Woman with a Gun

by Phillip Margolin

  Oscar recognized Jackson the minute his secretary ushered him into Jackson’s spacious corner office. Only a few of the pictures and decorations on the attorney’s office walls hinted at his life before he began practicing law, but one look at the man and there was no question about how he had earned his law school tuition.

  The African-American attorney was in his forties but he could still pass for the five-foot-eleven, 220-pound cannonball who had wreaked havoc on defenses during seven years as a San Francisco Forty-niner. Jackson’s round, squat head featured a nose that had been flattened more than once by vicious defensive backs and massive linemen. His thick shoulders, biceps, and forearms seemed to want to break free from the constraints of his suit jacket in much the same way he had broken free from would-be tacklers. To the dismay of sports writers and fans, the Pro Bowler had walked away from professional football after winning his second rushing title so he could attend law school while his brain was still free of the effects of concussion. After graduation, Jackson had joined a prestigious San Francisco law firm and developed a lucrative practice representing past and present NFL players.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Llewellyn said.

  “You got my imagination working overtime when my secretary told me that you’re with a district attorney’s office in Oregon and you wanted to talk to me about a murder investigation.”

  “Actually, I’m with the Oregon Department of Justice’s District Attorney Assistance Program. We’ve been called in by a prosecutor in a small town on the Oregon coast to assist him in a murder investigation.”

  “Where do I fit in?”

  “We’re trying to get some background on Parnell Crouse’s ex-wife, Megan. Since you handled Mr. Crouse’s divorce, we thought that you probably learned a lot about her.”

  “Why do you want to know about Megan Cahill?”

  “She’s a person of interest in the murder of Raymond Cahill.”

  “Raymond Cahill is dead?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I’ve been spending twenty-four/seven on a brutal divorce case that settled late yesterday afternoon. No TV, no radio, and I only had enough energy for the sports page this morning.”

  “Mr. Cahill and Megan were married Sunday and he was shot to death on their wedding night.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not.”

  “And Megan is a suspect,” Jackson said.

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “The ex–Mrs. Crouse is not a nice person, so, no, I’m not surprised.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  Jackson leaned back in his chair. “Have you met Megan?”

  “No, but I looked her up on the Internet.”

  “Any pictures you’ve seen do not do her justice. She is every teenage boy’s wet dream and she also has a very high IQ. That’s a perfect combination for a gold digger. I assume you know what a leech is, Mr. Llewellyn? It’s a parasite that attaches itself to a living organism, then sucks out all of the organism’s blood. That description also fits Megan.”

  Oscar laughed. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”

  “To know Megan is to despise her. Look, Parnell Crouse is a dumb farm boy. He and Megan were dirt-poor when they grew up in the same backwater in Texas. Parnell had the hots for Megan from day one, but she played hard to get in high school until it became evident that Parnell was going to get a full ride to some Division I powerhouse if he could meet the academic requirements. Megan tutored him and wrote a lot of his high school papers. Then she coached him for his SATs and he scored the bare minimum to get into Texas. Once he was accepted, she followed him and kept him on a string until it was clear he’d make a pro team.

  “Parnell, thick as he was, finally figured out that Megan was only interested in the millions he was going to make in pro ball, so he tried to break up with her. But, like I said, Megan has a genius IQ and is excellent at problem solving. She told Parnell that she was pregnant. When he balked at marrying her, she threatened to go public and cause a scandal, which could have affected where he was drafted. They were married in Las Vegas the week before Oakland drafted him. Once they were married, Megan told him that she’d miscarried. The miscarriage supposedly happened when he was in training camp. Personally, I think she faked the pregnancy.

  “Parnell never started and he was mostly used in short-yardage situations. He was never a finesse runner. It was always headfirst and brute force. There were several injuries, a torn ACL, concussions. He had terrible headaches and became addicted to pain pills. A few years ago he was cut and no team picked him up. That’s when Megan filed for divorce and walked away with most of the money Parnell had earned.”

  “Couldn’t you protect him?” Oscar asked.

  Jackson shook his head. He looked sad. “He came to me when it was too late. Megan handled the finances from the get-go, and she siphoned money into her own accounts as fast as it came in. When she left Parnell, Megan took his manhood and his money and left him with debts and an addiction.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I helped him get into rehab and he called me once or twice after he got out. But I haven’t heard from him in more than a year.”

  “Do you have any idea how I can contact him?”

  “I can give you his last address. I don’t know if he’s still there.”

  “Thanks for your time,” Oscar said as he stood to leave.

  “I hope I’ve been of some help.”

  “You’ve definitely given me food for thought.”

  “If you do find Parnell,” Jackson said, “tell him I said hello.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Gary Kilbride was neither nervous nor irate. George Melendez found that interesting. The police chief had let Kilbride stew in the interrogation room for forty-five minutes without food or water while he observed him through a two-way mirror. The air-conditioning unit had been turned off, so the small, windowless room had to be uncomfortably hot, but Melendez never saw Kilbride wipe away the sweat that trickled down his brow or show any other sign of discomfort.

  Melendez tried to imagine how he would feel if he’d just gotten a taste of freedom after five years in prison, and a small-town cop hauled his ass down to the police station without giving him the slightest idea why he was being rousted. He sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting quietly with a smirk on his face.

  When Melendez opened the door to the interrogation room, Kilbride was slouched on an uncomfortable wooden chair with his hands folded on the room’s only table. A sea blue aloha shirt with red and yellow orchids hung over his jeans.

  “Good morning,” the police chief said as he took the chair on the other side of the table.

  “Good morning, sheriff.”

  “Actually, I’m the chief of police.”

  “Sorry, Chief,” Kilbride said, sitting up and flashing an amiable smile.

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”

  “Why are you visiting Palisades Heights, Gary?”

  Kilbride looked confused. “I assume you know I was just paroled from the Oregon State Penitentiary a few weeks ago, right?”

  Melendez nodded.

  “I was locked up in a small cell for five years and you don’t get outside much. So I came to Palisades Heights to see the ocean and breathe some fresh air.”

  “Why were you at the Seafarer last night?”

  “Everyone said it’s a great bar with good food.”

  “And you had no idea that Kathy Moran was working there?”

  “Is that what this is about?” Kilbride asked.

  “You knew that Miss Moran lived in Palisades Heights and was tending bar at the Seafarer, didn’t you, Gary?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t.”

  “So, you want me to believe that showing up in Palisades Heights and the Seafarer was just some sort of weird
coincidence?”

  “That’s exactly what it was. I was shocked when I saw Kathy and Jack Booth in the bar. That’s why I left so fast. I knew they’d get upset if they saw me.”

  Melendez smiled. “You must think I’m an idiot, Gary.”

  “I don’t. I think you’re a conscientious officer of the law who’s worried about one of your citizens.”

  “Mr. Booth saw you outside watching the tavern when he left. Why did you stake it out?”

  “I didn’t. Mr. Booth is mistaken. As soon as I saw them I left and went back to my motel.”

  “So you skipped supper?”

  Kilbride’s facade slipped for a second. Then the bland look was back.

  “I was upset so I went to my room to think. Later, I went to a fast-food place and got a burger to go.”

  “Do you have your receipt?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I didn’t realize I’d need it so I chucked it with the bag when I was through.

  “Look, Chief, I can assure you that I have no feelings of ill will toward Kathy. I did after I was arrested. I won’t deny that. But I had a lot of time to think in prison and I decided to let go of my anger and try to become a better person.”

  “The key witness in your murder trial was tortured to death. Don’t you think I have good reason to be concerned?”

  “Hey, I had nothing to do with that. Bernie was a good friend and I felt terrible when I heard what happened.”

  Kilbride stared at the tabletop and appeared to be lost in thought for a moment. When he looked up, his face was a picture of deep concern.

  “I don’t know if I should be telling you this, Chief Melendez. I don’t want to ruin Kathy’s reputation. But Kathy was a junkie when I knew her. I was responsible for her condition and I feel very bad about that. When she cut her deal with the DA she was strung out. When you’re strung out you can’t think straight. After I got over my initial anger I realized that I couldn’t hold her responsible for what she did.”

  “That’s very magnanimous, Gary. It’s not everyone who can forgive someone who’s responsible for sending them to prison.”

  Kilbride shrugged. “Like I said, I had a lot of time to think when I was locked up.”

  Melendez nodded. “Several people have told me that you’re a clever liar who’s really good at manipulating people, but I’m a trusting guy, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and accept your assurance that you’ve changed.”

  “Thank you.”

  “One thing, though. I’m not as evolved as you are. I don’t forgive and forget. If you have any intentions of harming Miss Moran—or anyone else in my town for that matter—remember that there are a lot of places on the coast where a lawbreaker can disappear and never be heard of again.”

  Kilbride’s eyebrows went up. He cocked his head and studied Melendez. Then he smiled.

  “You’re not threatening me, are you, Chief Melendez?”

  Melendez returned the smile. “No. I don’t do that. It’s illegal.”

  The chief stood up. “You’re free to go. Have a nice day.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The address Lucius Jackson had given Oscar Llewellyn for Parnell Crouse was in a gang-infested section of Oakland that looked like it had never seen better days. The two-story apartment building was next to a body shop and appeared to have been built by a Mafia construction company with substandard materials. The second-floor balcony was a cracked, concrete slab bordered by a low, rusted railing on which Oscar was afraid to lean.

  Crouse’s apartment did not have a doorbell, so Oscar knocked. There was no response and he didn’t hear any noise from the interior, so he knocked again, louder this time.

  “He ain’t in.”

  Oscar turned and saw a man sitting at the end of the balcony on a lawn chair, holding a paperback book. He was dressed in a wife beater T-shirt and stained blue jeans.

  “You’re lookin’ for the football player, right?”

  “Parnell Crouse,” Oscar answered.

  “Ain’t been around for over a week.”

  Oscar walked along the balcony. When he got closer he saw that the man’s chest was concave and his arms were thin and stringy. His pale cheeks were covered by gray-black stubble and he did not look well. From Crouse’s apartment, he appeared to be in his sixties. Now Oscar realized that he was much younger.

  “Do you know when Mr. Crouse will be back?” Oscar asked.

  “I got no idea. What you want to know for?”

  The man was holding his book on his lap and Oscar could see the title. The pages were yellowed and the book was clearly used.

  Oscar smiled. “John D. MacDonald, huh? He’s one of my favorites.”

  The man looked confused for a second. Then he looked down at the cover.

  “I got it at the library at a book sale—three for a dollar.”

  “I don’t think I’ve read this one,” Oscar said.

  “It’s pretty good. I like the detective ones. Lots of action.”

  Oscar took out his ID. “I’m Oscar Llewellyn and I’m an investigator with the Oregon Department of Justice.”

  The man studied the ID. “You’re a real detective?”

  “I am.”

  “You don’t look much like the guy in the book,” he said with a grin.

  “I have to admit that I haven’t been in any car chases lately, and no one has knocked me out.”

  The man stopped smiling. “Then you’re lucky the football player ain’t in.”

  “Oh?”

  “He is one mean son of a bitch. You ever seen him play?”

  Oscar nodded. “When he was with Oakland.”

  “He wasn’t much of a runner. Good for a few yards on third and one or down by the goal line. But he didn’t have any moves. Reason they kept him on was he liked to hurt people. And he still likes it that way. If you come to see Crouse again, make sure you got backup and make sure they’re big. And don’t bring no lady cops. He really gets off on hurting women.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I got the apartment next door and these walls are thin. He’s had a few women up, hookers I’m guessing. I hear the screams.” The man shook his head. “I seen a few when they left, too, and they didn’t look so good.”

  Oscar didn’t bother to ask the man if he had called the police.

  “So why do you want to talk to Crouse?” the man asked.

  “I’m working on a murder investigation in Oregon.”

  The man perked up. “Murder, huh. Now that is more like this book. You think Crouse killed someone?”

  “Mr. Crouse isn’t involved, but he can give us some background information about a person of interest.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details because it’s an ongoing investigation, but you could do me a real favor, Mister . . . ?”

  “Zack Ivers. It’s short for Zachariah from the Bible. My folks were real religious.”

  Oscar handed Ivers his card. “If Mr. Crouse comes back, can you give me a call?”

  Ivers looked concerned. “I don’t know.”

  “I promise I won’t tell anyone. You’ll be an anonymous informant.”

  Ivers smiled. “‘Anonymous,’” he repeated. “I like that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  George Melendez found Kathy at the Seafarer. It was early. Many of the tables were empty, and there were only a few people sitting at the bar. Grady Cox saw the police chief talking to Kathy and walked over.

  “What’s up, George?” Cox asked the policeman.

  Melendez hesitated.

  “It’s okay, Chief,” Kathy said. “Grady knows all about my problems in Portland. You can speak freely when he’s around.”

  Cox looked puzzled. “What’s this about?”

  The police chief took a mug shot out of his pocket and put it on the bar.

  “This is Gary Kilbride. He was just paroled from OSP. The reason he was in prison is because Kathy set hi
m up for the Portland police. She was the key witness in his case. I’ve been told by Kathy and the DA who put Kilbride away that he is a sadist and extremely dangerous.”

  Melendez turned to Kathy. “We found Kilbride at the Sea View Motel and I had him brought to the police station. He was everything you said he would be, noncombative, very cooperative. He said he had no hard feelings against you or Mr. Booth.”

  “Then why does he say he’s visiting Palisades Heights?” Kathy asked.

  “He claims he wanted to see the ocean and breathe fresh air after five years in lockup. He also said that he had no idea you were here. That it’s all a big coincidence.”

  “And you believe him?” Kathy asked.

  “Not for one second.”

  Melendez pushed the mug shot toward Cox. “Keep this. If you see Mr. Kilbride in your bar, call me or one of my men immediately.”

  Cox looked angry. “If this asshole sets one foot in the Seafarer I’ll take care of him personally.”

  “No, Grady,” Melendez said emphatically. “I know you’re a hard-ass but this is one guy you don’t want to mess with. I called the penitentiary. Kathy said he was crazy and the warden backed her up. He’s the type of guy who’ll take a few punches and give up. Then he’ll set your house on fire. The warden thinks he did torch an inmate who tried to intimidate him.”

  “Jesus!” Cox swore. “And they paroled him?”

  “The warden said that there was no way to prove the assault. The victim wouldn’t identify his assailant.”

  Kathy put a hand on Cox’s forearm. “The chief is right, Grady. I know you want to protect me but you have no idea how sick Gary is. Please don’t do anything foolish.”

  “Okay, but I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

  “That’s why I’m giving you the number of my cell phone and a bunch of other numbers to call if you see him in here or nearby.”

  “Can’t you just run him out of town?” Cox asked.

  “On what grounds?” Melendez answered. “He hasn’t done anything illegal. He hasn’t threatened anyone.”