The Perfect Suspect (3 page)

She had just poured another cup of coffee when she glimpsed the name “Mathews” in the crawl on the TV screen. She moved closer, sipping at the coffee and trying to block out the muted TV voices. The crawl started over. “Police report body of man found shot to death at home of David Mathews, candidate for governor in Colorado. No further details available. Stay tuned to Channel 9 for breaking news.”

She set the cup down and went looking for her cell phone, which she found on the table next to her bag. A feeling of unreality washed over her, like the feeling she'd had when she awoke, as if the world were rearranging itself in inexplicable ways. She had covered David Mathews's campaign for the
Journal
, the rallies and speeches, the photo-op visits to retirement homes and veterans' halls and Little League ballparks. Rumors swirled about the candidate—financial improprieties, shady business deals, extramarital affairs. She had never succeeded in running down any of them. They were like the dull throbbing in her head, elusive and maddening and persistent. Mathews ran a well-organized, efficient campaign, and if there was anything to the rumors, the evidence had been buried so deeply she doubted it could ever be uncovered. All she'd had were notes, conjectures and innuendos, nothing she could write that wouldn't invite a libel suit. But all of her investigative reporter's instincts told her that something about the perfect candidate was not quite perfect. Now someone had been shot to death in Mathews's home.

She punched the button for Marjorie's number. It was still early, a little before seven by the silver watch that dangled on her wrist. Marjorie Fennerman,
Journal
managing editor, would not be in yet, but calls would be transferred to her home, and Marjorie would decide which to answer and which to ignore. After three rings, Marjorie's voice said, “I was just about to call you. You've heard the news?”

“What exactly is the news?”

“The night editor heard the police radio and recognized the address. All we know is what you've seen on TV. Dead body. Male.”

“Mathews?”

“The police aren't saying until they have an ID. Jason is on the way over there.”

“Jason? I've been on David Mathews's campaign since he announced he was running. This is my story.”

“Jason has the police beat.”

“He doesn't know anything about Mathews.”

Catherine listened to the slow, thoughtful breathing at the other end, finally broken by Marjorie's voice. “God, it's too early in the morning for this. Gubernatorial candidate, thirty points ahead in the polls, certain to be elected, has either been shot to death or could be involved in somebody else's death. The national news will be all over it, but it's our story, and I have no intention of being scooped by some carpetbagger from the
New York Times
. We're the experts on Mathews. No doubt the campaign and party hacks will issue a lot of stupid press releases. I want you to get the facts behind the releases, work in the background stuff on Mathews and the campaign. Jason will stay on the police investigation. Oh, and I want to see you when you get back from Mathews's house.”

David Mathews lived in the kind of glass and steel residence featured in architectural magazines, spread across a double lot with walls of windows that peered through the tall pines and elms planted after construction vehicles had destroyed the original landscape. The whole neighborhood had been transformed from the intimate, brick bungalows that had given Denver neighborhoods a distinctive charm for a hundred years into blocks of modern, impersonal structures. It had taken Catherine twenty minutes to drive across town from her own brick bungalow in Highland, an old residential neighborhood that straddled a bluff above the Platte Valley. Mercifully, Highland had escaped the modern makeover, a fact that left her giddy with gratitude every time she passed the Victorians, duplexes and bungalows sheltering under century-old elms and cottonwoods. An old cottonwood shaded her front yard, and a gnarled elm kept the sun off the back of the bungalow.

From a block away, Catherine spotted the police cars, TV vans and other vehicles along the curb in front of Mathews's house. A small crowd hovered just outside the yellow police crime-scene tape that wrapped across the yard and driveway. Little groups of people sauntered up and down the sidewalk, and gawkers stared out of the vehicles that inched down the street. She pulled the silver Chrysler convertible into a small vacant slot and walked a half block, bag hooked over her shoulder, notepad and pen in one hand. The faint odor of exhaust from the stalling traffic mixed with the smell of the morning dew on the lawns. Despite the hint of autumn in the air, the coolness of the night had evaporated. The glass blue sky promised a still, hot September day.

She shouldered past the crowd on the front sidewalk and went over to the TV and radio journalists and bloggers who had managed to hear the news before she had. Didn't these people ever sleep? Camera people from the TV channels had positioned themselves close to the yellow tape, black, rectangular boxes hoisted on their shoulders. They motioned to one another, nodding and blinking in some silent language. She slid in beside Jason. Through the enormous front window, a chandelier glowed in the entry of the glass and steel house.

“What are you doing here?” Jason Metcalf was short and barrelshaped with a thin spray of brown hair combed over a pink scalp. He had been at the
Journal
eight years ago when she had started as a general assignment reporter. But he had stayed on while she took time off to work on a marriage that had headed downhill from the beginning. Even before her divorce, she had grabbed at the opportunity to return to the
Journal
as an investigative reporter. By then, Jason had racked up a wall of congratulatory plaques, which, she suspected, led him to believe he had squatting rights on any major story.

“What am I doing at the biggest story of my career?” she said.

“It's my story.”

“I'm on background and context,” she said. “Campaign, future of the party. I'll be filling in around the investigation.”

“That's just great.” It was barely audible.

“Has the body been ID'd?”

Jason took a moment, checking the screen of his phone and slipping the phone back into his shirt pocket. “Coroner's been here awhile.” He worked his lips silently for a moment, as if he were wondering how much he should tell her. Finally, a mask of what passed for acceptance dropped over his face. They were on the same paper, after all. “It's Mathews,” he said, “but it's not official. Unofficial word is he was shot around midnight.”

“Who's in charge?”

“The B team, you ask me. Your boyfriend's out of town, and the other first-rate detectives are tied up. They brought in Ryan Beckman and Martin Martinez. Beckman's okay, I guess. At least she has experience.”

Catherine glanced around at the crowd ebbing and flowing along the sidewalk. Newcomers moved in closer, others walked away, tense, unresolved looks on their faces. A muffled sputtering of voices cut through the air. “Who found the body?” she said.

“You're full of questions. Maybe you should've gotten here earlier.”

“Come on, Jason,” she said.

He rolled his eyes and stared at the sky a moment. Then he let out a long, sour breath before he said, “Housekeeper arrived at 5:00 a.m., like usual. Found the body, ran to the neighbor's house and called 911, according to my police source, who is, of course, anonymous since he is not the official spokesperson.”

“Any witnesses?”

“You mean, other than the killer and the victim? Quiet, ritzy neighborhood like this? Midnight?” He tossed his head toward the houses running north. “Who's gonna be out and about?”

“A neighbor walking the dog.”

“This isn't TV,” Jason said. “My source said nobody's stepped forward, so nada.”

Catherine turned away and looked out at the crowd that seemed to be growing. It might have been a street fair, people milling about, cars trying to get through. The houses behind the groomed lawns and shaped trees looked like cardboard props set up for the fair. She was vaguely aware of the dull ache at the back of her head. “Did your source mention which neighbor?” she said, turning back to Jason.

“Next door. People by the name of Kramer.” Catherine followed his gaze to the two-story gray stucco house with big, rectangular windows and a brass door. Standing in the yard, probably along the invisible line that divided David Mathews's property from theirs, was a middle-aged couple with a rumpled, hurried look about them, as if they had thrown on the tee shirts and shorts dropped on the floor last night and combed their fingers through their hair.

A white Cadillac pulled into the curb in a space that didn't look large enough to hold a motorcycle. The driver's door flung open and Sydney Mathews, reed thin with bony shoulders poking out of a sundress, and reddish hair that fell like a veil along her face, ducked out of the car. Little cries of alarm broke from her as she threw herself through the crowd toward the yellow tape. Two police officers appeared out of nowhere. Catherine watched the woman jab at them like a boxer, as if she could knock them aside and pull away the tape. “Let me pass,” she screamed. “This is my house. He's my husband.”

Another uniformed officer, a woman, moved in close, took hold of Sydney's arm and urged her over to a police car. Catherine heard the officer say something about arranging a viewing later, that no one was allowed at the crime scene. Sydney was sobbing, shoulders shaking as the officer helped her into the rear seat.

“Interesting the Mrs. didn't happen to be home last night,” Jason said.

Catherine told him the rumor she'd heard that David and Sydney Mathews had separated two weeks ago. Why they had separated, what was going on, what it meant for the future were questions that had been met by blank, controlled stares from Mathews's campaign staff, along with assurances that whatever nasty rumors she may have heard were lies spread by the opposition. Funny thing, Mathews had no opposition. There had been no challenger in the primary, and Monty Bond, the sacrificial victim nominated by the Democrats, had all but conceded the election. A recent
Journal
poll showed that the majority of Colorado voters couldn't even remember his name. Yet Mathews's campaign insisted on keeping a lid on the separation rumors. Nothing was allowed to slow the victory express.

On two occasions, the campaign had given the press access to Mrs. David Mathews. But not alone. Mathews himself had hovered over his dutiful, supportive wife. At least that was the image Sydney Mathews had managed to convey. Three weeks ago, Catherine had requested another interview, and to her surprise, the media director had agreed. She had come to the house late in the afternoon and was shown into the living room beyond the entry. Sydney Mathews, in a subdued designer suit with a double strand of pearls and hair that looked glued into place, sat on a sofa that bisected the large room. David had stood behind her, tall and silver-haired, with a square jaw and steady gaze, and the manner of a man accustomed to commanding others and eliciting obedience. He invited Catherine to take one of the overstuffed chairs across from the sofa.

Throughout the interview—a total of ten minutes—Sydney had seemed composed, impossible to rattle, until Catherine had asked about the rumors of her husband's infidelity. The woman's face closed down, frozen into a blue-eyed, red-lipped mask, and David had cut off the interview. He ushered Catherine into the entry. “We had agreed, no personal questions,” he said, but he had been rattled. She had felt the anger churning beneath his calm exterior. He had yanked open the front door, and as she walked out, Catherine had glanced back at Sydney Mathews, posed on the sofa like a mannequin, wearing the same placid expression.

The black police car maneuvered out of the tight parking space and lurched into the street, the reddish hair falling forward over the woman's hands, pressed against her face.

“Where will they take her?” Catherine said.

Jason shrugged. “Probably their Evergreen house. Doesn't look like she's in any shape to drive. Soon as they get the body in the morgue, they'll arrange for her to come in and ID him. They're gonna look at her real hard.”

Catherine could hear Nick 's voice running through her head.
Homicide investigations always start with those closest to the victims, then move out in concentric circles of friends, neighbors, acquaintances and finally strangers.
She tried to imagine the mannequin with the perfect hair and perfect posture rising off the sofa, pointing a gun at her husband and pulling the trigger.

“I think I'll try the neighbors,” she told Jason. Then she threaded her way through the bystanders to the couple huddled on the property line, gazes fixed on the house. “Excuse me,” she said. Both heads snapped around in her direction. She was struck at how much they looked alike. The same brown, flat hair, the narrowed, suspicious eyes and the chins that folded into their necks. She told them her name and said she was from the
Journal
. “Did you happen to see anything last night? Anyone outside?”