Man in the Middle (11 page)

That Cliff was corresponding by mail with his ex suggested, at the very least, a geographic restraining order, perhaps extending to a telephonic order. Or alternatively, this physical excommunication may have been self-imposed. When it comes to divorce, nothing ever makes sense, and you never know. It was too early to jump to conclusions, but based on the tenor of that note, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she wanted to put a bullet through his brain.

And for sure it would be easy for us, and convenient for many, were it to turn out Cliff was popped by a pissed-off ex. Frankly, I would be a little disappointed; also, a lot relieved.

Well, we would see.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
he house was on South 28th Street, a winding lane of small, double-storied, red-brick colonial homes that looked like two long lines of red-coated soldiers. The lots were tiny quarter-acre jobs, with mature oaks and elms; everything looked tidy and well-kept. The street held an old-fashioned charm; the homes were uniformly older, constructed in the late forties or the early fifties, a middle-class enclave for men who had just survived and returned from a world war, relieved to be in one piece, ready to enjoy peacetime employment, build families, and get on with their lives. It still looked wholesome, yet dated enough that any second I expected to see Wally Cleaver come dashing around a corner chasing the Beav.

I parked the Crown Vic directly in front of Theresa’s house and Bian and I got out. Cliff was right; Theresa’s yard was unkempt and overgrown with weeds, a swath of tiles was missing from the roof, and the Chrysler minivan in the driveway was long overdue for a paint job, probably an oil change, a tire rotation, or better yet, a complete replacement.

Bian and I proceeded to the front stoop. I pushed the bell and we waited. After a few seconds, a woman opened the door, dressed casually in dark sweatpants and a ratty T-shirt festooned with a snarling Georgetown University bulldog and the words “Up Yours.” Bian handled the introductions, remaining deliberately vague about our purpose, and very politely asked if we could step inside.

It took a stretch, yet from the photograph in Clifford’s apartment, I recognized the lady. She had aged considerably, or, more charitably, her face had acquired a new character since the photograph. It was Winston Churchill who said that by the time a person reaches fifty, the story of their life is written on their face. Apparently not always, because the smiling Theresa Daniels I had observed in the photo was about fifty then; somehow, in a few intervening years, a whole new story had been etched on her face.

I guessed she had once been moderately attractive—not necessarily pretty, not even sexy, but striking in a certain sharp-featured way. Cliff, as I mentioned, was fairly plain in appearance, so at least physically he had married above himself.

She was of medium size, possessing a narrow face with good bone structure, high but overly sharp cheekbones, attractive blue eyes, and a trim figure, with thin hips and wide shoulders. But, as with her house and her car, Theresa Daniels had let things slide. Her leathery skin and husky voice suggested she was a heavy smoker, possibly a heavy drinker, and we had caught her sans makeup, which, for all concerned, was seriously unfortunate. In the photo, I recalled, her hair had been brunette and coiffed in a stylish pageboy cut; it now hung below her shoulders, gray, untended, shaggy—less a bad hair day, more a bad hair decade.

Also, I detected something in her posture and movement, a disjointed looseness, as if the spirit inside the body had run out of breath.

Anyway, she had a wary expression as she studied us, Bian in her Army field uniform and me looking natty and businesslike in my blue Brooks Brothers suit. She asked Bian, “Would you tell me what this is about?”

“I . . . it would be better if we discussed this inside.”

Mrs. Daniels hooked a languid hand and we followed her inside, turning right into a living room that was small and cramped. To our left, a pair of French doors led to a matchbox dining room, and to our rear a narrow staircase led to the second floor; this was a home designed to induce claustrophobic fits.

That aside, the interior was nicely decorated—overdecorated, actually—and, to the extent I can judge these things, the furniture, which looked colonial in motif, was fairly expensive, tasteful stuff. Also there was a lived-in feel, which is a polite way of saying the house smelled moldy and musty. This was a home, and possibly a life, in need of a good airing out.

Theresa fell into a high-backed, green-and-red-striped chair beside the fireplace, and she motioned for us to be seated on a plush brown couch against the wall. She crossed her legs and her head lolled backward, with her chin pointed upward. She did not offer us refreshments, indicating she either recognized our visit was official or her hospitality, like her home, needed a makeover.

Without further ado Theresa Daniels said, “Tell me what this is about.”

I have been on death notification details several times in my career; it always sucks. You never know how the bereaved is going to take the news, and you have to stay on your toes. Often the response is sadness, sometimes shock, usually anger, and often all of the above.

Divorced spouses, particularly, tend to be unpredictable. I have one pal who swears a divorcée dragged him to her bedroom for three hours of wild and sweaty solace; another got a knee in the nuts.

With both memories in mind, I crossed my hands over my crotch and informed Mrs. Daniels, “We have bad news. Your ex-husband, Clifford, died last night. The circumstances are still unclear.”

She looked down at the carpet with an expression that reflected nothing. After a brief contemplation, she asked, “Unclear? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, Mrs. Daniels, that your ex-husband was discovered in bed, with a pistol in his hand and a hole in his head.” I studied her face to see if this was new news or old news. “Circumstantially, it appears to have been suicide . . . but we’re withholding final judgment.”

Feeling the need to justify her presence, Bian chirped in, “We extend our deepest sympathies. Despite your divorce, I’m sure your feelings are very complicated right now.”

Actually, her feelings appeared not at all complex. Theresa stood and turned her back to us. On the fireplace mantel, Bian and I now noticed, was a wedding picture in a nice silver frame showing a younger, beaming Clifford in an Army sergeant’s uniform with his arm around a pretty bride with a large toothy smile.

Over half of all marriages in America end in divorce, and another quarter are bitterly unhappy, the couple remaining together for a variety of reasons—children, financial motives, habit, or the simple conjugal satisfaction of pissing each other off. And for every one, happy, broken, or otherwise, there is a photo like this, showing a young, sappy, optimistic couple, totally clueless to the hell or happiness they are about to inflict on each other.

Theresa stared at the photo for a few moments, then lifted it up and placed it facedown on the mantel. She turned back around and faced us. She said to Bian, “I don’t understand why I’m being informed of this by a military police officer.”

“You recognize my insignia?”

“I hope I do. My father was career military. A brat. I was raised on Army posts.”

Bian looked at me. I informed Mrs. Daniels, “Major Tran and I are helping to investigate the causes of Clifford’s death. We were hoping to ask you some questions.” After a moment, I remembered to add, “But if our timing is inappropriate . . .”

I fully expected to be tossed out on our butts; instead she asked, “Would either of you care for a refreshment? Coffee, tea . . . ?”

On the heels of what she had just been informed, this offer was, to say the least, bizarre. As I said, you never know. I squeezed Bian’s leg and said, “I’ll pass, thank you,” and Bian seconded with a shake of her head.

Theresa Daniels studied us for a moment. She said, “You look disappointed, Mr. Drummond. Were you expecting me to collapse in grief? Pull my hair out, wail, shed a tear?”

“We weren’t
expecting
any particular reaction, Mrs. Daniels.” But yes, some small gesture of regret or loss would be reassuring.

She studied me a moment. “You’re wondering what I feel, aren’t you?” When I did not respond, she said, “Frankly, nothing. The Clifford Daniels I knew . . . the man I married, he died years ago.”

“Perhaps in your heart. But in a purely clinical sense, his heart stopped beating last night, around midnight. It’s now our job to determine if it was suicide . . . or something else.”

“Why don’t you just say murder? That’s what you’re alluding to, isn’t it?”

“Yes . . . murder.” I looked her in the eye. “You don’t seem surprised by this suspicion.”

She shrugged.

“Did Clifford own a gun?”

“He did. A pistol of some sort.”

“What—”

“Don’t ask me the type. I hate guns. I begged him to get it out of this house.”

“But it was a pistol?”

“I do know the difference between a pistol and a rifle, Mr. Drummond.”

“He had this pistol while you were married?”

“Yes. He acquired it a year or two before our separation. He assured me it was properly registered.”

“And did he have a silencer?” I explained: “A small tube you screw on the end of the barrel.”

“I’m not sure. He had a full gun kit, though. He used to sit here”— she pointed to the dining room table—“at night, after work, cleaning and oiling it. He took better care of the gun than me. I don’t think he ever fired it, so what was the point?”

“And he took the gun when you separated?”

“Damn right he did.”

“Why would a civil servant need a gun?”

“It was . . . it was a token of his flowering self-importance. No particular reason . . . no threat or anything, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“It’s not complicated, Mr. Drummond. He believed he had become noteworthy enough that somebody might want to hurt or kill him. He was very proud of that thought. That . . . weapon . . . that was his affirmation.” She added, “You know how men are with guns—like penises.”

Despite this assault on my gender—with its embarrassing ring of truth—this had turned into a very interesting line of discussion, but Bian asked, “How long were you married, Mrs. Daniels?”

“Thirty-three years.”

“Long time. When were you divorced?”

“We legally separated four years ago. The divorce finalized a year later.”

“And do you have children?”

“Two. Elizabeth, our daughter . . . and Jack, our son.”

“Where are they now?” Initially I was annoyed by this diversion from more promising territory into what struck me as mundane familial stuff—then I realized
why
Bian was inquiring. The children also were suspects. She added nicely, “If I’m not being too nosy.”

“Elizabeth is a senior at Georgetown,” Theresa informed us. “She lives here, at home. She commutes. Saves money.”

“And Jack?”

“Jack dropped out of school two years ago. He’s in Florida, and has . . . let’s say Jack’s working through a few problems.”

Bian glanced in my direction. “Would it be too rude of me to ask what kind of problems?”

“Well, the . . . the divorce . . . You have to understand, Jack was three years younger than his sister. Also he’s a boy, he looked up to his father, and . . . the circumstances were . . .” She recognized she was saying more than we needed or possibly wanted to hear, and quickly concluded, “There were a few school problems . . . drugs, a few legal scrapes. He’s now in a special center outside of Tampa.”

I said, “It’s a mere formality, but I have to ask you something.” There are no formalities in criminal investigations, incidentally.

She stared at me without comment.

“Can you think of anyone who would want or who would benefit from Cliff being dead?”

“You bet I can.” She looked me in the eye. “Me—I wanted that bastard deader than a doornail.” She inquired, after a moment, “Would you happen to know if he kept up his insurance payments? The kids are beneficiaries. We could sure as hell use the money.”

Bian coughed.

A moment passed during which Theresa and I never broke eye contact. I said, “You mentioned coffee.”

This seemed to amuse her and she chuckled. “I was just making a pot. Join me in the kitchen. It wouldn’t be good for your careers if your key suspect escaped out the window.”

“You’re not a suspect, Mrs. Daniels.”
Yet
.

There was a long silence, then she said, “Don’t be so sure of yourself.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

O
n that auspicious note, we rose and followed her through the dining room and into the kitchen, essentially a narrow strip, about six feet in length and three feet in width, with old, scarred white cabinetry on both sides. The floor was a checkerboard of scuffed black-and-white vinyl squares, and the counters were some kind of awful lime green plasterboard. Aside from a few appliances and the occupants, since about 1950 the kitchen looked frozen in time.

We all three somehow shuffled and squeezed into the narrow space. Theresa stood by the sink where an asthmatic drip coffeemaker coughed and spit its last drops into a dungy glass beaker. I counted three plants—all withered into gnarled brown papyrus, which seemed to me to be appropriate decorations for the house, and its owner.

Theresa asked us, “Do either of you take cream or sugar?”

“Both, please,” I replied. Bian and I traded uneasy glances. I mean, this woman had just been notified that the man she had shared her life with for thirty-three years—slept with, bred and raised two children with—now was in the morgue. No, I hadn’t expected her to wail or yank her hair or anything. But neither had I expected such chilling indifference, and I wondered if it was exaggerated, a defense mechanism or something else.

Whatever had soured this marriage must’ve been catastrophic— but was it enough to pump a bullet through her ex’s head? She seemed to want us to believe that she did, but was that the truth or a perverse case of wishful thinking?