Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

by Suzann Ledbetter

  Little Rock PD uniforms or detectives who'd delivered the news and confirmed deHaven's alibi must have been preternaturally discreet. Or those witness statements McGuire was so proud of were limited to F.D.I.C. employees.

  After Jack asked several questions he presumed a postevent supervisor might pose, he said, "Forgive me, Charles, but I'm not clear on a few amenity issues. Your valet parking, for example. Is it mandatory for hotel guests or can they park their own whee—er, vehicles, if they so choose."

  "The service is optional." Dunwoodie sniffed. "Although the majority of those who stay with us prefer it."

  "Is a room key card necessary to enter and exit the garage?"

  "Until a few months ago, yes. Numerous complaints were received about the gate failing to operate, misplaced cards and the like. The system was dismantled and now a security officer patrols the entire facility on the hour."

  "Security cameras? Lights?"

  "Lighting, yes." Dunwoodie heaved a remorseful sigh. "I'd prefer not to go into detail, but incidents where the cameras captured, shall we say, indiscretions, encouraged their removal, as well."

  In other words, videotaped evidence of married couples doing the Detroit Boogie with those other than their spouses were Exhibit A in divorce proceedings. Not many Park City hotels had parking garages, but Jack stowed away that tip for future reference.

  "The do-it-yourself parking," he said. "Are areas assigned, or is it first come, first served?"

  "The latter, Mr. Melville."

  Feeling the hotel manager's increasing dubiousness, Jack switched tactics. "Before I forget, Mr. deHaven was concerned about the stain on the carpet in his room."

  "Stain? What stain?"

  "Red wine, I believe." Jack grimaced. "Nearly a full bottle, I'm afraid. Mr. deHaven instructed me to make sure no permanent damage was done. Or if so, to reimburse the hotel for any expense incurred."

  "Oh, my heavens. A red-wine stain is worse than a "

  Bloodstain, Jack thought, as Dunwoodie hurried to the desk to check the room's availability for inspection.

  DeHaven's weekend accommodations were a hike from the elevator alcove. While the manager slipped his passkey into room 220's electronic reader, Jack eyed the interior stairway directly across the corridor. Above the door was a combination Exit sign and dual emergency lights. No security cameras anywhere, unless the rubber tree at the end of the hall was wired for video.

  A faint odor of nicotine contradicted the No Smoking placard on 220's door. By the lingering staleness, it was a relatively recent conversion.

  DeHaven was a militant nonsmoker. Before Jack quit, Belle bummed a few when they'd meet for drinks. She couldn't resist the swimmy, head-lolling high they gave her. Short-lived, but perfectly legal. Carleton wasn't always in town during these revolts, but Jack knew Belle enjoyed them more when he was.

  Otherwise, room 220 was a spacious, basic king-size bed, nightstands, bureau, armoire with requisite electronics and writing-desk setup. In front of the window was a club table and wing chairs where guests could sip the marginally palatable coffee brewed in the bathroom's Barbie Dream House coffeemaker.

  Nice digs, but well beneath Golden Boy deHaven's standards—monetary and olfactory.

  Dunwoodie bent double and scuttled around in search of the mythical wine stain. The cobalt-patterned carpet could absorb an arterial hemorrhage with no one the wiser. Jack dodged out of the manager's way, relieved there were no random splotches he'd be stuck paying to have cleaned.

  "Were you surprised that Mr. deHaven didn't reserve a suite?" he asked.

  Dunwoodie knelt to peer under the box-pleated bed skirt. "Um, well, yes, I suppose." He crab-walked to the foot of the bed. "Others in his entourage were on the concierge floor."

  Jack couldn't pronounce croissant without a bourbon buzz. If then. In his vernacular, entourage was French for "ass kissers."

  This trip, deHaven wanted distance from them. Privacy. The hotel's floor plan was posted on its Web site. A room in a dead-end corridor, one floor above the lobby, three below his lackeys and across from a stairway was tailor-made.

  The nightstand's clock radio hoved into view. "Charles, listen, you've been a great help, but I do have a plane to catch."

  Dunwoodie's joints cracked as he regained his feet. Dusting off his hands, he said, "A spill of the volume you mentioned might not be apparent for several days. Let me page a maintenance person—"

  "Tell you what." Jack backed toward the door. "Send an invoice for any damages to my attention at the address on my card." He edged into the corridor. "We at F.D.I.C are eager to ensure a long and happy relationship with your hotel."

  Dollar signs rose and shimmered in Dunwoodie's eyes. "Yes, of course, Herman. That's our objective."

  "Herman" it was, finally. "This stairway. Does it access all levels of the parking garage? I figure I can zip down and out front to my rental car faster this way than backtracking to the elevators."

  Dunwoodie's nose wrinkled at the thought of such an uncivilized exit. "Only the basement level, I'm afraid, Mr. Melville." He gestured down the corridor at an intersecting hallway. "The auxiliary elevators service the opposite end of the lobby and each garage level."

  Jack chuckled and patted his midsection. "I'd rather ride, but this jelly roll says I need the exercise."

  They shook on it, the manager still a skosh bewildered by the abrupt departure. Jack clattered down the concrete stairs, noting his watch's exact time. A land-speed record wasn't the intent. Hustle, not hurtle.

  Dunwoodie had lied, of course. Compact security cameras with tiny red indicator buttons were mounted at each landing. Which meant Big Brother watched over the garage, as well. The hotel's liability in the event of a criminal assault, purse snatch or an on-premise injury guaranteed it. A clunkier, visible system had been replaced with a smaller generation of spy cams.

  Evidence for criminal proceedings? You bet. For a civil case? Aside from negligence suits against the hotel, no way, Jose. The simplest stopgap was dumping the footage every twenty-four hours. Long enough to preserve for a criminal-or personal-liability incident—brief enough to disappoint divorce lawyers and private investigators.

  DeHaven's alleged egress and ingress via the stairs and out the basement garage remained alleged. While a subpoena could obtain a computerized record of room 220's key card's usage, the coffee service might have been a ruse for alibi purposes. Afterward, deHaven could jerry-rig the door to close but not lock. No key card needed to get back in. No record to make a liar out of him.

  Jesus Christ on a chariot, McPhee. That ass wipe's a murderer, not a master friggin' criminal.

  At the basement level, he shouldered open the heavy metal door. Twenty-three seconds from deHaven's room to the garage. Jack scanned the vehicles nosed into their respective blocks, then remembered Mike saying deHaven arrived at the hotel in a limo.

  He hadn't driven to the airport. Duplicate ignition keys would circumvent the valet service, which deHaven undoubtedly used, but what if somebody saw him pull out of the garage? Or back in? And how would he later retrieve his car at Little Rock National without arousing suspicion?

  He had to get to the airport somehow. A cab? The hotel shuttle? Possible. However deHaven managed it, he wasn't wearing custom-tailored threads when he left the hotel. But he must have dressed the part when he met Mr. Who's-It's incoming flight in a limo.

  Provided he had murdered his wife

  Jack fast-walked, then broke into a jog toward the inclined ramp to street level. He had an hour and change to turn in his rented wheels, grab a boarding pass and strap himself into another damn piccolo with wings.

  18

  Dina's arm clapped the laptop and the sliding stack of loose papers to her chest. Their edges tickled her chin, the middle sheets gradually slithering downward. The hobo bag's strap dangling from the crook of her other arm and Jack's Captain Kangaroo-sized key ring in her hand weren't helping fit the agency's stupid door key into the agency's stupid
keyhole.

  Behind her, a stern voice demanded, "Who are you?"

  Papers slopped to the sidewalk and fanned out almost to the curb. Dina spun around. The sun reflecting off adjacent windshields backlit a tall, faceless man. Oh, dear God. Carleton deHaven. Every sheet of paper she'd printed had his name on it. "What are you doing here? What do you want?"

  The man stepped closer, menacingly close, into the strip of shade fronting the buildings. White hair and features graven by at least twice Dina's years on Earth affirmed he wasn't deHaven. Still, that flinty glare pinned her back to the door.

  "My name's Abramson. Gerald Abramson. I'm here to see Jack McPhee."

  "The insurance agent?" An identity less terrifying than her earlier assumption. From a homicidal standpoint, anyway.

  "Correct. And you?"

  She wanted desperately to lie. And would, if any name other than Jane Austen flitted through her brain. "Dina Wexler," she answered, as one might Lizzie "the Ax" Borden.

  Rather than howl "Aha! The infamous Calendar Burglar!" Abramson's gaze averted to the key ring. "I wasn't aware McPhee had hired clerical help."

  If hired equated with an agency paycheck, he hadn't. Which was none of Abramson's business.

  "Hey, miss," yelled the more muscle-bound of two young men striding toward the diner's entrance. Both wore black jeans and boots, wraparound sunglasses and rottweiler scowls. "Is that guy hassling you?"

  Yes, he was. Just not in the manner they implied. "Thanks," she said, "but everything's fine."

  Continuing on, they darted skeptical glances as they swung open the diner's door. Not her mother's knights in shining armor, but it was nice to know some version still existed.

  Undeterred by the anatomical rearrangement she'd spared him, Abramson snapped, "So where is McPhee?"

  The gruff third-degree was beginning to piss her off. "Out of the office. Obviously."

  "I can see where he isn't, Ms. Wexler."

  "I don't know how to reach him at the moment, Mr. Abramson."

  "Reach him is what I've tried to do all week. I've called and left message after message, before and since I fired him. He hasn't—"

  "You fired him? When? Why?"

  Suspicion narrowed his eyes. "You work here and you weren't aware of that?"

  Dina knelt to scoop up the papers, baling them with her arm, like a conscientious clerical employee. She was careful not to let Abramson see their content, other than glimpses of several official-looking headers.

  "Why wouldn't I fire him?" Abramson inquired, as much to the breeze as to Dina. "He hasn't provided a single written report. We haven't spoken since last Saturday. Even before the police arrested him for murder, his work has been completely incompetent."

  "Really." This time, she was the aggressor, the invader of personal space. "First off, Jack wasn't arrested for anything. Questioned, yes. Charged with a crime of any kind? Absolutely not.

  "Secondly, have you given one moment's thought to the fact the homicide victim was Mr. McPhee's former wife? That despite their marital difficulties, he'd have been devastated by her death, regardless of circumstances."

  "Well, I—"

  "You tell me." Dina pointed at the gold band he wore. "How competent would you be four days after your wife died?"

  Abramson stiffened, his face flushing a deep scarlet. "My wife has Parkinson's disease. She's been dying a little every day for several years."

  "Oh, God." She blew out a breath. "I'm sorry. For you and your wife. I truly am, but that doesn't change the grief Jack's dealing with. Someone he cared deeply about was killed—shot to death—in her own house."

  Abramson studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "I didn't realize . Should have, I suppose, as many years as I've known Jack."

  "He does a pretty good job of acting tough." Dina smiled. "Okay, he doesn't, but he thinks he does."

  "Yes, but tough isn't the issue, Ms. Wexler. One returned phone call, one e-mail—I don't think I'm unreasonable to have expected a response of some kind."

  Dina couldn't argue. Particularly since protecting her was the reason for the communications blackout. Whatever intervention in her behalf Jack had planned for Monday morning, Belle's murder and Lt. McGuire's presumption of Jack's guilt changed everything.

  Lying for investigative purposes was an occupational requirement. From what she'd seen and heard, Jack excelled at it. Where clients were concerned, his code of professional ethics was black-and-white.

  "I appreciate your honesty, Ms. Wexler, and your loyalty." Abramson shifted his weight. "But business is business. Do remind Jack, as I said in my last telephone message, I want a final report and the balance of the retainer by five o'clock Friday afternoon."

  "That's tomorrow." The purse strap wobbled off her slumping shoulder. If not for that pending homicide charge, she'd confess on the spot. She would anyway and leave out the empty-handed deHaven burglary, except how could she explain having the keys to Jack's office? Let alone why he hadn't surrendered her to the police.

  State and city licensing boards weren't big on gray areas, either. Tell Abramson the truth and McPhee Investigations would soon be another empty storefront.

  "Please," she said, "give him until Monday. That's one business day from Friday. An extra, lousy twenty-four hours."

  "I can't. I've contracted with another investigator. He wants McPhee's notes and the report I've already paid for to avoid duplicating the casework. Assuming any was done."

  With that, Abramson turned and stalked off toward a showroom-shiny Mercedes sedan.

  "Reports aren't results," Dina called after him. "Bet ya a hundred bucks—make it a thousand—that Jack's replacement won't catch that burglar by Monday."

  The insurance man shot her a look that should have scorched the lettering off the plate window behind her. Anger evolved to circumspection. "You sound awfully sure of yourself, Ms. Wexler."

  Once, just once, couldn't she shut her mouth before it got her in trouble? Then again, there were a couple of things of which she was absolutely certain.

  "Why wouldn't I be? You fired the best P.I. in town." She jutted her jaw. "Instead of appreciating my loyalty to Jack, maybe you ought to have a little of it yourself."

  * * *

  Jack braked for a traffic light. Park City had grown since he left that morning. It must have. The drive from the airport to the Wexlers' seemed ninety miles long—most of it still ahead of him.

  He scrubbed his face with a hand. His skin felt greasy and parched at the same time. Jesus. What was it about sitting on your duff in an airplane that wore you out? Praying you either survive or croak faster than you can say "Oh, shit" shouldn't drain your batteries to a click above lights-out. His lips hadn't even moved for fear his seatmate would get the wrong idea. Or the right one.

  He ought to feel great. He was this close to having Carleton deHaven by the cojones. Yeah, a couple of sizable puzzle pieces were missing, but the picture was shaping up.

  And yeah, he'd wanted deHaven by the cojones for years. The guy was a sleaze. A white-collar, rat-bastard con man. Belle was supposed to get wise and get out before the scam collapsed, as they inevitably do. Her calculated, cold-blooded execution, Jack never, ever anticipated.

  "I should have." He joined the traffic herd moseying along an asphalt chute. "DeHaven's a flat-out, full-bore sociopath."

  He welcomed the adrenaline gates nudging open a crack. Again, he thought of Belle's illicit Marlboro highs. His natural one simmering just slightly cleared his brain and the lethargy weighting his bones.

  DeHaven thrilled at the hunt, the chase. Acquisition was the goal—personally and professionally. Attaining it was like an orgasm. Exultant, powerful, satiating but temporary. Those sensations could be achieved again, maybe exceeded now and then, yet eventually, with nothing else driving them, no emotional connection, the need to hunt, the hunger for the chase must be satisfied.

  To plan and execute the perfect murder, outwitting the police and taking down Jack in the p
rocess was irresistible. DeHaven would rid himself of a wife he was no longer enamored of and avoid the cost and stigma of another divorce.

  Instead of business associates and disciples beginning to question his personal judgment and by association, his financial acumen, he'd be a widower. The "poor man whose wife was murdered" rather than the romantic fool who marries in haste and repents in divorce courts.

  Except a perfect murder is a myth, Jack thought. Homicide does go unpunished. Unsolved cases haunt investigators' days and nightmares. Worse and often harder to live with are the acquittals. Insufficient evidence or a jury's belief that "beyond a reasonable doubt" and the misnomer "beyond a shadow of a doubt" were synonymous proved it's the world that ain't perfect.