Blood Relative (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 4) Page 12

  “Which I am.”

  “Then I’d start somewhere else.”

  “With Kenneth and Doreen Butler.”

  Lucero nodded. “That’s where I would’ve gone first if Clare hadn’t specifically told me not to.”

  I finished my bourbon and stood. “Thanks for the information. And the drink.”

  He nodded, then swung his legs off the couch, grimacing.

  “Don’t get up,” I said. “I can find my way out.”

  “Okay.”

  “By the way, what happened?”

  “This?” He rubbed his legs. “I was getting out of my car, and I got hit by a truck.”

  I stared at him.

  “So I wasn’t looking,” he said testily. “Shit happens.”

  “A pickup truck with oversized tires?”

  His eyes narrowed.

  I sat back down. “Tell me about it.”

  Lucero had been looking for Jeremy Stone for about a week, mostly hanging out in the bar he’d told me about. One afternoon, he parked his car at the curb near the bar, the way he usually did, and stepped out. A pickup truck was bearing down on him. He threw himself over the hood of his car, trying to get out of the way. The truck sideswiped his car, smashing his legs between the fenders of the two vehicles.

  “I was lucky I wasn’t killed.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “A few people on the street, but no one got the license number. I figured it was a goddamn drunk. And how did you know it was a pickup on big tires?”

  I described the similar “accident” I’d had outside a bar a few days ago. Now it was his turn to stare, listening with his mouth open. Then he closed it, and his face set like cement.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said tightly.

  “Exactly.”

  “It was Jeremy Stone.”

  “Or people connected with him. They had another try at me last night.” I told him about my experience at the golf course. “I’d thought it had to do with Clare’s death, her murderer making sure I didn’t stumble onto anything. But there must be more to it than that.”

  “Got to be,” Lucero said. “When that motherfucker tried to kill me, Clare Butler was still alive.”

  I nodded. “I need to find Stone.”

  “He’s touchy about that.”

  “Right.”

  “If and when you find him, bring him up here and we’ll dangle him over the balcony, see if he talks.”

  “There’s a thought.” I stood.

  “Let me know what you find out, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “I wish I could go with you.”

  “Me, too.”

  I meant it. I had a feeling the closer I got to Stone, the more I’d need someone to watch my back. Especially since there was obviously an inside informant, someone who’d told Stone about me from the beginning.

  That “someone” had to come from a short list, those who’d known I’d been hired: Oliver Westfall, Samuel Butler, and those close to Butler.

  His children.

  CHAPTER 20

  BEFORE I LEFT GIL LUCERO’S APARTMENT, I phoned Kenneth Butler and asked if I could come over.

  “Now?” he said, put off. “It’s after nine o’clock.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Can’t we do this over the phone?”

  “I want to talk to Doreen, too.” She was the one who’d mentioned Jeremy Stone to the salesclerk.

  “What about?” he asked sharply.

  “Kenneth, this is all related to your father’s defense. Do you want to help me or not?” I could’ve mentioned Jeremy Stone. But I wanted to see his face when I did.

  “Yes, yes, all right. Do you know how to get here?”

  “No.”

  He gave me directions.

  The Butler residence was on Easter Avenue in Littleton, the southeastern portion of the greater metro suburban sprawl. Twenty years ago this area had been gently rolling fields of scrub brush populated by prairie dogs and jackrabbits, with just enough coyotes and hawks hanging around to keep their numbers in check. Now there were curving streets and single-family dwellings, with nothing to check the population—except perhaps the economy. Which, come to think of it, was more brutal than hawks and coyotes.

  The house was a wide, white, two-story frame fronted by a generous lawn, blue green in the light of the streetlamp. Square columns flanked the porch. One featured a sleeve for a flag pole. Over the front door was a brass eagle in bas-relief, wings spread, talons at the ready. Ready for what, I don’t know. The prairie dogs and jackrabbits were long gone.

  Kenneth must’ve been watching for me, because he opened the door before I got my thumb on the bell.

  He greeted me with “I don’t know why we couldn’t do this over the phone.”

  “The telephone is so impersonal, don’t you think?”

  He blew air through his nostrils and led me into the living room. The furniture was colonial, more for show than comfort. Kenneth waved me to a chair, and I sat. He took the couch across from me. On the wall behind him, horsemen in red coats chased a bunch of beagles. The fox was safely out of the picture.

  “All right, so what’s this all about?”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  He gave me the famous Butler scowl, as if my asking had somehow offended her honor. “Upstairs,” he said, “putting the children to bed.”

  “I’d like to wait for her.”

  “I don’t see any reason—”

  He stopped when he heard her coming down the stairs. We waited expectantly, but it was a minute before she entered the room, clutching a pack of Virginia Slims and a thin silver lighter in her left hand. Apparently, she’d made a detour to fetch her smokes.

  I stood, and Kenneth introduced us.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lomax,” she said, smiling faintly.

  “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  She was an extremely thin woman with pale red hair, fair skin, and large green eyes. Her eyes seemed even larger, set over drawn, almost gaunt cheeks. I could smell cigarette smoke on her clothes.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Kenneth said impatiently.

  Doreen sat beside him on the couch. I was struck by how dressed up they were. He wore a silk tie and a long-sleeved shirt, buttoned at the cuffs. Her dress was too fashionable for simply lounging around the house. Maybe they’d gone out to dinner. Or who knows? Maybe they’d dressed up for me.

  “I appreciate your taking the time to see me,” I said.

  “Anything we can do to help Samuel,” Doreen said. She fired up a cigarette and pulled a large ashtray close to her on the cherry-wood coffee table. Kenneth scowled. Dammit, Doreen, that ashtray is for decoration, not ashes.

  “As you both know,” I said, “or at least Kenneth does, Samuel believed Clare was having an affair and that her secret lover might’ve killed her.”

  “Yes, yes,” Kenneth said. “So?”

  “So, I may have found him.”

  Kenneth’s thick eyebrows rose with effort from their resting place. “Really?”

  “Who is he?” Doreen asked with interest.

  “Actually, I haven’t found the man, just his name.”

  They waited eagerly.

  “Jeremy Stone,” I said.

  “Jer—” Doreen’s jaw dropped, and she glanced fearfully at her husband. He looked at me as if I’d just set the carpet on fire. Jesus, not too obvious.

  “Who…who is he?” Kenneth asked, straining to act nonchalant.

  “I was hoping you could tell me,”

  “We don’t know anyone by that name. Do we, Doreen.”

  He’d said it flatly, as if it were a statement, not a question. Doreen shook her head no and puffed on her cigarette.

  I asked her, “Are you certain you don’t know him?”

  She blew out smoke and opened her mouth to speak.

  “Of course she’s certain,” Kenneth said.

  “Because Samuel Butler’s fre
edom may depend on it,” I said to Doreen. They stared back at me, Doreen frightened, Kenneth angry. I was getting a little angry myself.

  “Not long before Clare Butler was murdered,” I said, “she hired a private detective, Gil Lucero, to find Stone. Lucero talked to a salesclerk at a boutique in Cherry Creek. Doreen, the clerk said you’d been spending a lot of money in there lately and that you’d said it was all thanks to Jeremy Stone.”

  Kenneth shot Doreen an angry glance, then told me, “The clerk was mistaken.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” he said loudly.

  “Perish the thought.” I asked Doreen, “Was the clerk mistaken?”

  “…yes,” she said in a small voice.

  I think if she and I had been alone, I could’ve gotten her to talk to me. But she was too intimidated by her husband’s presence. I tried to shake them up.

  “Did you know that someone ran Lucero down with a truck.”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  I cut off Kenneth: “He’s still on crutches.”

  “What are you—”

  “And last night someone tried to kill me.”

  “I…” Kenneth decided to say no more. Doreen’s mouth was a tiny “o.”

  I let them feel the silence before I spoke. “It’s obvious to me that Stone is involved in both of these murder attempts. And he may have killed Clare.”

  “No,” Kenneth said. Doreen’s expression had gone from apprehension to fright to horror. She directed it at Kenneth. He said, “I can assure you that…” He let his voice trail off.

  “You can assure me what?”

  He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Nothing.”

  I wanted to yank him to his feet and slap him until he talked. Instead, I said, “Look, if you’re afraid of Stone, maybe I can help.”

  Kenneth looked away. Doreen stared down at her cigarette. There wasn’t much left but the filter. She stubbed it out in the sculptured ashtray.

  “You’re both pathetic,” I said, standing. “You’d protect Stone and let Samuel go to prison for Clare’s murder.”

  “My father is guilty,” Kenneth said softly.

  “You’d like to see him convicted, wouldn’t you? That would leave you in charge of Butler Manufacturing.”

  His face had gone dark red, and I could tell he was ready to explode. I expected him to jump to his feet and start shouting, maybe even take a swing at me. I’d like that. But he just sat there, holding it in, hands together, fingers interlocked, squeezing the blood from his knuckles.

  I shook my head at them and walked out. I would’ve slammed the door, but the kids were upstairs in bed.

  I finished off the night in a neighborhood bar, swapping lies with the bartender and a couple of regulars, throwing down whiskey, and trying to get the Butlers out of my mind, the whole goddamn family.

  I couldn’t. There were things going on just out of my sight, and the Butlers were blocking my view. Obviously, Kenneth and Doreen knew more than they were telling. But I had a feeling that Karen did, too. And Nicole and Wes. Hell, probably even Samuel. They gave out information reluctantly, as if they were all guarding some great secret.

  Or maybe they were just like everyone else, trying to keep their personal lives private.

  I left the bar when it closed.

  As I stood in the lamp-lit street, fumbling with my car keys, I realized what an easy target I was. Killers roamed the land, and at least two of them were after me.

  Let them come, I thought. I’m ready for them.

  But I wasn’t ready. I was just drunk.

  I drove home with one bloodshot eye on the rearview mirror.

  CHAPTER 21

  I AWOKE FRIDAY MORNING with a mild hangover. A shower and a ham-and-egg breakfast helped. I poured another cup of coffee and phoned Oliver Westfall.

  “I got your message yesterday.” It seemed like days ago. “You said we have a problem.”

  “In a word,” he said, “Winks. That is, Mr. Armbruster. He failed to appear Wednesday afternoon for his deposition.”

  “What about the other two, the flower vendor and the bartender?”

  “Yes, they both came in, but their statements are nearly worthless. Mr. Colodny remembers the hundred-dollar bill he was given for the flowers but not exactly who gave it to him—other than the man in the photo you showed him.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Yes, and although Mr. Stilwell recalls serving drinks to Mr. Butler, he can’t positively state how Mr. Butler behaved or when he left the bar.”

  “Swell.”

  “The only man who can help us is Armbruster.”

  “I take it you’ve called him.”

  “He won’t answer his phone. I’d like you to drive up there and convince him to come in.”

  “Okay.” I only hoped Winks didn’t mistake the smoky Toyota for an alien landing craft.

  “I have more bad news,” Westfall said. “I spoke to my contacts in Kansas City about Clare Butler’s ex-pimp Sonny Washington. He may have wanted to kill Mrs. Butler, but he couldn’t have done it. He had a meeting with his parole officer in Kansas City the day she was murdered. I’m afraid that eradicates my ‘other suspect’ defense.”

  “Oh, there are other suspects. In fact, three of them tried to kill me night before last.”

  “What?”

  I described Wednesday night’s golf outing and the shooting death of William Royce. I also told him the same truck that had run down Gil Lucero had barely missed me.

  “Have you been to the police?”

  “Absolutely. They even let me spend the night in their jail.”

  He ignored that and asked, “Who exactly did you speak with?”

  “Lieutenant MacArthur.”

  “Does he believe these attempts on your life are connected with the Butler case?”

  “I don’t think he wants to. It might muss up his tidy murder case. But I may have found a connection—Jeremy Stone.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Clare hired Lucero to find Stone about a week before he was run over. I don’t know who Stone is or how he’s involved. Maybe he killed Clare. If he did, then he might very well kill again to make sure Samuel Butler is convicted.”

  “Then our witnesses could be in danger.”

  “Probably just Winks,” I said. “He’s the only one who counts. Have you told anyone that I found him?”

  “Samuel Butler. And my legal aide and my secretary, both of whom I trust implicitly. I’m certain neither of them have told anyone about Mr. Armbruster.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll drive up and talk to Winks right away.”

  “Good. I’ll be in the office all day, so bring him in if you can. Without coercing him, you understand.”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Oh, and I asked Mr. Butler what he knew of his wife’s friend Madeline Tate. There was very little he could tell me, not even where she lives.”

  “That’s all right. I found her.”

  We rang off.

  I went outside into a fine spring day, with a sky so blue it made you smile. A couple of fat robins with red waistcoats and perfect posture hopped about Mrs. Finch’s lawn, hunting for breakfast. One of them pecked the ground, snagged a night crawler, and began tugging it from the earth. The bird pulled, and the worm stretched, hanging on. It looked comical. Not to the worm, of course.

  Which reminded me, there were two guys out there who’d like to stretch me out cold.

  I kept one eye on the rearview mirror and drove off in the smoky Toyota. I gassed up at a service station on Broadway. Even remembered to check the oil. It was only down two and a half quarts. Then I headed west, still checking the mirror. No one seemed to be following.

  On the way to Golden I thought about Madeline Tate.

  Westfall’s mention of her had reminded me of our conversation last night. My mo
rbid emotional baggage. And how it was affecting my life.

  Before Mexico, I’d been involved with a woman, Rachel Wynn. She’d been obliquely connected to a case I was working on, finding a runaway girl. We’d gone out a few times, dinner, a play. To bed. She was loving, sensitive, and beautiful. It would’ve been easy to fall in love with her. If I’d let myself. But I’d broken off the relationship and left town, gone south. Vacation. Right. I’d run away.

  Because of Katherine.

  I’d tried to tell myself that lots of guys lose their wives. One way or another. Some wives even die. A few are murdered.

  But not murdered like that. Not tortured and sodomized and slashed and then thrown in a ditch like garbage. Not when her husband is an officer of the law, sworn to serve and protect. It had been my job, my duty. And I couldn’t even save my own wife, my Katherine.

  I’d never go through something like that again.

  I wouldn’t.

  The monkey trap, Lomax. Goddammit, let it go.

  The mountains had taken some snow last night, and the higher peaks were creamy white.

  I skirted Golden on U.S. 6 and the bypass, then retraced the route Elliot had showed me last Monday—the snaky asphalt of Golden Gate Canyon Road, the ill-maintained dirt road, and finally the rocky path that led to Winks’s home.

  The house looked the same as it had last Monday, a hodgepodge of wings under continual construction. But something was different. It was quiet. There were no munchkin-sized monsters charging across the meadow to greet me. Maybe Winks had left and taken his dogs with him. If so, I’d make myself at home and wait for them all to return.

  As I steered around the meadow, the Toyota disturbed a squawking of crows. They lifted from the tall grass on heavy wings, then settled back down as I passed, feasting on something.

  I parked beside the house and shut off the engine. The house was quiet.

  There was a battered pickup parked in the dirt near the door, so maybe Winks was home, after all. Unless he had two trucks.

  I got out of the car and called his name.

  The only answer was the faint screech of a hawk, adrift somewhere in the sea of sky. It gave me a chill. Or maybe it was just the cold mountain air.

  I knocked on the screen door and called again. Silence. I pulled open the screen and tried the knob. Unlocked. Not too surprising, since a lot of mountain people leave their doors unlocked—few prowlers up here.