Unknown Means (6 page)

“Must be nice to have money.” He began to walk away, stirring his coffee with a wood stick; they used to use the sticks for PGM en-zyme electrophoresis and continued to order the small items just for coffee. At the door he turned and added, too casually, “She’ll be all right.”

Evelyn saw the worry etched into his round pate. Tony might have been selfish, tyrannical, and moody, but underneath that he

wasn’t a bad person. Or so she occasionally reminded herself.

“We’ve got to get this guy.”

“I know.”

Evelyn got back to work.

Marissa had been wearing a black microfiber miniskirt, panties, tights, a 36D bra, short black leather boots, and a bright red sweater, and had probably left a trail of whiplash victims in her wake from all the turned heads. The EMTs and their happy scissors had reduced the outfit to rags, but under a stereomicroscope, Evelyn found no ripping, semen, or blood. She taped the items for loose hair and fibers and photographed them against the standard gray backdrop.

Seeing Marissa’s clothes labeled with a case number, stapled together, and hanging askew on wire hangers sickened her.

“You okay?” Zoe, the staff photographer, asked.

“Yeah.” Evelyn retrieved the clothing with a trembling hand.

She submitted the fibers found on the mesh grate to the infrared beam and determined that they consisted of blue nylon 6,6. A very common synthetic fiber. She mounted them to note the diameter and cross-sectional shape. A blue fiber on Marissa’s sweater came up consistent with the grate fibers in all characteristics, indicating that her attacker had left via the southwest corner of the garage. Hooray.

It hardly seemed a helpful fact.

Reluctant to snoop, she had saved Marissa’s purse for last. Besides, she doubted it would hold any clues—this guy hadn’t been after her purse. A shiny black bag with a long handle, it contained the minimum items required for daily life—ChapStick, brush, money, credit cards, driver’s license, Clinique Red Drama lipstick, and a date book with a myriad of wedding-related activities but no mysterious notations. The only other items were a gas receipt and a newspaper article.

Evelyn unfolded the small piece of paper, recognizing the type-face of the Plain Dealer. The column discussed a substantial donation made by a Frances Duarte to Butterfly Babies & Children’s

Hospital for a new wing. Evelyn did not recognize the woman’s face or name. Perhaps Robert planned to take his pediatric talents elsewhere, or perhaps they’d considered making a contribution themselves. Evelyn refolded the paper and placed all the items back in Marissa’s purse, wishing she could put everything in her friend’s life back together as easily.

“SO WHAT’S UP between you and Evie?”

“None of your business,” David told his partner as he drained his fourth cup of the building manager’s coffee in as many hours.

He had five minutes to get another one before the next tenant came in. So far, the tenants interviewed had included a contractor, a pair of married surgeons, a banker, and a retired Hollywood agent who had moved home to be closer to his mother. The cops had learned exactly nothing; the other occupants of the building were quite alive but generally unacquainted with Grace and William. No one had any idea who could have done the killing, or when, or how. No one could shed light on Marissa’s attack either.

Riley drummed long fingers on the stack of tenant contracts.

“The path of true love does not run smooth.”

“And what would you know about true love? You’ve been married twice and divorced twice. I call that not learning from experience.”

“Ouch. You don’t have to get nasty about it.”

David poured a fifth cup. He didn’t blame Evelyn for hesitating—finding her husband in bed with another woman had made her gun-shy. He could get that. But hell, he’d dived into a freezing river to save her. If that didn’t prove his love, what would?

Patience, his father would say. David wished he’d inherited that trait along with the dark hair.

The door to the building manager’s office—now their temporary interview room—flew open with drywall-cracking force, even as David heard Frank pleading, “But, ma’am—”

Saying the woman seemed agitated would be like describing Ni-agara Falls as a slow leak. David expected to see bolts of energy fly from her fingertips. Fashionably thin, with swinging hair to distract from the acne scars on her cheeks, she appeared to fill the doorway despite the fact that her head would not have reached his chin.

“Are you the cops?”

Riley looked at the invader with interest. “That we are.”

“Are you going to find out who killed Grace?”

How could they possibly answer that? “Yes, ma’am,” David in-toned. “We will.”

The building manager stammered, “I told her you were busy—”

“It’s all right, Frank. We’re not hoity-toity here. We can handle unannounced guests. Please sit down, Ms.—”

“Eames.” She slammed the door in Frank’s face and threw herself into the nearest chair. It skidded four inches over the thin carpet before coming to a stop. “Joey Eames. I was Grace’s best friend.

Sometimes I think her only friend.”

David glanced at Riley, sat down, and crossed his legs. He had a strong hunch this woman knew something interesting. Not necessary helpful, but definitely interesting. “Tell us about her.”

“She was a doll. Very generous. Her parents were kind of stand-offish, so she was drawn to people like me, who express their emotions. I always express my emotions. It’s so hard not to be phony in this world, you know what I mean?”

“I—”

“Grace believed that she’d been blessed and it was her duty to give back to the world. Her charity work was important to her, not just a photo op like most of these rich bit—. And she was very intelligent too. Did you know she was a photojournalist? Her work is all around the penthouse. She was brilliant, really. We used to hit every art gallery in town at least once a month, just to see if they had anything new. She was instrumental in getting funds for the art museum to do that big expansion they’re doing. We’ve been inseparable

for two years, after we served on the Downtown Festival committee.

There was a picture of us at Tower City in Cleveland magazine, and that’s what it said. Inseparable.”

Joey Eames had no difficulty referring to her best friend in the past tense, David noted. For most people, that usually took some time. But Joey did seem to do everything faster than most people.

“We’re sure she was a very sweet person, Ms. Eames.” Riley reached into his jacket as if for his cigarettes, looked around for an ashtray, which didn’t materialize, and withdrew his hand. “But—”

“That’s what I mean! Who would kill a person like that? And in a place like this? It’s like Fort Knox. Only her scumbucket husband, that’s who. He’s the only one with motive, method, and opportunity, right?” She hitched her chair a few inches closer to the desk.

“William?”

“Of course, William! He never loved her! He only married her for her money. He had been engaged to some rich girl before, but she managed to see through him in time and threw him out. Three months later, he and Grace are walking down the aisle. She told me that one time, as if it proved that their marriage had been destined by the stars, instead of the obvious wife shopping it was. Poor kid.”

She paused, her face falling into repose for only a split second, just long enough to show genuine pain.

“Do you live around here, Ms. Eames?” David asked.

“Lakewood.”

“What’s Joey short for?”

Her mouth twisted, and he had the feeling she’d rather not answer. She scooted her chair an inch closer to him. “Jolene.”

“What makes you think William killed his wife?” He did not mention Markham’s alibi.

“Because he’s a scum-sucking opportunist, that’s why. The money was all Grace’s, and they had a prenup in case of divorce—but not death, get it? William doesn’t like me,” she added in an apparent non sequitur.

“Really?” Riley asked. “I can’t imagine why.”

His neutral tone didn’t fool her. She paused for a moment; the silence swept through the room like a slap.

David made his voice friendly and warm. “Had they been talking about divorce?”

“He was cheating on her.”

“Cheating on Grace.”

She raked her hair with long nails, rocking in her seat. “Of course, on Grace! Who do you think I mean?”

“I’m sorry, that’s just a big chunk of information. Who was the other woman?”

“Grace didn’t know. But she had been worried about it for months. She added up the little things—coming home in a different tie than he went to work in, putting in all these late nights but not mentioning any big projects or rush jobs that might account for it.

She thought it might be someone at work—and really, isn’t it always?”

“Did she confront him?”

“Oh, yeah. More than once. He kept denying it. She asked me about hiring a private detective.” She hitched the chair forward again. She’d be sitting in his lap in the next five minutes if he didn’t move back.

“You’ve had experience with private detectives?” Riley put in.

She glared at him again, as if examining the question for some sort of insult. “Not personally, no, but who else could she trust? And my girlfriend’s sister got one to follow her second husband, and she got great photos. That was a long time ago, but I told her I’d ask around.”

“Did you recommend someone?”

“No, I hadn’t come up with anyone. It was just last week she asked.”

“Did she tell William she would hire a private detective?”

“Well, duh! That would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it? He just

might have had the sense to get careful and the guy wouldn’t get any pictures.”

David threw in a curveball to keep her off balance but kept the warm tone. “Did you know the code to their penthouse?”

She picked at a loose thread in the seam of her slacks. “No.

What would I need it for?”

“Any reason—to drop something off when she wasn’t home, to feed her fish when they went on vacation.”

“They didn’t vacation much. The only thing she wanted to do was travel, and that was the last thing he ever wanted to do. But it makes sense, if you think about it. He didn’t want to leave his girlfriend. Besides, he’d rather spend money on toys. He always wanted a new car, a new computer, something for his office.”

“Did they argue about money?”

“All the time. He’d have gone through every cent if she didn’t hold him down. So”—she slapped her palms on her thighs with the air of summarizing—“he kills Grace, gets all her money, and doesn’t have to give up the girlfriend.”

“How long had this affair been going on?”

“Two months. Maybe three, I mean, since she started noticing how all his little inconsistencies added up to a ton of bullshit.”

“About as long as she’d been pregnant, then? Did she think his cheating had something to do with the baby?”

“Baby?”

Joey Eames sat, for the first time, perfectly still. She stared at David wide-eyed, every red blood cell draining from her face. “What baby?”

David felt a little ill himself. Only rookies made the mistake of revealing confidential information to a potential witness. But he couldn’t take the words back, so he might as well see where they led.

“Grace was two months pregnant.”

After a pause, the woman spoke. “No, she wasn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she would have told me.”

“Maybe she didn’t want to announce it yet.”

She slapped her hand down on the armrest so hard it must have hurt. “It’s not a damned announcement ! She would have told me! We told each other everything!”

“Apparently not this,” Riley said.

C H A P T E R

5

EVELYN TOOK OVER A PARKING SPACE FROM A DEparting Channel 15 van and hurried into the lobby of Grace’s and Marissa’s building before the overhanging clouds could drop their rain. Sometimes she thought clouds viewed the city of Cleveland the way pigeons saw people’s heads, as an attractive target.

“Morning, Justin,” she said to the doorman—or deskman, since he spent most of the time behind the front desk. He seemed to leave it only to dart out like a gunshot to open the door for any tenant, whether young, old, male, or female, carrying a heavy package or nothing more burdensome than a stock report, like the nicely dressed man she’d passed on the way in.

“Hi, Mrs. James.”

It amazed her when people remembered her name, a trick she couldn’t pull off to save her life. She knew his face, of course, but got the name only because it had been embroidered onto his shirt.

He marked his place in a pharmacology textbook on the counter and gave her his full attention.

“Are you in college, Justin?”

“Graduate school. The detectives are in there.” He nodded toward the closed office door behind him. She heard a woman’s raised voice.

“I won’t disturb them, then. I just need to collect samples from around the building and then get one more from the Markham apartment.”

“Sure.” Unlike the building manager, Frank, Justin didn’t care if she referred to the suites as apartments rather than penthouses. “I think there’s a cop up there guarding the place. If you call up, he’ll come down. He’s the keeper of the code.”

“The what?”

The younger man flushed a bit. “I guess Mr. Markham raised a stink about the cops knowing his code. He said they have to keep it to a minimum, so they only tell the guy who’s the sentry or whatever that day.”

“The contamination officer? He’s the one who notes everybody that goes in and out of the scene.”

“I guess. I don’t know why he bothers.”

“As long as we might have to examine something else or collect more evidence from it, we have to keep it under our constant custody, so to speak. Otherwise, if we wanted to come back later, we’d have to get a search warrant or a second consent from the owner.”