Death Angel (10 page)

“Do you remember what kind it was or the
color?”

“Dark colored. I don’t think it was
black, but it could have been. It looked new. I don’t know much about car
models these days. I was really watching the child not the car.” She pressed
her lips together in agitation.
 

“It’s perfectly understandable, Mrs.
Doutt. Can you remember if it was a two-door or a four-door?”

“I want to say two, but it could have
been four. I just don’t remember.”

“Would you say that the size or shape of
the car was similar to any of the cars parked outside now.”

Once more Mrs. Doutt stared out the
window, eyes focusing on the street. She shook her head.

“I’d say it was about the size of the
blue one.” She pointed. “But I can’t swear to it.”

“That’s fine. We’re just hoping for
impressions now. I don’t suppose you saw the license plate?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to mention
that.” She held up her hand as Carl stared at her. “It’s not much help. All I
saw was PF. No numbers.”

“Don’t apologize, Mrs. Doutt. That’s a
real break. It proves that the car was local.”

The Pickard Federal Bank had put on a
big campaign to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the incorporation of
Pickard. Special license plates with the seal of the town and the letters PF
and four numbers could be picked up at the bank. Carl figured half the cars in
town carried the local plates. A dark car with PF plates. Not great, but a far
cry from a blank.

“Just a few more questions if you don’t
mind. You say when you got to the front door the child was standing beside the
open passenger door of the car. Were they talking?”

“Yes. But I couldn’t hear their voices.”

“Then after she got into the car, he
reached across her and closed the door. Did you see his hand? A sleeve?”

Mrs. Doutt looked startled as if her
memory had just come clear. “Why, yes, I did. He was wearing a suit or at least
a sports coat. I don’t know what color. Not tan. Not light-toned. I could see
in the back window and I saw a white collar above the collar of the jacket.”

“Very good. They were still talking?”

“Yes. At least he was. I could see his
head move as if he was speaking to her.”

“Was he wearing a hat?”

“No.”

“Hair color?”

“Dark. Maybe brown.” Her porcelain skin
had a crepe-like quality as she squinted in concentration. “I could only see
the back of his head, but from what I remember, it was short. Cut close to the
head.”

Carl knew better than to rely too
heavily on the old woman’s description, but he could feel the excitement
building at the amount of information she’d provided. Slowly the picture of a
man in a suit or sports jacket with well-groomed, dark hair, driving a fairly
new car was forming. Not the drooling, disreputable pervert that most people
pictured when such a crime was committed.

“I’m curious, Mrs. Doutt,” Carl said.
“Did you have any feeling of unease or discomfort as you watched the man
talking to the child?”

“No. In actual fact I felt relieved that
she was with someone she knew.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“I have ten grandchildren, Chief
Leidecker. Like most children, they all know better than to talk to strangers.”
She leaned forward, her expression grave as she tried to get her point across.
“Just before the car pulled away, I saw the driver reach over and wipe the
little girl’s tears and runny nose. She would not have let a stranger do that.
Only someone she knew.”
 

“How’d your meeting with the lawyer go?”
Mike asked.

“I haven’t even had a chance to tell
Kate,” Richard said. “My meeting ran late and I got home with just enough time
to change before you two arrived with the pizza.”
 

For Kate, the impromptu dinner was a
blessing. She’d felt trapped in the house with too much time to think. However
the sight of the food made her slightly queasy. She breathed slowly through her
nose and reached out for a glass of water. She sensed Richard’s scrutiny and
took several tentative sips before glancing up to meet his eyes.

“You need to eat,” he said.
 

She closed her eyes. Rebellion struggled
against her natural acquiescence.
 

“Kate.”

Richard’s voice was close to her ear,
the single syllable sharp and demanding. A spurt of anger flashed through her,
but she fought it down. Her eyes opened and the sight of Richard’s face,
forehead creased in worry, banished her momentary revolt.

“Sorry,” she said.

He smiled his relief and patted her arm
as she took a forkful of salad. Placated, Richard launched into a summary of
his visit with the lawyer.
 

“Thanks for putting me on to Stacie. Ms.
Wolfram is pretty damned impressive.”

“Agreed,” Mike said. “She’s a straight
shooter and, despite the fact she looks about twenty, she’s had plenty of
experience.”

“It really helped talking to her. I have
to admit Leidecker had me panicked. Stacie told me to be totally cooperative.
Not to take it personally. After all, whether or not I like the way the
investigation’s going, the most important thing is to find out who killed
Jenny.”
 

The bleakness in his voice touched Kate.
She looked around the table and could sense a similar response in Mike and
Chessy. When Richard picked up his wine glass, they raised their glasses too as
if to seal a promise.

Richard continued. “After Stacie had
calmed me down, she gave me a worst case scenario, walking me through it based
on what she thought the police might do.”

With dawning horror, Kate listened to
Richard explain how much the police could invade their privacy and generally
harass them. It mattered not at all that they were having enough trouble
dealing with their own grief. Mike’s face was grim, but he did not seem overly
surprised.
 

Kate found her own state of shock echoed
in Chessy’s galvanized attention. It was the first time she had heard that
Richard was under any suspicion, and the repugnance at such an accusation was
evident in her expression. Blindly she groped for Kate’s hand, communicating
her sympathy through the steady pressure of her fingers.

Until Kate saw her own belief in
Richard’s innocence reflected in their eyes, she hadn’t realized how hurt she
had been that anyone could think him capable of such a crime. The remainder of
the evening went well, and she managed to eat a slice of pizza and some more
salad before they left.

It was nine o’clock when the phone rang.
Kate winced at the shrill sound. She remained in the family room as Richard
went out to the kitchen to answer it.
 

It was several minutes before she looked
up to see Richard standing in the archway to the kitchen. His face was
expressionless, his eyes unfocused.

“That was Carl Leidecker. He’s on his
way over to pick up the clothes I wore the day Jenny disappeared. He wants to
have them tested.”

Seven

“W
hat do you mean Leidecker
wants to have
your clothes tested?” Kate asked. “Tested for what?”

“He didn’t say.”

“This can’t be happening, Richard. It’s
our daughter who’s been killed, and they’re treating us like it’s our fault.”
Kate’s voice shook in her agitation. “Besides, the slacks have been cleaned and
the shirt’s been washed. What if we can’t find the right one? This is
intolerable. Don’t they need a search warrant or something?”

“Not unless I refuse to cooperate.”
Richard paced in front of the sofa. “The lawyer warned me that the police would
probably ask for the clothes. Stacie said they would phrase it as a request. If
I don’t give them the clothes it looks like I have something to hide. That
might give them grounds for getting a search warrant.”

Kate tried to digest the nightmarish
situation, but each new shock only added to her confusion. Richard turned away
before she could comment. When the doorbell rang, she remained on the couch,
letting Richard deal with Leidecker. She felt sick to her stomach.
 

When Richard returned, she noted the
closed expression on his face and refrained from questioning him. Upstairs, she
lay beside him. They were so close she could feel the heat from his body, but
they might as well have been in separate beds. When Jenny died, they had drawn
together in shared pain but as time passed they were becoming separated by
their fears for each other.

***

Monday morning brought no relief for
Kate.

In only a week her body had established
a rhythm of its own. In the instant before she opened her eyes, she didn’t know
that Jenny had been murdered. A moment of bliss, then it all crashed in on her.
Pain tore at her. Raw physical pain, so all consuming that she had to grit her
teeth together to keep from screaming. She fought her grief and when she was
once more in control of her despair she got up and showered, forcing herself to
begin another day.

Navy skirt, white blouse, white canvas
shoes. Richard had laid out her clothes, as he did on most important occasions.
For a moment, she hesitated, wanting to wear something less lifeless for their
meeting with Leidecker. Knowing Richard would be annoyed if she changed, she
shrugged and hurried into her clothes. Downstairs, Richard was just finishing
his breakfast.
 

“Morning,” she said. “Have I got time
for some tea?”

He checked his watch. “Sure. I put the
water on. Want me to scramble some eggs?”

“No.” She shuddered at the thought,
holding up her hand as he was about to speak. “I know. I have to eat
something.”

“Have I been lecturing? Come and sit
down and I’ll put in some toast.” He stood up, holding her chair. When she sat
down, he patted her shoulder as if she were a good child.

Kate pushed away the morning papers. Reading
the newspaper used to be one of her favorite rituals after Jenny had gone to
school and before she had to leave for her job at the library. Now she dreaded
it. The
Pickard Weekly
was filled with stories about Jenny’s murder, some
factual and others pure conjecture. The Chicago papers were even worse.

Richard poured her a cup of tea. She
sighed as the moist lemony aroma filled her nostrils and warmth began to seep
into the chilled corners of her body.

“Jelly?” Richard said, setting the toast
down in front of her.

“No. This is fine.”
 

She forced herself to take small bites
of the toast, content to watch Richard clean up the kitchen. By the time he had
finished, she was amazed to see that she’d eaten both pieces of toast. Better
than yesterday. She didn’t even feel queasy.

“All set?”
 

“Yes. How is it out?”

“Pretty mild. All you need is a sweater
or a light jacket.”
 

He opened the door of the front hall
closet, choosing her navy blazer. He helped her on with it, picking a piece of
lint off the sleeve as he surveyed her. Her navy blue leather shoulder bag was
on the hall table. She checked to make sure that she had keys to the front door
since Richard was going to drop her back at the house and go in to work.

She was surprised at how formally he was
dressed. Navy blue suit, white button-down shirt and a blue and yellow striped
tie. He stood in front of the mirror to wrestle the knot into position,
grimacing as if it were strangling him. He caught her eye and winked.

In silence they drove to the police
station. A camera crew and several reporters accosted them when they arrived.
Richard refused any comment, putting his arm around Kate, and shouldering his
way into the building. Once inside, they were immediately ushered into Carl
Leidecker’s office.
 

Kate had never been to the police
station before. She had little time to look around but got the fleeting
impression of a modern facility with a subdued air that hinted at a well-run
organization. The high-tech atmosphere was daunting. Pickard was such a small
town that unconsciously she had been expecting something like the Mayberry
police station.

One look at Chief Leidecker’s face
dispelled any ideas that they were dealing with Andy Griffith.

Carl stood up, shaking Richard’s hand
and nodding to Kate. “Thank you for coming. I know this can’t be pleasant for
either of you.” He indicated the trim, gray-haired woman who had risen at their
entrance. “This is Deputy Lieutenant Beatrice Johnson, the assistant chief of
police.”

“I prefer Bea.”

The warmth that had been missing in
Carl’s expression was amply evident in the older woman’s face. She held Kate’s
hand in a firm grasp as she expressed her sorrow at Jenny’s death. And when she
turned to Richard, Kate could see nothing in Bea’s demeanor to indicate any
antipathy. Perhaps she had imagined Carl’s withdrawal. She stared at the closed
expression on his face, dropping her eyes as he glanced in her direction.