Jason started fumbling with the small black case attached to his belt. “I gotta take this,” he said, extracting his cell and clamping it against his ear. “What?” he said. “When?” He stood rooted in place, breathing hard. “I’m on my way.” He snapped the phone shut and, still clutching it in his hand, said, “Sydney Mathews is about to be arrested for the murder of her husband. An arrest warrant’s been issued.”
Catherine felt as if her throat were paralyzed. She couldn’t spit out the words jamming themselves together in a hard knot. How can it be? What evidence?
“My contact says they found the murder weapon in the Evergreen house. Ballistics confirmed the two bullets they dug out of the wall and the one in Mathews’s chest came from the weapon. He says they’ve got other evidence to tie her to the murder.”
“Well, that changes everything.” Marjorie looked from Jason to Catherine. “Seems like we could have gotten ahead of ourselves here. Who knows what motivated the caller to want to implicate a police detective.”
“The caller was telling the truth,” Catherine said. The tight, clipped sound of her voice surprised her. “Beckman’s found a way to frame somebody else, and Sydney’s an easy target. She and David were separated, and Sydney could have had a motive to want him dead. It wouldn’t have been hard for Beckman to set up—”
“All you’ve got is conjecture,” Marjorie said. “We can’t operate on conjecture and anonymous phone calls. The so-called witness could be a crank. We’ll have to wait and see how this plays out.”
She pivoted toward Jason, but before she could say anything, he said, “I gotta get down to police headquarters and find out what’s going on.”
After he left, Catherine locked eyes with Marjorie for a long moment, aware of the silence running between them and the sounds of the newsroom muffled by the glass walls. “Beckman knows what she’s doing,” she said finally. “She’ll see to it that Sydney Mathews goes to prison for a murder she didn’t commit.”
“You want me to believe that?” Marjorie said. “Then find the damn witness.”
Catherine sank into the chair in front of her desk, logged into the computer and pulled up her blog. She scrolled to the top of a new page and typed: “To the anonymous caller. Please call again. Very important.”
She stared at the cryptic words. The sense of doubt curled like a snake inside her. There was every chance the caller didn’t know about the blog. And if she did happen to read today’s entry, there was no reason to think she would call back. As soon as Sydney was arrested, the news would be splashed all over the radio and TV. Jason would have it up on the website, and all of it could send the witness into deeper hiding. Would she really want to implicate the police detective who had just arrested the perfect suspect? Catherine doubted it. The woman, whoever she was, was sure to sense that the risk was too great. Detective Ryan Beckman was close to getting away with murder, and she wouldn’t hesitate to kill the woman on the sidewalk if she found her. She had already killed the witness who had seen her with David.
“Denver Police Detective Ryan Beckman.” Catherine had a sick, helpless feeling as she typed in the key words and watched the list of websites settle into place. Two sites highlighted Beckman’s name. The rest had zeroed in on police, detective, Denver, but showed nothing with Ryan Beckman. Catherine brought up the first site, a Journal article with her own byline. The headline in bold black type read: “Well-Known Developer Investigated.” She scanned through the lines of text, the article coming back to her. David Mathews, prominent Denver businessman, philanthropist and possible candidate for governor under investigation for the alleged theft of ten million dollars from Kane and Mathews Properties. Senior partner Broderick Kane lodged a complaint with the Denver District Attorney’s Office asking that appropriate charges be filed against Mathews. According to Kane, the missing funds were discovered after Kane hired independent accountants to audit the properties managed by Mathews.
Contacted at his home, Mathews called the accusations ridiculous and without foundation. “I have been a conscientious partner of this firm.” He said he has also hired an accounting firm to conduct an audit. “I’m confident we will find all money properly accounted for.”
The accusation against Mathews follows a bitter breakup of Kane and Mathews, according to an inside source who did not wish to be named. Mathews had joined the firm five years ago and has been a partner for three years. The funds have been unaccounted for in the last three years. Detective Ryan Beckman said that Kane brought the complaint to the Denver police department. “We take accusations of financial theft very seriously,” she said. Both the police department and the district attorney’s office are investigating the accusation.
Catherine read through the article again, looking for... what? Some insight into Detective Beckman? Some hint of a rogue cop capable of committing murder? The statement was the standard comment on an ongoing investigation: “We take acccusations of financial theft very seriously.” Nothing to indicate that Beckman was different from any other police detective. The only thing the article confirmed was that Beckman had been part of an investigation that put her into contact with David Mathews.
Catherine brought up the next site. Here was something: an article from the Minneapolis Star Tribune with the headline: “Detective Exonerated.” The article was brief: An internal police investigation has exonerated Detective Ryan Beckman for her role in last August’s shooting death of Darnell Clapman. Beckman was among the officers who responded to a hostage call after Clapman allegedly took his girlfriend, Lois Michaels, hostage and was threatening to kill her. When police officers broke into the apartment where Michaels was being held, Clapman pointed a pistol at the officers. Beckman then fired her weapon. In her statement to the investigating commission, Michaels denied that Clapman held her hostage. She claimed they had argued, but Clapman had never threatened her. Michaels said he was in the process of dropping the gun when he was shot. Other officers at the scene corroborated Detective Beckman’s statements. The investigation concluded that Beckman had shown exemplary courage in performing her duty as a police officer in the face of danger. “I know guys like Clapman,” Beckman said when informed of the exoneration. “He would have killed that poor girl or one of the officers.”
There it was, Catherine thought, the piece she had been looking for. Ryan Beckman, the good officer. Tough, confident, courageous, unafraid to take risks, willing to act, willing to shoot, cool and self-possessed under stress, always in control. The type of person who plotted her way forward, never looking back, making sure to eliminate any threats as she went. Everything had worked out in Minneapolis. There was every possibility she had gotten away with murder because the other officers had stood by her. But she couldn’t be sure it would happen again if Jeremy Whitman had gone to Internal Affairs. Or if the caller should come forward.
Catherine sat motionless for a moment. She wasn’t that tough. She hadn’t been able to shake the nightmares that came with having killed a man, hadn’t been able to shrug it off and say, “Well, he would have killed me.” There was a piece of Detective Beckman that eluded her, something she couldn’t quite grasp. What kind of woman can shoot a man—and go on killing?
She could almost hear Marjorie say: “Take time off. Go Away.” What if she did go away? When would the killing stop? After Beckman killed the witness? Then what? Would Beckman go after Jason or Marjorie? She would never be able to return to Denver, Catherine realized. She would always be watching over her shoulder, checking the rearview mirror, jumping at noises in the pipes or the nighttime sounds in her own home, accumulating nightmares.
She typed in a new search for the Minneapolis Star Tribune, found a telephone number and called the newsroom. A gruff, impatient voice picked up. “Newsroom,” he barked. She said she was calling from the Journal in Denver, asked to speak with Larry Burns, then found herself listening to white noise. Burns had been the Journal’s police reporter when she started as a general features reporter.
She hadn’t known him well; their paths had crossed only in the coffee room. Police reports and social events orbited in different constellations. A couple of minutes passed before another voice came on the line: “This is Burns.”
“Catherine McLeod,” she said.
The line went quiet. Then, Burns said, “Features gal, right?”
“Investigative journalist now.”
“No kidding! What can I do for you?”
She told him she was looking into the background of Ryan Beckman, a Denver police detective who had been on the Minneapolis force. “Anything you know about her?”
“Heard the name,” Burns said. “Oh, I think she was involved in a shooting, but was cleared. What are you looking for?”
“Why did she leave Minneapolis?”
“Can’t say off the top of my head.” Burns took another minute. “Look, I’ll nose around, talk to some cop friends. I get the feeling this is important.”
“You could say it’s a matter of life and death,” Catherine said.
Burns said he’d get back to her, and Catherine was about to drop the receiver when she saw an incoming call from “Mathews Campaign” on the readout. She pressed the phone button: “McLeod,” she said.
“You heard about Jeremy?”
“I heard,” Catherine said.
“First David, now Jeremy.” Cannon’s voice cracked. He took a moment before he said, “You think there’s a connection?”
“I don’t know,” Catherine said.
“Jeremy was a good kid. What the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know that either.”
The line was quiet for so long, she wondered if Cannon had hung up. Then he said, “I may have something for you. No staffers or volunteers drive a BMW of any color.”
“I thought you said you had something.”
“Hold on,” Cannon said. “The person you might want to talk to is Betsy Kane, daughter of David’s former partner.”
“Where can I find her?”
“Try her office,” he said. Then he gave her an address in Southeast Denver near the tech center.
19
From I-25, Catherine spotted the building stacked alongside other glass and metal buildings on manicured parklike lawns. She took the exit and drove into the tech center. For a moment the building disappeared, then jumped out as she came around a wide curve of sprawling lawns and flower beds. She parked in the lot adjacent to the building, then made her way along the sidewalks, through the glass entry doors and across the marble floor to the elevator. A dinging sound echoed around her and two men in business suits, hoisting briefcases, stepped past the parting doors. Catherine stepped inside. Within moments, she was on the twelfth floor in an office with “Kane Enterprises” on the door and deep blue carpeting, cherry furnishings and abstract oil paintings that screamed “Money.”
The receptionist at the computer halfway across the room gave Catherine a raised-eyebrow look. “May I help you?” she said. She had a white face framed by black hair smoothed back into a knot, shoulders squared inside a navy blue blouse, and an impatient look in the way she kept her fingers poised over the keyboard. Catherine gave her name, slipped her business card across the desk, and asked if Betsy Kane were available.
Picking up the card and bringing it close, as if she were nearsighted, the receptionist said, “I don’t recall Ms. Kane mentioning a meeting with a reporter.” She snapped the card down. “You’ll have to make an appointment for a later date. Ms. Kane is very busy.”
“Please tell her I’m here about Kane and Mathews Properties.”
Catherine realized that the side door had opened and a large man with sandy-colored hair and rimless glasses had stopped in his tracks a moment. He walked over, set some papers on the desk and swung toward Catherine. “Who are you?”
“Catherine McLeod.” She fished another card from her bag and handed it to him.
“Mark Talban,” he said. “My wife isn’t in at the moment.” He made a point to study the card. “I suppose you’re here because of the murder. We know nothing about that. Kane and Mathews Properties was dissolved on an amicable bases. Old news, all of it.”
“We believe we owe it to our readers to shed as much light as possible on Mathews’s background,” Catherine said. “I can recap the old stories, accusations and counteraccusations, but a current statement from your wife would most likely put the whole ugly business to rest.”
“What is it, Mark ?” An attractive woman in her thirties, wearing a gray suit with a short skirt that displayed gym-toned legs, balanced herself in the doorway on five-inch heels. She had blond hair cut short and spiked a little on the top, and a long nose above thin, drawn lips. The silky purple blouse under her jacket showed a little cleavage. Diamonds sparkled in her ears. A blue-carpeted corridor with closed doors stretched behind her.
The man took his time responding. “Journal reporter,” he said, finally. “Wants to talk to you about Kane and Mathews.”
“Oh, my God,” she said. Catherine listened hard for a familiar tone, an inflection, anything that resembled the voice on the telephone. “Will the nightmare never end? David gets himself murdered, no surprise, right?” She directed the question into the empty center of the room. “The whole mess has to be regurgitated.”
“I suggest you don’t say anything else,” the man said.
“He’s my father, not yours.” A tough confidence invaded her tone, unlike the caller’s frightened, desperate voice. “I’ll say anything I damn well please to make certain his name and reputation remain clear.” She nodded at Catherine, pivoted about and headed down the corridor. “You’d better come in,” she called over her shoulder.
Catherine brushed past the man and started down the corridor, aware of him closing in behind. “This isn’t a good idea,” he called, but Betsy Kane had already pushed open a door and disappeared.
Catherine followed her inside a spacious office, almost a duplicate of the reception area except that the oil paintings on the walls were larger and even more abstract. The painting next to the windows on the far wall looked like a sheet of red framed in dark wood. Abstract sculptures that resembled flying steel had been set out on the cherry credenzas and small tables scattered about. A large desk occupied the space in front of the windows, patterns of light playing on the cleared surface. People were different in different situations, she was thinking. Here, Betsy Kane was in charge. But out on the sidewalk, watching a murderer leave the murder scene? How much control would she have felt?
Still it was hard to connect the small, timid voice on the phone with the woman nodding Catherine into an upholstered chair. “What is it you want?” Betsy Kane settled herself into the leather chair behind the desk, leaned forward and clasped her hands together.
“Mathews and your father were partners,” Catherine said. She took her notebook out of her bag and unclipped the pen. “You must have known Mathews fairly well.” How well? she was thinking. How might this brittle, attractive woman and David Mathews been thrown together over the years? Social events, summer deck parties, July Fourth parties in Evergreen?
“No statement.” The woman’s husband crossed the office, perched on a corner of the desk and gave Catherine a dismissive wave. “We don’t wish to be involved,” he said.
“Let me handle this, Mark.” The woman didn’t take her eyes from Catherine. “I’m happy to give you a statement. You can print this: My father and David Mathews had a successful partnership developing and managing commercial real estate. They created dozens of jobs.” She hurried on, not missing a beat, as if she were reading from a teleprompter, and Catherine could sense the hollowness and lack of sincerity, the mouthing of expected sentiments that had no basis. “Kane and Mathews Properties made a positive contribution to the Colorado economy. The misunderstanding that arose in the firm was settled amicably, and my father and Mathews remained close friends. There, does that satisfy you?”
Catherine finished making notes and looked up. Thi
s was bullshit. She could have gotten it off the company’s prospectus. It had nothing to do with David Mathews or Betsy Kane. “What is your reaction to Mathews’s murder?” she asked.
Betsy Kane gave a shout of laughter. “I was shocked, of course. What do you think?”
“That’s enough, Betsy.” Mark jumped to his feet and faced his wife.
The woman shrugged and sank back in her chair. “Let’s go off the record, shall we?” she said, her full attention on Catherine.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Betsy,” her husband said.
“Then I’m afraid you have your statement.” Betsy Kane started to get to her feet.
“Off the record, if you like,” Catherine said. “What can you tell me that might help me to understand why someone wanted him dead?”
“I was shocked,” Betsy repeated. “Shocked someone hadn’t shot the bastard years ago.”
“Don’t do this,” Mark said, still facing his wife.
Betsy bit at her lower lip a moment and focused on the shiny surface of the desk. “Perhaps you should leave us, Mark. I want to handle this my own way. Someone should know the truth.”
Catherine watched the redness move up the back of the man’s neck, and when he turned around, his cheeks were flushed, his jaw set. He stomped across the room and slammed out of the office. It could be possible after all, Catherine was thinking. Betsy Kane and David Mathews could have been involved, Mark could have known, and here was a reporter who might entice his wife into spilling the truth. “You didn’t like Mathews much,” she said.
“Like him? I detested him. He killed my father. Oh, not literally, not in any way that he could have been held responsible.”
“Your father’s still alive, if I’m not mistaken.”
“My father is a vegetable with feeding tubes in his stomach and other tubes stuck in both ends of him. He has twenty-four-hour care just to keep him breathing. The business he spent his life building was gutted and destroyed by a conniving son of a bitch my father had taken into his confidence and trusted. David Mathews was nothing when he came to Denver. He had failed at half a dozen business ventures in Chicago, but he succeeded in marrying the daughter of one of his bosses, and they had escaped to Denver, where Mathews didn’t yet have a reputation. With his wife’s money, he bought a position in the firm and was so charming—oh, my God, the man could charm a snake—that my father was completely taken in. About two years ago he began to suspect that funds were missing, but he refused to believe David could have anything to do with it. The stress became unbearable. Ten million dollars unaccounted for. It was my father who had to answer to clients. He repaid many of them out of his own funds, desperate to save the reputation of the firm. Oh, David was clever. It took three accountants to uncover the trail of funds he moved from account to account. He took money out of successful properties and put it into his own development projects, all of which were poorly conceived and doomed from the beginning. He shifted money around, budget to budget, different names, different sources. My father finally went to the police and the district attorney. It broke his heart, but he concluded he had no choice but to lodge a complaint and see that David was charged.”
The Perfect Suspect Page 15