Blood Relative (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 4) Page 10

  “Jake,” he said by way of greeting.

  He motioned me into a chair facing his desk. I sat. O’Roarke closed the door and stood in silence behind me.

  “I see you still like to sleep in your clothes,” MacArthur said.

  “Is that why they didn’t serve me breakfast?”

  “Have some coffee.”

  He took the glass pot from his coffee machine and poured me a cup. His movements were clean and precise. So were his clothes: tailored gray-and-white houndstooth suit, off-white shirt, maroon silk jacquard tie with a floral print. He was a year younger than I, but I felt as if he were the school principal and I had been summoned to his office for fighting in the playground. Maybe it was my grass-stained pants and the dirt in my hair.

  “The dead man’s name is William Royce.” MacArthur leaned over his desk to hand me the cup. “Do you know him?”

  “Nope.” I sipped the coffee. It could’ve been stronger, but at least it cut the foul taste in my mouth.

  “We ran him through NCIC,” MacArthur said, turning a page on his desk. “He’s got a list of priors, all in California, mostly assaults, some drug related. He did six years in San Quentin for second-degree murder. We think he’s probably a low-rate killer for hire.”

  “Lucky for me he wasn’t the expensive kind.”

  MacArthur said, “Mmm,” and turned another page. “By the way, do you own a nine-millimeter automatic?”

  “I own revolvers.”

  “No automatics?”

  “Call me old-fashioned.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” MacArthur tapped a paper with a manicured nail. “Autopsy report. I had them rush it first thing this morning. Royce had one thirty-eight slug in his abdomen and three nine-millimeter slugs in his chest. One of those punctured his heart. That’s what killed him, so you’re probably off the hook.”

  “Imagine my relief.”

  “We found nine-millimeter and twelve-gauge shell casings at the scene. No guns.”

  “Royce had a pump-action shotgun, and so did one of the others. The third guy, the driver, must’ve had the automatic. Obviously, they took Royce’s gun with them.”

  MacArthur was reading a typed form on his desk, acting as if it were important and I wasn’t. What the hell, maybe I wasn’t. I mean, he and I used to be close friends, but that had been a long time ago. We’d been cops together. His wife had introduced me to Katherine, whom I’d married. And when Katherine had been murdered, MacArthur had helped me get back on my feet again. In fact, now that I thought about it, he’d gotten me started in this so-called profession. So in a way, it was his fault that I’d nearly been blown away last night. But I’m sure he had other things on his mind. For instance, the next rung up the bureaucratic ladder. The top spot in the Crimes Against Persons Bureau was soon to be vacated. A captain’s post. If—I mean, when MacArthur got promoted, I’d probably never see him again, except occasionally on the nightly news.

  “Some friend,” I said.

  He looked up. “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.”

  Now he regarded me with cool gray eyes. “There are a few blanks in these reports, things you refused to tell the detectives. Like why exactly you were at a golf course in the middle of the night.”

  “Trying to correct my slice?”

  He didn’t smile. He used to smile.

  “As I told the detectives, I was meeting an informant.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I only spoke to him on the phone, and he didn’t identify himself.”

  “But he had something for you.”

  “He said he had photographs that proved Samuel Butler didn’t murder his wife.”

  “Samuel Butler,” MacArthur repeated, raising one eyebrow. “What’s your interest in him?”

  “I’m working for him. That is, for his attorney, Oliver Westfall.”

  Now both eyebrows went up, crinkling his forehead. “You must sorely need money to work for a murderer.”

  “You mean accused murderer.”

  “I mean murderer. His prints were on the wrench.”

  “Naturally. It was his wrench. But the prints were partially smudged. Someone wearing gloves could have—”

  “Butler killed her, Jake. Learn to live with it.”

  I said nothing. I could’ve reminded him that a man was innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, but it would be wasted breath on MacArthur. Like most cops, he felt that if there was enough evidence to bring a man to trial, then he was guilty, period. If he was found “not guilty” by a jury, it didn’t mean he hadn’t committed the crime; it just meant he’d beaten the system.

  MacArthur leaned back in his chair and made a steeple of his fingers. He tipped it down and pointed it at me.

  “These photographs were a ruse to set you up,” he said.

  “Obviously.”

  “There are no photographs.”

  “Probably not.”

  “The question is why did these men want to kill you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Who have you pissed off lately?”

  “No one. I’ve been lying on the beach in Mexico for the past few months.”

  “Not with someone’s wife, I hope.”

  I let that pass.

  So did he. He asked, “Do you think there’s a connection with Samuel Butler?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Like what?”

  “If I tell you, will you promise not to laugh?”

  He said nothing.

  “Maybe Samuel Butler is innocent and the real killer is worried, now that I’m on the case.”

  He blew air between tight lips.

  I changed the subject. “Why do you suppose they killed Royce?”

  MacArthur shrugged. “You’d seriously wounded him. Apparently they didn’t want to carry him or leave him behind to talk.”

  “Some friends.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at me and then dropped it into a frown. When he spoke, there was concern in his voice—professional, nothing to do with friendship.

  “Are you positive you don’t know who these guys are?”

  I’d just told him who I thought they were, but he didn’t want to hear it. “I’m sure.”

  “Or why they’d want to kill you. Besides this supersleuth fantasy.”

  “No.”

  He held my eyes a moment longer, then flipped a few more pages on his desk. “I guess we’re finished for now. We’ll have to hold your gun for a ballistics check. And you’ll probably get a bill in the mail.”

  I stood. “A bill for what?”

  “You broke a window in the clubhouse. That’s private property.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He wasn’t. “And if I were you, I’d think twice before meeting any more strangers in dark places.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  I turned to go, then gave a start when I saw O’Roarke standing behind me. He’d been so quiet I’d forgotten he was there.

  He spoke for the first time. “Jumpy?”

  I liked him better when he was silent.

  A taxi took me from the police building to the golf course, where the Toyota was hidden in a crowd of cars. The day was overcast, heavy with the smell of spring rain, but there were plenty of golfers wandering the fairways and milling about the starter’s shack.

  I paid the cabby and walked to the shack. The guy inside didn’t look too happy. Maybe because his front window had been replaced with a plywood board. Likewise a window on the side of the clubhouse, the one I’d shot out.

  I moved aside to let a foursome in two golf carts buzz by, then walked past the clubhouse to the top of the grassy slope. Below me, on the eighteenth green, four grown men in red and yellow pants putted and missed and groaned. Life’s tough.

  Beyond them were the trees where William Royce had been shot to death.

  I considered walking down there, but what would be the point? There was nothing to search for. The po
lice had already scoured the area and collected all the “clues”—empty shells and one dead body. Besides, I wasn’t looking for clues. I was looking for answers.

  Why had Royce and company tried to kill me? It was almost certainly connected with Clare Butler’s murder, because that was my only case. And the mystery caller knew I was on it. Had I already met Clare’s killer without realizing it? Or was he trying to make sure that I didn’t meet him? Either way, it now looked like Clare’s death was more than the violent end of a lovers’ quarrel. I’d have to watch my back from now on. Assuming I stayed on the case.

  As opposed to what? Drop everything and run back to Mexico?

  I walked toward the parking lot.

  The rain beat me there.

  CHAPTER 17

  I DROVE HOME IN A THUNDERSTORM.

  This is what they mean by “springtime in the Rockies.” Rain, snow, hail, sunshine—sometimes all in the same day. Although today it looked like the rain would hang on for a while.

  When I turned onto my block, I found it lined with parked cars, so I had to leave the Toyota around the corner. By the time I jogged to the old mansion, my clothes were soaked, and my hair was plastered to my head.

  Mrs. Finch greeted me at the front door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she snapped. She wore a navy blue dress with tiny white dots—long sleeves, high collar, low hemline. Her little fists were on her hips, and her head was cocked to one side. She looked up at me like a terrier eyeing a mailman.

  “I, uh, thought I’d go up to my apartment.”

  “Not dripping wet, you’re not. Not across my carpet that I had shampooed this very morning, no, sir.” She snapped one hand off her hip to point at the ancient, floral-patterned carpet behind her.

  “Well, what do—”

  “You just stand right there, mister.”

  She turned on her heel and marched through her open apartment door. I dripped on the welcome mat, stared at the empty entry hall, and wondered if Mrs. Finch expected me to stay there until I was dry. But no, she’d left her door open. And sure enough, a minute later she came bustling out, her mouth grim, a bath towel in her hand. She threw it at me.

  “Thank—”

  “Dry your hair and take off your shoes before you even think about tromping upstairs.” She stomped back to her apartment, then turned in the open doorway and shook a crooked finger at me. “And why don’t you find real work. Something that doesn’t keep you out till all hours of the night.”

  “I—”

  “And buy an umbrella!” she shouted, slamming her door.

  Mrs. Finch likes to look after her tenants.

  Upstairs, I undressed in the bathroom and threw my clothes in a heap in the corner. I let the shower’s hot spray wash off the cold rain and the stale stink of jail. It also eased the stiffness in my back from rolling around on the ground last night. Mrs. Finch was wrong; this was real work.

  I toweled off and put on sweats and running shoes—not that I’d be running. I was tired and hungry. Mostly tired, so I stretched out on the couch for a quick nap. I fell asleep to the sound of the rain.

  When I awoke, the apartment was silent. The rain had stopped.

  I guess I’d been more tired than I’d thought; my watch said it was nearly five. My neck was stiff from sleeping in one position for too long, so I did twenty minutes of bends and stretches on the living-room floor. Then I walked out through the kitchen to the back balcony.

  The air had the clean, fresh smell that only comes after a rain.

  The spring storm had passed over the city and moved to the southeast, where the sky was black and ominous. Overhead there were gray shreds of clouds and patches of blue. The yard below was in shadow. But the tops of the trees glistened, their new, wet leaves clinging hopefully to the bright, dying sun.

  I went inside and fixed dinner—a six-egg omelet with ham, onion, mushrooms, and salsa. Then I put on a sports coat and slacks, holster and Magnum.

  The gun felt like a brick under my arm. There was no avoiding it, though. The cops had my smaller gun, and I wasn’t about to continue with this case unarmed. Three guys had tried to kill me, and two were still out there. I figured if I kept poking into Clare Butler’s past life, the shooters would find me again. I hoped I’d be prepared when they showed up.

  I phoned Oliver Westfall to see if he’d asked Butler about Clare’s friend Madeline Tate. His office was closed for the day.

  I drove to my office. I went up the stairs slowly, hand on the butt of my gun. The pals of the dead man Royce no doubt knew I kept this place. Not a bad spot for an ambush.

  But the hallway was empty.

  So was my office.

  The message light on my machine was blinking in sets of three. I pushed the button, and the tape rewound and played them in order.

  Number 1: “This is Oliver Westfall. We have a problem. Call me at your earliest convenience.” Since he hadn’t given me his unlisted home number, I’d have to wait until tomorrow.

  Number 2: “Jake, it’s Harvey. Have you made a decision about your Olds?” I had not.

  Number 3: “Mr. Lomax, this is Madeline Tate returning your call. It’s six o’clock, Wednesday night. I…well, call me again if you like.”

  It was now six-thirty, Thursday. I dialed her number. She answered on the second ring.

  “Ms. Tate? This is Jacob Lomax.”

  “Oh. Hello.” She sounded cautious.

  “Thanks for calling me back,” I said. “I assume, then, that you knew Clare Butler.”

  “I did. I…it was horrible what happened.”

  “Yes, it was. As I said in my message, I’m working for Mr. Butler’s attorney, and I’d like to ask you some questions about Clare.”

  “We were only casual friends. I’m not sure how much I can tell you.”

  “Anything would be a help. Can we meet somewhere?”

  “Do you mean now? I just got home from work.”

  I waited.

  After a moment, she said, “Why don’t you give me half an hour and then come here.”

  “That would be fine.”

  Dahlia Lane was a short, circular street only a few miles east of the Butler residence. It looked wet and clean after the heavy rain. So did Madeline Tate’s frame ranch, which had been built in the fifties, when carports were in. There was a three-year-old Volkswagen Jetta in the semidarkness near the front door. Ms. Tate hadn’t left a light on for me. I parked the Toyota in the street, walked up the driveway, and rang the bell.

  A dog barked. A big one, by the sound of him. He shut up just before the porch light went on and the door opened.

  “Mr. Lomax?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please come in.”

  Madeline Tate was an attractive woman on my side of thirty, with violet eyes and ash-blond hair that fell in tight curls to her shoulders. She wore a short, shapely tan skirt and a cream-colored blouse with long sleeves and padded shoulders. We were at eye level with each other until I took the one step up into the house.

  “Don’t mind Tobey,” she said.

  Tobey was the ugliest rottweiler in the state, and he knew it. He scowled at me, daring me to make a wisecrack about his looks, every muscle tense, from his broad muzzle to his thick, stubby tail.

  “Cute dog.”

  Tobey growled.

  “Tobey, no.”

  Madeline led me through the small entryway. On the right was a large white kitchen with a stone-tiled floor. To the left, a hallway pointed toward the bedrooms. I followed her into the living room, picking up faint traces of her perfume. Paloma Picasso. Tobey grumbled at my heels.

  “Please sit down,” she said, and motioned me to the couch.

  She sat in an armchair, putting the glass-topped coffee table between us. There were tasteful prints on the walls and a floor lamp in the corner that filled the room with soft light. It was all very pleasant, but I had the feeling that something was not quite right, something was missing.
r />   “I was shocked when I heard about Clare,” she said.

  I nodded. “Were you two close?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘close.’ As I told you on the phone, we were casual friends. We’d meet once every few weeks for lunch or to go shopping. Tobey, lie down.”

  The thick-bodied brute had been standing beside her chair, staring at me across the glass tabletop, gauging the distance between his jaws and my Adam’s apple. Now he snorted at me and flopped down on the carpet.

  “When did you and Clare first meet?” I asked.

  “About a year ago. On a cruise ship. My…husband and I had the cabin next to theirs. It was really quite a coincidence when we later discovered that we lived near them, too.”

  That’s what I’d felt was missing—the husband. This house was too big for one person.

  “Are you recently divorced?”

  She frowned with her eyes and smiled with her mouth. “Does it show?”

  “Only to the highly trained detective.” I held up my left hand. “No ring.”

  “Separated,” she said matter-of-factly. “The divorce will be final next month.” She unconsciously rubbed the underside of her ring finger with her thumb, as if the ring had left a phantom pain, like an amputated limb. “Brian and I never should’ve gotten married in the first place. ‘Irreconcilable differences,’ they call it.” She smiled without humor, staring into the middle distance. “I call it ‘he turned out to be a jerk.’ Maybe I was just blinded by the romance, the wine and roses and candlelight dinners. Still, I felt I knew him when we got married, knew the kind of man he was—kind and caring. Well, all he cared about was himself. I was one of his possessions.”

  I said nothing.

  She shook her head, returning from her tangent. “But we were talking about Clare.”

  “Right. You met on a cruise ship.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the four of you get together after the cruise?”