White Ghost Ridge

by Carol Coffey

  Carter looked down at the table once more.

  “Alec told the police that I was the last person to be in the lab and he told the Dean that I had been acting strangely for weeks. The Dean believed Alec over me and I was suspended pending the outcome of the police investigation. Virginia doesn’t know. I’ve been sitting in cafés and parks all day. I couldn’t tell her.”

  “Holton tried to pin this on you. That is until someone got to him. What we need to find out is why. To go over the facts, Alec was the one acting strangely for weeks, meeting people in the desert and not telling you who they were. He was there when an artefact went missing during the dig and conveniently absent when more artefacts went missing from the lab safe. Then he tells the police you were the last person to have been seen with them? Do you still think Alec was harmless?”

  Carter met Locklear’s eyes and shook his head. “I guess not, sir.”

  Locklear looked down at his notes. So far, he still didn’t have a lot to go on, but one question was burning in his mind. If Alec did all that to Lee, how come Lee went to Holton’s apartment the night before?

  Then Carter answered without him having to ask. “But he apologised. I got an email from him saying he was sorry for bringing trouble on me. He asked me to come to his apartment around eleven last night and he’d explain everything and that he’d speak with the Dean and clear my name.”

  Locklear snorted. It was involuntary. Carter was the most naïve person he had ever known.

  “And you bought that? You didn’t think it was a set-up? That’s something he could have done by going to the university himself or meeting you in a public place in broad daylight. Jesus, Carter!”

  Carter’s lip trembled. “I know,” he whimpered. “I trusted him.”

  “I doubt the email came from Holton anyway. My bet is that someone else sent it to you to make sure you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seems like Holton isn’t the only one trying to set you up. So what happened when you got to the apartment?”

  “I pressed the buzzer in the lobby. Alec didn’t answer. I had keys …”

  Locklear stopped writing on his notepad. “Why’d you have the keys on you? You expected him to be there, didn’t you?”

  “I told you – I used to feed his cat while he was in England. I parked outside the building and when he didn’t buzz me up I took the keys from my glove box and let myself in.”

  Locklear shook his head wearily. Carter’s tale was becoming long and farfetched. No-one would believe him. Locklear himself was beginning to wonder if his innocent-looking friend was telling the truth or if he was being fed a long and very well-rehearsed tale. Although why Carter might lie to him, he didn’t know. There was no way he killed Holton.

  “Go on.”

  “When I got to Alec’s apartment door I knocked hard but he didn’t answer. I let myself in ... and … I found him.”

  “Was he alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see anyone leave the building as you came in?”

  “No. When I got into the office, I could see Alec sitting at his desk with his back to me. He was playing music really loud so I called out but he didn’t turn around. It was only when I walked around to the front of his desk that I saw the knife in his neck. He was still alive. I pulled his chair out and tried to stop the bleeding. He looked terrified. He tried to pull the knife out of his neck. I put my hand on the knife to try to stop him. I knew he’d bleed out. The knife had no handle and I cut my hand. I … I recognised it. It was one of the Native American artefacts that went missing from the lab. Alec grabbed my shirt to pull me closer to him.”

  Locklear glanced at Carter’s shirt which was stained with Holton’s bloodied handprint. “So did he say anything?”

  “It sounded like ‘not intend’. I think he was trying to say he didn’t mean to get me into trouble.

  “It wasn’t ‘not intent’?”

  Carter ran his hands over his head again. “I don’t know. It was barely a whisper.”

  “Does the word ‘intent’ mean anything to you, apart from its general meaning?”

  Carter shook his head. “No.”

  “Go on.”

  “While I was trying to stop the bleeding, I heard loud banging in the hallway – the cops breaking the door in. Next thing they’re in the apartment pointing guns at me and shouting for me to lie on the ground. As they handcuffed me I heard Alec gasp and I knew … I knew he was dead.”

  Locklear waited a moment to see if the ex-trooper had anything more to add but Carter had fallen silent. He could see the despair in his eyes.

  “Anything else, Lee?”

  “No.”

  Locklear stopped the tape.

  “Sir?”

  “What?”

  “Can I go home now?”

  “Carter, you used to be a police officer.”

  “And?”

  “And you were found at the scene with your hand on the knife sticking into the victim’s neck. Your shirt is covered in blood and you have a wound on your palm which I dare say forensics will match to the shape of the knife. You know very well that you won’t get bail until I can prove that you didn’t do this.”

  Locklear could see the man deflate before his eyes.

  Carter sat silently for what seemed like an eternity.

  “What are you going to do?” he then asked weakly.

  Locklear looked at his watch. It was 2.10am.

  “At first light I’ll be visiting the home of Meara Henschel. I’m going to review the security tapes from Holton’s apartment block and then I’m going to see the Dean.”

  “What will I do in the meantime?”

  Locklear got up and swung open the door. He found the cop half asleep on his feet outside.

  “Phone your wife and more importantly … get yourself a good lawyer.”

  Chapter 3

  Meara Henschel’s apartment sat directly across the hall from Alec Holton’s. The apartment was a mirror image of Holton’s – like Holton’s, its generous front room faced towards the front of the small apartment block. Unlike Holton’s however, the room was not lavishly decorated and despite an odd arrangement of antique furniture and paintings, the room was musty and had clearly not been decorated in years.

  Henschel’s carer placed a pot of coffee on the table in front of her employer and poured cups for Locklear and Mendoza. The young Latina then placed a blanket around the elderly Pole’s narrow shoulders and stood erect behind her employer whose small, brown eyes were moist and red.

  “Miss Henschel is very upset,” she said as she placed her hand on the old lady’s shoulder.

  Meara moved her hand up and patted the carer’s hand, giving Locklear a fleeting glimpse of the five-digit identification number tattooed onto her left forearm. She followed his eyes and quickly dropped her hand to her lap, pulling her worn cardigan sleeve down roughly until it came halfway down her long bony fingers.

  “I’m fine now, Rosa, thank you,” she said. “You can get on with your work.”

  Rosa left the room quickly but glanced briefly at the visitors as she went. Mendoza smiled at the young Latina but she avoided her eyes and left the cops to their business.

  “You were in a concentration camp?” Locklear asked.

  The old lady’s lips parted slightly but she did not speak. Locklear watched her tense. Her chin quivered. He looked away, unable to watch the obvious discomfort his comment had caused her.

  “Yes. Auschwitz. When I was a small child,” she finally replied.

  “We can see how upset you are,” Mendoza said. “We don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary.”

  Locklear glanced around the room as the old lady poured cream into her coffee and offered the jug to her visitors. Several black-and-white photographs hung on the wall over an antique bureau. Locklear noticed that none of them seemed to be of the sole resident. He looked down at the carpeted floor which was crowded with an array of large, overgrown plants a
nd made the room appear smaller than Holton’s.

  “How would describe your relationship with Mr Holton?” Mendoza asked.

  “We were very good friends.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Thursday evening. He came to borrow some milk. He rarely had anything in to eat. Not since David left.”

  Locklear noticed the fleeting smile on the old woman’s lined face. She spoke, he noticed, in the typical vernacular of Richmondites.

  “How old were you when you came to the US?” he asked abruptly.

  Mendoza turned her head to eye him quizzically.

  “I was nine when we were liberated,” she replied.

  “And your family?” he asked.

  “What has that to do with what happened to Alec?” the old woman snapped.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to get a picture of how you two became friends. On the face of it, it appears that you had very little in common.”

  “You could simply ask me,” she said.

  Locklear could hear the sharpness in the woman’s tone.

  “Who was David?” Mendoza asked, trying to change the subject and ease the icy stare the old woman had now fixed on her boss who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “He was Alec’s partner. David Horowitz. They were together for a quite a few years. The relationship didn’t work out. He left about a year ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “Alec was completely focused on his work. It was everything to him. I understood that. They met at an art exhibition. It was probably the only thing they had in common – a love of the arts. Otherwise, they were very different. David was a journalist but he wasn’t devoted to his work in the same way that Alec was. He was a quietly spoken, unassuming man. David didn’t drink. He hated alcohol whereas Alec drank too much. David was devoted to Alec but I think he got tired sitting alone in the apartment while Alec worked late or was away on archaeology digs.”

  “How did Alec take him leaving?”

  “He was upset. I begged him to make it work, to go after him. I warned him not to end up alone like me.”

  “He obviously didn’t listen,” Mendoza said.

  “Well, not in time. By the time he realised what he’d lost, David had moved back to DC and had taken up a job with the Post. He’d also met someone else. Alec rarely dated after that and, if he did, they were usually unsuitable.”

  “How so?” Locklear asked.

  Meara inhaled and swallowed. “They were usually very young and not from good backgrounds.”

  Mendoza raised her thick dark eyebrows.

  “They just used Alec for his money.”

  “He was well off?” Mendoza asked.

  “He didn’t earn much but his mother was very kind to him. He had a small yearly income from the family business. He certainly wasn’t rich. Anytime he needed money, his mother gave it to him. She loved him so much. It will break her heart when she hears he is gone.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “Not in person but we’ve spoken on the phone a few times over the years.”

  “Could you tell us more about the younger partners?” Locklear asked.

  Meara Henschel shook her head sadly. “Alec was a very lonely man. He went to those awful places, you know. You understand.”

  Mendoza nodded.

  “He spent a lot of money trying to buy company. He had no real friends that I knew of. Just me. I told him that you cannot buy love but he would just smile at me. He would take them to the opera, for expensive meals, on trips, but it always ended the same. They just used him. The last one was the worst.”

  “Why?” Mendoza asked.

  “He was a stage actor, or at least he pretended to Alec that he was. I never heard of anything he claimed to have been in, but Alec was smitten. I hoped it would fizzle out. Alec brought him here once and a pair of my earrings went missing. They were heart-shaped with tiny pearls and they had belonged to my grandmother who had passed them to my cousin Anna – then she left them to me because my mother had worn them on her wedding day so you can imagine how important they were to me. I told Alec but he said I had misplaced them. He was angry with me afterwards because of the implication and didn’t come in to see me for weeks. Not until after the night I had to phone the police.”

  Locklear waited for the old woman to elaborate. She didn’t.

  He sighed. “Why – and when – did you have to phone the police?”

  “I’m sure this is hard for you, Miss Henschel,” Mendoza offered.

  Meara Henschel nodded. “Alec was like a son to me. I don’t think I’ll be able to get over it … after all that’s happened. I’ve been thinking now … if only I’d told the police everything back then, if only I’d said something.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  Mendoza stood and took a tissue from a box on the bureau and handed it to the old lady. On her way back to her seat she glared at Locklear in a way that none of his other troopers would ever have gotten away with.

  “Simon Caird was his name. He started demanding money from Alec. Alec started wiring his mother for money and she kept sending it. If she’d known what was going on! I should have told her. I should have phoned her.”

  “Can you tell us exactly what happened that night, please, Miss Henschel?” Mendoza interjected before her boss became annoyed.

  “It was a couple of months ago. Alec and Simon had returned from a restaurant. I heard them coming back – Simon always banged the apartment door. He was –uncouth and he drank too much. I could hear him shouting so I got up as quickly as I can manage these days. I couldn’t make it across the hall on my own so I phoned Alec to see if he was alright but he didn’t answer. Then I heard him shouting out, as though he was in pain. I phoned the police. When they arrived, Alec had a small cut in his neck where that – that awful man had held a knife to his throat.”

  Locklear and Mendoza glanced quickly at each other.

  “What happened then?”

  “The police arrested Simon but Alec wouldn’t file charges. He begged me not to tell the police about my missing earrings, so I didn’t – for his sake. I just couldn’t understand the hold Simon had over Alec. I had known Alec a long time and I never saw anyone treat him as badly as Simon did.”

  “What did Simon look like?” Locklear asked.

  “He was tall with dark hair. Handsome, I suppose. About thirty or so. He was always expensively dressed and neat. He reminded me of David when Alec first met him which I guess was partly the reason Alec fell for him. I could see right through him but Alec couldn’t.”

  Locklear pondered this. “Was he Native American?” he asked.

  Meara Henschel looked away from Locklear and focused her eyes on the window. He watched her swallow nervously.

  “Why would you ask if he was Native American?”

  “Just following up on one line of enquiry, that’s all.”

  “No, Simon was white. I think Alec mentioned once that he was of Scottish ancestry.”

  “Does the name INTENT mean anything to you, Miss Henschel?” Locklear asked. “Did Alec ever mention it?”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  Locklear sat back in the worn armchair and thought for a moment.

  “Do you think Simon was blackmailing Alec?”

  Meara Henschel’s lower lip dropped down and fresh tears swam in her eyes.

  “After the incident, Alec told me he was finished with Simon but he still called to the apartment from time to time. He’d keep ringing the buzzer at all hours of the night until Alec let him in or he’d shout from the pavement knowing Alec would be embarrassed by the attention. Sometimes he managed to get into the building and would bang on Alec’s apartment door. Alec would let him in and then he’d leave within minutes. He never told me why Simon was calling but I suspected something was very wrong.”

  Locklear thought about whether or not he’d reveal his suspicions that Holton was stealing artefacts to fund Simon’s lifestyle or else tha
t Simon had found out about Holton stealing and had been blackmailing him to keep quiet – or if he would just leave the old lady with her fond memories of a man who had been like a son to her. He decided on the latter.

  “When did you see Caird last?”

  “About three weeks ago. Alec wasn’t in so he banged on the door for a while and then left.”

  “So you didn’t hear anything last night?”

  “Not until the police arrived. I saw them leaving with that nice man Lee from the university who found Alec. I hadn’t seen him here for a while. I suspected he and Alec had had a falling-out. Alec fell out with people easily. I loved him but he found it hard to make friends and lost them very easily.”

  “How well do you know Lee Carter?”

  “Not well. He’d come and feed that awful cat Alec has. I’d see him sometimes drop Alec off if they’d worked late. He was polite and seemed like a nice, well-raised young man.”

  Locklear didn’t tell her that the nice polite man was a suspect in the murder of her friend and was still locked up downtown after most probably a sleepless night. Locklear stood and offered her his hand.

  She took it from her seated position and blinked. Two heavy tears fell down her lined face. Locklear found himself looking at her concentration camp tattoo, etched on her forearm decades ago but a daily reminder of what she had endured. This time she did not try to hide it.

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss,” Locklear said.

  Henschel nodded. “You’ll tell me, won’t you, if you find Alec’s killer?”

  “Yes, of course, but I’ll be back soon to ask you some more questions when you’ve had time to think about what else might be important for the investigation.” He was hoping she would understand that he knew she was withholding information. She was possibly trying to save the reputation of her deceased friend, which Locklear couldn’t really understand. Alec Holton was dead and, if there was an afterlife, no doubt Holton didn’t much care what the living thought of him anymore. Locklear studied the old lady’s face but, apart from a slight swallow, her expression did not alter.

  Mendoza touched Henschel’s arm before the pair let themselves out into the hallway. Both stood looking at the police tape across Alec Holton’s front door.