Promissory Payback (6 page)

“I don't think you're a fool, sir. I really don't.” Jane casually took a final hit of her cigarette before squashing it out in an overburdened ashtray. “I would like to ask you where you were on Sunday night.”

Hall drained the whiskey bottle before tossing it to the side. “Same place I am every goddamned night. Right here. In this chair. Under this fuckin' roof. Waiting . . . Just waiting ...”

Jane nodded. “Okay, sir. I'm sorry to bother you. I just thought that it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that you were victimized by Carolyn Handel.” She stood up.

Now it was Hall's turn to study her. “I'm a lot of things, Detective. I'm a drunk. I'm fucked in the head from too many nightmares. I obviously sucked at being a decent father. I'm all that and a lot more. But I am
not
and will
never be
a goddamned victim. You understand me?” Jane held his steely glare as he stood up, slightly unsteady on his feet. “I know what a victim looks like, Detective,” he slurred. “I left a field full of them back in that Godforsaken country for the gooks to pick over. I was only able to rescue a few soldiers, you know? That was my job before
I
got picked off by the Vietcong. I did helicopter rescues.
Tied a figure eight around their waist and lifted them up to safety.” He stopped. As drunk as he was, he realized he'd said too much.

Figure eight
, Jane thought. Just like the knot used to hog-tie Carolyn Handel's body. The ironies were getting just a little too close together.

Jane couldn't sleep much that night. After smoking half a pack of American Spirits and watching another television cop show that she silently picked apart for accuracy, she still couldn't shake the Handel case. Her gut told her that Charley P. Hall was somehow involved in Handel's murder but at the same time, her gut also told her that the picture was still not complete. She'd wanted to review the security tapes from Handel's home but by the time she'd gotten back to DH, the tech had secured them so well that she couldn't locate them. With any luck the M.E. would have something to offer her tomorrow on what was in Handel's system at her T.O.D. Perhaps that info could create more links to a possible suspect.

She reevaluated the interviews in her mind with Joe Harvey, Jacque Wilde and Charley P. Hall, searching for connections between them. There was nothing to join them except Wilde and Hall's need for quick money and the possibility that Harvey may have hooked them up with
his aunt. She didn't feel that Harvey was the type who would knowingly get his friends or acquaintances involved in something that was financially dicey. After all, he admitted to Jane, clearly discomfited, that he'd made “a killing” on one of his aunt's “investments.” As risky as Handel's “investment opportunities” may have been, Jane felt it was more than probable that Harvey genuinely wanted to help his friends—one with a seriously ill son who needed an expensive medical intervention and one being evicted from his long standing home. It
was
curious, Jane thought, how when she mentioned the word “victim,” all three of them reacted strongly. It was as if the word carried odious contempt.

After a night of restless sleep, Jane got into DH early in hopes of viewing the security tapes from beginning to end. But the tech was late getting in, leaving Jane to reconsider her morning routine. She called Denver Health to inquire as to the conscious status of Raymond Honeycutt. “Oh, he's quite awake!” the nurse advised her.

When the elevator doors opened on Honeycutt's floor at Denver Health, Jane understood the not-so-subtle reason for the nurse's statement. Emanating down a long hallway and centered in a specific room, Jane heard the sound of metal clashing together and echoing, angry screams from one pissed-off older man. When she shadowed his doorway, the scene was chaotic. The floor was peppered with four empty orange plastic prescription bottles. Standing in the corner of the room was the likely pitcher of said bottles, Raymond Honeycutt, balancing precariously on his right foot while his left leg was conspicuously missing from the knee down. Jane was certain he still had ownership of that left leg in the photo on Joe Harvey's office wall. Honeycutt held his cane out with his right hand,
jabbing at the trio of nurses and orderlies who stood five feet from him. In his left hand, he held the metal cover that protected his most recent uneaten meal. Using the cover like a shield and the cane like a sword, Honeycutt held the medical staff at bay, the whole time screaming bloody murder.

“I can't take the pain!” he shrieked, his eyes wild. “You tell me it's phantom pain?
Bullshit
! Let ‘em cut off your leg and see how it feels!”

Jane recalled that Honeycutt was a member of a diabetes support group. Guess that wasn't going so well.

“Mr. Honeycutt!” the male orderly yelled, “get back in bed please! You have reached your limit of pain medication!”

Jane leaned down and retrieved an empty orange bottle from the floor. It was Demerol, a strong narcotic painkiller that was allegedly in the drug cocktail that killed Michael Jackson.

“
I'm dying of pain here
!” Honeycutt screamed, thrusting his cane toward a nurse as beads of sweat formed across his forehead.

Jane recognized Honeycutt's behavior as what occurs when an addict is withdrawing from a drug—the manic eyes, the sweat, the often-incoherent rants and the real sense of physical pain that is born from the vicious craving of the body for another hit. She pulled out her badge and flashed it in the air. “Mr. Honeycutt! Please calm down!”

Honeycutt strained to focus on Jane's badge. “What in the hell? You called the cops on me?!”

“Sir! Sir!” Jane exclaimed moving closer to his bed. “They didn't call me. I came here on another matter. Would you put down the cane and the ... catering cover, please. I really need to talk to you.”

“Get me a Demerol and I'll give you five minutes!”

“Give him a Demerol,” Jane instructed the nurse.

“But, he's already had—”

“I need to talk to him! Give him a fucking Demerol!”

The nurse shot daggers at Jane but complied and then headed out with the others, after whispering, “You don't have to deal with the son-of-a-bitch.”

The drug seemed to take effect quickly, allowing Honeycutt to lie back in his bed, surfing the temporary wave of drug-induced anesthesia. This would be the second interview Jane had done in less than twelve hours with individuals who were wasted. Not knowing how long Honeycutt might be conscious, she decided to omit the introductions and go straight to the jugular of her visit.

“Mr. Honeycutt, do you know Carolyn Handel?” He looked at Jane, his eyes mere slits, and said nothing. “
Mr. Honeycutt
? Carolyn Handel! Do you know her?”

“Fucking bitch,” he mumbled.

“So, that's a ‘yes?'”

“Worthless piece of shit,” he said, nearly incoherently.

“I need a ‘yes' or a ‘no,' Mr. Honeycutt.”

His eyes opened wider and he looked at Jane with menace. “
Yes
,” he clearly replied, vitriol seeping from his lips. He pointed toward his amputated leg. “She's the reason I had to get that cut off! And that bitch is the reason I'll probably lose the other leg too!”

“You loan her money? Fifty grand?”

“
Why
?”

“Answer my question.”

He looked at Jane with a surly, evil expression. “I don't have to answer shit! Nothing you do to me is any worse than what I'm going through right now!”

“You mean, like arrest you? Why would I have to arrest you? I asked if you loaned her money. Not whether you killed her.” A look of surprise was followed by a sweet smile of satisfaction on his face. “You didn't know that she died? She did. And she suffered.” His smile turned into a sneer. Jane purposely worded the next sentence carefully. “Nobody will ever again be a victim of Carolyn Handel like you were.”

Honeycutt reached out and grabbed Jane's sleeve. His strength belied the drugged out stupor he was quickly speeding toward. “
Fuck victims
!” he whispered. “Like that saying goes, ‘There comes a time when you better decide whether you're hanging on the cross or banging in the nails.'” His eyelids fell like lead and he lost consciousness. As far as Jane was concerned, she was staring at the third and final investor of Carolyn Handel's latest scheme.

She left Honeycutt's room and returned to her Mustang. Jane felt the gathering of clues coming together in a loose, yet still imperceptible quilt of understanding. Her cell phone rang as she sped away from the hospital's parking lot. It was Sergeant Weyler. The M.E. had made a preliminary finding on Carolyn Handel's tox report. She had enough Demerol in her bloodstream at the time of death to choke a horse.

Ironic.

Back at DH, Jane headed directly to the audio/video room to view Handel's security tapes. While the tech assured her that the tapes “showed nothing out of the ordinary,” she waved him off and cued the video to the earliest point available, which was seventy-two long hours prior to the crime. It was tedious to watch the dual video of Handel's front and back door. Jane slowly advanced the video, stopping it periodically to check the time code on the bottom of the screen and then continued the slow fast-forward motion. She watched Carolyn walk in and out of her house several times, only using the front door. Never once did the woman appear to look freaked out or anxious. If anything, she carried herself exactly as Laura Abernathy said, as if she “owned the room.”

Two hours passed and Jane's eyes grew blurry, but she maintained her sentinel pose and continued to watch nothing happen. And then something finally did happen.

Joe Harvey could be seen walking up to the front door carrying a huge bouquet of flowers that looked like the Stargazer lilies Jane spotted in Carolyn's entryway. She recalled how aromatic and fresh they were on that morning. Jane paused the video and checked the date and time code. It was Sunday afternoon at 2:45, which was two hours and change before Joe's flight to California. This was strange behavior for Joe Harvey, Jane mused. If she was correct in her assumption that Joe felt badly about getting his friends involved with his aunt
and
based on his own obvious disgust at Carolyn's cavalier attitude, what in the hell was he doing bringing her a large bouquet of her favorite flowers on a Sunday afternoon? Jane resumed the video playback and watched as Carolyn answered the door and clasped her hands together in a show of happiness when she saw the flowers before ushering Joe inside.

And then Jane waited. And waited some more. The guy had a flight to catch at 5:00 PM, which meant he needed to be at DIA by 4:00 PM. On a Sunday with no weather problems or rush-hour traffic to factor into the equation, Jane figured it would take about forty-five minutes from Cherry Creek to get to DIA, park your car, board the shuttle to the main concourse and check in. This meant he needed to leave his aunt's house by 3:15. Why was he showing up with her favorite flowers at 2:45, knowing he had to book it in less than half an hour? Sure, it could have been done on purpose to give him a reason to make the visit brief. But, again, given Joe's overt hatred of his aunt's behavior, why bother?

The tape continued to roll as Jane pondered the possibilities. She leaned back in the chair as the minutes lapsed. What did she know for certain? Well, Carolyn loved Stargazer lilies so much so that a photo of her in her bedroom
featured the aromatic flowers. Okay. What else did Jane know for sure? Carolyn was arrogant and believed the world revolved around her. She
loved
attention. According to Laura, Carolyn nearly hung herself on her book bag strap on the slide because she was showing off to the boys. So, putting these few pieces together, Jane let her mind wander into possible scenarios.
If
Joe had exchanged a few salty conversations with his aunt in regard to paying back his three friends, she might not have been eager to meet with him. But perhaps he knew how easily she could be manipulated by simply bringing her a stunning bouquet that she couldn't resist? That would get him in the door. But what did they talk about for thirty minutes, given Jane's determination that he had to be out of there at 3:15 to make his flight?

Jane turned her attention to the clock on the wall. She'd been drifting in thought for nearly forty minutes. She looked at the video screen but there was no sign of Joe leaving. Irritated, she fast-forwarded and then stopped to check the time code on the bottom of the screen. Something suddenly didn't make sense. She fast forwarded again and stopped, checking the code. It was identical to the last one. Hitting the play button, Jane moved closer to the video screen. It was suspended. Asleep. Frozen.

Jane quickly reversed the tape to the point where Joe arrived with the flowers. Resuming the playback, she focused only on the time code, watching it count the seconds and minutes until it halted and the picture froze. “Holy shit!” Jane exclaimed. She figured she knew exactly when it was going to “wake up” and sped fast forward until the time code reactivated at 7:30 AM, the moment that Laura Abernathy entered the house and told Jane she punched in Carolyn's code to deactivate the alarm. What she actually
did, it appeared to Jane, was
reactivate
the security system. This was starting to add up. Jane recalled that when she ducked into the security alcove off Carolyn's entryway on the morning of the investigation, she noticed a small digital clock on the security panel that displayed 2:00 AM. The techie told her that there might have been a power glitch and that once the power goes back on, the security clock on the panel would resume at 12:00 AM. Since two hours had passed at that point, it fit that Laura's entrance into the house was the mitigating factor. Jane's theory was born out when there was no video of Laura arriving at Carolyn's house that morning but plenty of video of cops entering the front door, along with Weyler and Jane's appearance.