The Blue Journal (14 page)

“You seem to be interested in much younger women, correct?”

“I'm not talking about children,” he replied with a sudden flash of anger.

“No, I know you're not. I am.”

“Are you?”

They stared at each other without speaking. Then Randi said, “I won't if you don't want me to.”

“She was a demented bitch,” Avery responded angrily.

Randi waited for more.

“How about we skip the whole Knoebel saga for the time being?” Avery said.

Randi stared at him for a moment, then said, “It seems the Knoebel saga, as you call it, has become part of your life.”

“I don't want to talk about my son right now.”

Randi nodded. “All right, we can discuss Kyle another time. Let's get back to you. I mean, all of this talk about other women. You said it's not just the sex. It's the romance, the thrill of new love, right?”

Mitchell Avery nodded.

“What about your wife. Doesn't she love you?”

“Of course she does. And I love her. I love her very much. But it's different.”

“Or, it's not different. Isn't that the point?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean it's the same old thing. There's no sense of discovery anymore. No risk.”

“I suppose.”

“No excitement,” she added. “No romance.”

“Exactly.”

“So is that the problem for you? The need for something new?”

Avery forced a smile. “There's an old joke about the necessities of life for a man stranded on a desert island. He needs food, water, shelter, clothing, a woman.” He paused. “And another woman.”

Randi shook her head.

“Hey, I cleaned it up for you.”

“Your wife is still very attractive.”

“Hell yes.” Mitchell looked into her eyes. “Joan's a great-looking woman. Sheer class, you know? Dresses like something out of a magazine. Takes care of herself, too. Exercises. Stays in shape. And for what? We go to bed at night, and all I want to do is sleep.”

“And how does she react?”

“She's hurt, and she says so. She says I'm ignoring her, rejecting her. Then we argue. Or worse, we go through the goddamned motions, and then sex with her is about as thrilling as watching reruns of
I Love Lucy
.” He stopped at the harshness of his own words.

“How do you think Joan feels about all this?”

“Women are different,” he said reflexively. Then he smiled. “It's like that comedy routine about cavemen. Women nest. Men hunt.”

“Thank you, Tarzan.”

Avery forced a laugh. “We should go on safari some night. I'll show you what I mean.”

She knew that he intended it as a joke, but there was something about the comment that troubled her, something disturbingly familiar. She was tempted to ask him about Elizabeth Knoebel again but let it pass for now. “So sometimes it's not about romance, or feeling younger, sometimes is has nothing to do with anything but the sex. Is that right?”

“Maybe.”

“There are serious things we need to discuss to help you get clear on where you're going with all of these feelings.”

“Oh sure. So you can convince me I'm a selfish egotist. Well, guess what—it's too late, I already know that.” Avery averted his gaze again. “This is going nowhere, you see that, don't you? I can't go on fooling myself like this.”

Randi watched him for a moment. Then she said, “Don't sell yourself short, Mitchell. People do it all the time.”

CHAPTER 15

Kovacevic spent time processing each of the names Walker had gathered thus far, using the Department of Motor Vehicles, matching license plates and registrations, identifying the automobiles owned by each of the families. He had already gathered brochures of various cars that bore any resemblance to the description of the sedan given by Mrs. Fitzmorris, the neighbor who remembered a car speeding away from the Knoebel house on Tuesday afternoon. He now printed a few more examples from online ads, pictures of other cars that matched those registered to the people on their newly formed list.

“Good work, Kovie,” Walker said as he looked through the photos. “Detective work isn't usually glamorous,” he reminded the young officer, “but sometimes it can be easier than people think.” He smiled. “You might want to keep that last part to yourself.”

They arrived at the Fitzmorris home at the appointed time. Mrs. Fitzmorris was waiting for them at the front door. She was a stylish woman Walker figured to be around sixty, but looked better than that. She was dressed in a pink cashmere top and matching cardigan, her style well manicured and well kept.

After an exchange of polite greetings, the two policemen followed her into the house.

Shutting the door behind them, she said, “You know, Detective, it's terrible to have a thing like this happen right here in our neighborhood.”

Walker nodded sympathetically at the idea of the privileged class having their idyllic lives disrupted by something as tawdry as murder.

“Believe me,” she assured him, “I want to help if I can. It's just that I don't really know very much.”

“That's all right,” Walker assured her in his most studied manner. “You never know what little detail you might provide, and believe me, everything helps. If you'll just answer a few questions, we'll be out of your way.”

Mrs. Fitzmorris led them into her kitchen and seated them at the polished gray granite island in the center of the room. Walker had a look around, at the Wolf stove and double oven, the Sub-Zero side-by-side refrigerator, the pantries and glass-fronted expanse of shelves. As she moved to the other side of the counter, facing them, she appeared ready to host a cable channel cooking show. “I feel as if I should offer you coffee but I never drink it myself,” she said with a nervous giggle. “Can I make you some tea?”

Walker politely declined. “We'll only take a few minutes of your time. We just need to review a few things.” He pulled out a typewritten report and began reading. “On Tuesday afternoon you returned home with some groceries at about five, came into the house, and placed the bags here, in the kitchen.”

“That's right.”

“Then you went back outside to collect the mail. That was when you saw the car coming from the Knoebels' house.”

“Yes.”

“And you noticed it because it was going so fast.”

“That's right,” she nodded, looking from Walker to Kovacevic. “That's right.”

“And what time was that?”

“As I told this young man, it was just about five. I put the bags down and went right back out for the mail.”

“Uh huh. Just as you had said.” He turned to Kovacevic, who handed him a group of brochures and photographs. “We want you to spend a moment looking at these. They're pictures of several different cars. We think it's possible that one of them might be the type of car you saw leaving the Knoebel property that day.”

She nodded dutifully.

“Just take your time and have a look at them.”

Mrs. Fitzmorris spread the prints and color fold-outs across the countertop.

“I believe you said the color of the car was . . .” Walker paused, offering her the opportunity to fill in the blank.

“Gray. I'm pretty sure it was a medium gray.”

Walker smiled in appreciation. “Excellent, that also confirms your earlier recollection.”

Mrs. Fitzmorris appeared pleased with herself, and Kovacevic made a show of writing something in his notepad. Then Walker and Kovacevic watched as she carefully scrutinized each of the pictures.

“This could be the one.” Mrs. Fitzmorris was pointing to a late-model Mercedes-Benz sedan. “I'm not very good at cars,” she admitted. “They all kind of look the same to me nowadays.”

Walker smiled. “I know what you mean. Let me ask you, would it be helpful if we began to eliminate some? Take out the ones it couldn't possibly be?”

“Yes,” she nodded enthusiastically, “that might help.”

They spent a few minutes setting aside the pictures of cars that were not close to her original description. That included the models of Jeeps and Explorers driven by the Colellos, the Gormans, the Wentworths, and the Averys; the type of small sedan owned by Nettie Sisson; the make of Fred Wentworth's station wagon; and Mitchell Avery's sports car. That left them a few sedans. Of those, Mrs. Fitzmorris still thought it might be the Mercedes.

“But I'm not sure,” she warned them. “I'm really not sure.”

“That's all right,” Walker said soothingly. “You've been very patient. I just have one more question. I apologize, because I know you've been asked this before.”

“Go right ahead,” Mrs. Fitzmorris said.

“I want you to think back to Tuesday afternoon. I want you to concentrate on the period of time from when you first drove up to your house, right up to the moment you went out to get your mail. All right?”

She nodded.

“I want you to think back and tell me, did you hear anything at all that might have been a gunshot? Anything?” She was already shaking her head when he added, “The sound of a car backfiring? Something loud falling? A cracking sound, like a tree branch breaking?”

She was still shaking her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all like that,” she told him.

“All right. I just needed to be sure.” He offered up another approving smile. “If we get any additional information, we may ask to bother you one more time.”

“That'll be fine,” she said pleasantly. “I'm glad to help.”

“Just one more thing. You're sure the time was around five in the evening?”

“I am,” she said.

Outside the house, Kovacevic organized the pictures as they walked to the car. Walker said, “I don't think we're there yet.”

“You don't think it was the Benz?”

Walker shook his head. “There was no real flicker of recognition, no
Aha
moment. It seemed like she picked it because it wasn't any of the others.” He thought it over. “Some of these people probably lease cars through their businesses. Cars that wouldn't have matched up on the basic DMV name check. You need to run that down, then we'll have another crack at Mrs. Fitzmorris.”

“Okay, but just so you know, a couple of the cars we identified here were leased, but they were registered in personal names. I'll drive by their houses and check the license plates, then match them up with company leases.”

“Good,” Walker said. “Do it.”

They climbed into Walker's Explorer, then sat there for a moment before he started the engine.

“What is it, sir?”

“I'm not sure. It's Doctor Knoebel, I think. I can't shake the feeling that this is all too easy, you know?”

“Easy?”

“When I met with him I mentioned his wife's computer, but he didn't say much about it. Then, when I called him today, he didn't ask anything about what we found.” He shook his head. “We've got to know if Teddy is absolutely sure the files weren't tampered with recently. Get him on the horn.”

As Kovacevic tracked down Blasko, Walker fired up the engine and drove off, turning left out of the Fitzmorris house and past the tree-lined entrance to the Knoebels' property. As he passed the now familiar gravel driveway, he wondered if this was the same route Elizabeth Knoebel's killer had taken, just three days before.

CHAPTER 16

Back in his office, Walker found a message from Kettering, Ohio. He returned the call to Sgt. Fitzgerald.

“I appreciate you getting back to us,” Walker said. “You know what I'm calling about?”

“Nettie Sisson.”

“You're familiar with the case?”

“Very.”

“I don't have much in the way of detail,” Walker admitted. “We have a file, some of which was sealed, so we had a local judge open it. Was hoping you could fill in the background.”

“Mind if I ask what this is about? Nettie in any kind of trouble?”

“I hope not. She lives in this area now. Employed as a part-time housekeeper. The woman she worked for was found murdered a couple of days ago. Nettie discovered the body when she got to work that morning.”

Sgt. Fitzgerald whistled softly into the phone. “Cause of death?”

“Single gunshot to the woman's head. No struggle, no evidence of a break-in or a robbery. Appears the vic knew her killer.”

“I see.”

“Given Mrs. Sisson's history, you could see why I'd be curious about her.”

Walker could almost hear the man nodding at the phone. “You want me to start at the beginning?”

“If you have the time, that'd be great.”

“All right,” Fitzgerald said. “Nettie grew up here. Most people thought her mother was nuts. Everyone knew her father was a drunk.” He hesitated. “All right if I give this to you straight, or you want an official presentation?”

“I prefer straight talk,” Walker said.

“Okay. The father was an abusive prick. Beat the wife, beat Nettie, died of cirrhosis before he made fifty. Nettie's mother died soon after.”

“Natural causes?”

“Yeah, if there is such a thing for a woman who suffered the way she did. Anyway, Nettie became the usual story. Battered kid finds her way into an abusive marriage of her own. Married a local guy, Ralph Sisson, a real beauty. Another violent alcoholic. Had a couple of visits from our department when he got out of hand, but given the years she spent with her father, Nettie had plenty of experience in dealing with his type. Most of her married life she ran interference for their two daughters, struggling to keep her husband from getting at them, bearing the brunt of his drunken bullshit. When the girls were old enough they took off, leaving Nettie to face him alone. Things got worse, but for reasons no one could understand, Nettie hung in there. I guess she figured she could handle it.”