The Perfect Suspect (26 page)

Nick swung right off Main Street and started up the hill toward the ski area. Log houses, hotels and condominium buildings sheltered in the pines, separated by narrow dirt roads that wound around, disappeared and reappeared farther up the mountain. A half hour ago, Catherine had checked the GPS on her cell. The complex where Mathews had stayed was off one of those roads. “Could be a wild goose chase,” Nick said. “If our theory is correct, nobody will have seen Ryan Beckman anywhere near Mathews's condo.”

“She's familiar with Breckenridge,” Catherine said. “Supposedly she was here for a few days when Mathews was killed. The perfect alibi. Wherever she stayed, she would have made sure someone saw her and could vouch for her.”

Nick made another right and shifted into low gear. The car groaned as they started up the steep, narrow road. He slid to a stop in front of a glass-enclosed porch that jutted from a two-story, cedar-framed building. The word “Office” was printed in discreet black letters on the white plaque next to the front door.

A young woman with dark hair and quick eyes stood behind the counter. “What can we do for you?” she said as they crossed the lobby, another comfortable mountain affair with overstuffed chairs, Oriental rugs and a massive stone fireplace.

Nick went through the same routine: holding up the wallet and badge, explaining they were investigating a case, asking if she'd be willing to look at a few photos.

“I don't know.” She glanced around, but there didn't seem to be anyone else available. “I guess it's okay. What's this about?”

“We're trying to identify someone.” Nick pulled the photos from his shirt pocket and set them on the counter. “Take your time,” he said.

The woman shifted her gaze from one photo to the next, then lifted the photo of Sydney Mathews. “You're investigating a murder case,” she said, glancing up. “I saw her on TV. Wasn't she married to that guy that got shot? Candidate for senator or something? She got arrested.”

“Either of the other photos look familiar?” Nick said. Catherine could feel her stomach muscles contracting. It was always possible Beckman had been spotted at the condos, always possible the man in control had messed up. The woman took her time studying the other photos. Nick had the kind of patience it took to wade a creek, Catherine thought. Slogging forward a half inch at a time while staying upright and balanced.

“No, I never saw them.” The woman shook her head. “But I'm pretty sure the candidate stayed with us this summer. What was his name? Matheson or something?”

Catherine waited until they were back in the car, negotiating the ruts and rocks, the engine growling, before she said: “We can check every hotel or condo that Mathews stayed in while he was campaigning, but the chance is slim that we'll stumble on anyone who recognizes Beckman or ever saw them together. Beckman's counting on that. She's got everything figured out. She's ahead of us.”

Nick shot her a look that was lined with hope. “She doesn't know about Jameson's sworn statement,” he said.

Ryan sipped at the lukewarm coffee she had drained from the bottom of the container and stared at the black text on the computer screen. The downtown lights danced in the black windows at the end of the detective's area. The only sound was the faint hum of traffic on Thirteenth Street. She had told Martin to go on home, she'd write up the report, compile what they had on Sydney Mathews. The black widow, they had taken to calling her. Very rich, now that her husband was dead. What Martin didn't know, and she hadn't told him, was that the widow had been richer than David by millions, before she had met the man. All that would come out when the DA dug up the couple's financial records. It didn't matter. The motive was much simpler, more primitive. Sydney had put up with her husband's philandering long enough. They had argued, and she had shot him. The phone calls from the Denver house and the Evergreen house proved Sydney and David had talked to each other eight times over a two-hour period the night he died. Fortunately, the calls had ended by eleven o'clock, which allowed plenty of time for Sydney to drive to Denver. And ballistics had confirmed that the gun hidden away in Sydney's desk drawer was the murder weapon.

It was beautiful.

Except for Catherine McLeod. It should have been a simple matter to take care of her last night. The instant she got out of her car in the garage, she would have been dead. But she didn't pull into the garage, and that was a miscalculation on her part, Ryan realized. When Ryan had driven down the alley, she had spotted the tracks leading from the gravel apron into the garage and deduced that McLeod usually parked in the garage. Still, Ryan could have shot her in the yard, if it hadn't been for the damn dog yapping and jumping about and McLeod zigzagging all over the place. Another perfect chance muffed with McLeod framed in the kitchen window, and all Ryan had to do was pull the trigger. She had missed, and the thought of failure burned like a hot coal inside her. Now McLeod knew she was a target. Ryan would have to rethink the hunt.

She had run into people like Catherine McLeod before. Something different about them, edgy and distrustful, operating on instincts that defied logic, yet seemed to work out. She had gone after murderers and bank robbers and rapists in Minneapolis, and within minutes she knew when she was up against one of those intuitive types. Survivors, was how she thought of them. They could outrun bullets. But eventually they stumbled, let go of their survival instincts, and that was when she had gotten them.

She finished typing the times of the phone calls between the Evergreen and Denver houses and pressed the print key. “We've worked out an agreement,” David had told her. “Sydney will stay with me through the campaign.”

“What about after the campaign?” Ryan had asked. The memory of that last conversation at David's house stoked her anger. She could feel the heat rising in her chest, warming her cheeks.

“Listen, Ryan.” He had used that irritating, condescending voice, as if she weren't quite up to his mental capacities or his social standing. She had wanted to smash in his face. “You and I both have to move on.”

Strange, she didn't remember actually pulling the trigger. She was certain she had no intention of shooting him. She had wanted him to open his eyes and look at her. She had wanted him to listen to her. Then he would have understood there was no room for Sydney, no need for any other women. She would be enough.

She got up, stepped outside the cubicle and collected the sheets the printer had spit out. There had been a few glitches. Last night at McLeod's house was the worst, but in the end, things would work out. Sydney and her stupid phone calls, the murder weapon in the desk drawer—the grieving widow would be tried and convicted.

Jeremy Whitman could have posed a problem, but she had taken care of him. Now there was only the woman out on the sidewalk and Catherine McLeod who knew too much for their own good.

She thumbed through the printed sheets. Another possible glitch, she realized. Motivation. If Sydney Mathews had killed her husband out of rage or jealousy over his affairs, the district attorney might want to produce evidence of David's affairs. Some eager investigator could start looking for the women. God, there was always the chance an investigator might stumble onto her! She clamped her eyes shut against the possibility. There was nothing to link her with David. Except for the woman on the sidewalk, and sooner or later, an eager investigator could stumble onto who she was.

She had to find the woman and silence her. Then she had to take care of the reporter. Catherine McLeod, persistent, dangerous, and clever.

Ryan started back to her cubicle, then stopped. There were footsteps out in the corridor, coming closer. Nick Bustamante working late on the gang angle in the Whitman murder, she suspected. She wondered how much his girlfriend might have told him, then pushed that thought away. Years ago she had taught herself to focus on threats that were real, not those she imagined. She was capable of imagining a lot of crazy things that never happened. If Bustamante had anything solid, he would have gone to Internal Affairs. Which meant his girlfriend didn't have any solid evidence. Not yet.

Martin rounded the corner into the detective's area. “Figured you'd be working late,” he said. He looked ruffled and tired, a late-in-the-day beard shadowing his chin. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Look, we're close to winding up this case. You should take some time off, try to relax. I'm worried about you. This is a big case, but it's not, you know, personal.”

Ryan gestured toward the file in his hand. “What do you have?”

“ID and address from Mathews's Internet provider,” he said, handing her the file. Ryan made herself look away from the questions in his eyes. “Full name is Kim Gregory,” Martin said. “The address is registered to an escort service. Morningtide LLC.”

“Lovely,” Ryan said.

25

“Shot at? You were shot at and all you had to say was that nobody was hurt? Then you take off. You're out of contact for twenty-four hours? What the hell is going on?” Marjorie rose from behind the desk, cheeks puffed out and red, and for an instant, Catherine had the image of a big red balloon about to explode. It was true. She had turned off her cell yesterday; the story was developing. She had nothing she could write about. She sank back in the chair.

“I'm here, and I'm okay,” Catherine managed. She could tell by the way Marjorie rolled her eyes that she knew it was a lie. She was on edge, every nerve raw and flayed—Marjorie probably saw that as well. Catherine had tried the last two nights to put the shooting behind her, block it out of her mind, but even with Nick—the warmth and strength of him beside her—she had lain awake, replaying every minute in her mind, watching a jerky black-and-white film over and over again in slow motion. Had she parked in the garage . . . God, had she parked in the garage, she would be dead.

“You're off this story,” Marjorie said. “The police have the killer. She'll be tried and no doubt convicted. Jason will handle the story from now on.”

Catherine took a moment before she said, “An innocent woman standing trial for murder, an innocent young man shot to death in LoDo, and another innocent person in danger. I have to keep going. I'm the only one the caller has contacted.”

“Which doesn't mean anything.” Marjorie sat down hard, rolled in close to the desk and leaned forward. “You've put messages on your blog, but she hasn't called back. My guess is she's left the state, maybe the country.”

Catherine had started shaking her head before Marjorie finished. “She doesn't want Beckman to get away with murder. Maybe she was in love with David. I heard the anger in her voice.”

“What you heard was fear,” Marjorie said. “Frankly I detect the same thing in your voice.”

“Look, Marjorie,” Catherine said. “It won't do any good to take me off the story.”

“Excuse me?”

“Beckman knows I know about her. Do you really believe she'll drop the whole matter if I stop writing about David Mathews? I don't want to go through life looking over my shoulder, wondering if Beckman's waiting in the garage every time I drive home. Let me stay on the story. I'll find the witness. I'll put another message on the blog.” Catherine got to her feet, took hold of the doorknob and waited.

Finally Marjorie gave a reluctant nod, and Catherine let herself out into the newsroom. An eerie silence blanketed the cubicles; heads suddenly tilting toward computer screens. A second ago, she knew, every reporter had been watching the confrontation through the glass partition of Marjorie's office.

Catherine rounded the corner into her own cubicle, dropped onto her chair and stared at the phone. Where are you? Who are you? Why won't you call? The mixture of inevitability and futility clamped around her like a vise. She pounded a fist on the desk; the keyboard skidded sideways a little. Case closed, according to the police. Killer apprehended, evidence handed over to the district attorney, an immense legal juggernaut running down Sydney Mathews. And she had to locate an anonymous caller who, as Marjorie said, had probably left the state, relieved to put the whole affair behind her.

The phone rang, and Catherine felt her heart jump. The readout said unknown. She grabbed the receiver. “Catherine McLeod,” she said, pressing the cool plastic against her ear. She could hear her heart pounding.

“Catherine?” It was a man's voice. “Just getting back to you on Detective Beckman.”

It was a moment before her thoughts stopped racing and she settled on the name: Larry Burns from the
Minneapolis Star Tribune
. “What have you got?” she said, tucking the receiver under her shoulder and placing her fingers over the keyboard, willing her heart to stop thumping.