“That's none of your business,” Kosack said.
“She's hired a lawyer and isn't talking. I want you to stay away from her,” Morrison said.
“There's nothing she's going to tell me. Anyway, I'm working another angle.”
“Yeah? What's that? Talking to every vet in the city? That's not an angle, that's lunacy,” Kosack said.
Morrison gave Goodnight a wary look then said, “Come on, Tom. We've got a report to write.” At the door she turned and said to Goodnight, “You call if you learn anything else, or if your memory suddenly improves. I don't want to learn of new developments in the morning paper. Understand?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
On the steps Kosack glared at Goodnight. “Don't fuck with us, Ranger. You understand me? Don't fuck with us!”
~
There was a husky hospital attendant with a bristly haircut to do the task, but Goodnight insisted on lifting Conchita from the bed himself and sat her into the wheelchair. “Light as a feather,” he said when she complained that she was too heavy for him. He had brought a dozen red roses and placed them in her arms as she tried to smile. The bandage on her left cheek got in her way.
“I have to push her,” the attendant insisted. “Hospital rules.”
“Be my guest. I don't have a license for wheelchairs anyway.”
Walking beside Conchita on their way to his car Goodnight was almost giddy with joy. He felt like a boy again. Only the untroubled birth of his son had given him such pleasure as an adult. During the ride home he had trouble keeping his eyes on the road because he wanted to look at Conchita constantly. He could not get enough of her. She protested when he insisted on carrying her from the car to the bed. “I can walk, Ranger. I just have to be careful that's all.”
“If there's anything you need, just ask,” he said as he lay her gently on the freshly made bed.
In the room were flowers sent by Arturo and a get well card from the regulars at Rosa's Cantina and another from her family in New Mexico. Conchita read the cards slowly then rubbed the raised lettering of the one from Rosa's with her fingers as she looked up at Goodnight and grinned. “Nice, huh.”
“Yes. Get under the covers now. I'm going to fill the pitcher with water.”
“You're worse than the nurses at the hospital.”
After a lunch of soup and sandwiches Goodnight explained that he had to work away from the house for the rest of the day. “Will you be all right? Is there anyone I should call?”
“I'll be fine. I've got the telephone if I need anything that can't wait until you get back. Try not to be late, querido.” He fluffed her pillows behind her and she kissed him warmly.
~
The story at the veterinarian offices was the same. No one knew the cat or recognized Leah Swensen. Goodnight had exhausted the more upscale vets on the north side and now moved closer to the center of the city. It was after 4:00 in the afternoon when he entered Pet Paradise. There was a stark woman of about 30 whose plastic badge identified her as the veterinarian standing behind a counter writing on a five by seven card. Her face was pockmarked and stern. A Pekingese dog on a leash was yapping relentlessly and the reception area smelled faintly like a kennel.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, looking up from the card, her manner at once gentle.
Goodnight explained who he was and asked her to look at the photograph he handed across the counter top. “I'm attempting to find someone who has seen either the cat or the owner.”
The veterinarian shook her head. “I don't recognize them. What's the cat? A Scottish Fold?”
“That's right.”
“I'll get Bridget. Maybe she knows one of them. Just a second.”
The Pekingese was ten feet away and yapping steadily at him. Goodnight wondered for an instant what the tiny mutt would do if it was suddenly free of its leash, like a dog finally catching the car. Probably sniff his boots and rub its wet nose across his pant legs. The dog's well-dressed owner was casually leafing through a magazine.
“Hi,” a young blond girl said brightly as she walked up behind the counter. She had the clear, steady eyes of youth and enough energy for a marching band. Goodnight explained once again what he was doing and handed her the photograph.
“Sure I know them,” she said lightly.
“You do?” Goodnight's heart was suddenly racing.
“Uh huh. I used to work at Desert View and Mrs. Swensen brought Scottie in there all the time.”
His heart sank. “When did you see either of them last?”
“Let's see,” she said, pursing her lips. “It was about the time she was killed I think. Wasn't that awful? I never met her husband but he must be a terrible person to do something like that.”
“Were you working here when you last saw them?”
The girl thought for a minute. “I'm not certain. Let me think. I'm pretty sure. I didn't see Mrs. Swensen though, just Scottie. I work in back and don't talk to the owners very often.”
“You're certain it was the same cat?”
“Oh, yeah. He has a real sweet disposition. He's not standoffish like a lot of cats. I remember him real well. See the marking on his ear there?” She pointed with a child-like finger. “He's got another one you can't see in the picture behind the other ear.”
“Who brought him in?”
She shook her head. “I don't know. It wasn't Mrs. Swensen. I caught a glimpse of the lady though the doors and she had blond hair. Mrs. Swensen was a dark haired woman.”
“Maybe she dyed it.”
“I guess. She never seemed like the type. But it might have been her now that I think about it. They were about the same build and age. I never talked to her much before so I couldn't say. I always just handle the animals.”
“But you're certain it was the same cat?”
“Uh huh.”
“Why was he here?”
“Let me think.” Bridget pursed her lips for a long moment then finally called out to the veterinarian and handed her the photograph. “Didn't we give the Scottish Fold some shots? Maybe eight or nine months ago. I know the cat from Desert View. His name is Scottie. His owner was that lady whose husband killed her with a knife.”
The veterinarian shook her head, glanced up at Goodnight, then back to the picture. “I don't remember the cat. Let me look it up.” She leafed through a drawer of filing cards below the counter. “No Scottie.”
“Are you sure? I remember him.”
“Look for yourself. No Scottie.”
Bridget went through the cards twice. “That's funny. I know I saw the cat when I was working here. When did I start? April?”
“That sounds right.”
The pretty girl went to another filing drawer. “No Swensen. Let me think a minute.”
“Maybe the cat was brought in under a different name,” Goodnight suggested.
“I don't know why, but that wouldn't help since we don't know it. Where would I look?” The girl pursed her lips again. “I've got it!” She disappeared in back then came out with a desk calendar. “Let's look at the appointments in April. She was killed about the time I went to work here if I remember correctly.”
The woman hovered over the appointment calendar. Three times they pulled the names of owners. “We're searching for a Scottish Fold,” the veterinarian explained. The fourth time they had it.
The younger girl pulled the card and said, “The name for the cat was Cosmo. Ugh! Do you recognize the name of the owner?” she asked, showing the card to the veterinarian.
The woman shook her head. “No. Pull the card for Cosmo.”
The five by seven card said that Cosmo had been in the Pet Paradise 10 days before Leah Swensen was believed to have been murdered. The name of the owner was Kate Morgan with an address in Glendale on the west side. They pulled the Morgan account then the older woman looked up. “That's odd. Our receipt was returned to us by the post office marked 'No such address.' So was an advertising mailing we did last month.”
“Tell me about Cosmo,” Goodnight asked.
“O.K. I remember now,” the veterinarian said, staring down at the card. “It says here that the owner wanted a Small Animal Health Certificate.”
“Why would she want that?”
“You need it to take the cat out of the country.”
Goodnight's heart was racing again. “Where was she going?”
“Let me find our copy.” She dug through a file as the pretty blond smiled hopefully up at Goodnight. “Here it is. The same home address on the left side of the form, see?”
Goodnight looked. “What's this on the right?”
“You're supposed to list the address where you will be staying with the animal out of the country, but I guess she didn't have one. That's not unusual.”
“Can I have a photocopy of this?”
The woman hesitated. “I guess so. I'll be right back.”
“What did it say?” Bridget wanted to know.
“It said, 'Traveling within Portugal.'”
TWENTY-THREE
“Portugal?” Ruth Morrison said over the telephone the next morning. “Why Portugal?”
“I have no idea. But that's where she said the cat was going and my guess is that's where I'll find both of them.”
“Maybe it's a ruse and she really went somewhere else.”
“That's always a possibility, but I doubt it. The destination papers for the cat are only good for one country. If she tried to go elsewhere the cat could be quarantined, or even put to sleep. Given the way she feels about that cat I don't think she'd risk it.”
“Once in Portugal there must be a way for cat lovers to travel in Europe. She could have got more papers and be anywhere.”
“That's true, but probably not, and if she did there'd be a record. She has no reason to think we know she went to Portugal. What are the odds of someone who once worked at her vet working at the one she picked to obtain her certificate? My guess is she thinks she's safe. Portugal is off the beaten path. I'm pretty certain she's there. But for now let's keep this quiet. If she suspects I've gone to Portugal she'll be out of there in a flash.”
“We aren't the ones talking to reporters, remember?”
~
Goodnight had never liked flying and in recent years disliked it even more. There had been a time when to fly you dressed in your best and were treated with respect and courtesy. Now flying reminded him of the worst bus trips he'd taken in his youth, except there weren't frequent stops where he could get out and take a short walk.
According to the veterinarian the previous day the next step for taking a cat out of the country after receiving her certificate was to contact the destination country's consulate. “You send the Official Small Animal Health Certificate and a fee to the consulate for a permit of some kind. You need their permission to bring the cat into the country.”
Goodnight had asked where the nearest Portuguese consulate was.
“I don't know. It could be in Houston, but my guess is Los Angeles. That's where most of the ones are for the smaller countries.”
Goodnight had reached Al Schiffman, told him what he had, and asked him to go the Portuguese consulate the next morning to obtain a more specific address in Portugal. Goodnight had not expected he could locate one and had not been disappointed when Schiffman called him without luck just before he left for the airport. He had also sent Schiffman a copy of the photograph he had and asked Schiffman to have computer generated variations prepared then over nighted directly to him in Lisbon.
When Goodnight had first become a law enforcement officer the name of the game had been confessions. The most respected cop was the one best skilled at obtaining confessions. Essentially policemen simply questioned all those who looked guilty and kept the pressure up until someone confessed. There had been abuses – Goodnight had seen more than his share – but he could not say that system had produced worse results than the one now in place. In those days harsh tactics were tolerated, especially since the suspect was nearly always guilty.
After the Miranda decision law enforcement became evidence oriented as confessions were now more difficult to obtain. Lawyers just didn't seem to want their clients talking to the police. Over the years Goodnight had watched the growth of police laboratories, greater training for law enforcement officers and increasing reliance on physical evidence to prove a case.
Goodnight was familiar with the increasingly complex and nearly incomprehensible nature of modern evidence. In this case the blood splattered room had nailed Jack Swensen's coffin. Without the blood there would never have been a trial. But it seemed to Goodnight that it had never been easier for a clever, well-motivated person to pin a murder on someone, or for that matter, to manufacture a murder and set someone up.
Now he believed he was on the verge of breaking the ultimate modern forensic science murder case. There had been circumstantial evidence that pointed the finger at Jack Swensen, but it had been the forensic evidence that had condemned him. The hair testimony had been problematic, but how could he refute the DNA results? They were as stark as black and white. His lawyer could, and had, argued about the procedures, but the trial had missed the most obvious point.
How had Leah Swensen's blood come to be in her bedroom?
The assumption was it was there as a result of murder. Goodnight no longer believed there had even been a murder.
He skipped the offered meal and gazed unseeing out the small window, feeling guilty about leaving Conchita. When he explained to her that he had to make this trip she had called her cousin Lupe in Las Cruces who took a bus and was due to arrive as he was crossing the Atlantic. He had been heartsick at the thought of leaving but had no choice.
“Just come home safe, John,” Conchita said when he bade her farewell, forcing the injured side of her face to smile.
His itinerary called for a three hour layover in Paris before boarding an Air France flight to Lisbon. Goodnight stretched his legs in the international lounge at Charles de Gaulle airport, then since this was after all France, lit a cigar as he gazed towards distant Paris, visible only as a glow of lights on the horizon. He had paid just over $30 in the gift shop for his first Cuban cigar and though he enjoyed it he soon decide no cigar was worth $30.
Goodnight had been to France once before and standing in the lounge the memories came back. In late 1987 Flo had complained of persistent heart burn. She had always refused to see doctors, holding much the same opinion as Goodnight that they caused more trouble than they solved. But when the area about her groin had begun to hurt chronically she had relented and let him take her to the doctor. It was inoperable ovarian cancer.
Goodnight had scarcely missed a beat when he learned she had only a few weeks to live. Two days after seeing the doctor they were on their way to Paris, the city he had promised his love repeatedly he would take her to someday. They spent a week in a bed and breakfast on the Left Bank with a stunning view of Notre Dame across a small, manicured park. They took the elevator to the top of the Arch de Triumph, had lunch on the Eiffel Tower overlooking its surrounding gardens and spent four days combing the Louvre.
Every day was a wonder to both of them but especially to Flo. The air had a fresh aroma Goodnight had never experienced in any city and sunlight seemed to come through a soft focus. Even the French, for all the bad he had heard over the years, were uncommonly pleasant with the couple so obviously in love.
Paris that fall was everything Flo had ever dreamt but by the sixth day her health deteriorated noticeably. The French doctor administered oral morphine and said she must check into a hospital soon. Then he took Goodnight aside with a nurse who spoke better English and explained that his wife's condition was worsening and she had only a few days to live. During the long flight home Flo lay in an opiate daze as Goodnight held her frail hand.
When her own doctor gave her less than a week to live, perhaps only two or three days, she stubbornly insisted on staying at their house, carefully recording instructions on what
needed to be done with the plants and general house cleaning. Only when she was finished had she agreed to enter the hospital.
Flo had stood at the entrance to the house she had called home for over 30 years and taken a final heartrending look. Finally she closed the door behind her, cautioned her husband to lock up, then let him drive her to the hospital. At her request their son wasn't told of her condition until the last minute and unfortunately they misjudged how much time she had. He arrived the day after his mother died.
All this came back as Goodnight stood smoking, watching the City of Light on the horizon. When the cigar was finished he checked his watch and saw he still had 10 minutes before departure. He scanned the newspaper rack for something in English then bought an International Herald Tribune.
Once on the plane he leafed through the newspaper and spotted the article on the third page. The electronic media was going to be the end of chasing crooks he decided with a frown. The headline read, “'Dead' Woman Believed Hiding in Europe.” The article had been picked up from the wire service. It gave a short overview of the Swensen murder case then said:
“An insurance investigator is reported to be arriving in Europe today to pursue Leah Swensen, now no longer believed to be dead even though her husband was convicted of her murder. Sources refused to say in which country Swensen is thought to be hiding, but the investigator is identified as John Goodnight, a retired Arizona state ranger who recently killed a man in a gunfight.”
Goodnight groaned.
~
“Did you read this?” Kosack asked over his cup of coffee. “Ranger's secret trip to Portugal is right here in the newspaper.”
“I saw the article earlier,” Morrison said. “It doesn't say anything about Portugal.”
“Hell, it's close enough. You know what I think?”
“What's that Tom?”
“I think he leaked it.”
“And why would he do that?”
“Because he doesn't stand a chance finding the lady. This gives him an excuse.”
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