A Real Basket Case (6 page)

Her heart sank. “But I need to talk to you. I have so much to explain.”

“I’m not in the mood to hear it right now.” Roger glanced at his watch, then at Dave. “If you drive me home so I can change, I’ll make it to the office in time to convince Ned I should speak at the investors’ conference.”

What? He was thinking about work? Claire’s blood began to boil, but she stifled her immediate reaction. She needed to salvage her marriage. “I can drive you home.”

Roger refused to meet her eyes. “I’d rather have Dave drive me. I’ll be taking some of my things, too.”

Claire’s insides twisted. She clutched herself in a tight hug that she desperately wished came from him.

“I’ve accepted Dave’s offer to stay at his place for a few days.” Roger ran his fingers through his gray fringe. “Then I’ll decide what to do next.”

Claire stepped closer. “Roger,” she whispered, “give me a chance. Please.”

“I don’t have time to deal with this now.” He turned away. “C’mon, Dave, I can’t afford to be late.”

Roger shoved his balled fists into his pockets and walked toward
the door. Grim-faced, he turned back to Claire. “I’ve got serious
problems to solve at the office. This fiasco could cost me my career.”
Then he strode out of the room, followed by Dave.

Oh, God
. With a sob, Claire dropped into a chair and let her tears flow.

SEVEN:
THE GIRLFRIEND

Dazed with grief, Claire
followed a policeman through the narrow hallway of the downtown police station into a large room filled with a dozen desks. She had called ahead from the courthouse to request a meeting with Detective Wilson. Half a dozen detectives sat at the desks, talking on telephones, working at computers or reading case files. Two men scribbled something on a large whiteboard then passed her on their way out.

When he saw her approach, Detective Wilson removed a stack of files from the chair next to his desk and offered it to her.

Claire slumped into the chair.

After a glance at her tear-streaked face, Wilson said, “I’ll be right back.” He walked away and returned with a glass of water. “Here, drink this.” He slid a box of tissues toward her. “And feel free to use these.”

He settled into his chair and waited while she gulped some water and blew her nose. “Tough day?”

Claire shredded a tissue. “You don’t know how much I wish I could live yesterday over again. If I hadn’t agreed to a massage, Enrique Romero would be alive and Roger would . . . Roger would still be living with me.”

Wilson frowned. “I heard he made bail. But he’s not returning home? Where’s he staying?”

“At Dave Kessler’s place.” Seeing the detective’s puzzled expression, Claire said, “His lawyer.”

He nodded and asked for Kessler’s address and phone number. After writing those down, he leaned back in his chair and peered at Claire. “Now, what can I do for you?”

With Roger’s rejection of her, convincing the police that someone was out to frame him became even more important. If she got them to drop the charges, maybe Roger would talk to her. Maybe she could convince him to return home. She licked her lips and groped for the right words.

“Roger said he got a message at work yesterday that I called and needed him to come home. But I didn’t call him. When I talked to his receptionist today, she said she had assumed it was me, because the caller said so, but the caller spoke with a Hispanic accent.”

Wilson shrugged. “Someone who knew about your liaison with Romero wanted your husband to find out. Doesn’t matter much who, because I’ve got to tell you, Mrs. Hanover, it still places your husband at the scene with the murder weapon in his hand.”

He plucked a piece of paper off one of the piles on his desk. “
The lab sent a fingerprint report this morning. Only Mr. Romero’s and your husband’s fingerprints are on the gun. Your husband’s
were on top. And he had GSR on his hand.”

“What’s GSR?”

“Sorry. Gunshot residue. Shows the gun was in his hand when it was fired.”

Claire fought to suppress her rising panic that the detective already had his mind made up. What happened to being innocent until proven guilty? “But I told you. When I screamed, Roger jumped and fired the gun by mistake.”

“There’s no way to prove whether he fired the gun once or twice. We only know he did fire it. Tell me about the gun. A nine-millimeter semiautomatic is not your typical household-protection handgun. How long have you owned it?”

Confused, she said, “Owned it? Do you mean the gun Roger held in his hands?”

Wilson peered at her. “Ye-es.”

“We don’t own a gun. I won’t allow them in the house. I’ve
never seen it before. Roger said he never saw the gun before,
either.”

“Where’d he get it?”

“He said he found it lying on the hall floor.”

Wilson pursed his lips. “Told me the same story.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed. Was the detective trying to trip her up? Did he think she planned this murder with Roger? “Then why did you ask me?”

“Thought he might tell you something different.” Wilson made a note. “I’ll have the gun traced. Anything else?”

Claire grabbed another tissue and dabbed at her nose to give herself time to think. Detective Wilson seemed uninterested in what she had told him so far, except for trying to catch Roger in a lie through her. She suspected he wouldn’t show much interest in what she had to say next either, but she had to try. “Roger said he didn’t do it. Didn’t shoot Enrique.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe him?”

She couldn’t lie, much as she wanted to. “I’m not a hundred
percent sure, but I think I’d know if he were lying to me. He
sounded so certain.”

“Most of the people we lock up claim they didn’t commit the crime they’re accused of. Maybe some can’t even admit to themselves that they’re capable of committing a crime. Later, many of them admit their guilt. But the others . . .” He shook his head. “The prisons are crammed with guys who still claim they’re innocent after they’ve been tried and convicted.”

He leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk. “I also have the ballistics results. The bullet that killed Enrique Romero came from that gun. You saw the gun in your husband’s hand, and, as I told you, only his fingerprints and Romero’s are on it. This is a cut-and-dried case.”

A whirlpool of panic sucked at Claire’s feet. A cut-and-dried case? No, it couldn’t be. Not when there were still unanswered questions. “But what about the gun? Where did it come from? Aren’t you supposed to tie up all the loose ends in a case?”

“I said I’d trace the gun, but tying up that loose end won’t change
the conclusion.” He swept a hand over the stacks of case files on his desk. “With this many active cases, I can’t afford to chase rainbows on one I consider closed. I’d have to see something a lot more substantial to change my mind.”

___

Claire drove home late Friday afternoon in a dejected daze. First thing, she checked the answering machine in the kitchen. Regina had returned Claire’s call. With dread, but before she could back out, Claire picked up the phone. She explained the situation to Roger’s sister, who grew more agitated by the minute. Finally, Regina cut her off and asked how she could get hold of Roger. Glad to pass off the burden of calming the woman, Claire gave her Dave’s phone number.

Returning to the hall, she opened the closet to hang up her coat, then stopped with her hand in mid-air and stared. Stuffed in among the coats and ski jackets, Enrique’s leather jacket still hung on a hanger.

She had forgotten to tell Detective Wilson about it, and the police probably assumed it was Roger’s.

Her despair changed to hope. Maybe the jacket could offer the “something a lot more substantial” the detective had talked about. She reached for the jacket, then shuddered and drew back.

C’mon, it’s just a jacket. He wasn’t even wearing it when—no, don’t think about that. Pick it up. Now.

Before she changed her mind, she grabbed the jacket and thrust her hand into a pocket. After finding the outside pockets empty except for a pair of gloves, she checked an inside pocket and pulled out a letter. Enrique’s name appeared in the top left corner, above an address in Colorado Springs.

The envelope was addressed to a Lucia Romero in Nogales, Mexico. His mother? Or a sister? Guilt knotted Claire’s gut. Had the police found this Lucia and notified her of her son or brother’s death? Was the woman grieving even now as Claire held the last letter to her from Enrique?

She dropped the letter as if it burned her hand, then took a deep breath.
C’mon, Claire, if this can help Roger, you need to use it.
She forced herself to retrieve it.

Carrying the jacket and letter, she walked into the kitchen and picked up a pad of paper from the telephone desk. After she had written down both addresses from the envelope, she tried the other inside jacket pocket. She found a scrap of paper containing a name, Leon, and a phone number. These, too, she added to her pad.

Then she opened her phone book to Romero. Enrique’s name appeared halfway down the page. The address matched the one from the letter. Claire wrote his phone number on the pad. On impulse, she picked up the phone and punched in the number.

After the third ring, a young-sounding woman said,
“Bueno?”

Claire slammed down the receiver. Trembling, she stared at the phone. Did Enrique have a wife? A live-in girlfriend? Maybe she was the Hispanic woman who had called Roger’s office. But how would she have found out where Roger worked?

Claire paced the kitchen. She had something, but not enough to impress Detective Wilson. She imagined his voice dripping with sarcasm.
So Romero had a Hispanic girlfriend. What a surprise. Now that’s a real case breaker.

She shook her head. She couldn’t call Wilson yet, but she had to do something with this information. She snapped her fingers.
Of course.

She thumbed through her address book until she found the entry for her former college roommate, Deb Burch, a Ute Indian. After serving as a tribal police officer on the Southern Ute reservation in Ignacio, Colorado, Deb had become a private investigator in Denver. She would know what to do.

Claire called Deb and spent half an hour updating her on the situation.

“You believe Roger’s innocent?” Deb asked.

“Yes.”

“So do I. Roger’s no killer. And it sounds like the cops won’t help you.” Deb paused. “Damn, I’m tied up on an investigation. I have to fly to L.A. tomorrow morning then zip back here in time to testify in court Thursday. Otherwise, I’d drive down to the Springs and do some digging.”

“What should I do?” Claire couldn’t keep the edge of desperation out of her voice.

“First, examine the envelope. How thick is it?”

Claire picked up the envelope and shook it. Something inside slid back and forth. “Not very.” She held the envelope up to the light. “It appears to be a check. No letter.”

“He’s probably sending
dinero
home to mama. Write down the address. We might need to interview her later. The next step I would take isn’t tough . . . for me, that is. Maybe you could do it. In fact, it makes more sense for you to do it.”

“Me?” The word came out as a squeak.

“Yeah, you, Minnie Mouse. Go to Romero’s address tomorrow. When the woman answers the door, give her the impression you work at the gym and knew him. Worm your way into the house.”

“Why?”

“So you can find out more about this Romero guy.”

Claire’s mouth went dry. “I don’t think I can do that, Deb. You know I’m terrible at lying.”

Deb laughed. “Remember that time you tried to lie your way out of taking an art history exam you hadn’t studied for? By the time you finished, your dear departed Great Aunt Maude had died of liver failure with complications of psoriasis and typhoid fever.”

“And I was stammering so bad, it took me three tries to say ‘psoriasis.’ That professor could see through me like a pane of glass that had just been Windexed.”

“Do you want to wait until I return?”

“I can’t sit and do nothing for a week.”
Oh, God, what am I getting into?

“Then you’ll just have to screw up your courage and do it. Here’s what you say . . .”

___

At ten-thirty the next morning, Saturday, Claire sat in her car across the street from the two-story brick apartment building where Enrique had lived. She clenched the steering wheel, licked her dry lips, and peered out the window.

The faded sign in front proclaimed “One-Bedroom and Efficiency Units for Rent, with Cable TV.” Even though the building sat end-on to the street, from Claire’s vantage point she could count fourteen apartments, seven on each floor. Metal stairs led to a walkway in front of the second-story units. Since Enrique’s apartment number started with two, Claire guessed his must be located upstairs.

A biting cold wind blew tattered newspapers, a balled-up McDonalds bag, and a Tecaté beer can skittering down the street. The can bounced off pockmarks in the worn asphalt. The pavement cracks mirrored crooked lines left by flaking paint on the sides of the small, dilapidated houses lining her side of the street.

Claire wondered if her BMW would be safe while she made her visit. Maybe calculating eyes already peered from behind frayed curtains or stained blinds at the expensive automobile, estimating what could be gotten for the wheels or the car itself. For the umpteenth time, she wished Roger hadn’t bought her the showy car. She would’ve been happy with a Toyota.

Move, Claire.
She flipped up her coat collar and stepped out of the car. In one shaky hand she held a shopping bag containing Enrique’s jacket. She was glad she thought to bring the jacket. Since it wasn’t on his body, it couldn’t be evidence. Beside, using its return as an excuse to visit made her lie more plausible.

After locking the car and setting the alarm, she resolutely turned her back on the small haven of security and marched across the street. She climbed the stairs to the second-floor balcony. Scanning door numbers, she walked along the metal railing until she found Enrique’s apartment—second from the rear. After taking a deep breath, she knocked.

“Quién es?”

Oh, God
. Claire hadn’t figured on speaking Spanish. Maybe this woman also knew English. “Hello?”

A deadbolt slid sideways, the door opened a few inches, and a dark-haired young woman peered out. Her bleary eyes and the robe she clutched at her throat told Claire she may have come too early and roused this woman out of bed.

Already, Claire was starting off on the wrong foot. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

The woman opened the door a little wider and looked up and down the walkway. Apparently satisfied Claire was alone, she said, “No, I was reading the newspaper. What do you want?”

Claire felt a surge of relief that she wouldn’t have to rely on her rusty high school Spanish. “I’m from the gym where Enrique worked.”

“You’re not a cop?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Good. I want no more questions about Enrique.”

Heartened by the news that the police had done that, at least, Claire held up the shopping bag. “I have something for you. May I come in?”

The woman held the door open.

Claire stepped into the dimly lit room. She noted the shabby furnishings—a couch covered in an ancient plaid fabric, a recliner with a torn vinyl seat, a TV perched on a bookcase overflowing with Spanish scandal sheets and magazines, and a scuffed pine kitchen table and chairs. An open newspaper and a coffee cup sat on the table.