Ryan blinked into the light flaring from the lamp a moment, trying to get her bearings. The night came back to her in a rush, like photos flashing in front of her. Finally she managed to pull the cell from her bag, and check the readout. Headquarters. She waited for two more rings, trying to still her breathing and control the erratic rhythm of her heart, before she answered. “Hello,” she said. Her voice sounded mute and thick.
“Ryan?” The sound of Crowley’s voice drilled into her. “Did I wake you up?”
“What do you think?” Her heart had started up again. “What time is it?” She tried to bring the face of her watch into focus. 5:45 a.m.
“Sorry, your vacation’s over. I need you here.”
“What are you talking about?” My God. The woman on the sidewalk must have gone inside David’s house and found his body! But how had she gotten in? The door was locked. Maybe she looked through a window, saw David on the living room floor, and called the police.
“High-profile shooting,” the sergeant said. “David Mathews shot in his home last night.”
“Mathews, shot?” She clasped the cell hard against her ear. “Is he dead?”
“Two bullets in the chest, one in the thigh. Somebody made sure he was dead. I need you here.”
She managed a gulp of air. She felt as if she were in a race, trying to stay ahead of the man on the phone. What was he saying? She should investigate the case? It was so absurd she had to jam her fist against her mouth to keep from laughing. After a moment she heard herself say: “I have a three-day vacation, Sergeant.”
“Williams and O’Keefe are tied up with a shooting in Montbello. Bustamante and Greeves are still in L.A. investigating a possible connection to the gang shooting and the muggings in LoDo. I don’t expect them back until tomorrow.”
“What about the other detectives?” The sense of absurdity expanded around her, as if she had stepped into a funhouse and was surrounded by an array of mirrors that reflected distorted and grotesque images. “You can find somebody else.”
“Not with your experience. This is the highest profile homicide we’ve handled in ten years. The press will be all over this, and that includes the national press. Television, radio, bloggers, you name it. We can’t have any mix-ups. I need an experienced detective in charge, and you are it. How soon can you get down here?”
“I’m in Breckenridge,” she heard herself saying. The grotesque images in the funhouse mirrors seemed to be closing in. “I need a couple of hours.”
“I’ll expect you in an hour and a half,” Sergeant Crowley said.
2
Catherine sat up with a start, her skin cold and prickly. She flipped the switch on the bedside lamp and blinked into the circle of light, trying to banish the blackness of the nightmare. The heavy noise of an explosion, the rise of wailing sounds in the distance and the sense that she was spiraling downward into an abyss—the nightmare was always the same. She had thought it was over. There had been almost six months of peaceful nights without the horror that had previously crashed over her for months and left her weak and disoriented in the mornings. But now the nightmare had started again. A dull wine-ache spread behind her eyes. She pulled her legs to her chest, leaned against her knees, and waited for the spasms in her stomach to stop. The warm, musty smells of early September drifted through the opened window. Rex was still asleep on his pillow in the corner, and for a moment, she thought it strange the golden retriever hadn’t heard the noise and gone into a barking fit, the noise had seemed so real. Finally, she slid out of bed and spent ten minutes in the steaming shower with hot water pounding her shoulders and back. She began to feel situated again, the tile solid beneath her feet, the glass shower door cloudy, and the familiarity of the small bungalow gathering her in.
She wandered into the kitchen, dressed in a white cotton blouse, tan skirt and high-heeled sandals, her black hair still damp on her neck. Rex waited at the back door. She let him into the yard and watched him circle the lawn, stretching his muscles in the soft newness of the morning. The sky was pale blue with wisps of clouds rolling past and spears of sunlight falling through the leaves of the elm tree and scattering about the lawn. The pansies, daisies and petunias she had planted in the narrow garden near the back door seemed to be wilting with the end of summer. In the near distance, like a massive wall looming over Denver, were the silvery blue peaks of the Rocky Mountains.
She closed the door, started the coffee brewing, and turned on the little TV at the end of the counter. Leaving the volume low, she stared at the movie-star-handsome couple seated on sofas in a studio in New York almost two thousand miles away. An anchor woman interviewing a young Broadway actor who kept tossing his head to clear the mane of dark hair from his eyes. Catherine thought about the way people opened up to complete strangers—someone sitting next to you on the plane, or standing in a line, or tossing interview questions across a table—and divulged the most important parts of their lives. They were divorced, had lost a child, had a debilitating disease. It was as if they were compelled to divulge the information. Otherwise no one would really know them, or even see them. She wondered what she might say in that studio in New York: “Hello, I’m Catherine McLeod. Investigative journalist with the Denver Journal, forty years old and divorced. Last summer, I killed a man.”
She turned away from the TV and poured a mug of coffee. The almost empty bottle of Burgundy sat on the counter, a reminder of last night. What had she been thinking? Alcohol had only fueled the nightmares. Self-defense, the investigators had ruled. She had killed the man before he could kill her. There was no blame; and no charges had been brought. Yet she had relived the incident night after night, the horrible explosion and wailing, the spiraling downward, the feeling that she was disappearing, until she realized that, in the horrible instant when she thought she would die, she had experienced her own death. Except that, in the end, she wasn’t the one who died. She had spent months in counseling. She had quit drinking, except for an occasional glass of wine with dinner, and gradually the nightmares became less frequent. But last night, when she’d gotten home, the bungalow had seemed so vacant and quiet, even with Rex jumping about, welcoming her. She had felt limp with loneliness.
She was accustomed to being alone, she had told herself. She had made her own way for two years since her divorce. For the last ten months, Nick Bustamante had been in her life. Hardly long enough to dent old habits of independence. So what if he had been in L.A. for ten days interrogating gang members about a gang-related murder and random muggings? Marie—she had always called her mother, who had adopted her when she was five, by her first name—was in New England visiting a cousin, but Catherine had gone to dinner several times with friends. A couple of times, she had gotten together with Dulcie Oldman, who had been helping her understand her Arapaho heritage, ever since she had discovered last year that she was part Arapaho. She had called Dulcie and gotten her voice mail, and at some point, she had dragged the wine bottle from the back of a kitchen cabinet.
She had just poured another cup of coffee when she glimpsed the name “Mathews” in the crawl on the TV screen. She moved closer, sipping at the coffee and trying to block out the muted TV voices. The crawl started over. “Police report body of man found shot to death at home of David Mathews, candidate for governor in Colorado. No further details available. Stay tuned to Channel 9 for breaking news.”
She set the cup down and went looking for her cell phone, which she found on the table next to her bag. A feeling of unreality washed over her, like the feeling she’d had when she awoke, as if the world were rearranging itself in inexplicable ways. She had covered David Mathews’s campaign for the Journal, the rallies and speeches, the photo-op visits to retirement homes and veterans’ halls and Little League ballparks. Rumors swirled about the candidate—financial improprieties, shady business deals, extramarital affairs. She had never succeeded in running down any of them. They were like the dull throbbing in her head, elusive and maddening and pers
istent. Mathews ran a well-organized, efficient campaign, and if there was anything to the rumors, the evidence had been buried so deeply she doubted it could ever be uncovered. All she’d had were notes, conjectures and innuendos, nothing she could write that wouldn’t invite a libel suit. But all of her investigative reporter’s instincts told her that something about the perfect candidate was not quite perfect. Now someone had been shot to death in Mathews’s home.
She punched the button for Marjorie’s number. It was still early, a little before seven by the silver watch that dangled on her wrist. Marjorie Fennerman, Journal managing editor, would not be in yet, but calls would be transferred to her home, and Marjorie would decide which to answer and which to ignore. After three rings, Marjorie’s voice said, “I was just about to call you. You’ve heard the news?”
“What exactly is the news?”
“The night editor heard the police radio and recognized the address. All we know is what you’ve seen on TV. Dead body. Male.”
“Mathews?”
“The police aren’t saying until they have an ID. Jason is on the way over there.”
“Jason? I’ve been on David Mathews’s campaign since he announced he was running. This is my story.”
“Jason has the police beat.”
“He doesn’t know anything about Mathews.”
Catherine listened to the slow, thoughtful breathing at the other end, finally broken by Marjorie’s voice. “God, it’s too early in the morning for this. Gubernatorial candidate, thirty points ahead in the polls, certain to be elected, has either been shot to death or could be involved in somebody else’s death. The national news will be all over it, but it’s our story, and I have no intention of being scooped by some carpetbagger from the New York Times. We’re the experts on Mathews. No doubt the campaign and party hacks will issue a lot of stupid press releases. I want you to get the facts behind the releases, work in the background stuff on Mathews and the campaign. Jason will stay on the police investigation. Oh, and I want to see you when you get back from Mathews’s house.”
David Mathews lived in the kind of glass and steel residence featured in architectural magazines, spread across a double lot with walls of windows that peered through the tall pines and elms planted after construction vehicles had destroyed the original landscape. The whole neighborhood had been transformed from the intimate, brick bungalows that had given Denver neighborhoods a distinctive charm for a hundred years into blocks of modern, impersonal structures. It had taken Catherine twenty minutes to drive across town from her own brick bungalow in Highland, an old residential neighborhood that straddled a bluff above the Platte Valley. Mercifully, Highland had escaped the modern makeover, a fact that left her giddy with gratitude every time she passed the Victorians, duplexes and bungalows sheltering under century-old elms and cottonwoods. An old cottonwood shaded her front yard, and a gnarled elm kept the sun off the back of the bungalow.
From a block away, Catherine spotted the police cars, TV vans and other vehicles along the curb in front of Mathews’s house. A small crowd hovered just outside the yellow police crime-scene tape that wrapped across the yard and driveway. Little groups of people sauntered up and down the sidewalk, and gawkers stared out of the vehicles that inched down the street. She pulled the silver Chrysler convertible into a small vacant slot and walked a half block, bag hooked over her shoulder, notepad and pen in one hand. The faint odor of exhaust from the stalling traffic mixed with the smell of the morning dew on the lawns. Despite the hint of autumn in the air, the coolness of the night had evaporated. The glass blue sky promised a still, hot September day.
She shouldered past the crowd on the front sidewalk and went over to the TV and radio journalists and bloggers who had managed to hear the news before she had. Didn’t these people ever sleep? Camera people from the TV channels had positioned themselves close to the yellow tape, black, rectangular boxes hoisted on their shoulders. They motioned to one another, nodding and blinking in some silent language. She slid in beside Jason. Through the enormous front window, a chandelier glowed in the entry of the glass and steel house.
“What are you doing here?” Jason Metcalf was short and barrelshaped with a thin spray of brown hair combed over a pink scalp. He had been at the Journal eight years ago when she had started as a general assignment reporter. But he had stayed on while she took time off to work on a marriage that had headed downhill from the beginning. Even before her divorce, she had grabbed at the opportunity to return to the Journal as an investigative reporter. By then, Jason had racked up a wall of congratulatory plaques, which, she suspected, led him to believe he had squatting rights on any major story.
“What am I doing at the biggest story of my career?” she said.
“It’s my story.”
“I’m on background and context,” she said. “Campaign, future of the party. I’ll be filling in around the investigation.”
“That’s just great.” It was barely audible.
“Has the body been ID’d?”
Jason took a moment, checking the screen of his phone and slipping the phone back into his shirt pocket. “Coroner’s been here awhile.” He worked his lips silently for a moment, as if he were wondering how much he should tell her. Finally, a mask of what passed for acceptance dropped over his face. They were on the same paper, after all. “It’s Mathews,” he said, “but it’s not official. Unofficial word is he was shot around midnight.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“The B team, you ask me. Your boyfriend’s out of town, and the other first-rate detectives are tied up. They brought in Ryan Beckman and Martin Martinez. Beckman’s okay, I guess. At least she has experience.”
Catherine glanced around at the crowd ebbing and flowing along the sidewalk. Newcomers moved in closer, others walked away, tense, unresolved looks on their faces. A muffled sputtering of voices cut through the air. “Who found the body?” she said.
“You’re full of questions. Maybe you should’ve gotten here earlier.”
“Come on, Jason,” she said.
He rolled his eyes and stared at the sky a moment. Then he let out a long, sour breath before he said, “Housekeeper arrived at 5:00 a.m., like usual. Found the body, ran to the neighbor’s house and called 911, according to my police source, who is, of course, anonymous since he is not the official spokesperson.”
“Any witnesses?”
“You mean, other than the killer and the victim? Quiet, ritzy neighborhood like this? Midnight?” He tossed his head toward the houses running north. “Who’s gonna be out and about?”
“A neighbor walking the dog.”
“This isn’t TV,” Jason said. “My source said nobody’s stepped forward, so nada.”
Catherine turned away and looked out at the crowd that seemed to be growing. It might have been a street fair, people milling about, cars trying to get through. The houses behind the groomed lawns and shaped trees looked like cardboard props set up for the fair. She was vaguely aware of the dull ache at the back of her head. “Did your source mention which neighbor?” she said, turning back to Jason.
“Next door. People by the name of Kramer.” Catherine followed his gaze to the two-story gray stucco house with big, rectangular windows and a brass door. Standing in the yard, probably along the invisible line that divided David Mathews’s property from theirs, was a middle-aged couple with a rumpled, hurried look about them, as if they had thrown on the tee shirts and shorts dropped on the floor last night and combed their fingers through their hair.
A white Cadillac pulled into the curb in a space that didn’t look large enough to hold a motorcycle. The driver’s door flung open and Sydney Mathews, reed thin with bony shoulders poking out of a sundress, and reddish hair that fell like a veil along her face, ducked out of the car. Little cries of alarm broke from her as she threw herself through the crowd toward the yellow tape. Two police officers appeared out of nowhere. Catherine watched the woman jab at them like a boxer, as if sh
e could knock them aside and pull away the tape. “Let me pass,” she screamed. “This is my house. He’s my husband.”
Another uniformed officer, a woman, moved in close, took hold of Sydney’s arm and urged her over to a police car. Catherine heard the officer say something about arranging a viewing later, that no one was allowed at the crime scene. Sydney was sobbing, shoulders shaking as the officer helped her into the rear seat.
“Interesting the Mrs. didn’t happen to be home last night,” Jason said.
Catherine told him the rumor she’d heard that David and Sydney Mathews had separated two weeks ago. Why they had separated, what was going on, what it meant for the future were questions that had been met by blank, controlled stares from Mathews’s campaign staff, along with assurances that whatever nasty rumors she may have heard were lies spread by the opposition. Funny thing, Mathews had no opposition. There had been no challenger in the primary, and Monty Bond, the sacrificial victim nominated by the Democrats, had all but conceded the election. A recent Journal poll showed that the majority of Colorado voters couldn’t even remember his name. Yet Mathews’s campaign insisted on keeping a lid on the separation rumors. Nothing was allowed to slow the victory express.
On two occasions, the campaign had given the press access to Mrs. David Mathews. But not alone. Mathews himself had hovered over his dutiful, supportive wife. At least that was the image Sydney Mathews had managed to convey. Three weeks ago, Catherine had requested another interview, and to her surprise, the media director had agreed. She had come to the house late in the afternoon and was shown into the living room beyond the entry. Sydney Mathews, in a subdued designer suit with a double strand of pearls and hair that looked glued into place, sat on a sofa that bisected the large room. David had stood behind her, tall and silver-haired, with a square jaw and steady gaze, and the manner of a man accustomed to commanding others and eliciting obedience. He invited Catherine to take one of the overstuffed chairs across from the sofa.
The Perfect Suspect Page 2