The Paper Mirror (29 page)

“Prove it!” he said, picking up his beer to take several deep swigs.

“As a matter of fact, I can,” I said. “And I know all about Dave Witherspoon blackmailing you because of it.”

He looked at me scathingly. “
You
should be a writer,” he scoffed. “That’s some imagination you’ve got.”

“Glad you like it,” I said. “Did you know Dave Witherspoon killed Taylor Cates?”

He’d picked up his beer again and had it halfway to his mouth, but stopped in mid-motion and then put it back on the table.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

I shook my head. “Afraid not. I had you pegged for it until I found out it was Dave and not Taylor who was behind the blackmail. And if you think for one split-second that when Dave gets busted for blackmail he won’t do everything in his power to pin Taylor’s death on you, you’re kidding yourself.”

Knight leaned forward in his chair, menacingly. “You know what I think?” he said. “I think you’re making this whole thing up just because the thought of someone else screwing your boyfriend drives you nuts, and you’ll say or do anything to get back at me. I think you don’t have one single bit of proof of any of this crap, and until you do, you can just go fuck yourself.”

With that he stood up and walked out of the bar.

Well, that went well,
one of my mind-voices observed.

*

I decided not to return to work, and instead drove to the photographer’s studio to pick up our pieces of immortality. They weren’t exactly cheap, but the per-day cost spread over a hundred or so years was rather reasonable. And she’d done a really great job. She gave me the card of a friend of hers who owned a framing shop and said he did excellent work. I thanked her, paid her, and carefully carried the equally-carefully-wrapped prints to the car and set them carefully on the back seat. With my track record for breaking things, “carefully” was definitely the operative word.

I hadn’t really given that much thought to my meeting with Evan Knight. I’d lobbed my hand grenade and had no control over what bits and pieces might start falling around me as a result. I’d just have to wait and see.

I got home far enough ahead of Jonathan and Joshua to set the photos out on the couch, propped up against the cushions so they could see them the minute they walked in. I was in the kitchen fixing my Manhattan when I heard the door open.

“Wow!” Jonathan said, obviously spotting the photos immediately. “These are
great
!”

Joshua seemed equally impressed, particularly by those that had him in them. He grabbed one of himself in his sport coat and bow tie and ran into the bedroom “to show Mommy and Daddy.”

I realized, as he said that and raced out of the room, that he had been with us now for the better part of a year. His fifth birthday was coming up in August. Good Lord, where does the time go?

I showed Jonathan the card the photographer had given me, and after studying the pictures for a few minutes, he went directly to the phone to call the framer. I knew they were probably closed for the night, and I was right.

“Maybe we can go over there tomorrow?” he asked. “I can’t wait to get them framed and up on the wall. And I have to write all the relatives and send them copies, and.…”

His enthusiasm reminded me again of just how much alike he and Joshua were.

*

The phone rang just as I was finishing the crossword puzzle and thinking about having another cup of coffee.

“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, picking up the phone, as always, on the second ring.

I recognized Glen O’Banyon’s voice immediately. “We have another one,” he said, and I didn’t have to ask “another what?” I knew.

Shit!

CHAPTER 12

“Who?” I asked, though I had a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that said I knew.

“Dave Witherspoon,” he said. “A passing patrol car found him around one o’clock this morning on the front steps of the Burrows. I don’t know any other details right now. I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks, Glen,” I said. “I’ll see what I can find out and get back to you. Are you in court today or at the office?”

“I’ll be in the office most of the day. And I’ll let you know if I find out anything more.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll get right on it.”

We exchanged good-byes and hung up.

What had been a queasy feeling in my stomach washed through my entire body and I couldn’t help but listen to a very strong mind-voice which said,
Congratulations, Hardesty—you just got Dave Witherspoon killed!

Damn it, Hardesty,
the voice continued.
Why in the hell don’t you think before you open your mouth? Not only did you have to tell Knight you knew he was being blackmailed, but you had to say you knew it was Dave Witherspoon. And then you had to go and all but paint a bull’s-eye on the guy’s back by suggesting that Witherspoon wouldn’t hesitate to turn him in if he thought it would help himself. Truly stupid!

But talk about being truly stupid, how could Knight have been so dumb as to go out and kill the guy within twelve hours of me telling him I knew what was going on? That just didn’t make any sense. I tried to make myself feel better by telling myself I really hadn’t thought of Knight as a murderer. And why? Just because I didn’t think he killed Taylor Cates? Like that made a bit of difference now.

Sheesh!

*

I knew that there was a good chance that Tim, as assistant medical examiner, would be working on Witherspoon’s body, or at least that he would be able to tell me what the autopsy found, but I also knew they probably couldn’t have found much yet, even if they’d begun their examination. Still, I called Tim’s work number and left a message asking him to call.

I next called the City Annex and asked to talk to Marty Gresham. I was told he was out on a case, but left my number for when he returned.

I needn’t have bothered, because I’d no sooner hung up the phone than it rang.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick, it’s Marty. We need to talk.”

“I know,” I said. “Dave Witherspoon, right?”

“You heard, then?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Can you come out here to the Burrows, then? Right away?’

“Sure,” I said. “I’m on my way.”

*

The front of the Burrows was cordoned off, and a hastily made sign saying “Please use side entrance” had been placed, like the announcement of a garage sale, on the outside of the yellow tape near the sidewalk. There were no police cars around, and no one standing inside the cordoned-off area.

I parked in the side lot, and used the side door to get into the building. It was very quiet, even for a library, and for a moment I wondered if anyone was there. There were a few people in the main room of the first floor, though, apparently going through their normal routines, so I continued down to the cataloging room. The door, of course, was closed, but looking through the window I saw Janice and two or three of the other workers at their tables, going through the motions of working. However, even through the closed door, I could sense a different atmosphere in the room.

I didn’t see Marty or McGill, or anyone else whom I hadn’t seen there before, so headed up to Irving McGill’s office. As I approached, I could hear voices from inside. I knocked.

“Yes?” McGill’s deep voice responded, and I turned the knob and opened the door. McGill was behind his desk, with two men seated in front of him with their backs to me. They both turned around and I saw it was Marty and some guy who looked vaguely familiar, but who I didn’t think I’d met before.

The unknown man, who looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of
True Detective Magazine
, immediately got out of his chair and said to McGill: “Well, I think we’re through here for the moment.” Marty also rose to his feet. “Thank you for your cooperation,” the guy continued. “We’ll be in contact again if we need anything else. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to talk with Mr. Hardesty.”

Both he and Marty turned toward me, ready to leave, as McGill also got out of his chair. “If you would like to talk here,” McGill said, “I really have many things to do in other parts of the library. You’re free to use my office. No one will disturb you.”

“Thanks,” the guy said. “If you’re sure it won’t be any trouble.”

McGill gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not at all,” he said, moving toward the door. “Take as long as you need.”

He passed me with a nod of his head, and left, closing the door behind him.

“Dick,” Marty said moving toward me for our usual handshake, while indicating the other detective, “this is Detective Carpenter.”

Carpenter?
I knew a Detective Carpenter on the force, but this certainly wasn’t him.

The man stepped forward to shake hands. Apparently my confusion showed, because he grinned as he took my hand. “You know my brother, I understand,” he said, “…and his partner, Detective Couch.”

Aha! I thought. Yes, I did indeed know detectives Carpenter and Couch. I’d had dealings with them on several past cases. Carpenter was a decent guy I rather liked. Couch was a homophobic asshole with a capital
A
.

“You’ve heard about our encounters, I gather,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” he said, still grinning. “You are not one of Detective Couch’s favorite people.”

“And you can’t imagine how upset I am over that,” I said, returning the grin.

Marty crossed the room for another chair, which he brought over for me, then turned the other two chairs around so we could sit facing one another.

After we’d all been seated, I jumped right in. “So what happened?”

Detective Carpenter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“A patrol found the body this morning around one a.m., though the actual time of death hasn’t been determined. It’s a pretty quiet area, with not a lot of traffic at night. He apparently fell backwards down the front stairs. He was lying on his back with his head toward the foot of the stairs. There was a broken bottle of whiskey near the body, and the officers who found him said he reeked of alcohol. It appeared he was drunk and had fallen backwards, hitting his head. However, that didn’t explain why he’d be here at that time of night, and considering the other recent death here and the circumstances surrounding it, we’re definitely treating this one as a possible homicide.”

“And we’ll be taking another, closer look at the Cates case as well,” Marty added. “I’ve told Detective Carpenter about our conversation—I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Would you mind going over it one more time for my benefit?” Carpenter asked, and I did, adding what I’d learned and pieced together since Marty and I had our conversation.

“So you think Witherspoon killed Cates and was blackmailing Knight?” Carpenter asked, sitting back in his chair. “And Knight then killed Witherspoon?” He shook his head. “That was a pretty stupid thing for him to do right after you’d talked to him.”

“I agree,” I said. “But he might have thought that by getting rid of Dave Witherspoon, he might then somehow be able to get rid of any proof that Witherspoon was blackmailing him—and, by extension, any proof that he had stolen Morgan Butler’s work. Knight doesn’t know that Scot McVickers kept all Morgan’s letters, and that there’s enough proof in them to convict him of plagiarism. Maybe he figured if there were was no proof of blackmail, there would be no reason for anyone to think he killed Witherspoon. Have you talked to Ryan…I don’t think I know his last name…Dave’s partner?”

“No,” Marty said. “We went over there first thing this morning to talk with him, and he wasn’t home. Looking in through the front window—they live in one of those courtyard-apartment buildings—we saw the place had been ransacked, which makes sense if Knight was looking for whatever it was Witherspoon had on him. We called the super, who let us in, but he said Witherspoon’s roommate was out of town and isn’t due back until this afternoon.”

But then why was Witherspoon killed at the Burrows? Why not in his own apartment?

“Can you get us copies of those letters you were telling us about?” Carpenter asked. It was obvious that Carpenter was the senior member of the team, and Marty was learning the ropes from him.

“I’m sure I can.”

We talked for a few more minutes, then Carpenter thanked me for coming over, and we all got up to leave, Marty carefully putting all three chairs back in their proper places. I promised that I would contact Wayne Powers about the letters and let them know if I found out or thought of anything that might be of further interest to them.

I paused about halfway out the door.

“Oh, and one more thing,” I said. “If you do arrest Knight, and if you get a search warrant for his house, would you be sure they specifically include book manuscripts?”

Carpenter looked a little puzzled, but nodded. “Will do,” he said.

We all shook hands again, and as they went to the cataloging room to see if they could find out anything from Dave’s coworkers, I headed back to the office to try to talk myself out of the persistent and very unpleasant feeling that I’d been responsible for Dave Witherspoon’s death.

*

Well, the whole matter of the plagiarism and the blackmail and the deaths of Taylor Cates and Dave Witherspoon was largely out of my hands. It was up to the police now. When I returned to the office I saw I had no messages, which meant that Tim hadn’t tried to get in touch with me. Well, he was probably busy…maybe with Dave Witherspoon.