liquid sloshed on the table. “They should have kept their hands off him.”

  Claire strained to keep her voice light. Maintaining her ruse was becoming difficult, but thank goodness the woman seemed distracted. “What do you mean?”

  The young woman waved her hand as if to brush aside the topic. “Never mind.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Had you two been married long?”

  The woman looked confused and shook her head. “Not married. Just, you know, girlfriend and boyfriend.”

  “My mistake. And I’m so rude. My name’s Cathy. What’s yours?” Surreptitiously, Claire rubbed the dampness off her hand onto her jeans, then held it out.

  The woman tentatively shook Claire’s hand. “Condoleza.”

  “Condoleza. What a lovely name. But your last name must not be Romero.”

  “Martinez.”

  What was the next question? Oh, yeah. “Is your family from around here?”

  Condoleza shook her head. “Mexico.” Obviously tiring of Claire’s chatter, she pointed to the shopping bag. “What is in the sack?”

  “Oh, dear, I almost forgot why I came.” Claire pulled Enrique’s leather jacket out of the bag. “He left this. It’s such a nice jacket. I thought you might want to have it, to remember him.” She passed it to Condoleza.

  Condoleza gathered it up and inhaled deeply. She glanced at Claire. “Sí, it’s Enrique’s. Thank you.” Though Condoleza hugged the jacket, her eyes remained dry.

  Surprising, for the girlfriend of a man who’d been murdered two days ago. Claire tried to form another question but a noise interrupted her
thoughts.

  A pale, lanky young man with shoulder-length brown hair and a droopy mustache stepped into the short hallway behind Condoleza. He wore only sweatpants and looked drowsy, eyes unfocused. “Who the hell’s that? Another cop?”

  Condoleza spun around to face him. “Someone from Enrique’s gym, Travis. Go back to bed.”

  He walked to the table, rubbing the sleep from his face. As he approached, a glint of silver at his chest drew Claire’s eye. A small ring pierced the flesh around his left nipple. God, why do young men think that’s attractive? The only thought it brought to her mind was pain.

  He poked the jacket. “What’s this?”

  “Enrique’s coat,” Condoleza said. “She brought it to me.”

  The young man snatched the jacket from Condoleza’s arms and held it out in front of him. “Nice. Might fit me.”

  He shrugged it on. Without a second glance at Claire, he walked down the hallway. “Get rid of her.”

  Condoleza’s eyes conveyed regret. Whether regret that the man took Enrique’s jacket, for his rudeness, or for her own situation, Claire couldn’t tell. She felt sorry for the woman and helpless because she could do nothing for her. She’d already messed up this woman’s life enough by causing Enrique’s death. The thought jolted her. Did I cause his death?

  Condoleza stood and pulled her frayed robe tighter around her. “I’m sorry. You have to go now.”

  Claire rose. “I understand.” She picked up her coat and walked out, repeating the man’s name in her mind. Travis, Travis. How does he fit in the picture?

  The apartment had only one bedroom. Had Condoleza been seeing two men at the same time? Maybe she was tired of Enrique and wanted to get rid of him. But why did she clutch the jacket and sniff it, as though she missed the scent of him? Could Travis be a relative, come to comfort her? No, he wasn’t Hispanic. Maybe a friend. But how much of a friend?

  The visit raised more questions than it answered. Claire shuddered. At least she’d pulled off her ruse without being discovered. She hurried to her car, anxious to leave the seedy neighborhood. In her haste, instead of the unlock button on her key fob, she pushed the trunk release. The trunk lid popped up. When she went to push it down, she stopped with her hand on the lid.