by Joni Rodgers
“Why not?”
“Because I can get in serious crap if I nail a customer. I can’t sleep with her while she has me under the sixty-day service warranty, and I don’t want to start the clock all over again, so I figured, what the hell. No charge no foul.” He shouldered the steam cleaner. “If she goes for me, awesome. If not, I did my good deed for the day.”
“Mighty big of you.”
Hewitt grinned and hefted his equipment cart up the sidewalk steps like a can of Tinker Toys, leaving Shep to eye the array of evidence-erasing chemicals in back of the Hewitt & Son CTS Decon panel truck. In the time Hewitt was running his mouth, Shep had conducted a professional inventory of the man. Smartie was right about the complicated logistics of the serial killer thing, but Hewitt had the tools to pull it off.
Shep took out his cell and speed-dialed Libby, who reported that Herrick was resting comfortably in the St. Luke’s psych ward.
“I managed to pencil-whip him into rehab at Cypress Knee starting tomorrow. His insurance gives him the twenty-eight-day fluff and fold.”
“Did he consent to the tox screen and residue testing?”
“Readily. I’m nudging for the results, but I’ve got Charlie with me, and he’s way past nap time. I can’t hang out here much longer.”
“Right. Of course. I appreciate it, Libby. You’re a lifesaver,” Shep said sincerely.
“How’s Ms. Breedlove?”
“Physically okay. Still pretty upset.”
“She’s probably a little shocky. Try to get her to eat. Push decaffeinated fluids. Listen if she wants to talk. What is she doing?”
“Hanging out with the cleaning guy. They have sort of an Adams Family rapport.”
“Shep, this woman seems to have a lot of complications in her life.”
“She’s a client. That’s all,” he told her. And it was true. There was no reason for him to feel like a liar.
“Okay,” Libby sighed. “Whatever. Talk to Charlie while I check on those results.”
“No, Lib, please, don’t put him on the phone.”
“Ungo shit.”
“Charlie, give the phone to mommy, okay? Charlie. C’mon, slugger.”
Charlie broke out a stream of alien babble and kept it up while Libby talked and laughed with her coworkers a few feet away. Shep knew from bitter experience that if he hung up, Charlie would deposit Libby’s cell in the handiest trash can, toilet, or bowl of Cheerios.
He squeezed the back of his neck. “God damn it.”
“Bob man it!” Charlie rebroadcast.
“Shep?” Smartie stepped out onto the patio and held out a cordless phone, her hand cupped over the mouthpiece. “Suri Fitch for you.”
“Charlie, give the phone to mommy. Charlie. Oh, for Christ sake. Here.” Shep took the cordless and handed Smartie his cell. “Talk to my nephew while I take this.”
“Oh. All right.” Smartie looked curiously into the cell. “Guten label, is this Colonel Portly? Yes. This is Dr. Tweed. From the cocktail party.”
Shep stepped away with the cordless and said, “Hartigate.”
“Shep,” Suri said sharply. “What. The. Hell.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Mr. Barth tells me Ms. Breedlove’s car was vandalized. Now she’s telling me her husband has wrecked mayhem on the place and for reasons I don’t understand, you failed to have him arrested.”
“Did Barth get the video from the parking garage?” asked Shep.
“There appears to have been some malfunction with the camera.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Shep, in my office earlier, she was pumping a lot of helium into this case against her husband. Could she have arranged all this in order to hang him for it?”
There was just enough hesitation between the question and answer for Suri to draw her own conclusion.
“It’s always the ex,” said Shep.
“Yes, but which one?”
Shep squinted in the afternoon sun. Smartie paced the patio a few feet away, still on the phone with Charlie.
“Feldspar?” she said, and Charlie guffawed. “Why you old bandicoot.”
“Collect the evidence with a view toward proceeding against hubby darling,” said Suri, “but make it plain to Ms. Breedlove that any theatrics on her part will result in my immediate withdrawal from her case and the forfeiture of her retainer. Make it clear and get it on record, Shep: under no circumstances will I or anyone else employed by this firm be involved in any improprieties.”
“Lieutenant Capping is here from Scotland Yard,” Smartie said seriously, and Charlie could be heard mooing in response. “Quite. I’ll tell him you said so.”
“Shep?” Suri said sharply.
“Sure thing, boss,” he said. “Anything else?”
“As a matter of fact,” she sighed wearily, “I need you to pop over to the Van Reuse residence again. He apparently showed up this morning in violation of the restraining order and hacked down a mature pecan tree in the front yard. Caused several thousand dollars damage. This is going to stand Mrs. Van Reuse in very good stead. Make sure we have a thorough overview and proper documentation of the incident.”
“On it.”
Shep clicked off and took his cell from Smartie.
“Charlie? Tell mommy it’s bye-bye time.”
“Bye-bye,” Charlie said sadly, and Libby’s cell phone clanged into a bedpan.
“I need to go do something,” Shep said to Smartie. He glanced toward the roar of the steam cleaner upstairs. “You okay here alone with the serial killer?”
“He has all the equipment to make it work,” Smartie whispered.
“Interesting how he was so Johnny-on-the-spot today, isn’t it?”
“I called him. If I hadn’t, he’d be Johnny-on-some-other-spot.”
“And he’d look just as shifty.”
“Are you worried he’ll hit on me or leave me dismembered in my freezer?”
“Guess we’ll find out when I get back,” said Shep. “Smartie, when you were talking to Suri, you didn’t say anything to Suri about Charma, did you?”
“Not a word.” Smartie watched him process his decision to believe her. “What have you told Suri about me?”
“As little as possible. But she knows something’s not right.”
“So you think…”
“I don’t know what to think,” said Shep, “but I’m working on a few theories, and I need you to lay off until I get it figured out. Don’t do anything to further complicate the situation with Herrick, and if you hear from Suri, you call me immediately, understand?”
“I understand,” she said, but it occurred to Shep as he drove away that this didn’t promise or even imply that she would do it.
\ ///
16
The constables were still on the scene at the Van Reuse McMansion. Mr. Van Reuse’s Lincoln SUV lay crimped beneath the toppled pecan tree, and Van Reuse sat cuffed in the back seat of the cruiser, sweating and swearing softly in the oppressive heat. Shep swallowed a groan when he recognized Claire’s partner poking around the shattered tree stump. They exchanged a nod, and Claire’s partner said, “She’s around back in the kitchen.”
“I’m looking for Mrs. Van Reuse,” said Shep.
“Like I said.” The officer jerked his thumb toward the side of the house.
“Okay if I speak with Mr. Van Reuse first?”
“Knock your lights out.”
On his way to the cruiser, Shep glanced up at an alcove window on the second floor and saw three small noses pressed to the glass, a small pair of hands forming parentheses around each face. Shep fanned a half-hearted wave, and one small hand waved back.
“Leave them alone, you asshole,” Van Reuse barked. “You don’t mess with my kids.”
Shep leaned down to the open car window, one hand above the door, the other pressed against his aching back.
“You want to tell me what happened here, Mr. Van Reuse?”
“You set me up, you sonofabitch. You and that dike lawyer. You destroyed my life.”
“I’m just here to follow up on the tree, sir.” Shep reached into his hip pocket for his leather notebook and felt a harsh twinge of Twinkie’s weight in his back. “Care to tell me about the tree?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you about the tree.” Van Reuse huffed. “I planted it the day we got married. Night before, my friends are out, drunk off their asses at my bachelor party, but I’m here digging a hole in the yard at three in the morning so she could wake up on her wedding day and see… see how our life…” He swallowed, blinked hard. “You and that bitch lawyer took everything I had. Everything it took eighteen years to build. I just wanted my goddamn tree back.”
Shep loosened his tie and undid the top button on his shirt. The collar was damp inside, and above it, the sun had laid a red stripe across the back of his neck. The three little noses hadn’t budged from the alcove window.
“Mr. Van Reuse, it’s my duty to remind you that a duly enforceable restraining order is still in effect—”
“Eighteen years. Now I’m sitting on goddamn lawn furniture in a crap apartment.”
“—and you are enjoined from coming within—”
“My kids aren’t even allowed to visit.”
“—five hundred feet of Mrs. Van Reuse or this residence.”
“I can’t talk to my kids on the fucking phone.” Van Reuse bucked against the cuffs behind his back and kicked one foot against the car door. “I’m not allowed to touch them without some battleaxe social worker breathing down my neck.” He looked up at Shep, his bottom lip pulled hard against his teeth. “You better pray you don’t see me in a dark alley, you fucking piece of shit. You better pray I don’t see you first.”
“Mr. Van Reuse.” Shep squatted outside the cruiser, bringing them eye to eye. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. And I’m going to tell you one more time: Stop making this harder. For everybody.”
Shep didn’t have to point a meaningful glance toward the upstairs window. Van Reuse’s eyes were already riveted there.
Leaving him sweating in the cruiser, Shep went up the driveway to the side of the house, where the top half of a Dutch door opened into a spacious granite and mahogany kitchen. At one side of the cooking island, Mrs. Van Reuse sat sobbing on a barstool. At the other side, Claire O’Connell stood speaking quietly into the radio clipped to her shoulder holster. When Shep saw her, he was surprised to feel a rush of relief instead of the usual bristling of hair on his arms.
He pushed through the bottom half of the Dutch door and asked, “Are you all right, Mrs. Van Reuse?”
She sniffled a phlegmy affirmative.
“Tell her he’s here,” Claire told the radio. There was a crackled response. She clicked the radio off and told Shep, “Your boss is ripping my boss a new one.”
“My boss is good at that.”
Claire motioned Shep outside, and he reluctantly left the air-conditioned kitchen to follow her back onto the griddle-hot driveway. She pulled the kitchen door closed and spoke quietly enough that he had to stand close to hear her, close enough to smell the cocoa butter sun block mingled with her cucumber shampoo.
“Shep, you know damn well a restraining order doesn’t mean we have the manpower to post somebody outside this house 24/7. We were here less than five minutes after the call came in. And this is three hours after we went out of our way to ass-pat your other client across town.”
“That was me, not her, Claire. I apologize for the inconvenience. It was appreciated.”
“I don’t know what’s in the water today. Effing lunatics. And the SUV is his,” she laughed and jerked a thumb toward the cruiser in the driveway. “The dumb-ass did the property damage to himself. Am I supposed to haul him in for wrecking his own car?”
“What are you charging him with?”
“Criminal trespass, for starters. I’ve got a call out about the dollar value of the tree, but Shep, your boss is pushing the DA for an attempted murder charge, for Christ sake. Maybe if the wife had been out in the yard, we could have stretched it to reckless endangerment, but murder? C’mon.” Claire hooked her thumbs on her belt. “That’s not about protecting your client, Shep. Y’all are just fucking with this guy. I can’t believe you’re willing to be a part of that.”
“Claire.” Shep studied her face for a long moment before he very quietly asked her, “Can I trust you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Claire,” he said. “Can I. Trust you.”
“Yes, Shep. You can. Trust me,” she mimicked him with a tease in her voice and the same smile that used to go straight to his breadbasket. A genuine expression that opened her full lips and squinted her green eyes.
But then her eyes shifted away from his.
Only slightly. Only for a fraction of a second. But enough to mean something. Or not. Shep was disturbed to find that he was utterly unable to read her.
“Hartigate, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” said Shep. “I’ll talk to Suri about Van Reuse.”
“Tell her if she wants armed guards on every client, she’ll have to get a little more muscle on the payroll.” Claire smiled again and squeezed Shep’s upper arm.
He turned to walk away, but she called his name, and when he turned to face her, she wasn’t smiling anymore. She was looking a hard cop look at him.
“You can trust me, Shep. Can I trust you?”
Shep shook his head. “Better not.”
He went to the Range Rover for his digital camera and shot a thorough span of photos. Two more cruisers had congregated in front of the McMansion, and after shooting the breeze with her backup for a few minutes, Claire drove off with Van Reuse, who stared daggers at Shep all the way down the driveway.
Shep went in and conducted a perfunctory interview with the Salvadoran housekeeper who’d witnessed the lumberjack attack and was more than eager to talk about it in excited Spanglish punctuated with cries and sighs and much thumping of work-worn hands on the bosom of her floral housedress.
Passing through the kitchen on his way out, Shep hoped to find Mrs. Van Reuse calmer, and she was.
“You have my cell number,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to call.”
“How much longer before this bastard is out of my life?” she asked.
“My understanding is that you have a court date early next month.”
“Yes, but—” She wound and unwound a damp Kleenex from her finger. “When will it be over?”
“Ms. Fitch can provide you with a timeline for the custody hearings,” Shep said carefully. “Has Mr. Barth been in touch with you about the other issue?”
“You mean the thing with the taxes? That’s Rosen. I don’t know any Barth.”
“Right. I’m sorry, I was thinking of another case.” Shep gathered his camera and notebook. “I’ll have her secretary get back to you with that timeline.”
“Tell her to move things along,” said Mrs. Van Reuse. “Tell her I need it to be over.”
\ ///
17
Smartie closed her Moleskine notebook and lit a cigarette, pulling her feet up under her in the Adirondack chair on her front porch. She’d traded her bloodied Mildred Pierce getup for plaid flannel pajama pants and a Make Art Not War tee shirt, along with pink socks and a pair of disposable hazmat booties Hewitt had given her.
“Thanks for hanging out, Hewitt,” she said. “I hope you didn’t mind my pumping you for material.”
“It’s cool. I never met a woman who actually wanted to know about my job. All that blood and guts. Up to my ass daily in crap and decomp. It’s way too much information for most chicks.”
“Is there such a thing as too much information?” Smartie genuinely wondered. “I don’t know how I’ll use all this, but I’ll find a place for it eventually.”
“You’re one of those gotta keep
working people, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Me too,” he said, and there was a hint of haunted in the way he smiled.
The sun was getting low. Smartie dreaded the moment when she’d have to go inside and try to sleep alone. Sitting there with Hewitt, it had become pretty obvious that she didn’t have to, but she had her twelve month rule.
“I’m really sorry about your dog,” he said, touching her kneecap with his knuckles. “You’re sure you don’t need me to sleep on the couch tonight? Seriously. I don’t mind.”
“You’re sweet to offer.” Smartie stood and gave him a hug, relieved to see Shep’s Range Rover pulling into the driveway. “You’re an intriguing person, Hewitt. I hope we’ll still be friends twelve months from now.”
“Count on it.” Hewitt bear-hugged her back, grizzly big and teddy gentle. “I’ll see you soon. Not in a bad way. Call me if you need anything.”
She waved as he went down the sidewalk, the whole house looming large and silent behind her, too tall and wide to hide in. Without Twinkie’s big warmth and goofy, slobbering guardianship, the daylight was stark and airless, the dark too terrifying to think about.
Shep and Hewitt greeted each other at the end of the driveway.
“How’s she doing?” Shep asked.
“Bumming hard,” said Hewitt. “I’ve been trying to keep her distracted.”
I’ll bet. Shep resisted.
“Geezes, she’s smart. Funny too,” said Hewitt. “It’s awesome how she says whatever she thinks. It’s like all the usual rules of engagement are fa-whoosh!”
He made a gesture that indicated something—convention, propriety, perhaps sanity—flying past the side of his head.
“Dude. Check this out. I have this totally brilliant idea,” Hewitt said, glancing toward the porch. “I’m gonna bring her a puppy. I’m gonna show up on her doorstep tomorrow morning, all sensitive with this cute little roly-poly—what kind of dog did you say that was?”
“English Bullmastiff,” said Shep. “I had a client who breeds them. Pups run upwards of eighteen hundred bucks.”
“Whoa. Good to know.” Hewitt whistled thoughtfully through his teeth. “Yeah, that’s good information. I’m not afraid to make an investment, but maybe she’d be just as happy with a Labrador retriever or something. Seriously. Everybody loves a chocolate Lab, right?” He nodded and grinned again. “Oh, yeah. I’m in.”