Whittaker 01 The Enemy We Know (21 page)

“
Him?” My gut dropped and, instinctively, I stood, ready to run but stalled by the lack of information. “What? Is he coming here? What’s going on?”

“
No. Oh my god, no! He ain’t going anywhere. He’s
dead
.”

“
Dead? What? Are you sure?”

At that, she burst into a toxic fusion of horror and revulsion that disguised itself in hysterical laughter. I waited.

“
Dead. Very, very dead. Head-blown-clear-off kind o’ dead. I came over here this morning to see Carrie and found him layin’ there in the drive. Somebody unloaded a lot of shot into that boy, that’s for sure. He was just layin’ there, on his back, blood and guts all over.”

“
Have you called the police?”

“
Yeah, they’re coming.”

“
Who could have…?” I swallowed the question, afraid to hear that Carrie was responsible.

“
I don’t know. I found him, so I s’pose the cops are going to think it was me, but it wasn’t. Not that I ain’t happy he’s dead but… Anyway, I didn’t do it. And Carrie didn’t do it either!”

“
You said he beat her up again? Is she in the hospital?”

“
She was. I took her to the ER yesterday. He’s been at her face this time, and I think he broke her nose. I couldn’t stay ‘cause I had to get back to work, but I told Carrie to call me when she needed a ride. She never did. After my shift, I tried calling her cell phone, and a nurse finally answered. Carrie must have left it there. They said she never even saw the doctor.”

“
Is she in danger from the injuries?”

“
I don’t think so. She’ll be in some pain for a good while, but it won’t kill her. I think she took off from him again. None of her clothes was took, either, and I’m about out of my mind not knowing where she is.”

“
She took off again.”

“
I think so. At first, I just thought she went back to the asshole and figured I’d give her a piece of my mind since she didn’t seem to have enough brains on her own. That’s what I came over here for. But she’s not here. Just him.”

If she had killed him, she’d be hiding for an entirely different reason, but Edna didn’t seem to be considering that, and my own intuition told me that Carrie wasn’t violent. At least, not in the manner Edna had described Wayne dying.

“
If it wasn’t Carrie, who… did it?” I skittered away from the M-word.

“
I don’t know. Anybody with any sense hated his guts, but not many would cross him. He’s low-down mean and likes pushing people around, especially when he’s drinkin’. I never understood why Carrie took up with him. She coulda had her pick of men.”

“
Well, he won’t bother her now.”

“
She’ll probably pick up with someone just as bad or worse. You probably seen that before, in your line of work and all.”

Silence stretched between us. I hated the thought, but odds were that she was right. At least she had calmed down and had her wits about her.

“
I don’t think she’ll contact me. But if she does—”

“
No, I don’t expect that either. I just figured you should know. I mean, before the cops get here. I’m going to have to tell them about your troubles with him.”

It hadn’t occurred to me. Of course they would want to talk to me. I’d be a suspect. I pressed the phone against my ear, questions roiling in my mind, but one rose above the others.

“
Why did you call? To warn me?”

“
Look—if you did it, I don’t blame you. In fact, I’m grateful. But if you didn’t, you deserve a warning. I still thank you for trying with Carrie. And it was real brave for you to take his crap. Anyway, let me know if you hear from her.” Sirens wailed in the background, growing louder.

Abruptly, she said good-bye and hung up. I stayed sitting, holding the phone so tight my knuckles hurt, and tried not to let fear drive me into doing something stupid. My mouth watered and I felt itchy in a way that only a drink could satisfy. Would the police really believe I had something to do with this?

Would, could, and did.

A detective waited for me as I walked my four o’clock client up to the front desk. Tall and lanky, he wore a navy blue suit jacket that didn’t reach his wrists and black slacks that looked as though they belonged to a separate suit. He appeared on the brink of retirement, deep-set brown eyes nearly lost in saggy folds of skin and the first impression suggested a lazy, easy-going temperament. If you didn’t bother to look deeper, you’d miss the intelligence lurking in the depths of those sad, hound-dog eyes. This wasn’t a lie-on-the-porch-and-wag-your-tail kind of cop. This was a bloodhound, and he was on the scent.

Lisa sounded nervous as she said, “Letty, Detective Blodgett wanted to catch a minute with you.” Thankfully, she phrased it in such a way as to avoid sounding like he planned to slap the handcuffs on me as soon as I got in reach. I fervently hoped she was right.

“
Sure,” I smiled stiffly. Motioning him to follow, I tried projecting an aura of innocence as we walked back to my office. Difficult to do with just my backside to work with. The more I concentrated on not looking guilty, the guiltier my ass felt.

“
I only have about ten minutes before my next client,” I said as we sat. “But I’ll be happy to set up a time to meet with you, if you think it’s necessary.” I was proud of that line. Made me look open and cooperative while setting boundaries. Good for me.

“
That’s very nice of you. Of course, I haven’t said why I’m here yet…”

Blodgett left the statement hanging. The questions—why hadn’t I asked what he was doing here? Why was I being so helpful?—only hinted at in the very slight rise in tone at the end, but filling that half-second tilt with all the suspicion a homicide detective could produce. Although he sat motionless, I could’ve sworn his nostrils flared, scenting fear. Meanwhile, his eyes tracked over my face, analyzing expressions, body language, posture. I was sitting in front of a human lie detector.

“
I assumed you’re here about Wayne—” I fumbled, not remembering Wayne’s last name, and left it at that.

“
About Wayne?” he repeated, willing to let me blunder on.

“
I received a call this morning telling me he was dead. Murdered. Since he’s been harassing me, I figured I would eventually be contacted by the police. I hadn’t expected it to be so soon, however.”

“
Received a call from who?”

I shrugged. The smart-ass in me wanted to correct his grammar, but my better sense kicked in. I didn’t want to get Edna in trouble so I avoided answering, at least for now. “I don’t know who killed Wayne, but it wasn’t me.”

He tipped his head, giving me a that’s-what-they-all-say look. “Tell you what— I must have just about used up that ten minutes. How about you stop by the station when you finish up this evening? What time might that be?”

I cleared my throat. “My last client is at six tonight. I should be done by seven or so. Will that work?”

“
Works great,” he smiled politely, handing me his card. “See you then.”

I didn’t bother to walk him up front, choosing instead to ponder over his abrupt departure. No way was he satisfied that easily. However, if his original intention had been to observe my reaction to Wayne’s murder, then that had already been frustrated by Edna’s warning. My guess was he’d decided he’d get more by interviewing me on his turf, without time constraints.

I got to the station by twenty after seven and had decided to go with all-out honesty. Why not try something new? I brought copies of Wayne’s file, although I had no faith in any of the data being accurate. His right to confidentiality had been abrogated with his complaint, at least in the legal sense. Information about Carrie was a stickier situation, though. Blodgett would have to get a warrant for that one. I didn’t imagine he would be too thrilled about that, but he couldn’t really blame me for it either.

I hoped.

Blodgett left me cooling my heels in the lobby for over a half-hour. I didn’t know if it was a power play or not, but wouldn’t put it past him. When he finally showed up, the detective looked saggier and even more exhausted than when I’d seen him just two hours earlier.

He led me into the type of interview room that TV had taught me to expect. A heavy, metal table covered in coffee rings and scratches squatted in the middle of a room that had been slimed with queasy-green paint. A bright yellow, plastic wastebasket—more appropriate for a child’s bathroom, but not likely to cause injury if used as a weapon—had been placed just inside the door. The only relief from the jangle of colors was the smoky mirror hanging across one side wall and several aging memos thumb-tacked to the other.

I declined Blodgett’s drink offer, expecting him to take the seat across from me. Instead, he apologized and stepped out of the room. My eyes moved to the mirror. Gave a little wave. Leaning back in my seat—not easy because the hard edges cut into my shoulders—I practiced deep breathing relaxation techniques. He’d either give up or I’d get a nap. I was good either way.

Blodgett must have gotten the point because he only left me stewing for an additional fifteen minutes. By now, my stomach was rumbling and a headache crept up the back of my neck. He came in carrying a notepad and paper.

Since we moved at his ask-one-question, write-the-answer-down pace, it was slow going. We slogged through all my contact info, and he let me rattle on about my professional background. Polite, easy, ice-breaker conversation. If somebody had served those little, mini-hot dogs—which I was hungry enough to snarf down—it could have been a cocktail party. Or with slightly better furniture and no snacks, therapy.

Eventually, he asked the question I’d been expecting.

“
Would you tell me everything about your relationship with Wayne Bristol?”

A nice, broad, open-ended question. I especially liked the
everything
touch. But it was what I came in to do, so I pulled out the clinical file and yet another copy of the time line and sonnet. At this rate, I should get them published and earn royalties on them.

Passing them over, I started with “Randy’s” two sessions and the shock I’d felt when he pushed into my office brandishing the buck knife like a demented samurai warrior. Blodgett let me talk at my own pace, but I saw him scrawl two question marks next to the part where I talked about the knife. I figured he had read the police report of the incident and knew that the knife had never been found. After covering the attack at the office, I pulled out the time line and angled it between us, keeping my eyes on it rather than on Blodgett. By the time I finished relating every detail I could remember, including my AA involvement and the run-ins I had with Wayne there, I was sweating like a pig and trying not to throw up from nerves. I eyed the yellow plastic wastebasket, just in case.

And almost used it when Blodgett asked, “Where you were Wednesday evening?”

I managed to tell him about my Wednesday group and gave him Sue’s number. “But I don’t have any alibi after about 8:30 or so. I went home to bed.”

His next question had me eyeing the basket a third time, black dots dancing in front of my eyes. “Do you own or have access to a shot gun, Ms. Whittaker?”

“
No. I don’t. Am I a suspect?” My voice shook on the last word.

“
Why, no.” His eyebrows raised languidly as if expressing surprise were just a mite too tiring. “Not unless you count that everyone who had a run-in with Bristol is a suspect; at least, until the evidence starts coming in, leading to the real killer. And it will. Besides, if I did consider you a suspect at this time, I would’ve read you your rights.” His smile wasn’t reassuring, probably wasn’t meant to be. “If you had to
guess
what happened, what would you say?”

“
I really don’t have any idea. He was a bully. He was abusive. I imagine he pissed off a lot of people. I can tell you this— it wasn’t me, and I don’t think it was Carrie. Or her mother,” I added.

Blodgett tapped the pen against his teeth. “Why don’t you think it was Carrie? She’s missing.”

“
As far as I know, she doesn’t have any history of violence, except as a target. And yeah, I know, the whole burning-bed thing,” I waved off the suggestion forming on his lips, “but I don’t see it with Carrie. She’s a runner. She ran before and she ran this time. She blames herself,” (and me, I thought, but didn’t say) “not Wayne.”

He nodded politely, but I knew I hadn’t convinced him. And could I really say what another person might be capable of? What had Carrie felt after trading in her freedom for a broken promise topped with a broken nose? She’d been frightened enough to leave the hospital before being treated. Had she settled her problem with a shotgun?

Blodgett drew my attention back. “Tell me a little more about the knife Bristol attacked you with. What do you remember about it?”

I sat for a moment, thinking. “It was big.”

“
Nothing that stands out about it?” he persisted.

“
No. Not that I recall. It was just a big buck knife. Like hunters use to…um…gut deer.” Ghastly image, that.

“
And to your knowledge, it was never found?”
“Not that I know of, and I’m sure I would have heard. If it had been found by someone at the clinic, that is. What’s the big deal about the knife anyway? I thought Wayne was shot.”

“
Oh, he was. Who else would have any information on Bristol?” His pen stood poised over the legal pad. He hadn’t answered my question, and obviously didn’t intend to.

“
Um…” Robert would kill me, but as Wayne’s sponsor he might have information that could be helpful. On the other hand, he was about as insightful as dirt and the second “A” wasn’t Anonymous for a whim. I’d like to think it wasn’t spite that made me give Blodgett Robert’s contact information.