The Perfect Suspect (27 page)

“You understand I don't have access to the police personnel files, but I talked to a couple of superiors. Detective Ryan Beckman, two awards in marksmanship, honored for showing restraint and good judgment in one incident, and for bravery in the line of duty in another.”

Catherine bent over the keyboard, and the clack of the keys punctuated the recital of Beckman's record. “What were the honors about?” she said.

“She was a rookie, out on patrol, when a drunk threatened her with a knife. Instead of shooting him, she talked him into dropping the knife. Then, a year before she left the force, she shot a man to death in defense of her partner. The victim had refused her partner's order to drop his weapon and Beckman fired. She was exonerated by both the police and DA investigations. Received a commendation for bravery.”

Catherine kept typing. Great! She thought. Detective Beckman, a hero.

“Seemed to affect her, though,” the voice on the line went on. “Not the shooting itself, her superior told me, but being suspended during the investigation. She acted like she had been unfairly treated, like they should've given her a parade or something. Anyway, the superior thinks that's why she started looking to relocate in another city.”

“I owe you, Larry.” Catherine wasn't sure what the information meant, or if it meant anything, except that Beckman wasn't afraid of facing another human being and pulling the trigger.

“There's more,” Larry said. “Everything Beckman's former superiors had to say was more or less the official line, the only thing they could say. The same stuff that was in the newspaper. But I have a couple of good drinking buddies on the force, and they filled me in on the unofficial line. This isn't for publication, you understand. I promised 'em.”

Catherine had stopped typing. “It's background,” she said. “I'm working on a story that could involve Beckman, and I'm trying to understand what makes her tick.”

A loud guffaw filled the line. “From what these guys said, that is the million dollar question. The shooting she was involved in, they say, could've been avoided.”

Catherine started typing again: “The guy holding a gun on her partner was a kid, twenty years old. The partner said he was talking the kid down when Beckman fired the shot. Another half second, he said, and he would've had the kid's gun. Of course, nobody knows that, and the partner might have ended up dead. She was hailed as a hero in the press—and I have to take my share of blame for that. Beautiful, brave female detective! People loved the story. Beckman had followed standard procedure and was exonerated, but her partner asked to work with somebody else. Other guys that worked with her, they said she was trigger happy, quick to flare up, irrational. They didn't trust her.”

“So that's why she left,” Catherine said. The Denver police department would have looked into her background; they would have gotten the official version of events.

“Then there was the domestic abuse case. Really made the guys mad.” Larry exhaled a long puff of air that sounded as if he were blowing out a candle. “Two of the guys I spoke with got a call to Ryan's house about 2:00 a.m. one morning. Nobody there but Ryan and her husband. She'd been married three or four years to a guy who owned a software company. Made a lot of money, and they lived in a fancy neighborhood.”

Catherine typed in the words: domestic abuse. Strange how you never know what might turn up in someone's background. It had never occurred to her that Ryan Beckman could be the victim of domestic abuse.

“The call was hushed up, kept out of the news,” Larry said. “I sure didn't hear anything about it. That was another thing that ticked off the guys. If there had been a domestic abuse call on one of them, they would have been suspended. Big investigation. Bottom line, they could have lost their jobs. Real double standard operating here. Of course the brass thought of Beckman as a hero and didn't want to tarnish her image.”

“Hold on.” Catherine had stopped typing. She sat back, gripping the receiver against her ear. “Are you telling me Beckman was the perpetrator?”

“She sure wasn't the victim,” Larry said.

Catherine thanked him and hit the off button, a new image of Detective Ryan Beckman forming in her mind. Aggressive, ruthless, violent, accustomed to skating on the edge and taking risks, implacable and dangerous.

She tapped out the number of Nick's cell phone. He picked up on the second ring. “You okay?” he said.

“I'm okay,” she said. Maybe 75 percent okay, she was thinking, as long as she managed to push away thoughts of Beckman hiding in the garage, shooting through the kitchen window. She asked if Nick had taken the statement to Internal Affairs.

“Just came out of the meeting,” he said. “They'll look into Jameson's claim he saw Mathews and Beckman together, send investigators to Aspen to talk to him. But . . .”

“But? Jameson's statement should be enough to take her off the case and assign other investigators.”

“It's pretty thin evidence,” Nick said. She felt a prick of annoyance at the patient tone he adopted, as if she were too blinded by her own agenda to comprehend the facts. “Jameson could be mistaken. A lot of beautiful blond women surface in Aspen. And the case against Sydney Mathews is pretty tight. She had possession of the weapon, and she'd been in contact with her husband numerous times by phone before he was killed. They had been seen arguing in public.”

“It's circumstantial, Nick.”

“She was officially charged this morning.”

“Oh, my God,” Catherine said. “Where is she?”

“Bonded out. Reporters all over the place, pushing microphones at her and her brother. They got away in a limousine. What about your caller?”

Catherine said she was about to put another message on her blog. “I'll call you the minute I hear anything,” she told him before hanging up. She felt limp and powerless, the way her people must have felt in the Old Time, she thought, knowing a horrible incident had occurred that would set off horrible repercussions, and there was nothing they could do about it.

She brought up the blog and started typing. “A message to the woman who called two days ago. Urgent. Please call back immediately. New facts have emerged. You are not alone.”

Forty-five minutes later, Catherine guided the convertible on the dirt road that wound through the rocky, pine-studded slopes to the Evergreen house. An SUV was parked in front, but no sign of other reporters or TV trucks. The “No comment” that Sydney's lawyer had probably shouted to the crowd of reporters at the courthouse must have deterred them, for which she was grateful. She had taken a chance coming here, hoping Sydney would agree to see her before the woman's brother ordered her off the property.

She parked next to the SUV, hurried up the steps to the front door, and lifted the heavy, brass knocker, letting it fall against the wood. The house was enveloped in quiet. No sounds of traffic or bustle of people. Even the wind sighing in the pine trees and the distant chirping of a bird seemed part of the mountain quiet. She listened hard for some movement inside, some hint of a human presence. Nothing. She pounded the knocker against the wood, thinking that maybe she should have called, convinced Sydney that it was in her interests to see her. Instead, she had taken a chance Sydney would think that whatever had brought the
Journal
reporter all the way to Evergreen must be important and she would let her inside.

She knocked again. Still nothing, not the slightest sound of disturbance. What a waste of time and effort. Sydney had probably gone home with her brother, wherever he lived. Catherine was about to start down the steps when the door opened with a loud whooshing sound. “What do you want?” Wendell Lane stood in the opening, a fist curled over the doorknob. He looked disheveled and angry, tie loosened at the neck of his white shirt, face reddened as if he'd spent hours in the sunshine.

“I have some information for Sydney,” Catherine said.

“You have something to tell us? Well, that's a switch, a reporter giving away information.”

“It's important,” Catherine said. “Is she in?”

“She has nothing to say to you or any other bottom-feeding reporters. None of this mess would have occurred if the media hadn't piled on, demanding a solution. My sister was railroaded to satisfy people like you, so you can write your story and move on to the next big story. The truth means nothing to you. Just the story, any story will do, and all the better if it's a racy story about a decent human being like my sister.”

“Enough, Wendell.” Sydney moved like a shadow behind her brother's shoulder, then stepped around him. “What is it you want to tell me,” she said.

“This isn't a good idea,” Wendell said. “Landon said not to talk to the press.” He looked back at Catherine. “You're trespassing. I insist you leave immediately.”

“Let me handle this,” Sydney said. Then, nodding at Catherine, “You'd better come inside.”

26

Catherine followed Sydney Mathews into the living room that sprawled across the south side of the house. It seemed fixed in time, as if nothing had changed. All plush upholstery, carved mahogany tables, paintings of mountain landscapes on the walls, and Oriental rugs on the polished wood floors, static and immobile. Slats of sunshine fell through the mullioned windows. “What is it you have to say,” Sydney said, wheeling about.

“First,” Catherine began, “I want to say how sorry I am . . .”

The woman threw up both hands. “Save your pity.”

“I told you, this isn't a good idea.” Wendell's voice came from behind.

“Let me handle this,” Sydney said, looking past Catherine's shoulder. Then she drew in a long breath, clasped her arms around herself and said, “This whole thing is a farce, a rush by the police and DA to solve the murder of a prominent man, who happened to be my husband. All based on the worst kind of innuendo and circumstantial evidence. Did we talk on the phone the night he was killed? Yes, many times. Had we argued in public? Did I go to campaign headquarters and give David a piece of my mind after I realized how many rumors were going around about his unfaithfulness? You bet I did.”

“This is off the record,” Wendell said. “Nothing that my sister insists upon telling you had better appear in the newspaper.”

“Wendell, please!” Sydney stared at her brother a moment, then dipped her head toward Catherine, as if they were in a conspiracy together. “I must thank you for setting me straight. Until you asked me—a reporter asking me about David's affairs!—I had closed my eyes and ears, refused to see and hear what was all around me. Refused to
smell
what was around me! I came back from a trip to New York and a whore's perfume was everywhere. In my house! In my own bed! I told myself it couldn't be true, that I was imagining things. Not that David wasn't capable of whoring around. Oh, I knew the man. But not during the campaign, not when he was so close to his dream of the governor's office. I couldn't believe he would jeopardize his dream by taking such risks. As soon as word got out, and obviously you were trying to chase down the rumors, he would have been ruined. It was only a matter of time. So I went to campaign headquarters to tell him that if he wanted to ruin himself, he would not take me down with him. I wanted out. I had every intention of filing for a divorce.”

“Which is what I advised you to do.” Wendell crossed the room and parked himself against the back of a sofa. “You wouldn't be caught up in this if you had filed for divorce and gone to Europe like you intended.”

“Why didn't you?” Catherine said.

“It's complicated, isn't it? The relationship between a man and a woman.” Sydney started circling the center of the room, picking up a ceramic bowl and turning it in her hands a moment before replacing it on a long table. “I loved David, but who didn't? Everyone who stepped into his light fell in love with him. I loved him even though I knew him. He begged me not to file for a divorce. Begged me to stay with him. Promised he was done with other women, they meant nothing. I agreed to think about it. It would have ruined him if I'd filed for the divorce. Everyone would have believed the rumors. I didn't want to do that to him.”

She exhaled a long breath, as if she were letting go of the last energy she possessed, and sank onto the armrest of a large, overstuffed chair. “Ironic, isn't it. We talked on the phone the night he was killed. He must have called me five or six times, and I called him as well. We were working out the details of a reconciliation. There were certain demands I made, and I didn't want any misunderstandings. No more extracurricular affairs. He would not travel anywhere without me. We would spend every night together, which meant, of course, that I wouldn't take any trips without him. It was a small price to pay. When I think about it, the shopping trips were really an excuse not to have to face what was happening in my marriage. Anyway, we had come to an agreement I was satisfied with. I even offered to come to Denver, but he said no. He was very tired and still had some policy papers he wanted to read. We planned to meet for breakfast in the morning. Meet for breakfast and start a new life together.”