The Perfect Suspect (18 page)

They rounded the corner and started downhill. Rex knew the route by heart; it was as if he were leading her, ears flattened, nose pointed, intent on his job. He'd been dancing around the kitchen by the time she got home last night. Early morning, really, almost 3:00 a.m. She hadn't meant to fall asleep at Nick's. Somewhere in the blackness, she had become dimly aware of noises, a ringing phone, rushing water, padding footsteps. She had sensed the movements and displacement of air and bolted awake, disoriented for a moment, the familiar surroundings of her own bedroom nowhere in sight. Nick had leaned over and she had felt his lips brush her forehead. “Sorry to wake you,” he'd said. He was dressed in dark slacks and a light-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled partway up. “Have to go to work.”

“What time is it?” Catherine had pushed herself up on one elbow and squinted at the clock on the bedside table. 2:17 a.m. Panic had rushed through her. She'd had every intention of going home before midnight and getting some sleep. She had wanted to be at her best this morning when she met Jeremy. There was always the chance he would decide against going to Internal Affairs. After all, he'd been half-drunk last night, and how well she knew that things had a way of looking different in the sober morning. She would need her wits about her if he had changed his mind. She had swung her legs off the bed and begun gathering her clothes strung over the floor. “Rex is waiting,” she said.

“If I weren't so secure in our relationship”—Nick had walked into the bathroom and was combing his hair in front of the mirror—“I'd be wondering, who's Rex?”

She had dressed hurriedly, pulling on her blouse and skirt, stepping into her high-heeled sandals and running her fingers through her hair. She must have asked Nick about the phone call because he told her some guy had been mugged in LoDo, robbed and shot to death.

“Another random gang attack?” she'd said. The
Journal
had covered the attacks, that is, whenever Jason Metcalf had been able to pry new information out of the police. Random gang attacks wasn't a story anybody in Denver wanted plastered on the front pages, certainly not the restaurants, galleries and theaters that depended on people coming downtown. Nick had worked the investigations from the beginning, but the attacks weren't something they talked about. His work and her work were incompatible in some ways. Best left at the front door.

“I really can't speculate,” he said, the smallest edge in his voice that suggested he was aware he was talking to a reporter. Had just slept with a reporter who—he had to know—was halfway in love with him. Still there was always that line that dropped between them at the most unexpected moments.

He had walked her outside, across the small concrete porch and down the sidewalk to her convertible. The neighborhood was still, except for the intermittent clicking noise of a cricket. The daisies and petunias that she and Nick had planted last May had a washed out, green cast in the moonlight. Before he closed her door, he'd leaned over and said, “I'll call you tomorrow.”

She had driven through the empty streets of Highland, turned into the alley behind her house and parked next to the garage. Shadows filled the rows of backyards on either side of hers. The houses were dark, except for a couple of lights glowing in the windows next door and the light she had left on in her kitchen, which threw an eerie illumination across her yard. In the kitchen window, she could see Rex jumping about. His barking was muffled, but she recognized the tone—a mixture of scolding and relief.

The minute she unlocked the door and pushed it open, Rex had come bounding outside. She closed the door and watched him from the window. This affair with Nick Bustamante really wasn't fair to Rex. Leaving him alone so many evenings, missing his walks. She wondered if it was fair to anyone.

As soon as Rex had scratched at the door, she let him in. Then she had poured a glass of red wine. She had meant to put the bottle away—it was always better when the wine bottles were pushed far back in the cabinet, easier to tell herself she no longer needed a drink when she couldn't see the bottles. But the bottle was still on the counter, shimmering in the light. She carried her glass down the shadowy hall into her bedroom. By the time she had finished the wine and gone back to the kitchen to refill her glass, Rex was snoring on his bed in the corner of her bedroom.

She could always count on jogging to push the dull, fuzzy headache into some peripheral part of her brain where it wasn't as noticeable. It was working this morning. Rex took the corner a half block from home and broke into a run. She unhooked the leash and jogged after him, not taking her eyes away as he raced up the little grassy hill in front of her house. It was a moment before she realized that a black sedan had pulled close to the curb and was slowing down. Nick was behind the wheel. He had the passenger window rolled down before she ran over. She leaned into the window, jogging in place. “What is it?” she said, still keeping an eye on Rex who must have seen the car before she did because he came bounding toward her.

“We have the ID on the mugging victim,” he said. “I thought you might like to know.”

“Who is he?” The sense of dread was like a weight pressing down on her. It was unlike Nick to want to inform her about any investigation he was on.

“One of Mathews's staffers,” he said. “Name of Jeremy Whitman.”

Catherine pressed her hand over her mouth and looked away. She was aware of Rex crowding her legs, and she reached down and grabbed his collar. The leather felt rough against her palms. She grabbed the leash, giving herself a moment, a jumble of thoughts racing through her head. Jeremy would have alerted Internal Affairs this morning, and by afternoon, Detective Beckman would have been pulled off the investigation. Now Jeremy was dead.

“Are you okay?” Nick got out of the car and came around to her. He set a hand on her shoulder.

“I just needed a minute,” she said.

“You knew him?”

She tried to swallow, but it was as if she had a mouth full of sand. “I've seen him at campaign events. I met him for the first time yesterday,” she said. “What happened?”

“Mugged,” Nick said. “Robbed. Wallet's missing. Probably tried to put up a fight and was shot.”

Catherine had to look away again. There was nothing to say. If she told Nick Bustamante about Mathews and Beckman in Aspen and the witness on the telephone, he would have to take the information to police headquarters. And what would that accomplish? Nothing. Stories from a dead man and an anonymous caller? But Detective Beckman would know someone besides Jeremy Whitman knew about her.

“I've got to get to the newsroom,” Catherine said. She was aware that Nick intended to kiss her, but he had only brushed her cheek with his lips before she started running up the sidewalk behind Rex.

17

The Evergreen house, an oasis hidden in the pines, and the pines singing in the wind. Quietly sumptuous, not loud and clamoring for attention like some houses where Ryan had gone on domestic disturbances, but filled with quiet antiques and art she had seen in magazines, flipping the pages, wondering if anyone actually lived like that! All tastefully furnished with Sydney's money, she had assumed when David brought her here. She had even asked if that was the case as she sunk into the deep, soft mattress with the silky sheets, candlelight flickering over the damask walls, worry nipping at her that he might not want to risk losing such luxury. David had given her the kind of smile meant to evaporate her concerns. “I can buy and sell Sydney,” he said, crawling in beside her and taking her in his arms.

Now Sydney Mathews stood at the front door, barefoot, looking as if she had slept in the black tee shirt and knit slacks static plastered to her legs. She ran her fingers through her hair and shifted her gaze from Ryan to Martin and out to the Jefferson County sheriff 's officers below the porch steps. “I've told you all I know,” she said. The smallest quiver of uncertainty split her voice, as if she knew the fate about to overtake her, and also knew there was nothing she could do. For an instant, Ryan almost pitied the woman.

“Contact my lawyer,” Sydney said.

“We have a search warrant for the house and premises.” Ryan held out the warrant signed by a Jefferson County district judge this morning after she and Martin had produced the phone records showing numerous calls between the two houses in the hours before David was murdered. The warrant specified computers, phones, financial records and a possible gun. They had also informed the judge about the couple's public argument at campaign headquarters and separation. A slim thread of evidence to connect Sydney to the murder, Ryan knew, and she had held her breath as the judge rubbed his chin and studied the warrant. Finally he had picked up a pen and scratched his name.

“Search the house?” Sydney let out an angry scoff. “That's ridiculous! I'm getting my brother.” She leaned into the house and yelled: “Wendell! Wendell! I need you!”

“What is it?” Ryan could see the man galloping down the stairway that ascended along the entry wall. He wore a navy blue exercise outfit, casual and rumpled with white stripes running down the sides of the pant legs.

“They say they have a search warrant,” Sydney wailed, as if the idea was inconceivable, something that occurred in the public housing projects and other places she never went. She leaned against her brother who slipped an arm around her shoulders to hold her up, Ryan thought, because otherwise, the woman looked as if she might crumble onto the polished wood floor.

“Take your search warrant and shove it,” Wendell said. “We're calling our lawyer.” He grabbed the door and started to shut it, but Martin had already shouldered himself inside.

“Call all the lawyers you want,” Ryan said. She was aware of the scratch of tires behind her, the slamming of car doors. Searching a house this big would take at least six detectives. Sergeant Crowley would be here in a few minutes. “We're searching the house and grounds,” she said. “Two detectives will take the outside.” She tossed her head back toward the Jeffco officers standing below the porch. “The other detectives will take the upstairs. My partner and I will search the main floor. You and Mr. Lane will wait in the corner of the great room under an officer's guard.”

“This is preposterous.” Wendell shifted from one tennis shoe to the other, a man accustomed to being in control, Ryan thought, giving orders, not taking them, out of his comfort zone now.

Martin kept his shoulder against the door. “Let's go,” he said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ryan saw two detectives peel off and start moving around the boulders and pines in front of the house, kicking at piles of leaves and pine needles. The other detectives came up the steps—burly sport coats pushing past the couple, ignoring Sydney Mathews with her wide, affronted eyes and her fist jammed against her mouth, ignoring her brother with the angry red rash rising on his neck above the collar of his shirt. Wendell was trying to sooth his sister, speaking softly, as if Ryan and Martin and the other detectives couldn't hear, pulling his cell phone out of the clip on his belt, saying he would call the lawyer, she wasn't to worry. One of the Jeffco officers ushered them toward the back of the house.

The other two detectives started up the wide staircase in the entry just as Sergeant Crowley and four lab techs came through the door. “We're just getting started,” Ryan told the sergeant. “I thought I would take the rooms at the back of the house. Martin will concentrate on the living room and office.” She nodded toward the rooms on either side.

Crowley wore a satisfied look on his fleshy face, and Ryan knew the sergeant would take the entire house, walking around, assisting in the search, making sure everything was done by the book. With a high-profile case like this, there couldn't be any mistakes. One of the lab techs pulled a camera out of the bag on his shoulder as the other techs followed Martin into the living room.

Ryan headed into the great room where a bank of windows framed views of the high mountain peaks, crevices laced with snow. Clouds shot through with sunlight drifted across the sky. Just beyond the windows clumps of yellow and purple mums rose out of a bed of rocks and scraggly bushes. Sydney and Wendell were huddled on a small sofa in the far corner, the uniform standing beside them.

Ryan pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, lifted the cushions of the larger sofa onto the floor, and began checking for unusual bumps or hard places. She ran her fingers along the inside edge of the sofa. Nothing, but what had she expected to find in this poor, deluded woman's house? Believing her husband's lies, agreeing to take him back. God, it was pathetic.

She left the cushions on the floor and moved on to the tables and credenzas, yanking out drawers, rifling through the collections of papers, notebooks, scissors, rubber bands, feeling a little electric charge moving through her. There was something almost unbearably exciting about trashing the place in front of David's wife. She was barely aware of the soft whisperings on the other side of the room: “It'll be all right. Routine in a murder investigation. Landon's on the way.” Landon being the lawyer, Ryan knew.

She walked over to the bookcase that occupied an entire wall and began pulling the books from the shelves, taking pleasure in it, memories crowding around her:
You mean you haven't read Gibbons? What about Shakespeare? Don't tell me you haven't read
Hamlet
! What about Jane Austen? I would think you had devoured her, all those women desperate for men?

“I'm afraid I haven't had the time, David,” she had told him. They had stood in front of the shelves, and he had removed one book, then another, holding the gilded leather covers as if they were real gold, thumbing the pages so gently they might have been breakable, amusement and a sense of superiority floating off him like aftershave. She had wanted to pick up a book and smash his face. She had come off a pig farm in North Dakota, the kind of life that exceeded David Mathews's powers of imagination, given the name of the boy she should have been—a boy who would have grown up to run the farm. She had a two-year associate's degree in the local community college. Oh, my God, how proud she had been of that associate's degree, until she found out how little it meant to people like David with a degree from the University of Illinois. She had learned about herself that evening in front of the bookcase. She was smarter than David Mathews in the ways that counted. She could handle herself; she knew how to get what she wanted. He would leave his wife for her, that was a certainty. She had that kind of power.