by Joni Rodgers
“Got a problem with that?”
“Claire. C’mon.”
Behind the bar, Bean brayed his impossibly grating laugh at the drive-through window girl. Shep looked at Claire and raised one eyebrow.
“That Lord of the Rings reject was doing a billionaire’s trophy wife?”
“Stranger things have happened,” she shrugged. “You’re the one who advanced the evidence, Shep. It said in your transcript you heard him threaten to go to the tabloids. Next day he’s driving a new car. It makes sense with the evidence from her hotel suite.”
“What evidence?”
“There was a home pregnancy test in the bathroom. Positive.”
“And DNA tests proved it wasn’t the old man who got her pregnant?”
“Unfortunately, there was a procedural glitch in the morgue.” Claire sipped her coffee through the plastic lid. “The body was cremated before the medical examiner got to her. Cause of death was an easy call, given the photographs from the scene, but he never actually got a chance to run a tox screen or anything.”
“Yeah.” An acid tide turned in Shep’s stomach. “That is unfortunate, isn’t it?”
“Here’s a horny, corn-fed twenty-something. Here’s a barely breathing octogenarian.” Claire made a scale with a sugar packet in each hand. “Gee, I wonder who delivered the goods.”
“Without the DNA, we’ll never know, will we?”
“Shep, it all fits. Stick turns blue. The pre-nup is hanging over her head. What was she supposed to do? Between you breathing down her neck and the paparazzi camped out on her doorstep 24/7, there’s no way she can terminate the pregnancy or carry it to term without people knowing. She’s drinking. She’s despairing. Down she goes. You hear hoof beats, you think horses, not zebras.”
“A friend of hers told me she was happy about being pregnant. She used the word ‘thrilled.’ She said she included that information in her statement.”
“This would be the writer?”
“Yes.”
“She told you this recently?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re working the case again,” Claire said, playing with the cardboard sleeve on her coffee cup. “Or did you see her socially?”
Shep didn’t offer an answer, didn’t look away from her green eyes.
“I took her statement at the scene,” said Claire. “I’d have to check my notes, but as far as I recall, she didn’t say anything about her friend being pregnant. Or thrilled.”
“That was your only contact with her? At the crime scene?”
“At the scene of the incident,” Claire corrected him.
“She didn’t call you? Try to offer any additional information?”
“Not as I recall.”
“Did you find her statement inconsistent with the evidence?”
“Not exactly, but she was very odd. Be careful, Shep. That chick is a nut job.”
Shep had to physically bite his tongue.
“Don’t say it,” Claire winced and laughed a small wry laugh. “I know. But that was then. I’m not the dewy-eyed virgin anymore. As you well know.”
The espresso machine made a welcome racket that made it impossible to talk for a bit.
“Shep, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time.”
He tried to interrupt, but she gently overrode him.
“You were a good cop,” said Claire. “The people who matter know that.”
“For all the difference it makes.”
“I’m sorry about the way things went down, Shep. I know I owe you more than an apology, but nothing I could do about it now would matter a hill of shit. All I can do now is tell you that I’m sorry. And if you ever need anything, I’ve got your back.”
“I got what I deserved, Claire. I don’t need you to feel sorry for me, and the idea that you’ve got my back—” Shep huffed a harsh laugh. “Candidly, that’s not very comforting.”
“Nonetheless.” She took her card from her breast pocket and slid it between the folds of his wallet on the table. “Cell number’s on the back. If you ever need me.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t see any possibility we could—”
“No.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she smiled tightly as she got up to go. “I was going to say be friends. Like when we were kids.”
She dropped her half-cold coffee in the trash, and Shep watched her walk away, knowing hard that they were nothing like they were when they were kids.
\ ///
13
“Smack Wilder to see you,” said Inky Fujitsu’s effete boy toy secretary. He was a tin soldier in a Karl Lagerfeld uniform.
Inky passed through the glass door in a glass wall, speaking to me with her glassy over-perfect English.
“Miss Wilder, won’t you come in?”
“You have a lovely office,” said Smartie, trying to sound as airy and casually drawn as Suri Fitch’s waterfall-white blouse and black pencil skirt.
Smartie was wearing an aubergine suit from the vintage clothing store. She’d bought it years earlier for a PBS fundraiser that had authors and donors solve a staged murder mystery over dinner. The plum color and peplum jacket made her feel very Mildred Pierce.
“It’s an amazing view, isn’t it?” Suri gestured to the city of Houston that sat at her feet all day. “There’s no place on earth I’d rather be.”
“Wonderful daylight,” Smartie observed. “Not much privacy.”
“Happily, we have nothing to hide.”
Suri guided Smartie to a sofa that sat perpendicular to a wall-wide window between the window-wide walls.
“I reviewed your case after our initial phone conversation,” said Suri. “My paralegal prepared some documents for us to get started with.”
She pushed a bulky packet across the desk, and Smartie received it with a businesslike air, nodding as if she had any idea what it amounted to.
“Excellent. Yes. This will do nicely, I think.”
“The division of property should be fairly simple as the two of you have not actually cohabitated for, well, ever,” said Suri. “I confess I’m a tad confused about the nature of your relationship with Mr. Herrick.”
“It’s a powder keg of personal depravity, professional jealousy and territory-marking animal impulse. Tainted love that turned to unbridled hate. He got under my skin like a dirty needle and won’t let go till I’m a coffee-stain on a cold case file.”
“Oh, dear,” said Suri.
Smartie studied her white purse and gloves. “Do you have a lot experience with that sort of thing?”
“We see a wide range of relationship issues.”
“What would be your recommendation?” She held a puff of Kleenex in front of her mouth and tried to look murder-minded. “Considering how desperate I am.”
“After reviewing the answering machine tapes, we have ample proof of emotional instability and verbal abuse.”
Smartie had to swallow a nervous giggle at the idea of Herrick abusing verbs.
“I took the liberty of preparing a request for a TRO. Temporary Restraining Order,” said Suri. “That’s automatically granted as soon as I put through the paperwork, then a date is set for a hearing in which we have to show cause for the order to be continued. That won’t be a problem. Often the publicity is off-putting enough to nudge compliance.”
“Publicity?” Smartie swallowed a stab of alarm. “There can’t be any publicity.”
“In light of the disparity between your respective incomes,” Suri continued, “I anticipate his attorney will petition for spousal support. I certainly would.”
“Wait. What? Are you saying I’ll have to pay him alimony?”
“Technically, he’s entitled to half your literary estate.”
“What?” Smartie’s audacity slipped a notch.
“They could approach that as half your income, or he could seek full ownership of half your written works. Published and unpublishe
d.”
“But… Herrick doesn’t even like my books.”
“Then he’d be within his rights to bury them, I suppose,” said Suri. “Texas is a community property state. Half of everything you have is technically his, including copyrights. You’re going to have a difficult time denying him that unless you’re willing to go to trial.”
“Trial? Oh, no. Not a trial.” Smartie recovered her purpose and sat breathlessly forward at the edge of the sofa. “I’d do anything to avoid a trial, Attorney Fitch. Anything. My art means everything to me, and you don’t know what a vicious, volatile bastard he is.”
She reminded herself that this was a sting operation, not snake-mean lies about a dear, sensitive fellow who’d only just been released from the psych ward.
“Oh! He was just released from the psych ward,” said Smartie. “I almost forgot. God knows what’s going through his distorted mind.”
Suri organized some papers and pushed them across the glass desktop.
“Sign and date there at the bottom.” She indicated an accusing black line flagged with a yellow Post-It arrow. “I’ll instruct Mr. Hartigate to escort you to your car and pop round to check on you periodically until we can have the order enforced by police.”
“Do we really have to involve the police?” Smartie quailed a bit under Suri’s unrippled gaze.
“Don’t worry about the publicity. Our staff is accustomed to dealing with high profile clients,” Suri smiled, “and we’re quite good at it, if I do say so myself.”
Smartie’s attempt to return the smile felt wooden and wrong.
“Ah. There’s our Mr. Hartigate now.” Suri waved toward the outer office.
Shep was surprised and unpleased to see Smartie perched on the edge of Suri’s white sofa, looking like something out of a Humphrey Bogart movie, her cheeks burning with the boiled pink paranoia of an unskilled liar.
“Shep, you remember Ms. Breedlove?”
Smartie nodded and mumbled, “Good morning, Mr. Hartigate.”
“Ms. Breedlove. Pleasure to see you again.”
The clasp of Shep’s hand was sure and warm, which made Smartie feel even more thin-lipped and clammy.
“Shep,” said Suri. “Ms. Breedlove will need an escort to her car as soon as we’ve executed these documents.”
Smartie’s hand trembled at the bottom edge of the paper. At the top, Herrick’s name was spelled out in bold type, two needy little rs huddled together at the middle of it.
“Actually… not that I don’t want to really stick it to him because I do, but—but—” She grappled the papers into a tri-fold and shoved them in her purse, “I think I’ll take this with me so I can look it over. Carefully.”
“One can’t be too careful,” Suri smiled seamlessly. “I’ll send a courier for it when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a lovely day, Ms. Breedlove.”
Suri gestured them out the door with the supple wrist of a snake charmer, and Shep escorted Smartie down the hall with his sure, warm hand on her delicate elbow.
“What level are you parked on, Ms. Breedlove?”
“Green,” Smartie peeped.
“I am not involved in this,” Shep hissed through gritted teeth, deliberately not glancing up at the security cameras.
In the elevator, they stood next to each other, eyes forward, as the doors eased open and closed, allowing other riders to step on and off at various intervals between the law office’s high vista view and the parking access mezzanine on the second floor. Smartie followed Shep through the entresol and down a short corridor to the parking ramp elevator. They were alone when the elevator doors slid shut.
The doors licked shut, and in less than a watch tick, Nash had me up against the wall.
“Pleasure to see you again, Smack. Is that red lipstick begging for a long, hard kiss or a punch in the mouth?”
“Either way,” I kneecapped him, “it takes a bigger man than you.”
“Green level you say?” said Shep.
“Green. Yes. B6.”
Smartie self-consciously smoothed her hand over her hair. It always poodled out of control in the humidity. Shep clasped his hands behind him. Rocked a bit. He raised his chin in such a way that Smartie could see a fine feather of pink where he’d nicked himself shaving that morning. Just the sweetest little shaving nick there on his neck.
The doors licked shut, and in less than a watch tick, Nash had me up against the wall.
“Going down, Smack?”
“If you push the right buttons.”
The elevator pinged as they passed the orange level.
“Shep, I need to tell you something.”
“I already know,” said Shep, “You lied in your police statement, and then you lied to me.”
“They would have taken it wrong.”
“Just out of curiosity, what did Charma say to you? Did she tell you she was pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She asked me about DNA testing. If it was possible to fake that.”
Shep chuffed a nonverbal there it is.
“Not because she was trying to fake it,” said Smartie. “She was afraid of someone else faking it to frame her. She knew she was being watched.”
“Smartie, if you want to mire yourself in this for another year, go ahead. But the sad fact is, she committed suicide. She was out of the money and too old to get back into it with someone else, so she killed herself. Case closed.”
The doors licked shut, and in less than a watch tick, I had my .38 jammed against his chest.
“Careful, Nash. If I blow a hole in your heart, a little compassion might leak in.”
“How many people are you willing to drag down over this, Smartie? Suri put me on your husband for a few days. As far as I can tell, this is a benign, dickless little man who looks up from his books just long enough to get drunk every day, and that’s exactly what my report will reflect. Go ahead and chum the water all you want, but don’t expect Suri to be easily fooled, and don’t expect me to participate in it. I like my job. I like the people I work for. I’ve already compromised myself with this conversation, and that’s as far as it goes. I’ll see you to your car, and then I’m done here. Done.”
The doors opened on the cavernous parking ramp, and Smartie had to trot to keep pace with Shep’s determined stride.
“Where’s your car?”
“B6.”
Shep stopped short. “What the hell…”
“Oh!” Smartie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Schatzi. Poor thing.”
The 1968 Coccinelle Cabriolet convertible in space B6 wallowed on four slashed tires. Shep bent to examine the front bumper, which had been deeply keyed with the words “SMACK THIS, BITCH.” His mind reluctantly clicked back to what Libby had said about mental instability. Self-harm. Violent acts acted out as self-destruction.
Inappropriate wardrobe choices.
Smartie stood there in her purple suit, white lace gloves and seamed stockings looking like a nutcase.
“Tell me you did not do this,” Shep said quietly.
“Why would I do that to my own car?”
“You know why.” He folded his arms, steeling himself against the quick tears in her eyes.
“You’ve seen me to my car,” said Smartie. “That means you’re done, right? Done?”
“Tell me the truth. Or I can easily call Barth to check the surveillance video.”
“I didn’t do it, Shep.”
The steel stairwell door opened and a voice echoed across the tops of the cars.
“Everything okay over there, Hartigate?”
Studying Smartie’s face, Shep said, “That would be Mr. Barth.”
“Mr. Barth?” she called. “We’re going to need the security video for this level. My car has been vandalized.”
Barth came trucking over, favoring a bum knee, sweating in a rumpled brown suit. He puffed his bottom lip when he saw the damage to Smartie’s
car.
“Jeezum crow. We better expedite that TRO.”
“Oh, no,” Smartie hastened. “Please, don’t get Herrick in trouble. It’s not him. It’s this fan fiction guy.”
“This has happened before?” said Barth.
Smartie nodded. “This is the third time.”
Barth bent to inspect the key marks on the front quarter panel. Smartie was fascinated by the back of his military buzz cut. The way his thick neck folded slightly over his starched collar. He walked around Smartie’s VW, surveyed the surrounding vehicles, and with some effort, got down on the ground next to Shep, who’d knelt to get a look underneath the vehicle.
“Clean V-shaped cuts,” Shep observed, running his hand over the sidewall.
“That’s the best way,” Barth told Smartie. “Whoever did this has done it before. Lots of times if the perp don’t know what he’s doing, the blade breaks off. Tire’s got more grab as it goes flat. Your average vandal tends to scuff their knuckles, so you look for blood drops.” He shook his head and gestured to the garage floor. “No souvenirs here.”
Barth labored to his feet.
“The police will want to see your license and insurance,” said Shep.
“No.” Smartie cupped her hand over his cell phone. “Don’t call the police. Last time, the police report was right frack spang on the Internet with my address and phone number. I can’t have that. Especially not if you intend to hang it on Herrick.”
Shep didn’t agree or disagree, just studied her for a moment, and Smartie didn’t duck his gaze.
“Hartigate, I don’t see any reason why we can’t handle this,” said Barth. “You drive Ms. Breedlove home. I’ll get someone to come for the car.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barth,” said Smartie and handed him the spare key from a side pocket on her purse.
“Ms. Breedlove,” Barth said, standing as tall as possible, which was still several inches shorter than Shep, “I wonder, could I get your autograph? Not for me, you understand. I’m not the fan. Absolutely not. I wouldn’t trouble you for myself. It’s for my nephew.”
“Well,” Smartie smiled, “as long as you’re not a fan.”
Barth guffawed and grinned while she signed a blank sheet from the back of his log book, and then he stood there, his red face even redder than usual.