A Real Basket Case

by Beth Groundwater

  Claire glared at the smug man. “This is just how Roger said you’d react.”

  Wilson raised an eyebrow. “So you plotted with him over the weekend, and this is the best you could come up with?”

  “No!” Claire’s frustration mounted. “Aren’t you going to check it out?”

  “Did you touch the door or the blinds?”

  “I untwisted the blinds so I could open them. That was before I saw the door was unlocked. I didn’t touch the door, but I pushed the lock down. I wasn’t going to leave the door unlocked. I’m sleeping in that house alone, remember?”

  Wilson spread his hands wide. “You disturbed the supposed crime scene.”

  Claire gritted her teeth. “If your team had searched the whole house Thursday, you would have found the unlocked door, and we wouldn’t have this problem.”

  “What reason did we have to go in the basement? Your husband, the man holding the smoking gun, had come in the front door and left it wide open. Not only did that provide easy entry for our patrolmen, but substantiation of his statement. We didn’t find any prints on the door other than yours and his.”

  “Will you check the basement now?”

  Wilson twisted his head to study a schedule board on the wall then refocused on Claire. “My technician’s got a full day, but I can send her over this evening. You’ll be there to let her in?”

  Thank God he’d decided to do that at least. “Yes.”

  “Okay. Now, as much as I enjoy your little visits, Mrs. Hanover, I hope you’ll leave the investigative work to us from now on. We are the professionals. I’ll call you if anything important comes up.” He made a move to stand, as if to escort her out of the office.

  “I’ve got something else.”

  Wilson sighed and settled in his chair. “Yes?”

  Although irritated by his condescending attitude, Claire vowed to stick to business. “I found out who called Roger, claiming to be me. Roger’s receptionist said the woman had a Hispanic accent. It must have been Condoleza Martinez, Enrique’s girlfriend.”

  “How do you know Miss Martinez?”

  “I don’t. I went to Enrique’s apartment yesterday and found her there.”

  Wilson grinned. “So you know Mr. Romero better than you let on, enough to have been to his apartment.”

  Claire felt her cheeks redden, and she glanced around the room to check if any of the other detectives were listening. “I found his address on an envelope.”

  “What envelope?”

  “The one in his jacket pocket.”

  Wilson leaned forward, his smile gone. “What jacket?”

  “Enrique left his jacket in my closet.” A niggling worry wormed its way into her mind. Did she do something wrong?

  “What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me about the jacket before?”

  With obvious interest, two nearby detectives watched the interplay between Claire and Wilson.

  “I forgot it was in the closet until I saw it over the weekend.” Claire rubbed her damp hands on her jeans. “Enrique wasn’t wearing the jacket when he was shot, so I assumed it wasn’t important. Returning it gave me an excuse to visit Condoleza. I didn’t think the reason Deb gave me was good enough.”

  “Who’s Deb?”

  “A friend of mine who’s a private investigator.”

  “A private investigator? Did you hire a P.I. to snoop around on the case?” Wilson scowled at her, then the two detectives.

  They turned away, but not before one cracked a wry smile.

  Claire squirmed in her seat. This conversation was not going the way she planned. “I just called her for advice.”

  “I hate private investigators interfering in police business.”

  Claire wondered if she’d broken some law. “Was giving the jacket to Condoleza all right?”

  “No, but it’s useless to us now, with your and Martinez’s finger-prints all over it. What did you do with the envelope?”

  “I, uh, mailed it.”

  “Christ!” He buried his head in his hands.

  “It only had a check in it and was addressed to a Lucia Romero. I assumed he was sending money to his mother or something. I thought I did the right thing.” Damn, I sound like a blithering idiot.

  Wilson raised his head and stared at her. “Do you remember the address?”

  She’d done that right, at least. Claire rummaged in her purse. “I wrote it down. Here.” She handed him a copy of her original notes.

  Wilson peered at the paper. “Who’s this Leon?”

  Claire shrugged. “I don’t know. The name and phone number were in one of the jacket pockets.”

  “Did you find anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Hanover, I appreciate what you’re trying to do.” Wilson laid the paper on his desk and smoothed it out with deliberate strokes. “You’re feeling guilty about your little fling and want to worm your way back into your husband’s good graces by proving his innocence.”

  Claire flinched. An indelicate way to put it, but not far off the mark.

  “It’s not gonna happen. As I said before, it doesn’t matter who called your husband. He still pulled the trigger.” He pointed an accusing finger at Claire. “But your mucking around in this case is only causing trouble for both of us.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I don’t want to hear you’ve been off talking to people on your own. That’s my job, get it?”

  She hated to antagonize him any more, but she had to ask. “Are you going to talk to Miss Martinez?”

  “We already have!”

  A bead of sweat trickled down her chest. But this wasn’t one of her hot flashes, this was pure anxiety. “I mean about the phone call.”

  “Of course. Now, if you have nothing further . . .” He waved his hand toward the door.

  Claire stood to leave and glanced around the room. Her cheeks burned as she realized she’d gathered quite an audience. The two detectives from before stared at her. When her gaze fell on a man at a nearby desk, he hastily reached for a phone and knocked it onto the floor. As he bent to retrieve it, a uniformed policeman standing by his desk snorted down a laugh and elbowed the woman next to him.

  A man approached Detective Wilson’s desk and handed him a message slip.

  Wilson read it, and his lips curled. “This is the trace on the gun. It belonged to Romero.”

  He tossed the message on his desk, on top of Claire’s note, then glared at Claire. “Not some mysterious gunman. If Romero carried that gun in his jacket pocket, and your husband removed it from there, the jacket is evidence.”

  “But I hung the jacket in the closet when Enrique and I arrived, and it didn’t feel heavy enough to have a gun in the pocket.”

  “Then Romero carried the gun in his gym bag, which was sitting wide open in the hall. That part of your husband’s story could be true. The gun slipped out of the bag onto the floor, where he found it.”

  Wilson slowly rose and leaned his knuckles on his desk. “Regardless, tampering with evidence is a serious offense. You keep meddling in this case, Mrs. Hanover, and I may be forced to charge you. Go home and let the professionals do their work.”

  Claire had had enough. She spit out the words. “First of all, I did not have a little fling, and second, you professionals seem to be focused on proving Roger did it. I expected more objectivity.”

  She shouldered her purse, turned, and marched out of the room. Her back crawled as she felt the gaze of the other detectives follow her exit. She would not stop meddling, as he called it, as long as Roger, and their marriage, had a chance.

  NINE:

  THE BOSS

  Stomach burning, Claire fumed on the way to the gym from the police station. If she hadn’t planned to attend aerobics class to find out more about Enrique, she would have driven home. She felt like slamming pillows into walls and stomping around the living room.

  Looking forward to working off her anger and frustration in another way, Claire
shoved open the door to the women’s locker room at the gym. The buzz of multiple conversations along the rows of lockers surrounded her as she walked in. She nodded to two women she recognized from Enrique’s class, but they turned their backs on her. When she entered a row of lockers and dropped her gym bag on a bench, the woman standing on the other side of the bench walked away without a word. The conversations died down, replaced by whispers.

  Claire picked up her gym bag to go change in the privacy of a toilet stall, then stopped. No, I refuse to be intimidated. Even angrier now, she jerked open the locker door, hung up her coat, and peeled off her jeans.

  The other women acted as if they couldn’t wait to remove themselves from her presence. Lockers slammed shut, and the locker room door squeaked open several times in quick succession. The quiet in the room deepened.

  Claire tugged her T-shirt down over her head with a quick yank and opened her eyes. The same tall brunette who had talked to Enrique Monday stood at the end of the bench, studying her.

  “What?” Claire snapped.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.” The brunette smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Brenda Johnston.”

  Remembering the name, Claire shook her hand, hoping she’d found a possible ally, but wary that the woman had other motives for approaching her. “I’m—”

  “Claire Hanover. I know.” Brenda sat on the bench and stretched out her long legs. “Feel like you’re getting the cold shoulder?”

  “I don’t just feel it. I know it.”

  Brenda laughed. “You may want to switch to the ten o’clock Tuesday and Thursday class. I take it, too. Enrique didn’t teach that one.”

  “You’re dedicated.” Claire tugged a pair of leggings over her calves. “But I think I’ll stick this one out. I’m mad, actually. Just because they want me out, I’ll stay.”

  “Good for you.” Brenda made a sweeping motion with her hand, indicating the rest of the locker room. “Half these women are upset because they no longer have Enrique Romero to drool over in class, and the other half are insanely jealous.”

  Claire sat next to her new acquaintance. “Jealous?”

  “Yes, because Enrique dumped them in the past, and his latest interest obviously was you.”

  Half the class? Ellen said a few. “Tell me more.”

  Brenda peered at her. “Sounds like you didn’t know what you were getting into. Here it is in a teacup. Enrique traded his sexual favors with women in the class for money, loans, gifts, whatever he could get from them.”

  “God, that makes me feel cheap.” Claire remembered the times she picked up the bill for their juices.

  “Most of the women he seduced knew what he was doing. They figured it was worth it, to get their hands on him. Who knows? Some may have seduced him.” Brenda’s eyes were unfocused, as if remembering something. “Problem was, a lot of them wanted to keep him, but Enrique never stayed with one for long. He always moved on.”

  “Brenda, did you—”

  “Hi, Claire.” Ellen breezed into the row and squeezed past them to reach a locker. Brow furrowed, she glanced at Brenda.

  Brenda pursed her lips as if she wanted to say more, then shook her head and left.

  After the door had squeaked closed, Ellen sat beside Claire. “What were you talking to Brenda about?”

  Claire’s throat tightened. “Enrique Romero slept with half the women in the class.”

  Ellen laughed. “I think that’s an exaggeration. But even if it’s true, so what? The point is he was fun to be with, at least until he got knocked off.”

  Horrified, Claire stared at her friend.

  With a nudge, Ellen said, “Joke. Just trying to lighten your mood a little. Sorry, I guess it’s too soon for you to laugh about it.”

  “Brenda said Enrique did it for money. Twice he left me to pay for our juices. He was already sponging off me.” Claire’s eyes stung. She felt like she would cry from shame any minute.

  Ellen gave her a big hug. “Claire, baby, don’t take life so seriously. And I wouldn’t take Brenda too seriously, either. She has her own reasons for being upset by Enrique’s death.”

  And for making sure I felt scummy for associating with him? “Did she have an affair with him?”

  Ellen stood and closed her locker. “He was her supplier.”

  “Supplier?” Claire’s eyes grew wide.

  “Cocaine.”

  “Ohmygod. He sold drugs, too?”

  “Not in the way you might think. You had to ask him for it. If anyone into coke asked around, they soon found out he could get it for them, sort of doing them a favor.”

  Claire’s mood lifted. “This information might help Roger. If Enrique was selling drugs, someone could’ve wanted him dead.”

  Guilt flooded in as a realization hit her. “God, by allowing Enrique into my home, I provided the killer with the perfect setup so he or she could frame Roger for the crime.”

  “For your sake, I hope you’re right about Roger being innocent.”

  “You’re a good friend.” Claire stood and returned Ellen’s hug. “I know you aren’t convinced he’s innocent, but I am, and I aim to prove it.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m working on it.”

  Frowning, Ellen studied her. “Be careful. I’d hate to see you get hurt by this. Any more than you already are, that is.”

  Claire felt a lump growing in her throat. “Thanks. I’ll be careful.”

  Ellen glanced at the clock on the wall. “Time for class. A sub is teaching. When I came in, I heard some of the women talking about you in the hall. Can you handle it?”

  Claire put on a brave smile, even though her stomach was quivering. “I’m ready to face the masses.”

  As she followed Ellen to the door, she had an idea. “Did Enrique ever mention a name that you remember? You know, the person he got the cocaine from?”

  Ellen thought for a moment. “I think I overheard him say the name ‘Leon’ once to Brenda. That he would get the stuff from Leon.”

  ___

  Claire sat in her BMW in the parking lot of Graham’s Gym. Slowly, she rubbed the piece of paper with Leon’s phone number. She mulled over her options. Deb was still on a case in Los Angeles and hadn’t left a phone number. If Claire called Detective Wilson, he would just get angry with her again. She had to do this herself, even if it meant facing the detective’s ire. And facing Leon. What if he killed Enrique? But why would he kill one of his own dealers?

  She wished she knew more about illegal drugs. She’d never even smoked a joint, not even when she and Roger were college students in the seventies. The choice wasn’t from a sense of righteousness. It was from plain fear. And that’s what made her hands shake now—fear. But she had to do this. If she chose not to, Roger could be convicted.

  Claire picked up her cell phone and quickly punched in the number. When a gravelly voiced man answered, she said, “Leon?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “A friend of Enrique’s.”

  “How’d you get this number?”

  “I got it from Enrique.” Or his jacket, at least.

  “What d’ya want?”

  “If you’re Leon, I need to talk to you about his death.” Face-to-face was the only option, no matter how afraid she was of him. She would have to gain his trust if she was going to get any useful information out of him. And people didn’t tend to trust strangers who called them on the phone, especially people operating on the wrong side of the law.

  “I don’t know nothing about that. Even if I did, why would I talk to you?”

  Claire clenched the phone. “Because I might make it worth your while.”

  The man laughed. “You offering money or yourself?”

  “I’m offering to exchange information.” Claire flushed. She needed to regain control of this conversation. Maybe she could pique his curiosity enough for him to agree to meet her. “I’m sure you’re just as interested in finding out who really k
illed him as I am.”

  “The police think a jealous husband killed him.”

  “The police are wrong.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. When and where can we meet?”

  “You a cop or something?” The man sounded suspicious.

  “No, just a friend.” Claire held her breath.

  Silence. Finally, he said, “Meet me in an hour in the liquor store parking lot at Hancock and Chester.”

  “Where is that?” As she asked, Claire heard a click followed by dead air.

  She dug out a map and looked up one of the street names. She squinted to bring the small writing into focus and found the intersection, in a bad part of town. She shuddered. At least the meeting would be out in the open. She checked her wallet and counted eighty-three dollars in cash. She might need bribery money if her information wasn’t enough to get Leon to talk. First stop would be an ATM.

  An hour later, Claire drove into an empty parking lot crisscrossed with weed-encrusted cracks. Boards covered the liquor store’s windows. Trash sat piled in the doorway. Great, no help there. Nervously, she glanced around. A gas station on the opposite corner was open for business, and an old man pumped gas into his rusty Chevrolet, his thin frame hunched against the cold. She doubted he’d rush to her aid if trouble ensued. Nonetheless, she parked her car as close to the street and the gas station as she could.

  A few minutes later, a black limousine with heavily tinted windows drove by slowly. It was standard-sized, not the typical stretch model that took high schoolers to the prom. Halfway up the block, it backed into a driveway and returned. The limousine pulled into the lot and parked three spaces away from her.

  The driver and front-seat passenger, both large men wearing sunglasses, got out and approached her car.

  Oh, God. Claire’s heart started racing for the nearest exit.

  The black driver pocketed his keys with one hand and, with the other, flicked a half-smoked cigarette onto the concrete. The white passenger’s bare arms hung out of his denim vest. His huge biceps sported intricate tattoos and his oiled shaved head gleamed in the winter sunlight. He seemed impervious to the frigid air.