Slow Kill

by Michael McGarrity

  “Did he live in Santa Fe?” Kerney asked.

  “No, he and Alice had a house in Albuquerque.”

  Parker stood and filled Kerney’s juice glass, this time touching him lightly on the shoulder as she poured.

  “Why would Alice want Clifford tied to a divorce decree that made him responsible for the continued search for George?” Kerney asked, after Parker, cheeks slightly flushed, returned to her chair.

  “Partially out of spite, and partially to use every possible way to hit Clifford in the checkbook,” she said.

  Kerney sipped his juice. “Explain that to me.”

  “She hates the fact that Clifford never believed George was still alive. It got to the point, just before the divorce, where Mr. Spalding was publicly demeaning her about it to their friends. It was her way of striking back at him.”

  “Yet Spalding cooperated in Alice’s hunt for George,” Kerney said. “He hired a private investigator, and stayed in touch with the local police.”

  “I always felt he did that more to placate Alice than to really look for George.”

  “What about the search for Debbie Calderwood?” Kerney asked.

  “George’s personal effects included love letters Debbie had written to him while he was in Vietnam. Those letters convinced Alice that Debbie knew something about George’s military service the Army wasn’t telling her.”

  “Like what?”

  “That George had some secret duty, a special operation or a hush-hush assignment.”

  “Where are the letters?” Kerney asked, remembering Lou Ferry’s story of how Spalding had made him fake a report on Calderwood’s possible whereabouts.

  “Alice and Clifford had a big fight just before he walked out on her,” Parker replied. “She came home to find him burning everything about George and Debbie that she’d accumulated over the years. He destroyed all of it.”

  “Interesting,” Kerney said. “Did this happen while Clifford had the private investigator working on the case?”

  Parker nodded. “Right about then, as I recall.”

  “But you never met him, or knew his name,” Kerney said.

  “That’s right,” Parker said. “Nor did Alice. Mr. Spalding was something of a control freak. When Alice challenged him about it, he said the man couldn’t possibly remain objective unless he was free to do his job without her interference.”

  Kerney folded his napkin, placed it on the table, and stood. The morning haze had lifted and the calm ocean glimmered like a deep blue mirror, reflecting the sunlight. “I’ve taken up enough of your time,” he said.

  “Will you be in town long?” Parker asked wistfully.

  “Just through today,” Kerney replied.

  Parker covered her disappointment with a cheerful smile. “Please come back if you have any more questions. I’ll be here all day.”

  “Thank you.”

  Parker walked close beside Kerney to the front door and waved good-bye as he left. On the trip down the hill, with the scent of Parker’s perfume still lingering, he decided to pay another visit to Captain Chase. There had to be some documentation about George Spalding on file with the department. He also wanted to probe into what kind of working relationship Clifford Spalding had forged with the good captain.

  Ellie Lowrey got to the lab just as it opened and extracted a promise from the supervisor to have Spalding’s toxicology work done and the medication found in the pill box analyzed before the end of the day. Last night’s search of Spalding’s car had turned up nothing. But Bill Price was busy calling every pharmacist in Santa Barbara in an attempt to learn what drugstore in Santa Fe had requested a copy of the prescription.

  While Price worked the phones, Ellie drove to Santa Barbara to meet Claudia Spalding, who had called her after arriving in Montecito early in the morning. On the phone, the woman had sounded sincerely grief-stricken. Ellie deliberately played into it, offering Claudia Spalding as much sympathy and understanding as she could muster.

  On the freeway, Lowrey pondered possible approaches to take with Mrs. Spalding. Hardball wouldn’t work, not without proof that she had had the opportunity and means to arrange for her husband’s death. Ellie figured the best she could do was to open a few trapdoors for the woman and see if she fell into any of them.

  Ellie arrived at the estate and announced herself on the intercom. When the ornate wrought iron gates swung open, she followed the cobblestone driveway up a hill that curved and dropped into a vale. Her mouth almost dropped open at the imposing three-story stone residence that came into view. At one end, a majestic watchtower rose above a long portico with Romanesque columns. It looked like a stage set for a nineteenth-century costume drama.

  A labyrinth of boxwood hedges enclosed acres of lawn, ornamental plantings, and gardens. Towering stands of trees covered knolls and filled vales. Ellie half expected to see corseted women with parasols and men in breeches and top hats strolling leisurely through the gardens.

  A woman whom Ellie took to be Claudia Spalding stood under the portico. Tallish, with long curly black hair, she hurried forward as Ellie got out of her cruiser.

  “What happened to Clifford?” Claudia Spalding asked as she closed in on Lowrey.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Ellie said. “We don’t know yet exactly why he died.”

  “Why was he at the ranch?” Spalding asked. “He’s never gone there before.”

  “As I understand it, your husband was arranging to purchase a horse for your anniversary.”

  Spalding’s hand flitted to her chest. “Oh my.”

  “Had your husband been sick recently?” Ellie asked.

  Spalding gestured toward the house. “Please come inside. Except for a cold, not at all. He played tennis regularly and swam every day. He had a thyroid condition, but it was controlled by medication.”

  “Yes, I know,” Ellie replied. “We found the medication in his belongings.”

  Spalding didn’t react one way or the other. Following along behind her, Ellie entered a large room with a vaulted ceiling and an enormous stone fireplace at one end. The floor was antique terra-cotta accented by a big Tibetan rug that would have overwhelmed an ordinary room. A mixture of Italian antique tables, soft leather couches, and upholstered easy chairs done up in subtle Moorish patterns were arranged at either end of the room. Ellie sat with Spalding in front of the fireplace and watched as the woman took a deep breath and composed herself.

  “This must be very hard on you,” Ellie said.

  Spalding nodded. “Clifford was a special man. Brilliant, worldly, caring. I loved him dearly.”

  Ellie studied Spalding’s face. Her large blue-green eyes were attention grabbing. Her thin lips with a hint of small lines at the corners made her appear secretive in a provocative way. Her creamy, flawless skin spoke of expensive spa treatments.

  Something about the woman didn’t ring true. Ellie decided to abandon her game plan. “Your neighbor, Nina Deacon, has suggested that you might not have loved your husband as much as you claim,” she said.

  “Excuse me?” Spalding said, with a look of haughty surprise.

  “I’d like to hear your side of the story regarding your relationship with Kim Dean,” Ellie said.

  Spalding’s expression turned cold. “Would you, now. For what reason?”

  “To set aside any suspicions I might have about you.”

  “My husband died in his sleep.”

  “Every unattended death is investigated, Mrs. Spalding, and from what Nina Deacon told a Santa Fe detective, you weren’t as happily married as you’d like me to believe.”

  Spalding got to her feet. “There are certain facts you’re not aware of. Wait right here.”

  She left the room with her back stiff and her head held high. She returned with a folder, handed it to Ellie, and said, “Read this.”

  In it was a legal amendment to the prenuptial agreement specifying that the removal of Clifford Spalding’s prostate had rendered him unable to e
ngage in connubial activity with his wife, and thus she was free to engage in discreet sexual liaisons without suffering any financial loss, as long as such relationships did not occur in Montecito or nearby environs, and that the terms of the amendment remained strictly confidential between the two parties.

  It was dated four years ago, signed by both of them, witnessed, and notarized.

  In her years as a cop, Ellie had encountered a good many people with unusual private lives. But this definitely was a new wrinkle on matrimonial bliss. “Interesting,” she said.

  Spalding looked down at Ellie. “It was Clifford who instigated this agreement. In fact, he had to talk me into it.”

  “I see,” Ellie replied, not sure that she did at all.

  “What Nina Deacon may have told you about my personal relationship with Kim is true. He is my lover. Nina is a neighbor and close friend, and it would have been impossible for me to hide everything from her. Letting her believe I was trapped in a loveless marriage was preferable to breaking the confidentiality of this agreement with my husband.”

  “She said the Santa Fe house was in your husband’s name only.”

  “I lied,” Spalding said curtly. “It’s my house free and clear.”

  “Did your husband know of your relationship with Dean?”

  “No.”

  Ellie waved the papers at Spalding and stood. “Does Dean know about this agreement?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “I’ll need to keep this document for a time to verify the contents with the lawyer, and I’ll also need to speak to the doctor who removed your husband’s prostate.”

  “Of course. Just make sure I get it back. Now, when can I claim my husband’s body?”

  “Today,” Ellie replied, handing Spalding her business card. “Once you’ve made arrangements with a funeral home, have them call me.”

  “I did not have anything to do with my husband’s death.”

  “I never said that you did.”

  “I am not a brainless trophy wife, Sergeant,” Claudia Spalding said. “I hold an MBA and a PhD in organizational psychology, and clearly understood the implications of your questions. You’d better be very careful with your investigation, or you may find yourself swimming in deep legal waters.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Ellie said. “One last question: Do you know a man named Kevin Kerney?”

  Claudia knitted her brows. “I’ve heard that name before. Who is he?”

  “I thought you could tell me.”

  She left the mansion convinced that notions of normal behavior—if there was such a thing—simply didn’t apply to the very rich.

  Captain Chase was out of the office attending an all-day meeting, but at the front counter a detective who was helping a young Hispanic woman amend a stolen property report from a recent burglary took a moment to buzz Kerney through the door to the restricted area. From there a uniformed officer took him to the cold case office, a windowless room with two desks and a big chart on the wall that tracked the status of the cases under review. George Spalding’s name wasn’t on it.

  At one of the desks, a young man sat in front of a computer screen scrolling through a file. A name-plate on the shelf above the desk read DET. JUDE FORESTER.

  Forester had an eager, intelligent look about him, which was offset by dark circles under his eyes and a skin condition that turned his forehead bright pink.

  Kerney explained he’d like to take a look at the George Spalding case file, and Forester gave him a quizzical look.

  “Why bother with that piece of garbage?” he asked, gesturing at an empty chair.

  “Professional curiosity,” Kerney said as he sat. “There are some New Mexico connections that interest me.”

  “Well, actually, we don’t really work it as an active case.”

  “So I understand,” Kerney said. “How is it handled?”

  “You know about the situation?”

  “Your captain filled me in,” Kerney replied.

  “Then he probably told you we do nothing more than take down the information Alice Spalding gives us and forward it to him. He takes it from there.”

  “Where does he take it?” Kerney asked.

  “He talks to Alice and then gives the ex-husband a heads-up on the situation.”

  “Talks to Alice about what?”

  “Just to reassure her that we’ve looked at whatever she told us and there is nothing to report. Of course, we really don’t do squat.”

  “Do you have the case record?”

  “Do I ever,” Forester said with a laugh. He opened a desk drawer, removed a thick file folder, and put it in Kerney’s hands. “Have at it, Chief,” he said, grinning. “You can use the other desk.”

  Kerney spent an hour paging through the file. Most of what Chase had talked about was documented in the record. A U.S. Army report described the helicopter accident in Vietnam that had caused George Spalding’s death. The chopper had gone down for unknown reasons, probably due to mechanical defects. There was nothing in it that spoke about a secret mission or hush-hush duty, as Penelope Parker had mentioned.

  Kerney had been in-country during the same time as George Spalding. He wondered if he’d ever met the man.

  According to the rescue and inspection team sent to the crash site, only two passengers, who’d been thrown free upon impact, had survived. Everyone else—four people—had been fried to a crisp when the bird exploded.

  He scanned the missing person reports that Alice Spalding had called in to the department over the years. In the material he found an old memorandum from a former police chief assigning Detective Chase to the investigation.

  Kerney thought that a bit unusual, but not completely out of the realm of possibility. Perhaps Clifford Spalding had taken his initial request for special handling straight to the top.

  It was also curious that Chase had remained involved with the case over the years. Why did he find it necessary to be the primary contact with Alice and Clifford Spalding? Why hadn’t Chase passed the job on to somebody else as he rose through the ranks? After all, it was supposedly nothing but a big nuisance.

  Kerney looked up from the file and asked Forester about the ex-chief who’d given Chase his initial assignment.

  “Ed Ramsey?” Forester replied. “He retired about five years ago, just after I joined the force.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Teaching at the FBI Academy. Management, or something like that.”

  Kerney shook his head, smiled at Forester, and patted the folder. “Man, if I’d been Chase, I would have dropped this baby in somebody’s lap the first chance I got. Somebody like you.”

  Forester chuckled. “Then I’m sure glad you’re not running the show here, Chief. Cap says he’d rather not have us wasting our time on it. Besides, Clifford Spalding likes to deal directly with him.”

  Forester’s choice of words suggested that he didn’t yet know that Spalding was dead. “But Alice doesn’t seem to mind whom she talks to in the department,” he said.

  “Yeah, but then, she’s crazy,” Forester said. “Crazy Alice, we call her.”

  Kerney handed the file to Forester and stood. Asking more questions about Chase might raise a red flag. “Thanks for letting me have a look-see,” he said.

  “Learn anything helpful, Chief?”

  “Yeah, it’s time to stop spinning my wheels and go home.”

  Kerney left police headquarters telling himself to put the riddle of George Spalding aside for a time and think about something else, anything else. He walked past the rental car in the direction of State Street, turned the corner at the busy boulevard, and joined the tourists wandering along the crowded sidewalk.

  A red light held Kerney up at an intersection and soon a throng of people waiting to cross the street surrounded him. The walk sign flashed and Kerney stood his ground as pedestrians surged around him. Chase had mentioned an old newspaper photograph of a traffic accident that had triggered Alice Spalding’
s search for her son.

  Although noted in the case file, the newspaper photograph wasn’t in the record. Kerney changed directions and walked down a less busy side street. Chase had told him that one of the victims in the news photo resembled George Spalding, which meant that he must have seen the picture.

  Also missing from the record was any documentation of the attempt Chase said had been made to identify the man. Supposedly, a highway patrol officer and an EMT who’d responded to the accident had been queried about the victim. But there was nothing in the file that noted their names, any statements taken from them, the true identity of the man Alice had believed to be her son, or even the date and place of the accident.

  Additionally, there was no mention of Debbie Calderwood in the file. Was there another record? Perhaps one that Chase kept in his office?

  As Kerney strolled back toward the car, another inconsistency surfaced in his mind. Chase said Alice always called in her sightings. But when Kerney had first met Alice, she mistook him for Chase. Did Chase visit Alice periodically? If so, why?

  Kerney stopped in front of the old courthouse, where a group of tourists led by a guide were getting the scoop on the historic building and the fabulous view of the bay from the bell tower. He called Penelope Parker on his cell phone.

  “Does Captain Chase stay in close contact with Alice?” he asked when she answered.

  “Not so much since she got sick,” Parker replied.

  Kerney moved out of the way as the tour group hurried inside. “And before that?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Parker said. “Alice relied on him heavily. He would even visit her to report in person.”

  “On a regular basis?”

  “Monthly, I’d say.”

  “Did she know Chase was passing on what she told him to Clifford?”

  “Alice never would have stood for that,” Parker said.

  “Did Chase give her verbal or written reports?”

  “Only verbal, as far as I know. It’s interesting that you should mention Captain Chase. He called here after you left this morning, asking questions about you and what you were up to. I told him what we’d talked about.”