Suspicion (16 page)

  Cora Winslow looked neither surprised nor upset to see her. She didn’t even ask how Kate had found them. "I remember you. What do you want?" She sounded tired, as if the long trip had been too much for her.

  "May I come in?"

  Cora hesitated, then, with a shrug, she pulled the screen door open and took a step back.

  A threadbare rug, a couch, two easy chairs and a television set were already in place in the living room. Scattered across the floor were a dozen packing boxes, some open, others still taped shut. There were no luxuries here, just the bare essentials.

  "I’m sorry to intrude at such a busy time," Kate said. "But this is important-"

  "What do you want, Mrs. Logan?"

  Apparently, the past six months hadn’t improved Cora Winslow’s sour disposition. "I’d like to talk to your husband for a few minutes." She threw a casual glance around the room. "Is he home?"

  The lifeless gray eyes continued to watch Kate without a change of expression. Then, a small sigh escaped from Cora’s pale, dry lips. "No, he ain’t, Mrs. Logan. My husband’s dead."

  "Calhoon!" Lieutenant Jarvis strode past Mitch’s desk without looking at him. "In my office. Now."

  Pushing his chair back, Mitch stood up and made his way through the busy squad room. No one bothered to look up. Jarvis’s temper and callous disregard for people’s feelings were legendary. Except for a few rookies, who feared him like the plague, the rest of the department had learned to live with his tantrums.

  "Close the door," Jarvis instructed as Mitch walked in.

  Lieutenant Frank Jarvis was a big man with a barrel chest, a big, bulbous nose and hair so black it could only have come from a bottle. He had been on the D.C. force for twenty-eight years. He held two commendations, had been praised by three presidents and had escaped death too many times to count. He had been a newly appointed detective when Mitch had first joined the force nineteen years ago and had risen through the ranks quickly. Some said too quickly. But, although his meteoric climb to the top had raised a few eyebrows, nothing about his behavior had ever suggested that he was anything but a tough, honest, dedicated cop.

  Sitting behind his desk, Jarvis gestured impatiently toward a chair. Then, without preamble, he asked, "What’s the latest on Logan?"

  "We’ve recovered his car, sir. It was abandoned just outside Fredericksburg."

  "What about Logan? Where the hell is he?"

  "He checked in at a nearby motel, but was gone a few hours later. He hasn’t been seen since."

  "So what you’re telling me," Jarvis said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, "is that the man performed a vanishing act."

  "Simply put…yes. The Fredericksburg Sheriff’s Department is canvassing the area, but I’m not holding out much hope. He could be anywhere by now and looking nothing like the Eric Logan we know."

  "What about his ex-wife? She heard from him?"

  For reasons he didn’t fully understand, Mitch shook his head. "No, she hasn’t."

  "That’s great." Jarvis stood up and began to pace the floor like a caged animal. "Just great. The eyes of the entire country are on us and what do we do? We let the prime suspect slip through our fingers." He stopped in front of Mitch. "You know what that’s going to make us look like? A bunch of jackasses."

  Propping an ankle on his knee, Mitch made it a point to remain calm. "Actually, I’m not so sure Logan is our man. Lieutenant. Just because he spent the night with Gina Lamont the Saturday prior to the murder doesn’t mean he killed her."

  Jarvis’s face turned an angry shade of red. "Who the hell’s side are you on, Calhoon? Of course Logan is our man. You only have to look at the evidence to know that."

  "The woman was a hooker, Lieutenant. And it stands to reason that if she was blackmailing one man, she could have blackmailed others."

  "But it’s Logan’s bare ass that ended up on an X-rated

  video. And it’s Logan’s fingerprints we found all over Gina’s apartment. And it’s Logan who’s on the run."

  "The guy is scared. He figures with Douglas Fairchild and Abigail Hollbrook putting on so much pressure to have him captured, he doesn’t have a chance."

  Jarvis put up a hand to stop him. "Do me a favor, will you? Spare me that psychology shit. I’m not in the mood for it. The bottom line is, I want Logan behind bars. And so does the U.S. attorney. Even the mayor is calling for regular updates."

  Mitch made a derisive sound. "The only reason the mayor is so interested in this case is because Abigail Hollbrook is one of his largest political contributors. He’s got to keep her happy."

  "I don’t give a fuck what his reason is! He’s still the mayor and what he says goes. So don’t give me speeches, okay, Calhoon? Give me results. It’s my ass that’ll fry if you screw up."

  Trying to reason with him when he was that wound up would have been pointless. Maybe in a day or two, when Mitch had something more concrete, he’d be in a better position to talk to Jarvis.

  He had just reached his desk when his phone rang. It was Jim Faber, a retired Washington cop who had turned private investigator. Following his earlier suspicion that Winslow’s testimony had been tainted, Mitch had hired Jim at his own expense and asked him to keep a twenty-four-hour watch on the ex-janitor. When the investigator had called earlier this week to report that the Winslows had moved to South Carolina, Mitch had asked Jim to follow them.

  "What do you have for me, Jimbo?"

  "Bad news, Mitch. Winslow got himself killed last night."

  "You’re kidding. What happened?"

  "Some nut in a parking lot pumped five bullets into his chest and then drove off."

  "The cops have any clues?"

  "Not a one. I’m on my way to the police station to see what I can find out. I’ll call you as soon as I hear something."

  "Thanks, Jim. And keep an eye on Chuck’s widow, will you? Who knows? She might find a bundle hidden in the mattress. If she does and she starts spending it, let me know."

  After he hung up, Mitch leaned back in his chair and tapped the end of his pencil against his mouth. Now wasn’t that an odd twist to an otherwise uncomplicated case? An apparently harmless man gunned down in a parking lot. It had all the characteristics of a mob hit. Or maybe someone only wanted it to look like a mob hit. Someone who no longer had any use for Chuck Winslow…

  "Gunned down?" Douglas, who had been stuffing papers into his briefcase in preparation for a court appearance, stopped and gave Kate a bewildered look. "Are you serious?"

  "Very. I talked to the detective who’s handling the case. According to an eyewitness, Chuck Winslow was killed in the Farmington Shopping Center at 9:00 p.m. last night as he was walking toward his truck. The shots, five of them, came from a car parked next to Winslow’s pickup."

  "Has the killer been apprehended?"

  "Not yet. The car took off at high speed before the witness could identify it, or the driver."

  Douglas snapped his briefcase shut. "That poor bastard.

  He probably moved south to escape the craziness of this city and he got himself killed the first week he was there." He shook his head. "Talk about bad luck."

  "Bad luck has nothing to do with what happened," Kate replied. "This was deliberate. Someone was lying in wait for him."

  Douglas gave her a quizzical look. "Is that the police theory?"

  "No," Kate admitted grudgingly. "Detective Sanford thinks the shooting is either mob related-which doesn’t fit Winslow’s profile at all-or a case of mistaken identity, or one of those senseless drive-by shootings so popular nowadays."

  "All valid assumptions, Kate."

  "Except that I’m not buying any of them. I find it just a little too coincidental that Winslow would get killed just as I was about to question him again."

  "Did you tell anyone you were going to Myrtle Beach?"

  "Only Frankie. I didn’t even tell Maria for fear of disappointing her if I struck out."

  "Then why would anyone want to kill him?"

  "I don’t know, Douglas. Maybe his death had nothing to do with me. Maybe Winslow had outlived his usefulness and that’s the reason he was killed."

  Douglas gave her a long, thoughtful look, but said nothing.

  "You believe it, too, don’t you, Douglas?" Kate watched him intently as she tried to read his thoughts. "Dammit, say it. Someone killed Winslow because they were through with him. That was the plan all along."

  Briefcase in hand, Douglas circled his desk and came to stand in front of her. "All right, yes, foul play could

  be a possibility, but what truly worries me is that you, Kate, are right in the thick of it."

  "It wouldn’t be the first time."

  "This is different. And much too dangerous." He squared his shoulders. "Drop the case, Kate."

  "You know I can’t do that-"

  He raised a finger to silence her protest. "If what you say is true-and I’m not a hundred percent convinced it is-then, if you get in his way, whoever killed Winslow won’t hesitate to kill you, too. Is that what you want, Kate? To find yourself in some back alley with five bullets in your chest?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then drop the case. If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for Alison. You’ve been the one constant factor in her life, the one person she knows she can count on. Don’t take that away from her by making yourself a target for some killer."

  He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. "I’ve got to go. Think about what I said."

  She walked with him as far as his office door, which he always left open, and watched him as he hurried toward the elevators. What if he was right? she wondered, aware that a mild fear had lodged itself in the pit of her stomach and didn’t want to let go. What if the man, or woman, who had killed Chuck Winslow came after her next?

  But as she walked back to her office, the fear began to ebb. As a prosecutor, she had gone after the scum of the earth-drug pushers, rapists, even serial killers. Not a single one had ever come after her. Oh. there had been a few threats, but what prosecutor hadn’t had his or her share of them?

  She would have to be more careful, that’s all, pay more

  attention to small details-like locking her door immediately after entering her car, and being wary of anything, or anyone, who looked even mildly suspicious.

  Thank God Alison was tucked away in a secure house, she thought as she sat behind her desk. As much as she hated to be separated from her daughter, it was a relief to know she didn’t have to worry about her.

  "Tony looked so thin," Alison said in a small, sad voice. "Even more than he did the last time I saw him."

  Kate and her daughter were having lunch at K-Paul in Georgetown, one of Alison’s favorite restaurants. It had taken a little imaginative bribing on Kate’s part-a visit to Tony and a new pair of boots-to get Alison to agree to this Saturday tete-a-tete. Although Kate had seen Alison every day since she’d run away, every attempt she had made to spend time with her daughter had been met with a flat no.

  "The first few days after a conviction are always the hardest," Kate replied. "It gets easier after a while."

  Alison’s eyes were heavy with reproach. "Tony doesn’t want it to get easier, Mom. He wants to get out. He wants to be free."

  "That’s what we all want, baby, but it’s not going to happen overnight. Appealing a conviction is a long, tedious process."

  "What about Daddy? Are you trying to find out who killed Gina Lamont? You said you would."

  Obviously, the child was determined to start a fight, if not about one subject, then another. "I’m working very hard to do just that, Alison," she said gently. "But I have other clients, people who depend on me. As much as I would like to, I can’t just drop everything and concentrate on those two cases. You understand that, don’t you?"

  The gentle tone had more effect than Kate had expected. Her cheeks reddening, Alison lowered her head. Kate felt an instant surge of guilt. What was the matter with her? Here she was, with an opportunity to impress her daughter with her talent and goodwill, and she was blowing it by giving her a lecture.

  Quickly, she reached across the table to cover her daughter’s hand with hers. Surprisingly, Alison didn’t withdraw hers. "Why don’t you tell me about that Christmas play you’re auditioning for?" she asked cheerfully. "It’s an original script, isn’t it? Something your English teacher wrote?"

  Because acting had always held a great fascination for Alison, her dark mood vanished instantly. "Oh, Mom, it’s such a neat play." Her eyes gleamed with excitement. "It’s the story of a young girl, Elena, whose mother abandoned her on Christmas Eve when she was just a baby. Fifteen years later, on another Christmas Eve, they meet again. There are lots of other characters-the girl’s adoptive mother, a father and a postman. There’s even a nosy neighbor." She wrinkled her nose. "She reminds me of Mrs. Lieberman."

  "It sounds like a lot of fun. Which role are you auditioning for?"

  "All of them, but Melissa says I’m a shoo-in for the lead because I look so much older than the other girls."

  Kate smiled. Like many girls who entered their teens, herself included, looking older had always been one of Alison’s major preoccupations. "When is the audition?"

  "Three o’clock on Monday afternoon. I’ll call you to let you know how it went."

  Kate’s hopes soared. Before she’d left Eric, Alison used to call her at work almost every afternoon, eager to talk about her day. But in the past twelve months, the calls

  had decreased dramatically, and it was usually Kate who did the calling.

  "I’d like that." Kate gazed fondly at her daughter. "And I’ll be expecting a front-row seat."