“Oh, one more thing. Smith had been hit in the face pretty badly, the right jaw. None of us picked up on it at the scene because Smith had covered it up with makeup, the kind of stuff people use to hide tattoos. According to the ME, the injury happened about a week before he died. It was pretty bad, but things were healing. It had nothing to do with the cause of death.”
Abbie was relieved that the report had finally come back from the ME. She certainly had never thought Smith’s death had been a suicide, but she was well aware that the chief and the rest of the Pleasant View PD had hoped it was. A suicide made it much easier to sweep under the rug. Now that she knew about Henderson’s friendship with PR man Bowen, she understood the obsession with keeping the investigation out of the papers. “Dead Guy Found in Temple Clothes With Throat Slit” would not be a headline Church leaders in Salt Lake would like to wake up to.
“And where are we on the airport?” Abbie asked. Clarke explained that he’d been trying to get through to the head of security but had been completely unsuccessful in his efforts so far. Maybe Henderson would have some pull.
Abbie turned to Henderson. “We’re following up on what Melinda Smith told us about Smith’s movements the morning he was killed. We can’t seem to get the security footage from the airport.”
“So strange that we still call it ‘footage,’ given that everything’s digital now, don’t you think?” Henderson mused.
“Yes, it is,” Abbie said. “Still, whatever we call it, we need to know whether Smith’s car was at the airport.”
“I’m sure they’re doing everything they can. They’re extremely busy and understaffed, you know. Do your best. Talk to me before any important interviews. I don’t want to slow down this investigation, but it’s important that we maintain good relationships with members of the community. You never know when we may need to work with someone on the next case. You both understand, I’m sure.”
“Yes, sir.” Abbie heard the message: the chief wanted Abbie and Clarke to investigate, but he didn’t necessarily want them to solve the case. And they were supposed to play nicely with others.
SIXTEEN
“I want to print out the ME’s report before we see the attorney. Can you get started on tracking down whether Smith had his own prescription for Xanax?” Abbie asked.
“On it,” Clarke said. He sat down at his desk. Tracking down prescriptions could be very straightforward or impossible. She was going to let Clarke take a crack at it, and she’d step in if she needed to. It would be helpful to know if Smith was on an antidepressant, even if suicide had been ruled out.
Abbie went back to her office and started reading as the report came off the printer. It was as Henderson had described: the contents of Smith’s stomach included milk and chocolate-chip cookies. The ME had also made a note about the bruise. It was on the lower right part of his cheek and jaw. The ME said the hit had come from below and was probably a direct hit with a fist, although he couldn’t be sure.
Clarke tapped on Abbie’s door and then came in. “Finally, a break. I called over to Mountain View Health. The pharmacist there is a friend of my mom’s. The Smiths filled all their prescriptions there. Steve wasn’t taking anything regularly, but Melinda has been taking Xanax for years.”
Abbie knew a prosecuting attorney was not going to like hearing that a family friend had divulged confidential information, but Clarke had shown initiative and gotten the information they wanted.
Clarke said, “I guess Smith could’ve gone someplace else to fill a prescription or gotten it illegally.”
“True,” Abbie said. “You ready to check out the lawyer?”
* * *
The lawyer’s office was near the old Union Station in Ogden. A shiny brass plaque engraved with “McConkie, Hughes and Anderson” affixed to a polished door led to an upscale waiting area. A well-groomed receptionist in her early twenties sat behind a tall desk with fresh flowers. Abbie introduced herself and Clarke and then gave the young woman her card. The receptionist picked up the phone and, in a hushed tone, informed Brian Anderson that the police were there. She directed Abbie and Clarke to his office.
“Hello, Detective Taylor, Officer Clarke. Please have a seat.” The lawyer was a small man. Maybe five foot five, but probably not. Abbie looked at his shoes and suspected he was wearing lifts, or what were now called “height-increasing insoles.” He looked as if he could have been a wrestler. He was broad and strong, even with the softness that came from too much food and too much time spent at a desk.
“Thank you for making time to see us,” Abbie said.
“Of course. Now, how can I help you?”
“We’re investigating a homicide,” Abbie said, “Steve Smith was killed.”
“I’d heard he had passed away. I thought it was a heart attack or maybe … well, I didn’t know it was a homicide. That’s terrible.” The lawyer looked genuinely surprised, but Abbie sensed there were other well-concealed responses to the news of Smith’s homicide. Attorneys were trained to maintain confidentiality. Over the years, Abbie had come to know that interviews with lawyers were challenging because it was hard to distinguish between actual dissembling and professional discretion.
“How would you describe your relationship with Steve Smith?” Abbie asked.
“That’s quite a broad question. We knew each other from church. We were friendly, I’d say.”
“You must have been, to lend him a hundred and seventy-five thousand last year,” Abbie said without missing a beat.
“Not really.” The lawyer returned Abbie’s volley with similar speed.
“What were the terms of the loan?”
“Twenty-two-point-five-percent interest.” The lawyer had a clear memory of the details without being prompted. “Repayment in full one year after the date of the loan.”
“A pretty good deal for you,” Abbie said.
“A pretty good deal for both of us. Steve needed the money and he couldn’t ask anyone else for it.”
“You thought he was a good risk?” Abbie asked.
“I did,” the lawyer replied.
“Why? He had filed for bankruptcy with Smith Construction, and couldn’t get a bank loan. Why did you think he was a good risk?”
This question caused the lawyer to pause. Abbie wondered if he was trying to decide how much information to share or if he just didn’t have a good answer to the question.
“At the time Steve came to me, he was getting this project in Costa Rica off the ground.”
“You thought the project was promising?” Abbie asked.
“As a matter of fact, I did. That’s why I was confident Steve would be able to pay me back. I knew he was in talks with at least one rather substantial investor.”
“Someone from the Church?” Abbie asked.
“I believe so.” This time it was clear to Abbie that professional discretion was not the source of her gut response to the lawyer’s answer. This time, the lawyer was lying. Looking around the office, it was evident that Brian Anderson had done well for himself. Abbie glanced at his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him: undergrad at BYU and law school at Harvard. Anderson was not an idiot. He was not likely to make a loan for nearly two hundred thousand dollars without being rather certain that this real-estate project in Central America was likely to be successful. A ten-million-dollar investment from a General Authority would provide that assurance. There was little doubt in Abbie’s mind that Smith would have been able to convince his “friend” to lend him money only if he had told him about Bowen’s investment.
“Do you have a name for this substantial investor?” Abbie asked.
“I don’t,” the lawyer said. Abbie was certain he was lying to her, but she wasn’t sure why.
“So now, you’re out one seventy-five K?”
“It looks like it, and, worse, I had to admit to my wife I made a mistake. She wasn’t happy about the loan in the first place. I’m going to be hearing about it for a long time.” This tim
e, the attorney was telling the truth. He was not going to relish living with his wife saying “I told you so” for the foreseeable future.
“Did anyone besides your wife know about your loan?”
“Not from me.”
Lie number three—or is it four? Abbie was beginning not to like the short, smart attorney sitting across from her.
Attorney Anderson continued, “I don’t think Steve wanted anyone to know, not even his wife. I got the distinct impression Melinda didn’t know anything about their current dismal financial situation.”
“Why did you think that?” Apparently, Abbie wasn’t the only person who didn’t think Melinda Smith was the kind of woman who had a clue about where the money she spent came from.
“That’s a good question. I’m not sure why I thought that. It might have been something Steve said about needing money in the joint checking account. I don’t like to make assumptions, but I think Steve was trying to keep up appearances. If he had to come to me for money, things must have gotten pretty bad for him financially. If he didn’t have that Costa Rican project, I’m not sure what he was planning to do.” Anderson picked up his pen and started tapping it on a yellow legal pad.
“You’re left-handed?” Abbie asked.
“Uh, yeah.” This was the first time the well-spoken man had used a filler word.
“Did you attack Steve Smith about a week before he died?”
The lawyer sighed loudly. He leaned back in his chair. He did not seem ready to do battle.
“I wouldn’t use the word ‘attack,’ but, yeah, I hit him. I’m sorry I did. I shocked myself as much as I shocked Steve. It was one swift punch. I was just so darn mad. As soon as I did it, I apologized. Steve understood. He understood why I was angry. We were fine after that. It sort of cleared the air. He told me not to worry about getting my money back. He said he’d get it to me before he headed to Costa Rica.”
“Did you know the date Smith was leaving for Costa Rica?” Abbie asked.
“The exact date? No. I knew he was going a week or two after we talked. Steve didn’t tell me the exact day I’d get my money. He just said he’d get it to me before he left.”
“When was the last time you saw Smith?” Abbie asked.
“The day I hit him.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill Smith?”
“Not specifically. Steve and I live in entirely different professional worlds. I didn’t know the people Steve worked with any more than he knew the people I work with. Having said that, and I say this reluctantly because I don’t wish to speak ill of him, I wasn’t oblivious to the rumors that Steve left a lot of unhappy creditors when he filed for bankruptcy. There were plenty of angry people in Pleasant View who weren’t paid for their hard work. It had to rankle when they’d see Steve and Melinda show up at church every Sunday driving expensive cars and wearing designer clothes. I don’t think Steve Smith had much of a fan club.”
SEVENTEEN
Abbie and Clarke headed back to the station after the conversation with the lawyer. Abbie had gone to her office to process the ME’s report and what they’d learned from the attorney when her phone buzzed. It was a text from John. He was inviting her to dinner at his house, an impromptu thing. John had always been a pretty social guy and his wife was extremely laid-back. They were the kind of people to have a group of friends over at a moment’s notice, pick up a stack of pizzas, toss a few big salads in large wooden bowls, and everyone would have a great time. No fuss, just fun.
John lived in Salt Lake, which was pretty much the halfway point between Abbie’s place and her dad’s. Her brother had made it clear that their dad would be there along with a few other friends but no other family. John knew things were still tense among his sisters and brothers when it came to Abbie. Apparently, he had decided to build one bridge at a time. Their dad was first. Abbie was tempted to claim she couldn’t make it because of work, but the fact was she could make it. Smith’s funeral was tomorrow morning. Henderson certainly wasn’t breathing down her neck to solve a case she suspected he wanted to die a slow death anyway. There wasn’t any need to burn the midnight oil going through the Zion Commerce documents or the contents of Smith’s home office for the umpteenth time.
OKAY, I’LL BE THERE. Abbie hit send and the text swooshed through the air until it magically appeared on John’s phone.
GREAT! John used exclamation points in his texts.
Abbie couldn’t understand how John himself had managed to forgive their dad after their mom died. She had thought about it a lot and had come up with two theories. The first was that John really did believe the entire Mormon eschatology. If he believed that the family would be together in the Celestial Kingdom for eternity, forgiving their dad for disappearing in the days leading up to their mom’s death wouldn’t be so hard because a couple of days was nothing in the scheme of forever. The second theory was that John was naturally not judgmental. Actually, that wasn’t so much a theory. John was one of the least judgmental people Abbie knew. It wasn’t that he wasn’t perceptive, but rather that he didn’t feel it was his place to evaluate other people’s beliefs and actions. If anything, Abbie begrudgingly admitted to herself, John not being judgmental made him more discerning, not less.
Clarke stuck his head through the open door of Abbie’s office. “There’s a basketball game at my ward tonight, if it’s okay…”
“Go,” Abbie said. “I’m heading out soon, too.”
“See you tomorrow at the funeral, then.” Clarke smiled and walked down the hallway to his evening of church-sponsored fun.
Abbie looked at the time in the upper right corner of her computer screen. If she left now, she’d be able to pick up something sweet at the cupcake place on Kiesel Avenue in Ogden to bring as a hostess gift. There would undoubtedly be a huge number of kids at John’s. Most Mormon families in Utah had at least four, which meant that even a dinner party with just three couples could easily add a dozen kids to the mix, usually more. Picking up two dozen cupcakes wouldn’t be overkill.
Abbie checked her reflection in the rearview mirror of her Rover. She didn’t look as bad as she had expected. She pulled out her sheer raspberry lipstick and dabbed a tiny amount on each cheek for color, then applied some to her lips and rubbed them together. Her hair was hanging in a tousled mess past her shoulders. There was nothing to be done about that.
The drive wasn’t bad, considering the traffic on I-15. John’s house was in the Avenues, one of the original nice neighborhoods in Salt Lake. The houses were older, more elegant, and much smaller than their McMansion cousins crawling up the foothills. It was almost like stepping into another era. By the time Abbie arrived, there were two large SUVs parked in the narrow two-car driveway. Abbie pulled behind a third SUV at the curb in front of the house. As soon as she opened her door, she breathed in the pleasant scent of charcoal and beef coming from the backyard.
The front door was open. Three teenage boys sat on the porch eating burgers and chips. They smiled at Abbie as she walked in carrying two large white boxes filled with cupcakes. A few teenage girls were huddled at one end of the long dining room table picking at hot dogs and baby carrots. The heart of the party was clearly in the backyard.
“Abs! I’m so glad you could make it. I told John this was ridiculously last minute, but you know him.” Abbie’s sister-in-law grinned at her husband’s little sister. Abbie handed her the pastry boxes before they hugged.
“‘The Olde Cupcake Shoppe.’” She read the dark purple cursive on the lavender label affixed to the boxes. “You completely shouldn’t have, but I’m very glad you did.” Abbie’s sister-in-law had a notorious sweet tooth, although you wouldn’t know it to look at her.
The French doors that led to the backyard were open. John was at the grill with his oldest son, who was holding a large tray of toasted hamburger buns as his father slipped burgers onto them. A long picnic table was bustling with kids and their moms. In the center were all the fixings
for burgers and hot dogs, including a big bowl of their mom’s homemade hot dog relish, which was nothing more than diced dill pickles and white onion mixed with ketchup and yellow mustard, but somehow it was divine.
There was a small round table at the far end of the yard beneath an old apple tree. Her father was sitting there with two other men.
“Aunt Abbie, a burger or a hot dog?” Abbie’s nephew hollered.
“A burger would be great.” Abbie walked to the grill.
“I’m so glad you made it. Dad is, too.” John handed Abbie her burger. It had a crispy brown shell encasing what Abbie knew was the perfect medium-rare meat inside. John was particular about his grilling. He would have made the patties several hours ago so that they could rest after he’d coated them with just a hint of vegetable oil and seasoned them with salt and pepper. Her brother had raised backyard grilling to a high art form.
“I’ll join you over with Dad as soon as I get this batch done,” John said. Abbie walked to the picnic table, where she squirted ketchup and mustard on the open bun and then layered pickles, red onion, and lettuce on the patty. She grabbed a handful of waffle-cut potato chips and a few carrots and cherry tomatoes.
Her dad looked older than she remembered, but still distinguished. If he had not actually become a professor, he could have played one on TV. It was as if old tweed jackets and corduroy trousers slightly beyond their donate-to-Goodwill date had been made for him. He could happily talk for days about his area of expertise. Luckily for him, in the state of Utah there was an endless supply of eager listeners.
“Abish. John told me you might be able to make it. It’s nice to see you.” Professor Taylor’s stilted conversational style was not solely the result of the iciness in his relationship with his daughter. Decades of lecturing seemed to have atrophied his non-monologue conversation muscles. He always seemed to be holding court.
One of the two men sitting at the table introduced himself to Abbie; the other man was Flynn.
“Nice to see you, Abs.” He stood up and gave her the kind of quick hug close friends and family members gave each other when they greeted.
Blessed be the Wicked Page 11