by Sue Grafton
“But how do they know the burglar wasn’t the one responsible? He might have surprised the parents, thinking they were gone when he broke into the house. Maybe he was the one who tied them up and gagged them.”
“Unfortunately, the burglar hasn’t been heard from since. Speculation has it they killed him, too.”
“But they can’t be sure,” he said.
“That’s why they’ve reopened the investigation. Recently, an informant stepped forward and Guardian Casualty is prepared to go forward on the basis of this new information.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“I had the same reaction until I saw the articles. I mean, here’s what gets me. The first time I met Tommy? He told me his parents died in an accident. He didn’t want me to mention it to Richard because he said his brother was still ‘touchy’ about the subject. I thought, well, those poor dear fellows. Here I am, thinking about my parents and feeling sorry for these guys. It really galls me to think how easily I got sucked in. Such bullshit. According to the paper, they even offered a big reward – a hundred thousand dollars – for ‘information leading to the arrest and conviction of the killer or killers of Jared and Brenda Hevener.’ Why not offer millions? They’re in no danger of paying unless one rats the other out.”
“How can you do business with them?”
“That’s what I’m getting to. I signed a year’s lease and paid six months in advance, plus a cleaning deposit. We don’t want to forget that little item. Now I can’t figure how to get out of it. I’m willing to forfeit the money, but it pisses me off.”
“Let Lonnie handle it. He’ll know what to do.”
“Good thought,” I said. “Not that it ends there.”
“Why not?”
“Mariah thinks the jewelry’s still somewhere in that big fancy house of theirs. She’s hoping I can locate the safe so the cops can get a search warrant. She says the Heveners’ funds are just about depleted. They’ve been traveling in the fast lane and now they’re close to broke. She’s hoping they’ll try to sell at least a portion of the jewelry. Since they filed a claim for the loss and since they’ve steadfastly denied any knowledge of the stash, it’s not going to look good. If she can get them to tip their hand, the cops will step in with a warrant for their arrest.”
“Why would they risk selling? They’re not dumb.”
“Not so far, but they’re getting desperate.”
“How’s she going to persuade them? I can’t imagine such a thing.”
“Ah. She’s not. She wants me to do it.” I fished the piece of paper from my handbag. “She gave me the name of a fence in Los Angeles and asked me to pass the information on to them.”
Henry took the scrap of paper on which she’d written the jeweler’s name. “Cyril Lambrou’s a pawnbroker?”
“A jeweler. She says he runs a legitimate business, as far as it goes. He also deals in stolen property when the goods warrant it. In this case, no sweat. She showed me the Polaroids – rings, bracelets, necklaces. Gorgeous. Really beautiful.”
“Why can’t she give them the information?”
“Because they know who she is and they’d never fall for it.”
“But why you?”
Henry’s tone was becoming belligerent and I could feel my face heat. “Because Tommy’s interested in me.”
“So what?”
“Marian’s shrewd. She ran a background on me and she knows I’m not above bending the rules.”
“Aren’t you talking about entrapment?”
“Why would it be entrapment? I mention a guy who buys jewelry. If they’re not guilty, they won’t have anything to sell. Entrapment’s where the cops entice someone to break the law. I’m not encouraging them to steal. They’ve already done that.”
“But they’re going to smell a rat. You mention a jeweler. They pawn the stuff and shortly afterwards they’re arrested and thrown in jail? You can’t be serious.”
“By then it’s too late. They’re already behind bars.”
“Suppose they post bail? The minute they hit the street, they’re going to come looking for you.”
“Come on, Henry. Give me credit here. I won’t come right out and say, ‘Gee, anybody have any stolen jewels to lay off on this guy?’ I’ll think of a story to tell, something plausible.”
“Such as what?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t made that part up yet.”
Exasperated, Henry leaned back in his chair and stared at me. “How many times have we had a conversation like this? You come up with some stupid scheme. I urge you not to do it, but you go right ahead and do it. You always find some way to rationalize your behavior.”
“So does everyone else.”
“More’s the pity,” he said. “I’ll tell you this once and then I swear I won’t mention it again. Don’t do this. Don’t get involved. It’s none of your business.”
“I didn’t say I would.”
“How’re you going to find the safe? You’ll have to get into the house.”
“Tommy’s taken me up there once. All I have to do is talk him into taking me again.”
“Which he’d do in hopes of getting in your pants.”
“I can handle that.”
“But why take the risk? I don’t think you should be alone with either one of them.”
“Not to make light of it, but I’ve done a lot worse with a lot less justification.”
“I’ll say.”
“Henry, I promise you I won’t act in haste. I haven’t even figured out what I’ll say… you know, assuming I decide to take the job.”
“Why do this to yourself? Surely, you don’t need the money.”
“Money isn’t the issue here. I just don’t think people should get away with murder.”
“It isn’t up to you. If the police had had sufficient evidence, the Heveners would’ve been arrested and convicted back then. There wasn’t any proof. That’s the way the law works. You stay out of it. Please.”
“You know what? I’m tempted to do this for exactly the same reason you’re tempted to help Rosie. Because you can’t resist. So here’s the deal. You want me to butt out of this? You butt out of Rosie’s business and we’ll call it a wash.”
“It’s not illegal or dangerous to help a little old lady pay her sister’s medical bills.”
He had a point, but I refused to acknowledge it. “Skip it. Enough. Let’s quit arguing. You take care of your life and I’ll take care of mine.”
“You’re right. It’s not my concern. Do anything you want.”
“Don’t play injured. It’s not that. I think you worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough!”
It was 11:03 when I left Henry’s place and headed to my apartment. We’d made a superficial effort to patch up our differences, but nothing had been resolved. I was feeling anxious and out of sorts and so, I suspect, was he. I let myself in and set my bag aside. I turned on the television set and turned to KEST. I’d missed the lead-in to the story but caught the report in progress: “… the silver Mercedes-Benz recovered this evening from Brunswick Lake has been positively identified as the vehicle belonging to prominent local physician Dowan Purcell, missing since September 12. Detective Paglia of the Santa Teresa Police Department would not confirm…” Over her commentary there was a series of clips: a shot of the hillside near the reservoir, a shot of Crystal arriving by car, a photograph insert of Dr. Purcell, followed by a shot of the family home in Horton Ravine. The anchor moved on to a story about a cat stuck in a length of pipe. Nine and a half weeks of agony reduced to less than a minute. Folks would probably have more sympathy for the cat.
There was a tap at my door. I figured it was Henry coming over to apologize. Instead, I found Tommy Hevener standing on my porch. “Hey. Where you been? I called you earlier, but your machine was on. I thought I’d see you at Rosie’s.”
“Henry told me he saw you.”
“Yeah, we had a nice chat. He’s a g
reat old guy.”
“Look. I’ve had a hard day. Something’s come up on a case I’ve been working.”
“You want to talk about it? I’m a good listener.”
“I don’t think so. I appreciate the offer, but I’m bushed and I think I better go to bed.”
“I hear you. No problem. Call me tomorrow. I want to see you again.”
“Okay, I’ll do that.”
“You take care.”
“Yeah, you, too,” I said. As soon as I closed the door, my heart began knocking rapidly in my throat. I threw the deadbolt home and leaned against the wall to wait until I heard his departing steps. Outside, a car started up and I listened as the sound of the engine diminished down the street.
I don’t know how I managed to get to sleep that night. I had no emotional attachment to Dow Purcell, but the sight of that body in the front seat of the car had left me unsettled. I’d seen death many times, but I couldn’t seem to block the image of that four-wheeled silver coffin and its hoary contents. I replayed the moment… floodlights hissing in the rain, the sound of water gushing from the underbelly of the car, the smell of mud and crushed grass, followed by the quick flash of the body in its formless repose, eyes turned toward the window, mouth open with amazement. I didn’t think it would take long to identify the body… half a day at best. It would take longer to examine the car and come up with a theory about how it had ended up in the lake. There was also the question of whether Purcell was dead or alive when he went into the water. Again, I flashed on that face, the wide grin, the sightless eyes…
I made a conscious effort to divert my attention, fixing on the problem of Tommy and Richard Hevener. Despite my obstinate and disputatious stance, I had seen Henry’s point, which I knew was correct. I’m forever sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong, often with consequences more serious (and potentially deadly) than I care to admit. I was under no obligation to assist Mariah Talbot or Guardian Casualty Insurance, so why put myself in the line of fire? The “boys” were not my problem. Mariah had even hinted she had an alternative if I decided not to help. I still had to find a way to break the lease and recover my deposit, but maybe Lonnie could write the brothers such a blistering letter they’d be begging to get me out. As for the murder of their parents, I had to believe the law would catch up with them eventually. As much as it grieved me to admit it, retribution wasn’t mine. Oh, darn.
Chapter 17
*
Much of Wednesday I was occupied tidying up odds and ends. At 6:00 that morning, I’d managed to squeeze in a three-mile jog between cloud bursts, after which I’d gone to the gym. I’d come home, cleaned up, eaten breakfast, and arrived at the office at 9:15. I spent the bulk of the day catching up on paperwork, including my personal bills, which I paid with the usual sense of triumph. I love keeping all the wolves at bay.
Twice, I sat down at the typewriter to frame my final report to Fiona, thinking I might as well go ahead and drop it in the mail to her. However, having delivered both a report and an invoice just the day before, I was a tiny bit short on bullshit and tiny bit short on cash. I thought it could be bad form to charge for the time I’d spent waiting for the cops to pull Dow out of the lake. Since I’d forked over her $1,500 to the infamous Hevener brothers, the $1,075 I owed her would have to come out of my checking account, which currently showed a balance of $422. I had plenty of money in savings, but I didn’t much feel like dipping into it. Besides, I was still entertaining the fantasy that Fiona would write off the balance out of appreciation for the speed and efficiency with which I’d concluded her business. She’d hired me to find Dow and I’d found him sooner than either one of us expected, though not in quite the condition one would have wished. I couldn’t help but hope for a $1,075 pat on the back. Ha, ha, ha, she thought.
I considered calling Crystal to offer my condolences but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wasn’t a family friend, and I was afraid my motivation would be interpreted as ghoulish curiosity, which of course it was.
Just after lunch, I went back to the file Mariah Talbot had left. I glanced at both wills, picking my way through sufficient legalese to confirm that the Atcheson jewelry had been left to Brenda’s sister, Karen. I then went back and reread the news clips. Hatchet, Texas, was located roughly sixty miles from Houston and had a population of twenty-eight hundred souls. There’d only been one other murder in the town’s entire history, and that was back in 1906 when a woman took a piece of firewood to her husband’s skull while he was sleeping. She’d killed him with six blows after he got drunk once too often, knocked her teeth out, blackened her eyes, and broke her nose. Satisfied he was dead, she’d tossed the log on the fire and brewed herself a pot of tea.
The death of Jared and Brenda Hevener made headlines as far away as Amarillo, where Brenda had been born and raised. According to the paper, the bodies were discovered in the rubble the day after the fire. The blaze had been fierce and fast, fueled by accelerants, fanned by dry winds. The volunteer fire department was called at 1:06 A.M., arriving on the scene within seventeen minutes. By then the house was completely engulfed in flames and their efforts were largely focused on preventing the fire’s spread to adjacent properties. Neighbors quickly realized the Heveners were unaccounted for. At first, the fear was expressed that all four family members had been taken unawares and had perished in the conflagration. As it turned out, Tommy Hevener had been visiting friends in San Antonio. He managed to track down his brother, Richard, who was traveling in the south of France.
The initial newspaper accounts were filled with shock at the deaths and sympathy for the sons whose loss everyone assumed must be devastating. There were long biographical pieces about Brenda and Jared: her community service, his rise in the business world. The turnout for the funeral was impressive. Newspaper photos showed the cortege stretching out for blocks. Pictures at the cemetery showed the two coffins surrounded by flowers, Richard with his head bowed, while Tommy stared bleakly at the grave site with an expression of despair. Mariah hadn’t been impressed with their acting skills, but I could see how easily their grief could have been interpreted as heartfelt.
Within days, the time-delay device and accelerants were identified and traced to Casey Stonehart, twenty-three years old and clearly not that bright, as he’d purchased the materials in a town only sixteen miles away. With his troubled criminal history and his questionable IQ, it wasn’t hard to conclude he was acting in concert with somebody else. He clearly wasn’t smart enough to plan and execute the job by himself. Over the next six months, the tone of the story changed as public skepticism grew and the ongoing investigation shifted to the possibility that the two sons had been involved. On their part, there were many outraged denials and vigorous protestations of their innocence. Law-enforcement authorities and the fire marshall responded with a number of carefully worded statements, hoping to avoid a lawsuit if their suspicions turned out to be groundless. The story played for weeks and then died away. There were periodic updates, but most of the later coverage seemed to be an endless rehash of the original account. Casey Stonehart warranted very little in the way of column space beyond the occasional query as to his whereabouts.
Reading between the lines, I could see the bureaucratic tensions begin to accumulate. The D.A. was accused of bungling. Pressure was brought to bear and he was forced to resign. Despite the launching of a second, even more extensive investigation, no new evidence came to light. Formal charges were filed against Casey Stonehart in absentia, but Richard and Tommy Hevener managed to evade official blame. A year later, two short clippings referred to the lawsuit they’d filed against Guardian Casualty, trying to collect various insurance benefits. Six months after that, there was a brief mention of the close of probate and the settling of the estate. What a depressing chain of events. I shuffled through the articles again just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.
The story made me restless. I could feel the Masked Avenger aspect of my personality girding he
r loins, prepared to seek justice and to right old wrongs. At the same time, Henry’s accusations had hit perilously close to home. I’ll admit I’m (occasionally) foolhardy and impetuous, impatient with the system, vexed by the necessity for playing by the rules. It’s not that I don’t applaud law and order, because I do. I’m simply indignant that the bad guys are accorded so many rights when their victims have so few. Pursuing scoundrels through the courts not only costs a fortune, but it offers no guarantee of legal remedy. Even assuming success, a hard-won conviction doesn’t bring the dead back to life. In this matter, though I hated to be practical, I’d come around to Henry’s point of view. I intended to mind my own business for once.
I left the office just before three o’clock and walked over to the bank. Fortunately for me, the check I’d written to Hevener Properties hadn’t yet cleared. Maybe he accumulated rent checks and made a deposit on a regular basis instead of one by one. I put a stop payment on it, returned to the office, and wrote Richard a brief, apologetic note, indicating that circumstances had changed and I wouldn’t be renting space from him after all. Given my signature on the lease, he might well take me to small claims court. I didn’t think he’d do it. Surely, in his position, he’d prefer to avoid legal wrangles. At five-thirty I locked up. On my way home, I drove by the main post office and dropped the letter in the outside box. I reached my apartment twelve minutes later, feeling lighter than I had all day.
Before I unlocked my front door, I crossed the patio to Henry’s place. I wanted to tell him I’d heeded his words. In declining involvement, I’d offer him full credit for motivating this rare evidence of common sense on my part. His kitchen light was on. I tapped on the glass, expecting to see him come into the kitchen from the hall. No sign of him, no sound of his piano, no hint of activity. I picked up the tantalizing scent of one of his oven-baked stews so I didn’t think he’d gone far.