by Lisa Turner
Hanson’s hand went to the side of his face. “Shit, man, all right. Those people at Shelby Farms paid for their bull banging me up. They cleaned out petty cash and gave me a paper to sign.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred.”
He grabbed a fistful of shirt and bounced Hanson off the car again. “You threw eight bills on the table. Who paid you to kill the Lee woman?”
Hanson’s hands came up in front of him. “Back off. I hit the long shot Superfecta at the dog track today. The payoff was fourteen grand.” He wiped blood from his mouth with his sleeve.
“You had a partner Monday night. You stopped Caroline. He shot her. He took off with the gun leaving you stranded. I want his name and the name of the man who hired you.”
Hanson was sweating and looking incredulous. “What’re you smoking, man? Swear to God you got it wrong.”
Billy flipped him around and hooked him up. He opened the back door, shoved Hanson in, and locked it. He got behind the wheel.
Hanson’s voice came from behind him sounding tight like piano wire. “You gonna shoot me or what?”
“Not another gotdamn word.” He started the engine and drove west by way of the new bridge over the Mississippi River toward the lights illuminating the clouds above Southland Greyhound Park. He parked out front and dragged Hanson through a crowd at the entrance and into the lobby in cuffs. A guard checked Billy’s shield and radioed the manager his question about Hanson’s Superfecta win. They walked through the lobby to the sound of slot machines and a race being called. Down a hallway, a manager came out from behind a steel door that looked like it could withstand a nuclear blast. He was as big as a pro linebacker and wore a pinky ring with a large ruby in the center. His hands were manicured, his suit pressed, and his shoes were polished. Billy was expecting a Bronx accent. Instead he got proper British.
“Good evening, Officer,” the manager said.
“It’s Detective. I’m with the Memphis Police Department.”
“I see.” The big man looked Hanson up and down. “Most of our winners aren’t returned to us in handcuffs. You gave my guard the name Roscoe Hanson.”
“Right. I want to verify his win,” Billy said.
“I understand. I’ve checked the cashier’s video. Mr. Hanson had a spot of luck today. He collected fourteen thousand. Taxes deducted, of course.”
Hanson took it quietly with his head down, knowing better than to gloat.
“Anything else, Detective?” the manager asked.
“No, sir. That’ll do it. Thanks.”
“Then may I ask that you exit through a side entrance? A man leaving in handcuffs will give our clientele the wrong impression.”
“Not a problem,” Billy said.
They followed the guard down the hall. Billy had a decision to make. The fact that Hanson had big bucks didn’t tie him to the murder, so now he had nothing. He could have the idiot’s probation revoked based on gambling and consorting with a felon at E & H, but the paperwork would take time away from the investigation.
Before they entered the lobby, he removed the cuffs. Hanson rubbed his wrists, his eyes bouncing around as if looking for an avenue of escape.
“We’re done,” Billy said. “Call a cab.”
Hanson wiggled his brows. A smile twisted his mouth. “Don’t believe I will. I’ve had a hell of a lucky day. Looks like it’s my lucky night.”
Billy walked out, leaving Hanson gazing at the tote board. The rest of the money would be gone by morning. In the parking lot, he realized he’d never gotten that cheeseburger. Now it was too late to eat. He decided to call Frankie. She answered, still at her desk at the CJC. He told her about the last two hours, even the rough stuff in the parking lot.
“E and H and the dog track?” she said. “Wish I’d been there. Where did you come out?”
“Bad news. Our suspects list just got shorter. Good news. Give Hanson a week, and he’ll be back at Turney in the program.”
Chapter 22
The next morning Billy and Frankie sat at their desks reading each other’s notes from the previous day’s interviews. Hers were short and precise. His read like pulp fiction.
“Rosalyn has a watertight alibi, so why is Mrs. Adams accusing her?” she asked.
“The woman had a breakdown. Never recovered. She’s delusional. She was right about the pregnancy, but we can’t rely on her as a source.”
“Got it.” Frankie went back to reading.
“Rosalyn removed files from Caroline’s office,” he read aloud. “I specifically told her not to do that.”
“Do you want to push back?”
“If we need to. Let’s stay with Sharma for now.” He read on. “How seriously do you take Martin Lee’s question about killing someone?”
“Not at all. He was trying to get under my skin.”
“And what’s this about Highsmith being out of touch with his assistant all week?”
Frankie put down the notes. “It’s a scheduled leave, but here’s what I’m wondering. He advised Caroline to take out a protective order against Sharma. If Sharma found out about it, or if he had some reason to be jealous, Highsmith could be a second victim.”
Billy picked up the baseball he kept on his desk. “Just what we need. What do we know about him?”
“I did a quick search. He was an assistant State’s Attorney in Chicago for five years. Not sure why he moved to Memphis except that the Lee Law Firm probably offered him top dollar for his litigation credentials. Defendants love a lawyer with prosecutorial experience who’s jumped the fence.”
”Let’s not make this complicated,” he said. “He’s probably on vacation and roughing it where there’s no cell service. Or he’s into dope, booze, or gambling, and he doesn’t want to think about real life. When’s he due back?”
“Monday.”
“If he’s not back by then we’ll look into it.”
“I’ll run a deeper background on him just in case.” She stood. “By the way, Caroline’s security control panel showed no one entered her house on Monday night. And I found a sweater that’s a possible match for the fibers in her car.” She held up a paper bag. “I’ll run it to the lab now.”
His phone rang. It was the department’s receptionist. “Detective Able, Dr. Sharma is here. Something about seeing a letter.”
Oh, hell. He called out to Frankie, who was almost to the door then spoke into the phone to the receptionist. “Is his attorney with him?”
“He’s alone and very anxious,” she whispered.
Frankie was back and standing in front of him. He covered the phone. “I called Jerry Vanderman last night about that draft letter you found. He must’ve told Sharma. He’s out front without Vanderman asking to see it.”
“Vanderman’s going to flip out,” she said. “You know he’s already reeled off that speech attorneys give their clients to keep them in line— ‘Don’t talk to the media, or the police, or even your family. Not one word unless I pull your string.’”
“It’s not smart to come here without Vanderman, but Sharma hasn’t been charged. He can do what he wants.”
“If he’s here asking about the letter he must not have seen it,” she said.
“And he’s not going to. Not until it’s made available in discovery. But I won’t tell him that until I get some answers out of him.”
He put the phone to his ear. “Send him in.” He looked at Frankie. “I’ll take him one-on-one. Set your mobile to record and look busy.”
She put her mobile on his desk and walked over to the filing cabinets where she could see and hear.
Sharma stormed through the door, his blue scrubs stained with sweat at the armpits and chest, blood spatters on his pants, his hair flattened from wearing a surgical cap. His eyes flicked left and right over the desks looking for Billy. Detectives around the room hung up their phones and went quiet. They wanted to hear this one.
Billy stood. “Over here, Doc.” He pointed to the b
lood on the scrubs. “Did the patient survive?”
“You have a letter addressed to me. I want to read it,” Sharma said, ignoring the taunt. Might as well have snapped his fingers.
You want to play this game? We’re good at this game, Billy thought. He placed his fingers on a file on his desk. Sharma’s gaze dropped to it. The draft wasn’t in it, but Sharma didn’t know that.
“I’d like to offer my condolences on the passing of your ex-fiancée,” Billy said. “I know the Lees are devastated. They’re a fine family.”
“Damn the Lees,” Sharma snapped. “My family is held in higher regard in a city twenty times the size of Memphis. When Caroline cancelled the wedding they lost face. Important people were ready to fly in from all over the world for the ceremony. I had to tell them not to come. One of them mocked me. Now this shameful murder.”
Caroline was dead and this creep was upset about being embarrassed. He saw Frankie glance over her shoulder at Sharma. Her mouth tightened.
“My attorney explained what you’re up to,” Sharma said. “In America broken romances end up in murder. Caroline left me, so I’m your target.”
“Actually, the statistics on men murdering women are the same in most countries,” Billy said, standing up. “I’m glad you’re here. We could use your help clearing up a couple of things. It won’t take long.”
Sharma stepped back. “I want to see that letter now.”
Billy picked up the file and a legal pad and moved from around his desk. “I understand, sir. We’ll get to that.” He gestured toward an interview room.
Sharma wagged his head, recognizing the trap. “I have no time for questions.” He shifted on his feet as if working through what he wanted to do next then extracted a cream-colored envelope from his pocket. “Caroline had this note delivered to me by courier. She broke our engagement without giving me a reason.”
Billy eyed the note. The assistant had told Frankie that Caroline had sent Sharma a Dear John note. It might be useful in building the case. “We need to discuss all this in private. Step this way.”
Sharma didn’t budge. “I’ve read this note many times. It doesn’t say she no longer loves me, only that she wanted to cancel the wedding. I believe this was meant to shock me, because I wasn’t paying her enough attention. She wanted to be pursued. She wanted me to prove how much I cared.” He stopped for a moment, seeming lost. “I’ll never understand it. I would’ve given her everything. All I asked was that she give me children and behave like a proper wife.”
Billy became aware of the doctor’s sunken cheeks and the pallor beneath his dusky complexion. The hand holding the note looked unsteady. Could be exhaustion from a long surgery. Could be guilt. Why had he risked coming here unless he thought there was something damaging in the letter?
He fanned the note at Billy. “I’ll give this to you in exchange for a copy of the letter.”
This was going nowhere. “I can’t do that, sir.”
“What will it take to persuade you to let me read the letter?”
“It’s not up to me. It’s the law.” Sharma slipped the envelope in his pocket and surprised Billy by stepping in.
The doctor spoke softly. “For God’s sake, tell me man-to-man. Does she say in that letter there was someone else?” His voice quavered.
Now Billy had it. Sharma came in because of his monstrous ego. The son of a bitch was still jealous even though Caroline was dead.
“Doctor, there’s a situation I’d like to tell you about. A woman broke up with a man, much like Caroline did with you. Later the man found out it was because she’d been sleeping with someone else. How do you think that man responded?”
“He killed them both,” Sharma said without hesitation. He gave the room full of detectives a deadpan shrug. “But of course, I’m not that man.”
“You went into Caroline’s house looking for evidence she was cheating on you. You’re still not sure and it’s driving you crazy. That’s why you’re here.”
Sharma’s eyes flared, but he tamped it down quickly. He made a show of looking at his watch. “I have rounds in an hour. I’m leaving.”
Billy flicked the back of his hand toward the door. “Take off, Doc. Just remember everyone in this room knows you’re good for this murder.”
Chapter 23
Sharma walked out of the squad room a dissatisfied and jealous man. Human emotions make people dangerous. After their conversation, Billy was even more certain the doctor had killed Caroline.
She may have told him about the baby—forget the big wedding, she wanted to be married right away, and she wanted to wear her dress. Sharma agreed then shot her believing she’d gotten pregnant by another man. A man’s wounded pride is a powerful motivator.
Detective Kloss had closed a similar case a year ago, a woman who ran off with the captain of her husband’s bowling team. Three weeks later she called her husband, said she was pregnant with his child, and wanted to come back. He’d said, “Sure baby, come on home.”
He met her in the garage and cracked her skull open with his bowling ball. When officers pulled up, the man was waiting for them on the front steps. He said that not knowing if the baby was his had sent him over the edge. He’d apologized to them for the mess he was leaving in the garage.
The heart can be an assassin. Billy knew that from experience.
Frankie returned from taking Caroline’s sweater to the lab. While she was gone, he’d transcribed the recording from his conversation with Sharma. A copy would go into the case file as insurance against Vanderman’s possible attempt to use Sharma’s visit as an excuse to have the case thrown out.
Billy picked up the phone. Zelda Taylor was his next target. She knew things about Caroline he couldn’t find out anywhere else, plus he wanted to know what had provoked the argument between Caroline and her at the office. She answered.
“Ms. Taylor, it’s Detective Able.”
“I’m glad you called. I’m worried about Caroline’s cat.”
“He’s fine. We put out plenty of food and water. I want you to come to the CJC this morning. I need your help clearing up some details.”
He heard flamenco guitars playing in the background. “Ms. Taylor?”
“Leo is a rescue cat. He hides from strangers.”
He thought a moment. “That’s no problem. Meet me at Caroline’s house in an hour.”
“Great. And call me Zelda.”
When Billy pulled up, the cruiser he’d requested as a safeguard against a “he said, she said” incident was waiting in front of the house. He wasn’t about to risk a compromised investigation. The officer followed him up the driveway to wait on the porch.
Inside, the entry hall felt lifeless. The essence of Caroline in the house was beginning to seep away. He was uncomfortably aware that the CSU team had jostled her personal things, drawers left open in the living room, magazines scattered on the table. He took a moment to look at the photos in the library of kids grouped in front of the big house at Airlee. Finn Adams came back to him now, a skinny, earnest kid. A young Judd Phillips stood next to him. Another shot was of Caroline and Zelda, teenagers in cowboy hats and bikinis goofing around on horses bareback.
In the corner the gift boxes on the table had been re-stacked after the techs had gone through them. He picked up the top box. Buried inside the tissue he found an antique spoon, the bowl shaped like a clamshell with an “S” for Sharma monogrammed on the handle. The spoon was a sugar shell used for formal teas. Probably not what Zelda had been searching for.
His mother had taught him about sugar shells, pickle forks, and asparagus servers. He knew the proper placement of the fish knife, a pastry fork, and dessert spoon. The afternoons she’d been sober, she would lay out the family’s sterling flatware and instruct him on its proper placement for formal meals. He was confident Caroline had been given the same lessons. They weren’t the last generation who could tell the difference between sterling and silver plate, but the pool of people who cared
about such things was drying up. Lose your family’s culture and you lose yourself—like knowing the origin of every Christmas ornament on the tree and knowing what kind of pie people expect to see at Thanksgiving. He hadn’t grown up with that kind of tradition, but because of his mother, he could set a hell of a nice table.
He considered the critical comments made by Rosalyn and Gracie Ella Adams about his mother. Yes, she drank. Some days he’d come home from school and find her in the kitchen polishing the Wm. A Rogers flatware and weeping. She would pull him to her side and recite her family’s lineage. His great, great grandfather had been a governor of Arkansas. He’d moved to Georgia and bought a thousand acres near Atlanta, worth millions now. Dementia had taken hold and the land was stolen from him. She would tell the story of her great, great uncle, Dr. Tom Rivers, who had assisted Dr. Jonas Salk in developing the polio vaccine.
His mother had begun drinking well before her visit to friends in Tunica one summer after graduating from college. She’d met Jackson Able. They ran off and got married. Her parents had been appalled but made a wedding present of thirty thousand dollars for a down payment on a house. Jackson used the money to buy an appliance store in Pontotoc, Mississippi.
He ran the store into the ground, left town owing money, and abandoned his wife with a young son to raise. Billy had wondered why she stayed in Pontotoc instead of going home to her folks in Georgia. Later on he understood it had been about alcohol and shame.
Hard to know the direction your life will take when you fall in love. What Rosalyn said about his father had been true. His mother had come to that realization too late.
He was in the kitchen checking on the cat’s food and water when he heard Zelda speaking with the officer on the porch. He wasn’t prepared for the change in her appearance as she came through the door. Instead of flip-flops and a nightgown she had on a russet suede jacket, skinny jeans, and high-heeled boots. He hadn’t noticed on Tuesday how slender she was. She came toward him swinging a cat carrier, her vulpine features reminding him of a friend’s pet fox that used to nip his ankles. Sometimes it drew blood.