Hannah had been in Mary Black’s office, not in her own.
Hannah’s purse had been in the middle of her office floor.
Her shirt was pulled up and tucked under her bra.
Why, why, and why?
The lady with the frizzy hair had moved away from Diane and me and taken off her shoes. She was sitting, almost immobile, her chin in her hands, on one of the steps leading up to the wooden porch at the front of the house. Her tears had stopped flowing, her expression a blank mask of shock.
“Are you sure she’s dead?” Diane demanded more than once in those first few moments. I explained that I’d felt for a pulse and told her that Hannah’s skin was already cold. And then I explained it again.
I didn’t say anything about the dark stain of urine.
“She hates being cold,” Diane protested. “Hannah shouldn’t be cold. She doesn’t like winter. Maybe a blanket. I could find a blanket. I have one in the car. Raoul makes me keep one in the car in case…”
It wasn’t easy but I was able to get Diane settled on a kidney-shaped concrete bench that sat amidst some wild grasses beside the front walk about halfway to the street. I stepped a yard away from her, pulled out my cell phone, hit the speed dial and reached Lauren, my wife, who had probably just walked in the door from her job as a prosecutor for Boulder County.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m glad you’re home.”
“What’s wrong?”
She could tell something was.
“Hannah Grant?” I said. “You remember her?”
“Diane’s friend.”
“She was going to cover for us while we were in Vegas. She’s dead. We just found her body in her office. We’re waiting for the cops.”
“My God. Are you all right?”
“We’re okay. Call Raoul, okay? Tell him Diane’s going to be late. I don’t know how late, but you know how these things go. It’s probably going to be a while.” Raoul Estevez was Diane’s husband. “Diane’s very upset. They were close friends.”
Lauren set her empathy aside for a moment and got down to business. Her business. Cops and courts and lawyers and bad guys. “Do you and Diane need lawyers?”
“No, nothing like that. Hannah wasn’t returning Diane’s messages about coverage for our trip. We were concerned. We just walked in and… found her body. That’s all.”
“You’re sure? Don’t just say yes. I want you to think before you answer me.”
I thought. “Yeah, that’s all.”
“How did she die?”
“No idea. There was no blood I could see. Could be natural causes, but my gut says not. Her body’s in a funny position.” I was still thinking, too, about that black patent-leather purse in the middle of the floor and about the blouse tucked up under the front of her bra. “Is there any reason a woman would tuck her shirttail up under the front of her bra?” I asked.
“What? The front tail?”
“Yes.”
“No, not that I can think of.”
From the south side of the Pearl Street Mall I heard the piercing intrusion of a siren approaching, fast.
I said, “The cops are here, babe. I should go.”
“I’ll make some calls. Stay in touch. I love you.”
“Me, too,” I said. Diane walked up next to me. I said, “Lauren’s going to call Raoul and let him know what’s going on.”
“What is going on?” she asked me. “Do we know?”
The first of what would become four squad cars rolled up over the curb and then slowly powered up onto the sidewalk, blocking the path. A couple of patrol cops I didn’t know jumped out of the car. The look on their faces was either that they didn’t believe whatever the dispatcher had told them about why they were rolling to the Broadway address, or that they were hoping the dispatcher had gotten the story wrong. I stepped forward, introduced myself, told them I had called 911, and I explained what we had found inside.
One cop marched to the front door to check out my story. The other one stayed outside with his three witnesses. A minute later a couple of EMTs arrived in their bright, boxy wagon. They too went inside to confirm what I already knew. Everything everyone did, it seemed, was preceded and followed by whispers into radios.
To me it all felt like slow motion. I was thinking: Somebody is dead. We should hurry. The reality was, of course, different. The reality was: Somebody was dead. What was the point of hurrying?
More patrol cops arrived in the next few minutes, and after a brief consultation with the two first responders a couple of them strung a perimeter of crime-scene tape that reached all the way to the big trees along the front curb and included the larger houses and yards on each side. Gawking drivers quickly brought traffic to a virtual standstill.
Call it bad luck, call it a side effect of being married to a prosecutor, or of being best friends with a cop, but I’d been around enough crime scenes to know what to expect and wasn’t at all surprised that Diane and the Cheetos lady and I were soon separated from one another.
The women were each offered a seat in the back of different squad cars while I was shuttled to the front porch of the elegantly restored Victorian next door. From there I watched the cluster of uniformed cops disperse. Two headed to the back of the house clutching a fat wheel of crime-scene tape. The ones who’d stayed in front were trying to look like they had something important to do, something besides wait. The EMTs waited for something, too.
We were all doing indeterminate time in the wake of unexplained death, a sentence that would endure until the arrival of an unmarked car bringing detectives to the scene.
Part of me wanted to see my friend, Sam Purdy, step out of the detectives’ sedan.
That was the selfish part.
The generous part of me hoped that he had the evening off.
4
Sam had the evening off.
As soon as the two detectives who were catching new felony cases on that shift climbed out of their car, I recognized them. One was a buff, square-jawed, tight-eyed man named Jaris Slocum. Over a year before, while I’d been visiting Sam in the detective bureau in the Public Safety Building on 33rd Street, he had introduced me to Slocum as we passed each other in a long hallway. Once we’d paced out of eavesdropping range on our way to lunch somewhere, Sam had added, “Slocum’s kind of an asshole.”
I recognized Slocum’s partner, too, though until that moment I hadn’t known he was a cop. He was, like me, an avid recreational bicyclist. We ran into each other a few times a year on Boulder ’s back roads or in the nearby mountain canyons. The previous September we had ended up in an impromptu posse that had done a couple of memorable training climbs together up Four Mile. He was a pleasant, not-too-competitive guy who had legs and lungs that were designed for steep inclines. He was younger than me, stronger than me, and better looking than me. I knew him simply as Darrell.
The two detectives ambled across the sidewalk and checked in with the patrol cop who was manning the log. I watched him point at me seconds before the detectives climbed the slope of the front lawn toward my solitary aerie on the neighboring building’s front porch.
Remembering Sam’s caution about Slocum, I greeted the bicyclist detective first. “Hi, Darrell. What a night.” I held out my hand. “Alan, Alan Gregory. Remember me?” He didn’t. “We climbed Four Mile together a few months back? I see you occasionally when you ride.”
It took Darrell a second but he finally recognized my face. “Alan? Yeah, hi. You’re, um, part of this?” He waved his left arm in the general direction of Hannah Grant’s dead body.
“Unfortunately. I was the one who found her. Hannah. She’s a colleague. Was. I’m a psychologist.” The last sentence felt like a complete non sequitur to me. I imagined that it did to Darrell, too. I added, “Hannah was a social worker.”
“You’re the RP?” He caught himself using cop vernacular and added, “The one who called this in?”
RP. Reporting party. “Yes.”
Slocum step
ped up and took charge. His intrusion had all the subtlety of a belch during grace at Thanksgiving dinner. “Sit right there, sir. Yes, on those steps behind you. Don’t speak with anyone until we’re ready to interview you. Do you understand my instructions, sir?”
For some reason-possibly the vice-principal tone in his voice-I found myself questioning the sincerity of his repeated use of “sir.”
Jaris Slocum either didn’t recognize me, which wouldn’t have been surprising, or-and this was a more worrisome possibility-had recalled our prior introduction and decided that any friend of Sam Purdy’s deserved an additional bolus of hard-ass attitude.
Fifty feet or so away from me a damn good woman lay dead. During traffic lulls I could hear Diane weeping from the backseat of the patrol car where she had been stashed. The Cheetos lady was still looking like she’d just lost her only friend in the world. The sum of those parts? I was in absolutely no mood for any I’m-the-boss-and-you’ll-do-what-I-say cop crap from Detective Jaris Slocum.
“And you are?” I said. My tone wasn’t exactly a model of I’d-love-to-cooperate-Detective.
Detective Darrell’s badge wallet was hanging on his belt for all to see. Slocum’s wasn’t. Wisely, Darrell chose to answer my question even though it had been addressed to his partner. He was busily trying to douse the lit matches that Slocum and I were slinging at the kindling in each other’s pants. To me, he said, “This is Detective Jaris Slocum. And this is Alan…?”
“Gregory,” I said.
“He and I ride together sometimes,” Darrell explained to Slocum.
“That’s nice. Now sit, Alan Gregory. We’ll be back to talk to you. Wait for us, understand?”
“I still haven’t seen a badge,” I said. I shouldn’t have said it. But I did.
Slocum couldn’t find his badge wallet. He checked all his pockets, and then he patted them all a second time. Finally, after an exasperated exhale he barked, “It must be in the car.”
If Slocum had wanted to transport the annoyance that he packed into those few words he would have needed a wheelbarrow, or a tractor-trailer.
“I can wait,” I said. “Go ahead and get it. I’d like to see some ID. I think that’s my right.”
Slocum and I both knew he wasn’t about to slink back to his big Ford and fish around for his detective shield at my behest. He gave me an icy blue-eyed stare. “I said to have a seat.”
I said, “I’m fine standing.”
He took a step toward me. “And I said to sit.”
I came so close to saying “fuck you” that my lower lip actually came together with my bottom teeth.
Darrell sensed what was developing as though he knew either Slocum or me real well. I knew the person he knew real well wasn’t me.
“Enough,” he said.
He was talking to both of us.
I had to cool my heels for almost an hour before the detectives got back to me. From what I could see, they’d spent most of the time either singly or together with the Cheetos lady and with Diane. For a while I was perplexed why they didn’t go inside the offices and start detecting in there where Hannah and the evidence were, but then I realized they were probably waiting for a search warrant to arrive at the scene.
In the meantime, I was cold and exhausted and hungry and sad and angry and impatient and would have been much more comfortable sitting on the stoop than walking in circles on the front porch.
But I stood. It was a point of honor. Or a badge of stubbornness. One of those things.
The story I had to tell about discovering Hannah’s body wasn’t complicated and once things had calmed down a little bit between Slocum and me, it was simple to discern from the detectives’ questions that Slocum and Olson-his cop ID had revealed not only bicyclist Darrell’s last name, but also a double dose of middle initials, C. and R.-were primarily interested in two specific areas of my narrative.
The first? Why had I decided to reach across the hall and try to open the door to Mary Black’s office? I stuck with the truth on that one-I didn’t know. I just didn’t know. It was one of those things that I had just done.
The truth, however, didn’t set me free. One of the detectives-either Darrell Olson playing good cop, or Slocum naturally taking on the role of bad-revisited the question of me opening Mary Black’s door at least five times during our relatively brief discussion. They seemed as dissatisfied with my fifth reply as they had been with the first. I told them I wished that I had a better explanation, but I didn’t.
The second focus of the detectives’ interest was more concerning to me. They wanted to know what I had been doing the rest of the day-minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour-up until the moment Diane dragged me from my office to her Saab to drive to Hannah’s office.
“What? You mean from the moment I got out of bed? That early?” I asked in a futile attempt at levity when Slocum pressed me on my day’s itinerary for the second or third time.
“Sure,” he replied. “Assuming you have a witness for that part of your day, too.” His cold eyes weren’t smiling at all but his cheekbones had elevated just enough to let me know that he was enjoying whatever temporary advantage he thought he had.
Not for the first time that evening I thought, God, Sam, you’re right. Slocum is an asshole.
“As a matter of fact, I do have a witness. I want you to be sure to write this name down. Are you ready?”
He glared at me as though he’d rather beat me with a long stick than do what I suggested, but he brought his pen down so that the nib hovered just above the page in his notebook.
Stressing each syllable for his benefit, I said, “My witness, for this morning’s events, is Deputy DA Lauren Crowder of the Boulder County District Attorney’s office.” I slowly dictated the ten digits of our home phone number, and then added Lauren’s office number for emphasis. “Give her a call. Please. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to tell you what time her husband crawled out of bed this morning.”
Slocum stopped writing.
Darrell Olson took a step back so that his partner wouldn’t spot the smile that was forming on his face.
I said, “I’m going home now, Detective. I think you know how to reach me if you have any more questions.”
Slocum made a quick move toward me-or at me-but Darrell stepped forward and spoke before his partner could do something he would regret. “Warrant’s here, Jaris. Come on, let’s go inside and see what we have.”
I didn’t go right home. I found Raoul, Diane’s husband, pacing outside the crime-scene tape and filled him in on all that had happened late that afternoon. He was almost too agitated to attend to my words. Raoul Estevez had a roster of relatives who had not survived Franco’s reign in Spain, and the sight of his wife squeezed into the back of a squad car being peppered with questions from law enforcement authorities wasn’t sitting particularly well with him.
“She is not under arrest?” he demanded, his words causing little cartoonish puffs of steam in the cold air. Although it’s his second language-actually, his fourth or fifth-Raoul’s English is better than Prince Charles’s, but the American legal system still perplexed him at times. English is my only language, isn’t in Prince Charles’s league, and the American legal system still perplexed me at times, too. Still, since I was the natural-born citizen, I assumed the responsibility of translating the proceedings for Raoul.
“No, they’re just questioning her about what happened, what she saw, that’s all. She’ll be done soon. She didn’t see much; I found Hannah’s body.”
As if on cue, Slocum, who had not taken his partner’s advice about going inside and looking around, hopped out of the cruiser and, I thought, reached in to help Diane from the backseat.
“See?” I turned to Raoul. “It looks like she’s done.”
Diane suddenly yelled, “Get your goddamn hands off me!”
Raoul’s voice grew hard. “It doesn’t look that way to me.”
I turned back to the cruiser. Slocum had Diane completely out
of the car and was twisting her ninety degrees so he could shove her face-first up against the rear fender of the black-and-white. Instantly he had her legs spread past shoulder width and in seconds he had her arms behind her back and handcuffs on both her wrists.
I was shocked. “Don’t, Raoul.” I had to stand in my friend’s path to keep him from crossing the yellow tape and joining the fray. I planted my feet on the ground and both my hands on Raoul’s hard chest. Finally, he stepped back.
Ten seconds later I had Lauren on the phone. “Get Cozy down here fast. I think Jaris Slocum just arrested Diane for something.”
Lauren said, “Slocum? God help us, he’s such an asshole lately.”
The verdict, it appeared, was unanimous.
5
Cozier Maitlin lived, literally, around the corner.
From my sentry position just outside the crime-scene tape, I spotted Cozy on the sidewalk as he was descending the final steep section of hill that drops down from Maxwell toward Broadway. Despite the crowd of gawkers gathered around the yellow police tape, he wasn’t that hard to spot. Cozy stood six-feet-nine.
I checked my watch-no more than seven or eight minutes could have passed since Jaris Slocum had cuffed Diane and shoved her rudely back into the rear seat of the black-and-white.
Pointing toward the corner, I said to Raoul, “That’s the defense attorney Lauren called.”
“That was fast. He’s tall.”
“He’s good. He helped Lauren with that thing, you know, a few years ago. Hey, Cozy!”
Cozy didn’t break stride as he approached, or wave. Maybe he elevated his chin an additional millimeter or two, but that was the only indication that he’d heard me calling his name. He was wearing the same suit I imagined he’d worn to his downtown office that morning-the blue was a navy that shared a lot of DNA with black, and it was lined with the palest of gray pinstripes. His white shirt appeared freshly starched and his black shoes were the shiniest things on the block.
A nice, full-length umbrella or a walking stick would not have been out of place accessorizing his outfit.
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