by B K Stevens
He wiggled his eyebrows in invitation. I frowned. “I’d like to move this along, sir. Just tell me the stories that seem most relevant.”
“Okay.” He looked disappointed. “Jacqui was always possessive. At first, that was flattering. And I was crazy about her, too. But she started talking about marriage, kids, acting like I’d promised her that—and I swear, Dan, I never did. Plus she’d call the office so often it was embarrassing, and there was this other gal, and—well, I wasn’t so crazy about Jacqui any more. So I broke it off. Tried to, anyway.”
“She didn’t take it well?”
“Are you kidding? She called the office twice as often—my cell, too, and my home, day and night. She followed me around, showed up on my doorstep crying. She drove me nuts. Then Randy—well, he’d seen me with Jacqui, and he was smitten. So I introduced them.”
“In other words, you got her off your hands,” I said, “by passing her on to Mr. Dodd.”
“Hey, it wasn’t like that,” Bixby protested. “It—well, okay. Maybe it was like that. But I didn’t trick him. He’d seen what she’d put me through. He walked into it with his eyes wide open, Dan. I think he sorta wanted it.”
“He wanted that? Was his marriage unhappy?”
“Unhappy? No. But Karen—she was a super gal, but all wrapped up in her career. And she was—not cool to him, but sensible, y’know? She sure wasn’t popping into his office wearing nothing but a leather coat and black underwear. That stuff gets boring fast, believe me, but Randy drooled when I told him about it.”
“And Ms. Liston agreed to the change in personnel?” I asked.
I’d meant it as an insult, but he laughed, briefly and harshly. “You could put it that way. All she ever needs is a little encouragement—believe me, Dan, just a little. She fell hard for Randy. He was nuts about her, too. But he sobered up. Like I said, it gets boring. Boring, and scary. He wanted out. You can guess what happened. More calls, more tears, more threats.”
“What kind of threats?”
“Mostly that she’d tell Karen. And—well, Jacqui’s a wild gal, like I said. She has—exotic tastes. And she has a video camera. When we were together, she always wanted to film stuff. Thank God, I always had the sense to say no. Randy got pretty drunk one night, and he said okay. So Jacqui had this tape, and she threatened to turn it over to the press if Randy didn’t take her back. He was frantic.”
A sex tape, I thought. Just what we need. We’ve already got too much media; if that tape gets out, forget it. “Did she ever threaten to harm Mrs. Dodd?”
He winced. “Better ask Randy. Jacqui gets so worked up, and when she drinks, she loses it. Man, I’d hate to think she had anything to do with this. You don’t think Jacqui killed her, do you, Dan?”
“No suspects yet,” I said. “Do you know if Ms. Liston owns a gun?”
“Yeah, she does. Her house was burglarized once, so she bought a gun and learned how to use it. Damn. It doesn’t look good for Jacqui, does it, Dan?”
I stood up. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Bixby. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
“Sure.” He squinted at the card. “Say, now I know why your name sounded familiar, Dan. Janet Ledger, Premium Realty. Great little saleswoman. Great-looking gal, too. And I just heard she’s on the market again. That makes her your ex-wife, right?”
“She’s my wife.” I had a ridiculous impulse to grab my card back. “We’re just separated, while we work things out. She’s not on the market. And she’s not a ‘gal,’ Mr. Bixby. She’s a woman.”
I stalked out of his office and was not soothed by the sight of Carlson loitering by the reception desk, getting the cold shoulder from Helen Quinn. She winked at me, I blushed, and Carlson scampered after me into the parking lot.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” he said, “I tried to get in on your meeting with Bixby, but the old bat wouldn’t let me through. Man—that’s one nasty lady. Anyhow, I plowed through all that crap you dumped on my desk.”
“Including the coroner’s report?” I asked, heading for my car.
“Yeah,” he said. “Earth-shaking stuff. Cause of death, one gunshot wound—who woulda guessed? And no signs of recent sexual activity, no traces of drugs or alcohol, almost no traces of food, no—hey! What the hell?”
He ran to his Mustang. It sat on its rims, all four tires deflated.
“Damn!” He crouched down to examine a tire. “Punctured. Are they all like that?”
I checked the other side of the car. “Yes. That’s not the worst of it. Look inside.”
The upholstery in the front seat had been slashed to threads, both seats and backs. With an enraged cry, Carlson flung a door open.
“Don’t touch anything,” I said. “It probably won’t help, but we’ll get somebody to dust for prints. I’m sorry, Carlson. You’re insured, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I’m insured.” He slammed the door shut and leaned his back against the car, looking ready to cry. “But that’s the original upholstery. They never get it to match up just right. Damn! Who’d do a thing like this? To a Mustang?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. Did you drive here straight from the station? Could anyone have followed you?”
He shook his head. “I would’ve spotted him. It must’ve been some punk kid. Would I like to get my hands on him!”
I gazed at the upholstery, wondering if the lab would be able to say what sort of knife did the damage. Probably, it could’ve been any large knife—a butcher’s knife, for example. But that wouldn’t be my guess. A hunting knife, I thought. A hunting knife could do this job in two minutes.
*
As we drove to the Dodd house, I did my best to comfort Carlson. I’d found out about some stuff, I said, stuff he’d like—affairs, lies, a sex tape. He didn’t perk up till I mentioned the tape.
We found Randy Dodd in his living room, finishing a filmed interview with Charlene Gorshin. His face looked haggard; hers, as she asked about the future, was soft with practiced compassion.
“The future?” He seemed lost. “I don’t know. People are talking about starting a Karen Dodd foundation, to fight gun violence. I want to make that happen. But for me, the future’s about the kids. Somehow, I have to get them past this. Somehow, I have to give them a normal childhood—some day, a happy childhood.” He paused and bit his lower lip. “I just don’t know how I can do it without her.”
She squeezed his hand, waited a beat, and turned to the camera. “Our exclusive interview with Randy Dodd, searching for the strength to face the future—without her. Charlene Gorshin, Channel Six news. Okay, guys. That’s it.”
It took some time to explain that no, she could not film our conversation with Dodd, to ease her and her crew outside to wait with everyone else. The session with Dodd did not go well. He sniffled constantly and broke down twice. Carlson, convinced he was closing in on a headline-grabbing arrest, cracked crude jokes whenever Dodd confessed to another sordid detail. And the thickening band of reporters encircling the house felt like an energy force, pulsing against my consciousness even when I couldn’t see them.
Yes, Dodd said. He’d had an affair with Jacqui Liston—just for a few weeks, and it was the only time he’d ever cheated, but he’d done it. Then he’d come to his senses and realized Karen was the only woman he could ever love. Now she was dead, and if Jacqui had—he collapsed against the sofa cushions, his body shaken by waves of misery.
I waited for the wretchedness to subside. “Why didn’t you tell us this Friday night, Mr. Dodd?”
He sat up, blowing his nose discreetly. “I hoped it wasn’t true. I hoped it was a burglar, or a gun nut. And the children—they’ll be so hurt if all this comes out. Can you keep it quiet?”
I shook my head. “We’ll have to question Ms. Liston. If we can’t rule her out immediately, if we have to investigate further, the press is bound to find out. If the children could stay with out-of-town relatives for a while, that might be best. One more question
about last Friday. You said you came to see your wife at noon and stayed for an hour. But you didn’t return to your office until almost 2:00. Where were you between 1:00 and 2:00, Mr. Dodd?”
“Bet I can guess,” Carlson chimed in. “You went to see Jacqui. First the wife, then the mistress. The two-broad lunch. You ever get a chance to eat?”
Dodd winced. “Yes, I went to Jacqui’s, but it wasn’t—what you’re implying. After Karen announced her candidacy, Jacqui went crazy—seeing the whole family on TV sent her over the edge. She called me at home. She’d never done that before. I was afraid that the next time my son might answer, figure things out. So I promised to come see her on Friday. She was so drunk—usually, she controls her drinking, but when she gets really upset, she goes on these benders. She’d called in sick and just sat on her couch all day, emptying bottle after bottle. I stayed with her for almost an hour, explaining that it was over. She just kept crying and drinking, saying she’d give that damn tape to the press. Finally, I gave up and went back to work.”
“Did she give you the tape?” Carlson asked. “No? Oh, man. Here comes your debut on America’s Scummiest Home Videos. That tape’s gonna be evidence—they’ll show it in court. Better practice your autograph.”
“Did Ms. Liston threaten to harm your wife?” I asked, ignoring Dodd’s moans.
“Never,” he managed. “If she had, I never would’ve left Karen alone.”
“Yeah, sure.” Carlson turned to me. “Well? Time to visit Miss Ohio?”
I nodded, hating it. Helen Quinn, Jim Bixby, Randy Dodd—they’d all pointed me straight toward Jacqui Liston. That made sense. She’d flaunted her obsession with Dodd, she was flagrantly unstable, she had a time-honored motive. Still, I felt manipulated, resentful, somehow sure I’d stepped off the right track. But I had no choice. We had to question her.
*
The minute we got out of the car, we heard the overture to The Sound of Music blasting. Jacqui Liston came to the door, bleary-eyed but magnificent, damp auburn ringlets cascading down her white silk robe. She wore nothing else. Carlson gasped and took a step back. I couldn’t blame him. It was a lot for a young man to handle.
She had to work to focus on our badges. “So he actually called the cops. I guess it is a little loud. Sorry, guys. I was in the shower—I didn’t realize.”
“We’re not here about the noise, Ms. Liston,” I said. “May we come in?”
Looking puzzled, she led us to her living room, refilled her wineglass from the bottle on the coffee table, sat on the couch, and smiled. “I love that show—it never seems too loud to me. I played Maria in our senior musical, and I sang `Climb Every Mountain’ at the pageant. It’s not Maria’s song, but—”
“Ms. Liston,” I said, “we need to talk to you about the death of Karen Dodd.”
“Oh. That.” She looked at me foggily. Was she being coy, or did she honestly not sense the danger? “I saw that on TV. So her mother had a heart attack? Is she okay?”
“She’s recovering. Ms. Liston, we need to ask you about your relationship with Randy Dodd.”
She frowned. “I’ve met him. We’re both in real estate; naturally, we’ve met. But we don’t really have a—”
“C’mon, Jacqui,” Carlson cut in. “He told us. You two were hot and heavy for a while, weren’t you?”
“He told you?” She still seemed merely confused, not alarmed. “Okay, then. We’re in love. So what? I mean, maybe it’s wrong to date married men, but he didn’t love her—he said so. He would’ve left her, but he was afraid of losing the kids. And now she’s dead, so we can get married, and he can keep the kids. Everything’s fine now. Why do you even care?”
She was incriminating herself at an amazing rate. “Did he come to see you last Friday?” I asked.
She nodded slowly. “I was sick. So on Friday, Randy checked on me. Or maybe it was Saturday. No, Friday. Definitely, Friday.”
Hopeless. “Just when did he come?”
She scrunched her forehead. “Before dark?” she suggested.
“C’mon, Lieutenant,” Carlson said. “She can’t tell us anything—her brain’s mush. We should just take her in.”
She turned to look at him, those incredible dark blue eyes narrowing. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not even here. I don’t like it when people talk about me like I’m not even here. And what do you mean, ‘take her in’? Is this about the music, or what?”
“See what I mean?” Carlson said. “Mush.”
“Stop saying that!” she cried. “Stop talking about me like I’m not even here!” She drained her glass and filled it again.
“Not another word, Carlson,” I said. “Ms. Liston, you shouldn’t drink any more. I’m going to read you your rights. Listen carefully, because—”
“Shut up!” Finally, she seemed to realize that something was wrong. “What’s going on? Nobody ever read me any rights before.”
“Where’s your gun, Jacqui?” Carlson demanded.
“Up there.” She pointed vaguely to the stairs. “Why do you care about my gun?”
“Let’s tell the truth, Jacqui.” Carlson moved closer to her. “Randy came here Friday and said it was over. His wife was gonna be governor, he wanted to be First Laddy, so goodbye, Jacqui.”
“You’re lying!” she said. “Randy never said that!”
“That’s enough, Carlson,” I said. But he was past listening.
“That’s just what he said.” He closed in on her. “Randy didn’t want some faded drunk on his hands when he moved to Columbus. You couldn’t take that. You wanted Karen dead. You got your gun, you drove to his house—”
“Liar!” She grabbed the bottle and lifted it, aiming for Carlson’s head. He froze. Damn, I thought, and swung my foot out in a wide crescent, connecting with her wrist. The bottle flew out of her grip, spun backwards, and crashed to the floor. She stared at her empty hand, then bellowed and threw herself forward, knocking Carlson on his back. Now she was on top of him, pulling wildly at his ears, his cheeks, his lips.
I glanced at my watch, waiting one full minute, listening while Carlson shrieked. Then I scooped an arm around her waist and pulled her up, reaching reluctantly for my handcuffs. “You’re under arrest, Ms. Liston,” I said. “No, it’s no good spitting on him. I know he provoked you, but it’s still a misdemeanor. There. Sit quietly while I read you your rights, and then I’ll call your lawyer. With luck, we’ll have you safe in jail before the press arrives.”
But we had no luck. Someone leaked something to somebody, and photographers lined the sidewalk by the time Jacqui Liston, fetching in snowy robe and glistening handcuffs, was led into the station, stumbling and smiling and trying to wave. Jail, obviously, was the best place for her. Even her lawyer looked relieved when bail was denied.
The case against her grew. Aside from her assertion that she didn’t think she’d left her house on Friday, she had no alibi. Karen Dodd had been shot with a 32-caliber gun, and Jacqui Liston’s gun, a Beretta .32, didn’t turn up when we searched her house. We did find the sex tape, though, under her bed, in a box labeled “A Few of My Favorite Things.” There she was, literally in the flesh, performing various interesting and mildly athletic acts with the murdered woman’s husband. We couldn’t ask for better proof of motive. To get the evidence straight, Carlson kept re-watching the tape until I took it away from him.
When the prosecutor asked Jacqui Liston about her gun, she squinted. Maybe, she said, someone stole it. Or maybe she’d lent it to someone and forgot about it. Or maybe she’d just lost it. At this point in the interrogation, her lawyer struck his fist against his forehead. And yes, she said, she guessed it was fair to say she’d resented Karen Dodd. Hated her? Yes, that was fair, too. Wished she were dead? Here Jacqui Liston began to shudder violently. Oh, God, she sobbed. Oh, God, God, God. If only we knew how hard she’d wished that bitch would die.
The prosecutor shook my hand. It was a good case, he said. He was looking forward to the trial.
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So was the press. Even before Karen Dodd’s body reached the morgue, interstates swelled with colorful mini-vans, each with a striking Action News or Eyewitness News logo, each with an eager camera crew from some station in Ohio, each propelled by a well-groomed reporter’s desire to be filmed in front of the Dodd house, repeating unconfirmed details that could have been relayed from the studio back home. When Jacqui Liston was arrested, when people sniffed scandal, the national media got interested. Print tabloids, half-hour syndicated tabloids, cable news networks, other networks, news services—all sent teams of investigators and commentators. Every motel room in the greater Akron area filled, restaurants strained to keep up, fast-food workers got all the overtime they wanted.
Well, I reflected, it’s one way for a town to fight a recession. On Tuesday, I went to the funeral home, where black-suited ushers quietly insisted that cameras be left in the foyer. Inside, the line thickened and slowed—too many reporters loitering in hopes of overhearing gossip, too many sketch artists lingering by the casket to decide how to capture the aloof loveliness of Karen Dodd’s face, of her white silk dress, of her tiny silver cross, of her soft, precise blonde halo.
In front of a bay window stood Randy Dodd, nodding mechanically as people came up to whisper condolences. Just behind their father, the three children sat in a neat row. One girl cradled a doll in her arms and chatted with it quietly; the other sucked her thumb and stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed and oblivious; the boy kept his hands folded in his lap and sometimes managed a half-smile for people who paused to speak to him or tousle his hair. They were exceptionally well-behaved children.
I glanced back at Randy Dodd in time to see a slight, rusty-haired man approach him. The man hesitated, then stepped up very close to Dodd, stood on tiptoe, and whispered into his ear. Dodd looked stunned; the man pressed something into his hand and turned away. For the first time, I saw his face—Wayne Spat, the administrative assistant from the American Firearms Association. Our eyes met, and he flushed and headed for the side door. I started after him.