“Frank,” Ted said. “I didn’t expect to see you here…”
“Hey, buddy.”
Frank had never once in thirty years called Ted buddy.
“I just figured I’d come, you know,” said Frank, “in a kind of”—air quotes—“visitor-type capacity. Tell you how sorry I am—all of us on the force are—for you.”
“Thanks. You’re not here to serve another warrant, are you?”
“Heavens, no.”
Frank had honored Ted’s verbal consent to search his home by obtaining a warrant anyway. What a way to show your trust, Frank, Ted had said. Frank answered, saying detectives are hard-wired to get a warrant for something like that, that verbal consent alone makes them a little anxious.
“Holding up okay, Ted?”
“What are you doing here, Frank?”
Frank let out a fake-sounding chuckle. “Look, Ted. I know we don’t have the best past. But I want to represent the department. I know this whole thing is uncomfortable, but we’ve known each other for what?”
Ted nodded. “I agree with you.”
Frank raised his eyebrows and appeared to listen closely.
“This whole thing is uncomfortable.”
Frank dropped his eyebrows and made another walrus face.
John and Sally Radiford drifted toward them, and Frank gave them a pat regret for their loss. Then he introduced himself as Ted’s friend.
The little bell rang again. An elderly couple walked in. The butler-type went to work as Ted ushered Frank away from the guest registry. They took a spot next to the grandfather clock and a smaller entrance to the suite. The Radifords attended to the new visitors.
Ted asked, “Have a safe drive?”
“Oh. Sure did. Didn’t take two hours. Roads are clear, everything was fine.”
“Good to hear,” Ted said. Frank shifted on his feet. “Thanks for representing the department, Frank.” You can go now.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Ted watched Frank check out his surroundings.
“Something you want to tell me?” Ted asked.
“It can wait. I’m really here just to pay my resp—”
“You’ve done that, Frank.”
“Look. It’s a little unusual for a detective—involved the way I am in this whole thing—to come here, but I’m not too worried about that. I’m worried about you.”
“Worried? Why would you worry about me?”
Walrus face.
“Just tell me, Frank.”
“I need you to get back to Blue River.”
“So do I, but the funeral’s tomorrow. I’m not coming back before then.”
“I understand. Soon as you can after that’s what I meant. But honestly. I didn’t come here to do department stuff.”
“Good of you not to bring Carl Stupe this time.”
A fleeting anger shot across Frank’s face. “Now darn it, Ted, I didn’t do that to you. I really didn’t.”
“All right, Frank. I’m sorry. So, what are you worried about?”
Deep breath. “Couple things. First, we aren’t clear who the target even was. We have to assume it could’ve been you.”
Ted hesitated. He hadn’t been at all objective over the matter. He realized then he cared infinitely more for Kathryn than himself. “All right. Doesn’t make any sense, but—”
“It was your truck, Ted. There’s no way around lookin’ at that.”
Mrs. Radiford appeared next to the registry. She said nothing, but her face said, Theodore. You have guests. It’s Aunt Someone and Uncle Something-or-Other. Stop your visiting, and get your derrière into this suite.
Ted nodded and waved at her, trying for the one expression that said, Yes. I know. But this guy’s the detective, he thinks I had Kathryn killed, and I’m pretty sure he’s here to mess with my head, so soon as I figure out what the hell he wants, I’ll get ridda him and come talk to the old people. Okay? Lee’ me alone.
“All right,” he said to the detective. “What else you got.”
“Like I said. Detective Maddox and I appreciate your willingness to help us. But let’s say some factions in the department—and judge Thayer, who issued the search warrant—don’t seem to understand the full extent of your cooperation.”
“What’s that mean, exactly?”
“The judge called me asking whether I needed probable cause on you. Now that’s something a judge doesn’t do every day.”
“What crawled up his butt?”
“The life insurance thing and—”
“Talk to Herb Claxton. He’s the agent, and Kathryn set it up. It wasn’t me.”
“I know. We found the paperwork on it.”
“And?”
“It’s just like you said. But it was only a few weeks ago that you two signed it. You’re the sole beneficiary”—air quotes again—“etcetera, etcetera. That’s squared away in my book, but that’s not the big thing.”
“The big thing? Lay it on me.”
“The gossip’s all over town, Ted.”
“About what?” Joni.
“The nurse. Joni.”
“Who gives a shit?”
“Judge Thayer for one.”
“What’s his beef?”
“You know Joni’s ex?”
“No.”
“Thayer’s his uncle.”
“Oh, f—It’s just gossip, Frank.”
“It may be.”
“It is.”
“Half the department thinks otherwise.”
“Tell them how much I care.”
“Looks pretty bad on paper.”
“I still don’t care.”
“Wouldn’t be so bad if she wasn’t so good-looking.”
Ted dropped his chin and shook his head. Joni’s looks. There’s the proper focus for a murder investigation.
Frank said, “I can’t say it doesn’t look like an affair to me. Neither can a janitor who saw you two hugging in the garage.”
Fuck.
“Ted. The department’s got a finger hovering over the United States Marshals on speed dial, okay? You’re out of state, and Thayer’s… well, he’s just being Judge Thayer.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It just means the longer you stay away, the worse it’s gonna—”
“I’m not going back before the funeral.”
“And I wouldn’t expect you to. But let me level with you.”
Ted rolled his eyes. “What.”
“Half the department thinks that, since you’re out-of-state, you’re going to disappear.”
“What?” Ted whisper-hissed. “That’s—I’m not gonna… What about you, Frank? What do you th—”
“Are you from the Blue River Police?” John Radiford asked.
Ted spun around, facing his father-in-law, who’d just stepped through the suite’s smaller doorway.
Radiford smelled like bad mouthwash.
“Yes, sir. I am,” Frank said.
It was clear Radiford had been eavesdropping. Maybe Frank saw him standing behind Ted and decided to keep the chatter going. Just to convict Ted in the eyes of his dead wife’s parents. Or maybe just for kicks. Ted wondered how much Ole Gin-Blossom had heard.
“And no doubt you’re involved with the investigation,” Radiford said. It already sounded like a cross-examination.
“Yes, sir,” Frank said.
“Have you the slightest idea,” Radiford said, “how inappropriate it is for you to conduct your investigation here? To threaten my daughter’s husband?”
Frank opened his mouth and closed it again.
Radiford snapped his fingers at the butler. “Get this man’s coat and show him out.”
“Terribly sorry, Mr. Radiford,” Frank said. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Please,” Radiford said. “Have a safe trip home.” He faced Ted and asked, “Who’s Joni?”
Oh, Jesus.
Frank stepped back and apologized more softly. Before he stepped tow
ard the door, he said, “Be safe coming home, Ted. Call me for anything.”
Radiford let out a loud, impatient-sounding, boozy breath.
His eyes still on his father-in-law, Ted said, “Talk to you when I get back, Frank.” He suddenly wanted to leave with the detective.
Frank slipped out the door and disappeared. The little bell jingled, and the door latch echoed through the uncomfortable quiet. Ted froze in the glare of a deeply powerful, alcoholic trial attorney whose most practiced skill was to rip people apart.
For a second, Radiford looked like he had rabies. But his expression melted into something sad. In another moment, fear crept into his drunken, floating eyeballs.
Oh, God. He thinks I…
“Sir? Mr. Gables?” another butler-type said, receiving no answer. He cleared his throat and said again, “Mr. Gables?”
“Yes,” Ted said, pulling his attention away from Radiford.
“You have a phone call, sir.”
“Take a message. Will you, please?”
“It’s a lady on the phone.”
John Radiford staggered. Ted grabbed him and told the butler man to get a chair. In no time, Radiford was sitting, the color draining from his face. Ted knelt, checking his father-in-law’s pulse.
“Take your phone call,” Radiford managed to say. “And God help you if it’s that nurse you’re fucking.”
CHAPTER 17
Ted left to answer the phone. It was Suzanne. His dad was ill. His cough had worsened, and he had a low-grade fever. Looked like Ted would heed Frank Bruska’s advice after all. He’d go home the very second he could. When Ted returned to the suite, John was still sitting in the same chair. His pock-marked nose had returned to half its normal reddish purple. Sally was at his side. Ted stopped walking when she let out a quiet whoop! sound and clapped her hands over her mouth. A frightened incredulity took over her face. Ted steeled himself and walked toward them. John Radiford stood.
“Stop right there,” Radiford said, his face reddening. Sally’s eyes widened, full of tears. She groped for her husband. By the time Radiford stepped toe-to-toe with Ted, Sally ran in short steps, the longest strides her beef-round legs could manage, wailing in fear or anger or both.
John poked a stubby index finger toward Ted’s face and said, “If you cheated on my daughter, I will destroy you.” His face now as purple as his nose, nostrils flaring, he hissed, “And if you had her k—”
John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, pulling his finger down from Ted’s face.
Sparks of proud defiance burst from Ted’s temples. He looked down on John Radiford with naked contempt and pity. His pride was of the sort churchgoers would call sinful. Ted decided he wouldn’t dignify the threats—or the man before him—with so much as a single word, shake of the head, or the blink of an eye. He sought instead whatever comfort he could find in walking toward the casket.
Taking a post next to Kathryn’s flowery purgatory, he heard his mother-in-law burst into fresh tears. Once his own breathing returned to normal, he thought about his dad.
Tuberculosis… Infected lung cancer. Or something else Ted hadn’t thought of.
His parents had gone to the Emergency Room in Blue River, and Roy was being admitted to the hospital for testing.
Sally’s crying ebbed for a moment, then flowed again in a discordant wailing. Ted’s soon-to-be former in-law was putting on a rehearsed stage act, wasted for the lack of an audience. Even so, a trickle of sympathy ran through Ted’s chest. Who knew what went on in the head of a grieving mother whose domineering, liquored-up, powerhouse husband had just deliberately upset her? Ted had never been so angry in his life, and maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly.
He hated himself for hating them.
A loud sigh finished Sally Radiford’s display. A thump and wooden crack from somewhere in the foyer alerted Ted.
“Sally?” It was the resonant voice of John Radiford.“Sally!”
Ted hoofed it out to the foyer to find Sally on her back, eyes and mouth half open, her face white. A small, decorative table with one broken leg lay on its side next to her. Outside of her left eye was a laceration that should be bleeding profusely but wasn’t.
Jesus. She’s dead. She just DIED. A simple algorithm played through Ted’s mind. Myocardial infarct. Sudden-death arrhythmia. One of the butler-types snatched a phone and dialed three numbers. Ted moved to Sally quickly, bent on checking her circulation and breathing.
Radiford saw Ted coming and said, “You stay back! You’ve already done enou—”
“GET out of my way, John!” Ted barked, crouching on the floor next to Sally. He grabbed for her pulse and felt nothing. He leaned forward on his knees and listened for breath. As he did, something inside her wrist seemed to strike his index finger like a tiny, rubber hammer. It was one, bounding beat of pulse. Another came in about two seconds. In another five, Sally’s round face was as red as her husband’s. Blood filled her laceration and spilled down her face to her ear. Ted took the decorative handkerchief from John’s breast pocket and pressed it into the bleeding wound.
“What’s wrong with her?” Radiford asked.
“You scared her with your bullshit, and she passed out,” Ted said. “Sally? Sally? Can you talk to me?”
She answered him, confused. He was able to coax a correct name and location from her.
The next wave of visitors arrived, and they happened to be part of Broadbent, Ohio’s public service family. Two uniformed police officers and what may have been trained, off-duty EMTs or paramedics had arrived for the visiting hours. They’d come far too soon to have been the first responders to the 911 call, but they burst into action. In another minute, Sally rolled under her own power and tried to get up.
In another five minutes, the ambulance crew had her strapped to a backboard with a bandage over her left eye and a secured brace on her neck. They loaded her onto the cart and took her out the door. A few more police and aging, suited men filed in—local attorney colleagues, Ted figured. Before Sally left, she dourly announced, “That man killed my daughter.”
Everyone faced Ted.
John got his coat and stood by his wife, surrounded by local Radiford sympathizers. John seemed to draw strength from the booze and the audience of locals. His full, Thanksgiving essence had arrived. He approached Ted and said, “In the interest of convention, I will allow you to remain here in our absence. Beyond the graveside service tomorrow, however, heaven help you. I suggest you retain a good attorney, because oh, my Lord, is the hammer going to fall.”
With more concentrated hatred than he would ever imagine possible, Ted lost sight of who was around him.
Radiford went on. “If by some tragic miracle no criminal charge is brought against you, there will be a civil suit. And if there’s no justice to be found there, the process will drain you”—
I’m already drained.
—“to your naked skin.”
Ted was almost blind with rage. His fists clenched and popped. He leaned, nearly nose-to-cratered-nose with Radiford. Ted thought he might actually burst into flames.
“My daughter is dead, Mister Gables, because of you. And I intend to deplete y—”
“YOU TAKE YOUR BEST SHOT AT ME, YOU GODDAMNED DRUNK!!” A tumbling line of spit shot out of Ted’s mouth. One end connected to Radiford’s cheek and the other grabbed the eyebrow just above it. The man stumbled backward and blinked once or twice in surprise. His eyelashes strummed the viscous string of expectorant before he wiped it away with his stubby, red fingers.
One of the officers grabbed Ted’s arm, as though thwarting a felony assault. When Ted yanked his arm away from the officer, everyone in the circle stepped back. Another officer put a hand on his holstered weapon, and a third yanked a pair of handcuffs off the back of his belt.
Ted took three deep breaths and stared at each officer in turn. No one moved.
“If you fellas need to arrest me,” he said in a calm voice, “follow me to my wife’s cof
fin.”
He pushed past them and walked calmly over to Kathryn. His throat hurt from shouting. He thought it might be bleeding.
CHAPTER 18
Frank Bruska prepared to aim a bolt-action, .308 rifle at his partner’s head. Todd Maddox pulled up to the Gables’ home and said, “Beautiful evening. I hear there’s snow in the forecast. How was the funeral home?”
“Don’t ask. You get those kiddies to bed?”
“Without too much fuss, I did.”
“Pull on into the driveway, will you? Let’s get your tires on those skid marks.”
Frank put his rifle in the bed of Maddox’s truck and cut the yellow crime scene tape. He guided Maddox and his truck into position. The pick-up was the same height as Ted’s, making it a good test vehicle. The one thing Frank hadn’t yet done was look into Ted’s garage from the berm separating the neighborhood from the Judson farm.
Frank had what he called The Itch, an urge that came to him most strongly during important cases. It excited him and cost him sleep. It made him eat quickly and think non-stop. When he itched, he leaned toward his steering wheel as he drove, as though to get him to his destination a little more quickly. For this APE-case-of-the-century, he couldn’t help but scratch The Itch.
It was almost awful. But not really. Everybody’s favorite doctor—the son of the Honorable Roy Gables, former Blue County Prosecutor and judge—was suspected of murdering his wife, the sitting Blue County Prosecutor. This case was unbelievable. Acute Political Emergency didn’t begin to describe it. The Indiana State Police had joined them but not taken over. The judge who’d grant the arrest warrant had, on the sly, solicited Frank to request it. And with the primary suspect in another state, the United States Marshals were practically hovering. One false move from Ted, and there’d be a national manhunt.
The Itch had never been so strong, and it made Frank secretly happy. Not the deaths, not the crimes, and not the people involved. It was the urgency of the problem and the need to solve it, one grueling detail at a time. The Itch made him agonize over those details. It even made him mention the case to Ted at the funeral home. He hated that he’d done so, but he couldn’t help it. Sometimes you scratched The Itch when you shouldn’t.
White Birch Graffiti (White Birch Village Book 2) Page 7