Suspicion (3 page)

  Remembering that Douglas and Rose were leaving for Bermuda in a few hours, she asked, "What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be home packing?"

  Douglas’s lips pulled into a smile. "Are you kidding? Rose wouldn’t let me within ten feet of a suitcase. Besides, I didn’t want to leave without finding out about Tony."

  With a flip of her hand, Kate closed her file. "I wish I could have given you better news."

  Douglas watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, in that fatherly tone he used only when they were alone, he said, "I hope you’re not blaming yourself, Kate. You did a great job in that courtroom-the best, considering what you had to work with."

  "Thank you for saying that, Douglas."

  "I mean it." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his slightly protruding stomach. "You know what you need to lift your spirits? A vacation. Why don’t you come to Bermuda with us? Rose would love it."

  It was a tempting offer. She could think of nothing more appealing at the moment than lying on a warm, tranquil beach, pretending not to have a care in the world. But there was Tony’s appeal to prepare and a daughter to supervise.

  "Alison would never forgive me if I went without her, and as much as she would love to play hooky for a few days, taking her out of school so close to Christmas wouldn’t do her grades any good." She smiled. "May I have a rain check?"

  "You bet." Douglas’s expression sobered as he asked, "How are things between you two?"

  Kate shrugged. "Status quo, I’m afraid. She still blames me for divorcing Eric and I still let it get to me."

  "I know my wife would wring my neck for telling you this, but don’t you think it’s high time you told Alison why you divorced her father?"

  "No." Kate shook her head. "She’s been through enough. Besides, she wouldn’t believe me. You know how she idolizes Eric.".

  Douglas made a face as if he had suddenly smelled something foul. "Don’t remind me."

  Kate held back a smile. It was no secret that Douglas didn’t like his stepson. The only reason he tolerated Eric’s living in his house was Rose, who adored Eric.

  As Douglas stood up, Kate did the same. "Enjoy your vacation, Douglas," she said, circling her desk. "I’ll see you when you get back."

  "All right. But if you change your mind, we take off at one." At the door, he turned around. "Give my love to my granddaughter, will you? And tell her if she behaves herself, I’ll bring her those earrings she saw in Hamilton the last time she was there."

  Juggling his briefcase, a bag of groceries and his keys, Mitch Calhoon opened the front door to his Kalorama Road town house, bent to pick up his mail, and kicked the door shut behind him.

  The place was just as he had left it that morning-a mess. A basket of laundered clothes he had meant to fold and put away sat in the center of the living room, yesterday’s newspaper was scattered all over the floor, and an empty coffee cup was on the cocktail table.

  Vowing to give the entire house a thorough cleaning before going to bed, he walked across the living room and into the small but efficient kitchen.

  When he had returned to Washington a year ago, he could have purchased any of the grand old Federal homes that lined some of the capital’s most famous streets. His years as a private investigator had been financially rewarding, and as a single man he had nothing else to do with his money. But when the Realtor had taken him through Adams Morgan with its smorgasbord of ethnic restaurants, outdoor vendors and street musicians, Mitch had made his choice right there and then. The Realtor, sensing a hefty commission was passing her by, had tried to discourage him, reminding Mitch of the 1991 riots that had spilled into Adams Morgan from neighboring Mount Pleasant. Mitch had been unfazed. He liked the area. It

  was everything Washington wasn’t-hip, undisciplined and unpredictable.

  Today’s mail still in his hand, Mitch set the Safeway bag on the counter and started to sort through the pile of sale circulars and Christmas catalogs. Spotting the electric bill, he set it aside and threw the rest into the trash.

  The muscles in his neck and shoulders felt stiff and he rolled his head, trying to loosen them. At any other time, he would have attributed the condition to the long hours spent at his desk, typing those tedious police reports. Today, the tension he felt was caused by something else entirely-the Fuente verdict.

  Assigned to the murder case six months ago, Mitch had handled the investigation as he had dozens of others-efficiently and expeditiously. Nothing about the case or the witnesses he had questioned had led him to believe that something was amiss. Until a week ago when, on his way to pick up his car, which was being serviced, he had seen Chuck Winslow examining a brand-new Explorer. After questioning the salesman, Mitch found out that this had been Winslow’s second visit to the dealership.

  The same question had nagged Mitch all morning. How could a man on a janitor’s pension with no savings afford to even look at a twenty-five-thousand-dollar car?

  Curious to see if Winslow’s financial situation had changed since Mitch’s initial investigation, he had made a few discreet inquiries. And found absolutely nothing. Except for a small pension and two hundred dollars in a passbook account, Winslow had no money.

  A less obstinate cop would have called it a dead end. But Mitch’s gut feeling told him something wasn’t quite right with the good janitor. And if there was one thing he trusted, after eighteen years in the business, it was his gut feeling.

  Unfortunately, Rencheck hadn’t shared his concern. After seven years as an assistant prosecutor, he had just announced his candidacy for U.S. attorney, and he wasn’t about to jeopardize his long-standing winning streak.

  "So the man was looking at an expensive car," Rencheck had told Mitch the following day. "Since when is that a crime? The man can dream, can’t he?"

  At the suggestion that Winslow may have been motivated by more than his civic duty, the prosecutor had laughed. "Come on, Calhoon, you know as well as I do that if someone had paid Winslow off, he would have spent some of the money by now. He’s just too damned stupid to do otherwise." Then, with a smile that hadn’t quite reached his eyes, he had added, "You did a good job on this case, Mitch. Don’t screw things up now."

  Realizing he still hadn’t put the groceries away, Mitch began to empty the bag, which contained the usual staples-coffee, milk, a loaf of bread and a pound of American cheese. On his schedule, regular meals were practically nonexistent. When the urge to eat something more substantial struck him, he usually ordered Chinese from a nearby takeout or stopped to pick up a pizza on his way home.

  To offset the damages made by years of junk food, Mitch put himself through an exercise routine that would have made younger men cringe. Apparently, his efforts had paid off. At thirty-seven, he was blessed with the same hard body he’d had during high school when he’d led his football team to a state championship three years in a row.

  His sports exploits, combined with an excellent academic record, had earned him a scholarship to George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia. But Mitch never graduated. When his father, a Fairfax police sergeant was killed in the line of duty, Mitch had left school and joined the force, determined to continue the work his father had loved so much.

  He’d just been promoted to detective when he met Ava.

  Before his thoughts took him too deeply into a past he had worked hard to forget, Mitch opened the fridge and extracted an ice-cold Budweiser.

  He was debating between leftover chow mein and a Swanson frozen entree for dinner when his doorbell rang. Beer in hand, he went to answer it. It was his best friend and fellow policeman, Tom Spivak. The two men had worked together on the Fuente case before Tom had been pulled out to investigate a high-profile murder.

  The veteran detective was a big man with a linebacker physique, a ruddy complexion and a fiery shock of red hair he kept in a military crew cut. Although he had recently been passed over for sergeant, he was an excellent cop.

  "Am I interrupting one of your culinary adventures?" Tom, who liked to tease Mitch about his poor eating habits, gave an exaggerated sniff.

  "Why?" Mitch deadpanned. "Were you thinking of joining me?"

  Tom chuckled. "Not on your life." He patted his flat stomach. "After all I went through to get back in shape, I’ve sworn off junk food forever. I’ll take one of those, though." He pointed at the Bud in Mitch’s hand. "I’m off duty."

  Back in the kitchen, Mitch took another beer from the refrigerator and tossed it to his friend. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he crossed his ankles. "What’s up?"

  "I dropped the girls off at ballet class and thought I’d stop by to see if you’d heard about the Fuente verdict."

  Mitch’s hand went to the back of his neck. He squeezed hard. "I was there."

  "You don’t sound very happy."

  "I’m not." He gave Tom a long, thoughtful look. "I think Chuck Winslow may have lied on the stand."

  Tom’s eyes registered surprise. "You’re kidding."

  "I wish I were." He told Tom about seeing Winslow at the dealership.

  "You told Rencheck?"

  Mitch let out a short, bitter laugh. "He said I was making a big deal out of nothing."

  "Sound advice considering he’s just won a conviction."

  Mitch tipped the can of Bud to his mouth and took a long swallow. "Yeah, except I’m not buying it. There’s something about Winslow that doesn’t ring true."

  "Did you check into his finances again?"

  "That’s the first thing I did. Unfortunately, nothing has changed."

  "So why is this still an issue?" Tom asked after taking a sip of his own beer.

  "Because the guy wasn’t just window-shopping, Tom. Maybe he wasn’t planning to buy the Explorer any time soon, but he was looking at it as if he intended to buy it. That much I could tell. And so could the salesman."

  "Is that all you’re basing your suspicions on?"

  "No. I keep thinking about his court testimony, too. For someone so unsophisticated, he handled Kate Logan’s cross-examination remarkably well. Much like a man who had a lot at stake."

  Tom’s mouth curved into a mischievous smile. "Are you sure you weren’t influenced by Kate Logan’s moving summation? I understand the woman was nothing short of brilliant."

  "That had nothing to do with it." Although that was true enough, he couldn’t deny Kate Logan had impressed him very much. More disturbing was the fact that since meeting her six months ago, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind.

  "What are you going to do?" Tom asked.

  Mitch smiled. Tom knew him well. Too well perhaps. "What makes you think I’m going to do anything?"

  "You’ve got that restless look about you, and I’m not sure I like it. The last time you followed one of your hunches, you nearly got yourself killed."

  "Stop worrying so much. You sound like an old lady."

  "Then tell me I have no reason to worry, that you’re not thinking of doing something stupid. Like getting Rencheck pissed off at you. And believe me, he’ll be pissed big time if he finds out you’re reinvestigating a case he’s just won."

  "It’s happened before."

  "But not to Rencheck. This is a man who wants to be U.S. attorney real bad, Mitch. You foul up his chances and there’s going to be hell to pay, so watch your back, will you?"

  Mitch took one last swallow of his beer. "I intend to do just that." Then, because he knew his friend hadn’t come all this way to discuss Tony Fuente’s verdict, he added, "Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?"

  Tom chuckled. "As a matter of fact, smart-ass, I came to invite you to a dinner party on Saturday night. Nothing fancy. Just us and our new neighbor. Her name is Shannon. She’s new in town-"

  Mitch raised his hands in mock fear. "Oh, no, you don’t. After the last barracuda Mary Beth introduced me to a couple of months ago, I’m through with blind dates."

  "This one is different, I swear. She’s attractive, bright and-this is the best part-she’s totally devoted to her career and won’t make any demands on you. In fact, she told Mary Beth marriage is the furthest thing from her mind at the moment."

  "No."

  "It’s just a dinner, Mitch, not a lifetime commitment."

  "I don’t care. The answer is still no."

  Tom sighed. "Mary Beth is going to be disappointed. This is the third invite you’ve turned down this month."

  That was true. Ever since Mitch had rejoined the Washington Metropolitan Police Department a year ago, Mary Beth and a number of other well-meaning policemen’s wives had made it their mission to pair him with some of the capital’s most eligible young women.

  None of them had turned out to be anything more than a passing interest. No matter how much Tom praised the advantages of married life, Mitch’s own experience with matrimony had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. The women he did date occasionally were women who, like him, had no need for serious attachments. Those relationships, although not terribly fulfilling, accomplished one goal. They helped fill the void.

  "Tell Mary Beth I appreciate what she’s trying to do. But she doesn’t need to worry about me. I’m really a very happy fellow." To prove his point, he gave Tom a broad, silly grin.

  Tom crushed his empty can with a single squeeze of his big hand and tossed it in the trash. "Why don’t you come for Sunday dinner and tell her yourself? She’s making her famous lasagna."

  "No surprise guest?"

  "Nope. Just the Spivak clan. On its best Sunday behavior. "

  Mitch wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulders and walked him to the door. "You’re on, then. I’ll bring the Ruffino."