An hour and a half ago, Catherine had been huddled over the computer in the newsroom, forcing all of her strength and thoughts into writing the background article around Jason’s report of Sydney’s arrest for tomorrow’s paper, pulling the curtains in her head to block out everything else—Jeremy Whitman and David Mathews. Nick Bustamante. She had felt herself shaking inside, as if she were being bounced about. How could she have let this happen with Nick? It was not what she wanted, not what she had hoped for. She had wiped at the moisture in her eyes and pulled hard on the curtains in her head and forced herself to concentrate on the story. That was how it had been from the time she had learned to read and write, a little brown girl huddled over a notebook with a pencil in hand, lost in a world of scribbled, imagined stories that made more sense than the white world around her. She wrote the last line, read through the piece and sent it winging electronically twenty feet away to Marjorie’s computer. Then she had called Dulcie, the woman she had met at the Indian Center last year when she started looking for the part of her that was Arapaho.
She had finished her own coffee and gotten a refill while she waited for Dulcie’s Honda to pull onto the concrete slab in front of the coffee shop. On her way over, Catherine had stopped at the 7-Eleven and bought a can of tobacco, cans of tuna fish and candy bars. She had given them to Dulcie, knowing Dulcie would take them to an elder. The double gift, in the Arapaho Way. Dulcie would have the pleasure of both receiving and giving. She glanced away from the woman across from her. The image of Jeremy Whitman heading down the sidewalk to the bar last night, floated ahead like a ghost, as if she might still run after him, take hold of his arm, insist he get into her car so she could drive him to police headquarters. She should have seen the danger. Anything she had put together, Detective Beckman could also figure out.
“A young man was murdered last night,” Catherine managed, the lump so big in her throat, she felt she might choke. “I could have prevented it.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I should have recognized the danger and warned him. I should have insisted he come with me. I could have taken him home or to a hotel or someplace else the killer wouldn’t have known about. He’d be alive this morning . . .”
She broke off and crushed the napkin against her mouth. God, she didn’t want to cry. Dulcie was quiet, giving her a moment, and that was something important that she had learned from the Arapahos, the patient, quiet waiting. When she trusted her voice, Catherine said: “He had information about a murder, and he had agreed to go with me to the police this morning. The killer got to him first.”
She was aware of Dulcie’s hands moving across the table and grasping her own. “You must be a very powerful woman,” she said, “if you could have read this killer’s mind.”
“I should have known.” It was a small voice, a remnant of her own, that Catherine heard.
“Nobody has that power.”
“Then I should have sensed what might happen.” It was Dulcie who had urged her to trust her instincts and not reason them away, as she had learned growing up in a white family, going to white schools. “Listen to your instincts,” Dulcie had said. “You’ll be surprised how helpful they are in this crazy world.”
“I should have felt the danger around him.” Catherine said. The tears started, a rush of moisture that blurred her vision and washed over her face. “He shouldn’t have died.”
Dulcie settled back, her face a calm, unreadable mask. She waited a long while before she said, “What do you feel you should do now?”
“I can’t do anything,” Catherine said. “It’s too late.”
“You said the murdered man knew something he wanted to tell the police.”
“It belonged to him. Without him, the information is only hearsay.” Catherine twisted the damp napkin in her hands. “There’s more,” she said. “A woman has been arrested for a murder she didn’t commit.” She waved a hand between them. “I might have been able to prevent her arrest.”
Dulcie was quiet a long moment before she said, “Anyone else involved?”
Catherine felt a sharp prick of pain in her chest, as if Dulcie had laid the point of a knife against her skin. The witness also had information. Information that placed Detective Beckman at the scene of Mathews’s murder. And last night Catherine had told Jeremy about the witness. What if Jeremy had blurted out the truth before he died? She saw where Dulcie had been leading her. Detective Beckman, with the resources of the Denver Police Department at her fingertips, would be looking for the anonymous caller.
“There is someone,” Catherine managed. “She’s in a lot of danger, and I don’t know how to find her.”
Dulcie sipped at her coffee a moment. Finally she said, “It’s been my experience that somebody I am looking for may come and find me.”
“How can I count on that?” Catherine wrapped her fingers around her coffee mug. She could hear the terror in the caller’s voice. Maybe the caller had left town, left the country. The thought was like a small light flickering in the darkness. But she couldn’t count on that either. She couldn’t shake the sense that the caller was out there somewhere and that Beckman would find her.
“You also have this information,” Dulcie said. She was sitting up straight, gripping the coffee mug, her face still a mask. But behind the mask, Catherine could sense the worry. “You could also be in danger.”
Catherine looked away. Traffic stopping and starting out on the street, a couple of high school kids huddled over cigarettes at the corner. She and Marjorie and Jason had talked about the danger this morning, and Marjorie had suggested she take a little time off. As if by some miracle Beckman would be brought to justice. But Sydney Mathews had been arrested. The case was closed, and things were working out as Beckman had planned.
“I’m a journalist,” Catherine said, bringing her eyes back to Dulcie’s. “It’s my job to get the information.” She stopped herself from saying the rest of it: information is always dangerous.
“My grandmother used to tell us a story about coyote and his ways,” Dulcie said. “One day a girl went walking out on the prairie alone. She meant no one any harm. She wanted only to walk on the beautiful, open lands. She thought she was alone, but then she realized she had walked up to coyote’s den. Inside the den, she could see the bones of the animals and even people coyote had killed. She was very frightened. Just as she started to run back to the village to tell the people, coyote came out of the den, and the girl saw that he had a bow and arrow and he was aiming the arrow at her. She ran as fast as she could, but the arrow flew by her. She veered to one side, and an arrow flew by her again. She veered the opposite way, but another arrow came. She ran faster, dodging one way, then the other, but the arrows always followed, and she realized that coyote was tracking her and no matter which way she ran, coyote would try to kill her. She knew the only way she could save herself was to get behind coyote. Finally she came to a little hill. She ran up the hill and waited. When she heard coyote panting, she ran down the other side and around the base. Then she picked up a rock and climbed the hill behind coyote. Before he could know she was there and could shoot another arrow, she threw the rock at his head, and that was the end of coyote.”
Catherine took a moment. A story was always a gift, a thing to be savored. “Thank you,” she said.
“Stories have power,” Dulcie said. “Grandmother said the story helped to protect our people. We had to be smarter and faster than the enemy. We had to think the way the enemy thinks to stay ahead. Sometimes we can stay ahead by getting behind.”
Catherine followed Dulcie outside and waited on the sidewalk as the sedan’s engine turned over and Dulcie backed out of the lot, waved and drove away. She wasn’t sure what kind of gift Dulcie had given her. The lump in her throat was still there, and the faint nausea, with coffee slogging about in her stomach, but the story—the rhythm of the words—had been comforting somehow.
The minute she settled behind the wheel of the converti
ble, the sense of desolation hit her. It had been like a black monster stalking her since Nick had walked out of the conference room and left her alone with the thought of how she might have saved Jeremy. She had tried to hold off the monster while she wrote tomorrow’s piece, had kept the monster at bay at the coffee shop, but there was no dodging the monster now. She got out of the car, walked down the shops strung next to the coffee shop to the liquor store, bought two bottles of red wine, then got back in the car and drove home.
Rex was racing around the yard as she pulled into the driveway next to the alley. She swore he could recognize the sound of the convertible because he always raced with excitement when she arrived. She started to press the garage door opener, then caught a glimpse of Rex jumping about and pulled her hand away. There was something different, something more fierce in the way he carried on. The sound of his barking cut through the quiet neighborhood. She hoisted the brown bag with the two bottles in one arm, grabbed her purse and let herself through the back gate. Rex circled her all the way to the back door, barking and yelping. She set the bags on the counter, shook some dried food into his dish and refilled his water, trying to ignore the wine bottle still on the counter beneath the window. The last of the daylight shimmered in the red liquid. She’d forgotten there was still some wine left; it was unusual for her not to finish a bottle. Yet she had spent most of last night at Nick’s—a thousand years ago, she thought, aware of the desolation washing over her again, so heavy she felt as if it might drive her into the floor.
She found a wineglass in the drainer next to the sink, unplugged the bottle and was about to pour the wine when something moved out by the garage. She leaned closer to the window keeping her eye on the place. Nothing. A squirrel, perhaps, or a little wind burst that had riffled the clumps of weeds she had been meaning to clean out. She was aware that Rex had stopped eating and lifted his head. When she set her hand on the rough of his neck, she could feel the tension in his muscles. A loud growl started in his throat, and she knew then that she had felt someone moving about outside, and so had Rex.
He moved to the door, barking now, but not the happy, excited noise he usually made. Catherine moved to the side of the window and surveyed the yard. The bushes along the fence, the long shadows of the elm tree on the lawn, the petunias and pansies and daisies along the sidewalk, the two pots of flowers she had set out on the cobbled area that passed for a patio. Nothing out of the ordinary. She was imagining things. Everything that had happened had set her on edge, and Rex had picked up on her nervousness. It was so like him; he could always sense how she was feeling.
“It’s okay, Rex,” she told him. She walked over, patted his head and ran her hand down his back, trying to soothe the bristling hair. “Nobody’s there. Just you and me.” God, she needed a drink.
She went back to the counter, surveyed the yard again, and filled her wineglass. She wasn’t sure when she saw the slight movement at the window of the garage, or if she only felt it. Everything happened so fast. She remembered the cork rolling to the floor and stooping over to pick it up. Then the window bursting over the counter, shards of glass falling over the kitchen like a hail of stones, and something invisible but sharp and real and lethal zooming above her. She wasn’t sure how she had gotten to the floor, but she was crawling over the tile, sharp pieces of glass embedding themselves in her knees and the palms of her hands, glass floating in the wine that she must have spilled, and Rex yelping and throwing himself against the door. She managed to pull her purse off the counter, then grabbed hold of Rex’s collar and dragged him into the dining room and down the hall to her bedroom. She kicked the door shut and threw the lock. Staying low—God, there were windows everywhere, all the curtains opened, the shades up—she pulled the phone off the nightstand and jammed the receiver against her ear. Nothing but the empty, hollow sound of a dead line.
Her hands were shaking so hard, she could hardly grip the cell phone in her purse. She held it tight as she punched in 911.
“What’s your emergency?” The voice might have come from another planet.
She gave her name and address, forcing herself to lower her tone and speak slowly. “Someone just tried to kill me,” she said.
22
Catherine sat curled on the sofa next to Rex, watching the phalanx of blue uniforms circle through her house again and gather in the kitchen, studying the blown-out window and shard-strewn floor. The officers had arrived thirty minutes ago, the same look about them, cropped, brown hair and bland, serious faces. After a few minutes, they had disappeared out the back door to investigate whatever they were investigating in the yard, and the house had gone quiet for a while. A detective had arrived, not anyone she knew, tall and rangy in a tan sport coat that barely covered the lump of his gun. Then, a grim-faced, dark-haired man in a blue jacket who said he was from the crime lab. They had headed outside with the uniforms, and now she supposed they were also in the kitchen. She dipped her head over Rex and ran her fingers through his soft coat, the dog smell of him comforting and familiar. He licked at her arm.
There was the clack of footsteps on the porch, and Catherine felt herself going tense, as if tension was her natural state and the few moments of calm on the sofa with Rex, police officers swarming about, had been an illusion. She stared at the front door, conscious of Rex lifting his head and following her gaze. She couldn’t remember locking the door after she’d let in the officers. She started to her feet as the door inched open.
“Catherine?” Nick pushed the door forward a few inches. She could see a slice of him in the opening, his familiar hand gripping the edge of the door. Then he was striding across the living room. He sat down beside her. “Are you all right?”
Catherine turned a little sideways and looked him square in the eye. “She tried to kill me,” she said, bracing herself for the argument, the inane explanation. Crime stats had moved up in her neighborhood, a crazy homeless man had been reported wandering around, muttering to himself. Any explanation that would shift suspicion from Detective Ryan Beckman.
“I’m sorry about this afternoon.” Nick took her hands in both of his. She could feel the rough ridges of his palms, and his warmth running through her. “I shouldn’t have dismissed what you told me. I guess I’m going to have to learn to trust you.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “I never expected anything like this. Thank God, you’re safe.”
Three officers trailed through the kitchen and into the living room, and Nick let go of her hand and got to his feet. “What do you have?” he said.
“The shot came from the garage.” The tall officer with wide shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch over his belt seemed to be in charge. “The window was pushed back far enough for a good view of the house.”
“The garage!” Nick said, and Catherine felt his hand grip her shoulder, as if he wanted to protect her from what had already occurred. “My God, Catherine. You usually park in the garage. The shooter planned to waylay you there, out of sight of any neighbor looking out a window. If you’d driven inside . . .” He stopped, and the pressure of his grip tightened.
Catherine dropped her face into her hands. She had intended to put the convertible in the garage. She had no plans to go out tonight; her plans hadn’t gone beyond the two bottles of wine in the paper bag on the passenger seat. But Rex had been tearing around the yard, practically doing cartwheels, barking and yelping, as she’d turned onto the gravel apron in front of the garage.
“Rex tried to warn me,” she said. Her voice sounded muffled. “I went into the yard through the back gate.”
“You say the shooter had a clear view of the house?” Nick faced the tall officer a moment, then locked eyes again with Catherine. “He also had a clear view of the yard. He could have shot you as you walked to the house.”
He, Nick had said. Catherine searched his eyes. So this would be their secret for a while, until there was real evidence to stop Detective Beckman. She looked away. The image of herself walking up the sidewalk, a gu
n trained on her back. She should be dead now, but Rex had been jumping and racing around her, and she had stumbled along like a drunk, dodging this way and that way to keep from tripping over the dog. Dodging, she thought, like the girl in Dulcie’s story.
And Rex had been trying to warn her! A chill ran through her at the realization. She shivered and clasped her arms, pulling in around herself. She’d thought Rex had just been glad to see her, but he’d been trying to tell her someone was in the garage. She’d been lost in her own guilt over Jeremy’s death. Mourning the end of things with Nick. God, she hadn’t seen what was there!
The detective walked out of the kitchen carrying a plastic bag. He held it up in front of Nick. “Lab tech dug the bullet out of the wall. Looks like a .38. I’ll get it to ballistics.”
“Anything left in the garage?” Nick said.
Two other officers appeared and shook their heads in unison with the detective. “Lab techs didn’t find anything.”
“Footprints? Fingerprints?” They continued shaking their heads.
Nick gave Catherine a sideways glance. She could read the expression in his eyes: Detective Beckman was a pro. Of course she hadn’t left any trace of herself.
Finally the officers grouped together in the living room, the detective warning Catherine to keep her doors locked, call immediately if anything unusual happened. They said they’d keep her posted, then filed out the front door. The pounding of their boots across the porch sent little tremors through the floor. Nick locked the door, then disappeared into the kitchen. She heard the sounds of a broom swooshing across the tile, the gritty tinkling of glass, followed by the sharp thwacks of a hammer.
The Perfect Suspect Page 17