P is for Peril (44 page)

“Oh, really. Now it's my fault,” Tommy said. His annoyance had passed and there was something new in his face. He put his hand in his coat pocket; I knew he'd put the gun in one pocket, but I couldn't remember which. “You know, she's got a point. I know where I was last night and I can prove it because of her. How do I know you didn't clean out the safe yourself?”

Richard snorted. “Why would I do that? I don't have anyone to lay it off on, if you'll remember.”

“You say that now. You could have taken everything to L.A. when you went on Friday. You could have sold it all and kept the money, then come back here and made it look like a burglary. There's only your word you put it back where it was. I never saw the jewelry after you came back.”

“That's bullshit.”

“I'll give you bullshit. The safe wasn't drilled. Somebody had the fuckin' combination. There are only two of us who knew. I know it wasn't me, so that leaves you.”

“Stick it up your ass,” Richard said. He put his hand on the seat back so he could reach for me. I leaned forward and swung the pen in an arc and brought it down hard on the back of his hand. Richard bellowed with rage. He tried to grab me, but I scooted back to the driver's side of the truck. Enraged, he flipped the seat forward, prepared to haul me out. I braced myself and kicked twice at his hand. I caught him smartly with the heel of my Saucony, jamming three of his fingers.

“Fuck!” He pulled his hand back, flashing a furious look at Tommy. “Jesus, Tommy. Help me out here.”

“Answer my question.”

“Don't be an idiot. I didn't take anything. Now let's get her out of here.”

“You and I were the only ones who knew. Fuck this burglar shit. There wasn't any burglar.”

Richard slammed the passenger side door. “All right, you shit. I'm telling you the truth. I didn't do it. You get that? I wouldn't do that to you, but you'd do that to me because you've done it before. So how do I know it wasn't you?”

“I didn't open the safe. You did that, Richard. You made a point of going down to L.A. alone. The jewelry's gone now, you—”

Richard flew forward and grabbed Tommy by the front of his coat. He pulled him forward and then shoved. Tommy stumbled but regained his footing and came back at him. I saw Richard's fist fly out, catching Tommy in the mouth. He went down, tumbling backward into the two plastic garbage cans that shot apart like bowling pins. I leaned down and reached around the side of the seat, fumbling for the lever that would release the seat back. I felt the lock give way. I opened the door on the driver's side. I slithered through the gap, crouched, and came up along the fender still in a crouch. I could hear the chilling sound of flesh on flesh, a grunt as someone took the brunt of a blow. I lifted my head. Tommy was dragging himself to his feet, trying to free the Davis from his raincoat pocket. His legs seemed to weaken under him and he went down. There was blood streaming from his nose. He moaned, looking up at his brother in a daze. Richard kicked him. He bent down and took the gun from Tommy's rubbery grip. He stepped back and leveled the Davis at his brother. Almost lazily, Tommy put a hand up and said, “Oh, Richie, don't.”

Richard fired. The bullet tore into Tommy's chest, though the blood was slow to come.

Richard looked blankly at his brother's body and nudged him with his foot. “Serves you right, you little shit. Don't accuse me.”

He tossed the gun aside. I heard it clatter across the garage floor and skitter under the truck. He hit the button that activated the other garage door. His manner was matter-of-fact as he moved around the red Porsche to the black one and got in. He started the car and put it in reverse. Engine whining, he backed out of the garage and down the drive.

I scrambled around the front of the truck on my hands and knees. I crawled over to Tommy to check his pulse, but he was dead. I spotted the gun. I was just about to pick it up when I caught myself. My hand veered off abruptly like an airplane pilot aborting a landing. No way would I mar the fingerprints that Richard'd left on the gun. I got up and went through the back door, turning the deadbolt behind me as I headed for the phone. I was feeling cold with dread, worried Richard would turn around and come back for me.

I dialed 911 and told the dispatcher about the shooting. I explained who the shooter was, gave her his name, a description of his Porsche, and his license number, H-E-V-N-E-R-1. I recited the address in Horton Ravine, repeating everything twice. She told me to remain at the scene until the officers arrived. I said, “Sure,” and hung up. After that, I dialed Lonnie.

I finally crawled into bed at midnight. Detectives Paglia and Odessa arrived at the Heveners shortly after Lonnie showed up and they at least
pretended
to be sympathetic as they talked me through the events leading up to Tommy's death. They viewed me as a witness, not a suspect, which greatly affected their handling of me. Lonnie rode herd on them, nonetheless, protecting my rights any time he thought they were crossing the line in the course of the interview. The crime scene investigation seemed to take forever: fingerprints, sketches, and photographs; the endless narrative loop, in which I laid it all out again in excruciating detail. They bagged and tagged the Davis as evidence. It would probably be a year before I saw that gun again. Richard Hevener was picked up within the hour, driving south on the 101, on his way to Los Angeles. I figured it was still remotely possible he'd taken the jewelry, but I was not convinced. Lonnie was the one who drove me home.

Monday morning, I skipped the run and then I skipped the gym. I was feeling creaky and sore, my body a patchwork of bruises. Emotionally, I was feeling battered as well. I drove to the office and circled the block, finally finding a parking spot about six blocks away. I hobbled the distance and took the elevator up. When I walked into the firm, Jeniffer was sitting at her desk, applying a final coat of polish to her fingernails. For once, Ida Ruth and Jill didn't seem interested in persecuting her. I found the two of them chatting in the corridor. At the sight of me, they fell silent and fixed me with compassionate looks. Jill said, “Coffee's on in back. Shall I bring you a mug?”

“I'd appreciate that.”

I went into my office and dialed Fiona's number. When she answered the phone, we exchanged the obligatory chitchat. I was guessing she hadn't heard about the shooting because she never mentioned it. Or maybe she didn't care. That was always a possibility with her.

In the background, I could hear metal banging, the scraping of chairs, and assorted shrieks: Blanche's four rowdy kids spending the day at Grandma's. With Fiona's bare cement floors, it sounded like a roller rink or bumper cars. I said, “I have the answer to your question about the person living in that house on Bay. Turns out it's Clint Augustine's father and Clint's living with him . . .”

“I told you they were having an affair.”

“Well, not quite.”

Jill appeared and set a mug of coffee on my desk. I blew her a kiss and went on to describe Clint's medical condition, which I gave Fiona by name. I'd read about dermatomyositis in the
Merck Manual
I have sitting on my desk at home. Altogether not good, and his particular symptoms seemed severe. “I'm guessing that in the last year, he's been in no shape to engage in a sexual liaison or any other kind, for that matter.” I found it a relief to be talking about something other than the night before.

Fiona's response was grudging. “Perhaps I've misjudged her.”

“Hard to know,” I said, not wanting to rub it in.

“What about the missing money?”

“The cops are looking into it so I'll leave that to them. I won't be charging for the time I put in.”

She seemed to shake off her disappointment. “Well, I suppose that takes care of business. If you like, you can calculate what I owe you and deduct it from the balance of the retainer. No need for a final report. This call will suffice.”

“Sure, I can do that. I'll put a check in the mail to you this afternoon.” There was a moment's hesitation. “I wonder if I could ask you to bring me that in cash?”

“Sure. No problem. I can have it up there this afternoon.”

I was sitting at my desk, cleaning and organizing my files when Jeniffer came in and handed me a note.

“Where'd you get this?”

“It was just sitting on my desk.”

Feeling sick, I lifted the receiver and dialed 713 . . . the Houston, Texas, area code . . . and then 555-1212, for Directory Assistance. When the operator came on, I asked her for the sheriff's department in the county where Hatchet was located. She gave me the number and I made a note of it. I let it sit on my desk while I took out the file Mariah Talbot had given me. I glanced through the news clippings until I spotted the name of the sheriff who'd handled the Hevener murder case. I tried Mariah's number first and got the same recorded message I'd heard before. “Hello, this is Mariah Talbot. You've reached the officesof Guardian Casualty Insurance in Houston, Texas, . . .” I depressed the plunger. Anyone can leave a recorded announcement on an answering machine. Anyone can have a stack of business cards printed.

I dialed the Texas number and asked for Sheriff Hollis Cayo. I identified myself and told him where I was calling from. “I'm wondering about two murders you investigated in 1983. This was Jared and Brenda Hevener.”

“I remember them,” he said. “They were both fine people and deserved better than they got. How can I help?”

“I thought I should pass along some information. Tommy Hevener died last night. His brother shot him in the heat of an argument.”

There was a moment of quiet while he took that in. “I can't say I'm surprised. I hope you're not telling me Richard's headed this way.”

“No, no. The cops picked up him and put him in the county jail out here. I understand he's broke so the public defenders office will probably handle the case,” I said. “One thing I was wondering. Was Casey Stonehart ever caught?”

“No, ma'am. He's gone, disappeared right after the murders, probably the work of them two boys as well. Our best guess is he's dead, but we may never know. Texas is a big state. Lot of acreage available for unmarked graves.”

“I understand Brenda Hevener's sister and Guardian Casualty Insurance intend to file suit. Have you heard about that?”

“Yes, ma'am. I believe they're in the process of gathering information even as we speak. What's your interest?”

“I had an insurance investigator come into my office a week ago and I wondered if you knew her. This is a woman named Mariah Talbot.”

I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah, we know her. ‘Mariah the Pariah.' You're talking five foot nine, a hundred and forty pounds, twenty-six years old. Blue eyes and her hair's turned prematurely gray.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear you say that. I was beginning to think she'd misrepresented herself. How long has she worked for Guardian Casualty?”

“I never said she did. Fact is, Talbot's the name of Casey's older brother. Got another one named Flynn. I think there's another couple brothers in there somewhere, but those are the two I dealt with. The fact is, that whole family's bad. In jail and out, a bunch of sociopaths.”

I could feel myself squint. “And what's her connection?”

“The woman you're talking about is Casey's sister, Mariah Stonehart. The only girl.”

I said, “Ah.”

After we hung up, I laid my little head down on the desk. I should have known, I guess, but there was no doubt about it, she was slick.

At 10:30 I went over to the courthouse to do a records check for Tina Bart. I figured it would be a comfort to bury myself in endless mundane paperwork, where the chances of violence and betrayal were reduced to a minimum. Besides, I was genuinely curious about Glazer's business dealings, specifically his connection to Genesis Financial Management Services. The MFCU investigator was probably tracking the three larger corporations I'd heard mentioned—Millennium Health Care, Silver Age, and the Endeavor Group. Somehow I had the feeling things were beginning to snowball for Joel Glazer and his partner, Harvey Broadus.

I started with the Assessor's Office in the County Administration building, where I looked up the property tax records for Pacific Meadows. As expected, Glazer and Broadus were listed as the owners. Under their individual names, I checked for other properties they might own and made a list of those. I left the Assessor's Office and walked over to the courthouse to the County Recorder's Office. Files there were arranged according to the Grantor and Grantee Indexes: those who sell and those who receive. I spent an hour working my way through real property sales, grant deeds, trust deeds, tax liens, quit claims, and reconveyances. Tina Bart had been right. The Pacific Meadows building and lot had changed hands three times in the past ten years, and each sale had represented a substantial jump in price. The property was sold to Maureen Peabody in 1970 for $485,000. She'd sold it, in turn, to the Endeavor Group in 1974 for a tidy $775,000. The property sold again in 1976 to Silver Age for $1.5 million, and was finally purchased by Glazer and Broadus's company, Century Comprehensive, in 1980 for a whopping $3 million. By calculating the documentary transfer tax on the grant deed, I could see that the current assessed value was $2.7 million.