A Dangerous Affair (33 page)

He reached for the gun safe in his top dresser drawer and thumbed the combination to retrieve the .40 caliber Smith & Wesson. He jammed a loaded clip in the handle and pulled the slide back to chamber the first round.

He ventured toward the front of the house, where an outdoor motion sensor tripped a bank of flood lights to expose a figure dressed in black, sprinting away from the property.

He raised the gun and squinted down the fixed sight barrel.

"What's going on?" Marvin asked from the hall.

"Nothing," said Varden, his pulse pounding as he lowered the gun and took his finger off the trigger. "Shut up and get back in your room."

Chapter 48

Leslie used a keychain knife to slice through the crime scene tape along the door frame of the Lipscomb Street residence. Insects hovered near the porch light above her head, buzzing madly for a glimpse at the great unknown.

She turned on the lights inside the house and found the place stripped bare. A faucet dripped. Fresh paint fumes permeated her congested sinus tract.

She compared the kitchen entrance to the crime scene photos on her Blackberry. Every piece of lab equipment had been removed from the scene. Every Bunsen burner. Every beaker. Every bottle of chemical agent. The walls and floors were scrubbed clean, erasing any trace of blood or DNA residue.

She ventured through the property that showed like a vacant model home and found no evidence any crime had taken place, let alone a gruesome suicide followed by a heinous murder with a shotgun blast to the face. No chalk lines. No blood spatter. No bullet holes. No evidence to confirm or contradict Morallen's version of events.

She skimmed through the digital pictures until she found the photo of Deputy Carter on the floor with his head in pieces. She stood in the spot where the photo was taken and looked up at the ceiling. Morallen claimed he saw the shooter from the attic, but from where she stood, there was no attic access within view of the murder scene.

She searched the house again, inspecting the popcorn ceiling for an access panel but found nothing in the rooms or the closets to suggest an attic access existed—unless someone had concealed it with a fresh coat of plaster and paint.

Too many questions kept surfacing with no reasonable explanations, unless Morallen contrived his story to discredit Blanchart and generate reasonable doubt. But if Morallen killed Carter to evade police, why not shoot Carter in the body or the arm? Why the up-close-and-personal execution?

She also wondered how the sheriff's office recovered GSR from a shirt Morallen claimed he never wore at the scene. As for Blanchart himself, were drugs motive enough for him to kill another law enforcement officer, let alone a man he mentored right out of the academy? She had to dig deeper. That meant tapping resources outside her office without George's approval.

"This is Leslie," she said when her Blackberry signaled an incoming call.

The call stayed silent.

"Hello?"

She checked the anonymous display and dismissed the call. Lightning sizzled outside the kitchen window, facing a starless sky. Thunder rattled the single pane glass. Lights flickered from the power fluctuation. The stove clock flashed "12:00."

A chill brought goose bumps on her arms. Short hairs bristled on the back of her neck. She saw movement in the yard, or what she thought was movement from the brilliant streaks of lightning that faded to an eerie glow. She put her face to the window and screamed when a hand touched her shoulder from behind.

"Find what you're looking for?"

Leslie spun around to see Sheriff Blanchart in uniform. "What the hell are you doing here?" She swallowed her heart in her throat. "How did you get in here?"

"The same way you did."

Leslie slid her phone in her purse and discretely activated the voice recorder squeezed between her tissues and a can of mace. "You scared the shit out of me."

Blanchart smiled wryly. "I have that affect on people."

Leslie kept her distance. "What happened to your face?"

"Domestic dispute. The perp tried to fight his way free."

"Did he succeed?"

"No."

Leslie sensed a hostile tone in the sheriff's voice. Her instincts told her to cut and run, but her stronger half stood firm. "I've never seen a crime scene this clean before. What are you trying to hide?"

"What are you trying to find?"

"I don't have to disclose that to you," said Leslie.

Blanchart nodded. "I don't have to arrest you for trespassing either."

"I have the right to search the premises."

"And what have you found so far?"

"Inconsistency."

"Regarding what?"

Leslie moved closer to the door. The house suddenly felt much smaller in the presence of an armed sheriff with questionable intentions. "Where were you when Deputy Carter was shot?"

"Read my report."

"I have. Four times. I'd like to hear it from you." She watched Blanchart adjust the volume on his police radio and tap the nightstick on his duty belt. "Your report says you and Carter cornered Hugo Gonzalez in the kitchen. Deputy Carter snuck out the back, ran around the house, and surprised Hugo from the kitchen window. Carter brandished his weapon, and Hugo turned the shotgun on himself."

"You have a good memory, Ms. Dancroft."

"Where were you before Deputy Carter was killed?"

"Outside," said Blanchart. "Pursuing another perp on foot. Carter stayed behind to secure the scene until help arrived."

"Which perp?" said Leslie. "Vince Parr, Manny Morallen, or Leeland Marks?"

Blanchart shrugged. "I didn't get a good look."

"Did you and Carter clear the house before you chased after this other suspect?"

"Yes."

"But you claim you saw Manny Morallen shoot Deputy Carter."

"Correct."

"Now I'm confused," said Leslie. "How did you witness this murder if you were otherwise engaged in pursuing another perp?"

"The suspect got away. I ran back to the house and saw Manny Morallen shoot Deputy Carter in the kitchen."

"So Morallen just suddenly appeared out of nowhere?"

"He must have been hiding."

"You just told me you and Carter cleared the house."

"Morallen must have come back."

"Just like that," said Leslie. She faced her purse toward Blanchart to maximize the tiny microphone's reception. "The coroner's report indicates Carter had no defensive marks on his body. No evidence from his nail beds or his knuckles to suggest he struggled with his attacker."

"Morallen must have caught him by surprise."

"So Morallen either made himself invisible—or he ran out and came back, grabbed the shotgun from his dead friend Hugo, and shot Carter point blank in the face? Not in the back where he could have snuck up behind him, but front and center before Carter had a chance to draw his weapon."

"Carter made a rookie mistake."

"Carter was on the force for three years. His file contains two letters of accommodation, both signed by you. Doesn't seem like the rookie type to me."

Veins rippled on Blanchart's forehead. "When you work in law enforcement, you put your life on the line every day. You train for it. You prepare for it. But no matter how hard you train or how well you think you're prepared, sometimes the bad guys get lucky."

"And sometimes the good guys are bad."

"Careful, Ms. Dancroft. That kind of rhetoric could hurt morale in my department."

Leslie chose her next words carefully. Her phone vibrated in her purse. "Did you fire your weapon at Morallen?"

"I never got a clean shot."

"So Morallen shot Carter point blank and slipped away? Seems unlikely, don't you think?"

"Like I told you," Blanchart replied, "sometimes the bad guys get lucky. Now you really
are
starting to annoy me."

Leslie watched a patrol car pull up outside. The presence of another officer brought her a modicum of comfort. "What's your relationship to Vince Parr and Leeland Marks?"

"I can't discuss an open investigation."

"Do you think it's possible one of them killed Deputy Carter?"

"No."

"Because you saw Manny Morallen pull the trigger?"

"Yes," said Blanchart.

"Will you testify under oath?"

"I'm not on trial, Ms. Dancroft."

"Maybe you should be."

Blanchart watched his man exit the patrol car and approach the house. "You think I killed my own deputy?"

"Did you?"

"Why would I do such a thing?"

"To protect what's yours," said Leslie.

Blanchart stared at her, his face expressionless. "You'll have to excuse me, Ms. Dancroft. I have an important event to attend."

Chapter 49

Lloyd gathered a stack of damp envelopes from the mailbox at the end of his mother's driveway and carried them to the house. "Mom?" he called out from the broken screen-door he'd fixed twice already. He observed the busted latch where a pair of wood screws had been ripped from the frame.

"In here," a faint voice called from the bedroom.

Lloyd poked his head inside the room that smelled of booze and urine. "It's Lloyd," he said in a quiet voice, his attention momentarily distracted by the squalid conditions.

"I know who it is," said Brenda. "I heard your damn motorcycle two counties away." She propped herself against the headboard with pillows behind her back. Prescription bottles littered the nightstand. "What are you doing here?"

Lloyd gave her the soggy envelope with her social security check. "I found this in the mailbox."

"Next time leave it there, for all the good it does. What the hell am I supposed to do with... four hundred and fifty dollars a month?"

Lloyd set the check by the lamp. "Where's Josh?"

"He left," said Brenda.

"I thought he was taking care of you."

"He took care of me all right. Stole damn near everything but my pantyhose. He would have taken those too if he thought they were worth something."

"Where'd he go?"

Brenda cleared her throat. "He didn't say. I didn't ask. He took my good jewelry." She pointed to the antique jewelry chest. "I kept my grandmother's wedding band in there."

"Did you call the police?"

"He's my son."

Lloyd opened the empty drawer. "He's a thief."

"He's your brother."

"You should call the police."

"Nothing good will come of it," said Brenda.

Lloyd shook his head. "Who's going to look after you when I'm not here?"

"I can take care of myself."

"Not like this." Lloyd poured a glass of water from the bathroom sink. A cockroach scurried up from the drain. "You left your door unlocked again. The trash hasn't gone out in days."