“The DA didn’t have the information,” Catherine said. “Internal Affairs is checking on the witness in Aspen, and the woman who called hasn’t been identified. I’ve been trying to send her a message, and I’m hoping she’ll call back. But based on the witness in Aspen, I suspect another investigation will be launched.”
“You’re damn right it will.” Wendell strode into the entry, brushing past Catherine and shouting over one shoulder, “I’m going to call Landon’s office right now. He had better get to the bottom of this.” A door slammed in another part of the house, sending a little rush of air through the living room.
Catherine waited a moment while the woman slumped on the armrest ran her fingers over the moisture on her cheeks and pulled herself upright. “Thank you,” she said “Now I know how the murder weapon got into the desk drawer in David’s study. Obviously someone had planted it, but I didn’t know who. I never suspected a detective.”
“Detective Beckman came here?”
Sydney nodded. “Oh, yes. Hours after David’s murder, she and her partner showed up. So solicitous, pretending shock over what had happened, assuring us that the investigation took top priority with the police department, that they wouldn’t rest until the murderer was charged. And all the time, all the time . . .” She stopped, as if she might break down again, then seemed to summon a new strength. “They made sure I would be convicted.”
“How do you think she planted the gun?” Catherine said.
“It was very easy, now that I think about it. How stupid I was. ‘Did your husband have a computer?’ Detective Beckman said. We were standing right here.” She swept one hand toward an Oriental rug. “‘May I see it?’” she said. ‘Certainly’ I said. ‘Be my guest. Go on into the study without a warrant. Look around all you want’ or some such idiotic thing. I gave her carte blanche to walk into the study and put the gun in a drawer. I did try to follow her, I remember, but her partner, Martin somebody, jumped in front of me, started asking questions to keep me here.”
“How long was Beckman alone in the study?”
“Long enough,” Sydney said.
“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” Catherine said. She started toward the entry, then turned back. “Would you have any idea of who the witness at the house might be?”
Sydney gave a little strangled laugh. “Since I spent most of our marriage in denial, I was hardly collecting names.”
Catherine thanked her and turned into the entry. “Check the escort agencies,” Sydney called behind her. “He liked to avoid serious entanglements. Whores are good for that.”
The newsroom felt like home, familiar faces looking up from the cubicles, Marjorie bent over the computer screen, Jason clamping a phone to his ear. Driving down the mountains, onto I-70 and into Denver, Catherine had replayed the conversation in her mind. What had she done? Violated confidences? Hardly. Lucky Jameson had sworn out a statement, and Nick had spoken with Internal Affairs this morning. Before the day was over, Beckman herself would most likely be the subject of a new investigation. Sydney’s lawyer would have the indictment thrown out on evidence that the lead detective was involved with the victim. A detective with a motive to kill David Mathews, a man who had agreed to reconcile with his wife, a man who didn’t like serious entanglements. A man who, even while reconciling, might call an escort service.
She had owed Sydney Mathews the truth, Catherine realized. Since the morning of the murder, the frightened, small voice on the telephone, she had known who the killer was, but she hadn’t been able to do anything. She had watched an innocent woman being mowed down by the justice system. The caller might not call back, but at least Sydney Mathews knew the truth.
She ducked into her own cubicle, checked her voice mail. Nothing. Checked her e-mail. A lot of junk, but nothing important. She typed in “Escort Services Denver” and ran her eyes down the sites forming on the screen. Twenty-two pages of sites. This would take all day, she thought, and what was she supposed to say when she called a service? “Hello, I’d like to speak to the woman in front of David Mathews’s house the night he was killed?”
The phone started ringing, startling her. Larry with another Beckman story he’d remembered, she thought, then she saw the words in the readout: Hotel Francaise. She lifted the receiver. “McLeod,” she said.
“I’m the one who called you.” The woman’s voice was small and tentative, fear seeping through the words, and Catherine was aware of exhaling, as if her own pent-up fear and discouragement had been freed. God, the woman must have read the blog. “Why didn’t you do something?”
“I don’t understand,” Catherine said.
“You didn’t run my story.”
“I don’t know your name. I can’t run an unattributed story.” She couldn’t have run it if she’d had a raft of names, not without bringing libel and slander suits down on the Journal.
“It’s terrible what they’re doing to David’s wife. I saw her on TV. I told you who was on David’s porch right after I heard the gunshots.”
“Listen,” Catherine searched for the words, gripping the receiver so hard her fingers felt numb, trying to keep the caller on the line. “There is someone else who can connect Mathews and Beckman. You’re not alone. The police will have to believe your story. I’ll go with you to Internal Affairs.”
“Like hell I’m talking to them. Beckman will hang me out to dry, like she’s done to Sydney. And Sydney has money and connections and a high-priced lawyer. None of it mattered. They still charged her. You think they’re gonna believe me? They’ll say I’m lying to protect my own skin, that I was the one that went to David’s house and shot him. They’ll never believe me. But they’d believe you if you put the story in the newspaper!” The woman’s voice edged toward hysteria. “I thought you’d want justice. I guess I was wrong.”
“Wait a minute,” Catherine said. “Don’t hang up.” The line was already dead.
Catherine hit the key for the receptionist’s desk. “I was disconnected,” she said “Can you get the caller back.”
It took a moment before the buzzing noise began. Catherine tapped out a fast rhythm against the edge of the desk.
“Hotel Francaise.” Woman’s voice, thick accent. “How may I direct your call?”
Catherine jotted down the name, a boutique hotel a few blocks away. “I was just speaking with one of your guests,” she said. “We were cut off somehow. Could you ring the room?”
“One moment, please.” There was a pause, then the buzzing noise of a ringing phone.
An automated voice came on the line: “I’m sorry, but your party is not available. You may leave a message at the beep.”
27
Kim Gregory sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the ringing phone on the table. White plastic, red light flashing, like a wild animal that might spring into action and sink its teeth into her flesh. She pressed her knuckles hard against her mouth. What had she been thinking? Calling the reporter from the hotel? Of course she would get the number and call back. And now Catherine McLeod knew where she was. The light stopped flashing. She waited a moment, then lifted the receiver and pressed the messages button. The automated voice said there was one message. She closed her eyes and listened to the voice of Catherine McLeod: “You are in danger. Beckman knows you’ve contacted me. She’s sure to be looking for you. I can help you, but you have to trust me. I’m on my way over to the hotel now. Please, meet me in the lobby.”
Kim propelled herself off the bed, flung the terry cloth robe she’d been wearing into the corner and began pulling on the pair of jeans and pink blouse that had been on the floor. God. God. God. She had to get away from here. She slipped on her sandals, dragged the Louis Vuitton bag out of the closet and started stuffing in her things: blue satin ball gown, short, pink, silk dinner dress, white slacks and sleeveless black top with turquoise beads at the neck. She scooped the pieces of jewelry off the dresser into the bag, then went into the bathroom and shoved her cosmeti
cs into a small bag. Mr. Arnold Winston expected her to look beautiful, coiffured and manicured in designer pieces—he paid the bills, and the clothes and jewelry were hers to keep, one of the perks of her job. There were others: five-star dinners, dancing, hobnobbing with VIPs, riding in limousines with chauffeurs shuffling and bowing, and all she had to do was smile and smile and keep her mouth shut, and spend the week with a bald, lonely man from Atlanta, in town for business meetings and the social events that went with them. He was pathetic in bed, drunk, sick, so tired most nights he fell asleep when his head hit the pillow. None of that mattered. At the end of the week, she was free, with a new Louis Vuitton bag filled with new clothes, a pearl necklace and seven thousand dollars in cash. Two thou for the agency, which would leave her with five. Except there wouldn’t be any money this week.
You are in danger. Beckman knows . . . McLeod’s voice spun in her head. She should never have trusted her. Trust nobody, Mama had said. She coughed out a laugh at the memory, then jammed the cosmetic bag into the Vuitton, pressed her knee on top and jerked at the zipper. What was she? All of nine years old, she and Mama traipsing from one dusthole, windblown, nowhere town to another. God, they’d pretty much covered Arizona, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico by then, and Mama with her fourth or fifth husband. After a while all the whisky reeking, bowlegged cowboys had blended together. When she was sixteen, she had gotten out. Sayonara, Mama. Adios. She could take care of herself, and she’d done a fine job. South Beach, first. Then Denver. No missteps. Tread carefully, go with the best clientele, stay safe. Once in a while, even the best pulled a surprise. Big shot from Florida knocked her unconscious in the hotel room a year ago. The agency had banned him, and spread the word to the other agencies. No respectable escort service would do business with him. When she thought about it, and she tried not to think about it, she always felt a stab of pity for the girls on Colfax he was probably picking up when he came to town.
Then there was David Mathews. Call from a local businessman, Ericka at the agency told her. “Want to take it?” There was always danger in taking a local client. Embarrassing later when you ran into each other at a social event, and he could always spread the word: See that woman in the blue dress? Diamond ring? Pearl necklace? Very expensive hooker. Gossip like that could end her career. But she had said yes to David Mathews. She’d read about him in the paper—how his business partner had accused him of theft, how the complaint was withdrawn. Catherine McLeod had written the articles, and Kim had remembered the name.
They had met once at a hotel in Boulder where David wasn’t likely to run into a client or friend. What a lonely man, she had thought, talking and talking, pouring out his heart over dinner at a café on the Pearl Street Mall. He and his partner had built a successful business together, plenty for both of them. Why would David Mathews need to cheat him? And his wife threatening to leave him. Not that he would mind, he’d said, but a divorce would be messy, played out in the newspaper and interfering with his long-range plans. He intended to be governor. After that first night, David had become a regular. He always called her cell and told her where and when to meet him. She was never to contact him; it was too risky, he said. They had formed a connection, no doubt about it, the kind of connection she had never allowed before. Trust no one, probably the only good advice Mama ever had.
David’s calls were sporadic, but she always knew they would come. Then in the spring, the calls became fewer and fewer, and she’d gotten the sense there was another woman. Not David’s wife. Someone more threatening. Two weeks ago, she had decided to send him the e-mail, asking if she would ever see him again, but she changed her mind. She never wrote the message. Somehow she must have pressed “Send” because he had called then. Blown up at her, the only time he had ever raised his voice. She was never to e-mail him! Finally, he had told her to come to the Denver house. They had made plans then for her to come back at midnight four nights ago.
She wasn’t sure why the contents of her purse were strewn across the top of another dresser. She brushed the wallet, comb, lipsticks, appointment book, cell, wadded receipts, address book, lighter and cigarettes into the purse, remembering now. Arnold had wanted a cigarette, and she had gone looking in her bag. “Now!” he had bellowed. She had dumped out the contents, handed him the package and lighted the cigarette for him.
You are in danger. She slung the purse over her shoulder, picked up the Louis Vuitton and glanced around the room. The agency would probably let her go: unacceptable to walk out on a client, especially a reliable client like Arnold, who always requested her. Business associates in Denver believed she was his fiancée. What a joke, she thought. What a joke her life was.
David murdered, his wife on her way to prison, the murderer a detective, and she, a whore nobody would believe.
She flung open the door, stepped into the corridor and stopped. The arrow above the elevator was moving. The elevator was two floors below and ascending. Arnold had gone to breakfast with clients this morning. He was due back at any moment. They would go to the Denver Art Museum, he’d said. She should get her hair and nails done this afternoon. Gala ball at the Hyatt tonight. He wanted her perfect.
She hurried down the corridor away from the elevator, darted around a corner and pressed herself against the wall. She held her breath. The elevator dinged, the doors swooshed open. She could hear Arnold’s methodical, padding footsteps coming toward the room. Then the faint click of a plastic key, the pneumatic huff of the door opening and closing. She peeked around the corner, then hurried past the door to the elevator. It would take him a couple of minutes to realize she was gone; he wouldn’t believe his eyes—her side of the closet empty, the cosmetics and jewelry cleared away. She pressed the button. A different elevator was on its way down, still five floors above. The first thing Arnold would do—oh, she knew the man—was charge out of the room down to the reception desk and demand to know when she had left. She huddled close to the door, willing the elevator to appear.
From behind, she heard the door open. Then the elevator dinged, the doors parted and she darted into the front corner and jammed her finger against the close-door button. She hit the lobby button. “Wait!” she heard Arnold’s raspy shout, the sound of him pounding down the corridor. As the doors slid shut, she glimpsed a slice of his reddened face.
“She called!” Catherine shouted through the half-opened door to Marjorie’s cubicle as she headed into the reception area. “I’m on my way to meet her.”
“Hey, hold on.” Marjorie must have flung herself from behind the desk because she was marching behind her. Catherine could hear the short, quick intakes of breath, the almost palpable excitement. She let herself out of the newsroom and plunged toward the elevators. Marjorie had caught up as Catherine pressed the down button.
“She called? Who is she? Did you get her name?”
Catherine shook her head. “She’s at the Hotel Francaise. Let’s hope she’ll meet me in the lobby.”
“Let’s hope?” The relief on Marjorie’s face dissolved into a look of consternation. “You mean she didn’t agree?”
“She’s scared,” Catherine said. The elevator arrived, and she stepped inside. “I’m afraid she’ll run,” she said past the closing doors. “I’ve got to get there before she does.”
She drove her car out of the garage into the noonday glare, the sporadic blare of horns and the acrid smells of gasoline and exhaust. Downtown traffic inched along, four lanes converging into one, an accident ahead, red and blue lights flashing. Sirens wailed in the distance. She should have walked, she thought. She could have covered the few blocks faster.
The caller would run. Catherine could feel the truth of it; she had heard it in the caller’s voice: remorse, fright, the frantic plunge of her thoughts toward safety. Safety meant not getting involved. And yet, something had led her to call the Journal in the first place and to call back.
The hotel was still a couple of blocks ahead. Catherine slid into a no-parking zone, got out a
nd started running, brushing past the lawyers and stockbrokers in wrinkled suits, careening through a group of young secretaries in cotton skirts that wrapped around their legs, sipping on Diet Cokes and munching burritos. The stop light ahead turned yellow. She kept running even when the light flicked to red, weaving past the traffic that growled and screeched around her. She passed the wide concrete steps to the Denver Center for the Performing Arts, the glass-enclosed roof shimmering in the sunshine, and crossed another street on the yellow light. Another block, and she spotted the tan brick building with curlicue embellishments and awnings at the windows.
She was out of breath, her chest on fire, when she hurried past the doorman who had jumped forward to hold the door. The lobby was small and intimate, with cream-colored tiles on the floor and overstuffed chairs arranged around marble-topped tables. She stopped a few feet inside the door and glanced around the seating area. The chairs were vacant. Apart from two clerks in navy blazers behind the reception desk, no one was around. She heard her heart pounding as she walked over to the desk; she could be too late.
“May I help you?” The woman smiling at her might have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, with shoulder-length, black hair and the stretched-drum look of too many cosmetic surgeries.
Catherine launched into explanation: Twenty minutes ago, she had received a call from a guest. The call had been cut off, and the hotel had tried to ring the guest, but the guest hadn’t answered. She pushed her business card toward the clerk. “It’s very important I speak with her,” she said.
The woman fingered the card a moment. “You’re from the Journal?”
“The woman who called me is in danger,” Catherine said, and the woman’s eyebrows shot up. “This has nothing to do with the hotel, I assure you. I do need to speak with her. Would you be good enough to ring the room?”
The Perfect Suspect Page 21