The Perfect Suspect (8 page)

Martin drove, pushing the Ford sedan over sixty-five miles per hour, changing lanes and passing the semis that hauled themselves up the steady grade on I-70 into the mountains. Usually Ryan drove, but she was glad to let Martin take the wheel. She was still too unsteady to drive, and exhausted. So many unexpected twists in the last twelve hours with almost nothing going the way she had planned. They had picked up coffee before getting on the highway, and Ryan sipped at the creamy, hot liquid and watched the pines and boulders crawling down the mountainsides. The sky was a perfect blue, interrupted by white clouds drifting past the sun. One moment they were in shadows as deep as night, and the next, in blinding sunshine. As they came around a curve, Ryan could see the high peaks ahead etched in snow. The air conditioner hummed over the sound of the tires. She shivered in the coolness.

Martin glanced over. “Want me to turn down the air?”

“I'm all right,” she said. They were slowing down. The horn of a semi blasted behind them and other vehicles shot past. Her bag was on the floor next to her feet, and as Martin maneuvered over to the right exit lane, she could feel the weight of the gun against her ankle. He followed the ramp to a stop sign and turned right. A spiderweb of black roads glowed on the dashboard GPS screen. Martin came to a Y, turned right and followed a road that narrowed through a forest of junipers and lodgepole pines as it wound up the mountainside. The sun glistened in the tops of the trees, but deep, velvety shadows lay over the road.

“Some neighborhood.” Martin tapped an index finger on the steering wheel. “Looks like Mathews didn't like company.”

As they came around a long loop, the forest pulled back. Through the opening ahead, Ryan spotted the two-story house, with logs and stucco, long porches and balconies. The windows across the front reflected great balls of sunshine. Pines and boulders had been artfully placed in the wild grasses that covered the yard. Parked at random angles on the grass were four SUVs. “Looks like Sydney has company,” Ryan said.

7

Through the beveled glass door that loomed over the stone-paved porch, Ryan could see the dark, blurred figures moving about on the far side of an entry large enough for a hotel. She held her bag close, conscious of the weight tugging at the leather. Martin pushed the bronze bell a second time. The chiming inside went on for a while before a slim, angular man in dark slacks and tan shirt started across the entry. His footsteps pounded out a syncopated rhythm that sent tiny vibrations onto the porch. The door swung open. “Yes? What is it?”

“Denver police.” Ryan showed the badge she had dragged out of her bag. Martin was also holding up his badge. “We'd like to speak to Sydney Mathews.”

“You've got to be kidding!” The man had straw-colored hair brushed away from a forehead that jutted over narrowed, gray eyes. “My sister's in mourning. Her husband has been shot to death. Have you no decency? No compassion? She spoke with police officers this morning. Anything else can wait until she's had a chance to pull herself together.”

“Your name?” Martin said.

“My name, as if it has any relevance whatsoever, is Wendell Lane. I suggest you call for an appointment later in the week.”

“I'm afraid the investigation of David Mathews's murder can't wait,” Ryan said. “There are a few things we'd like Mrs. Mathews to clear up. I'm sure she's eager to have the killer arrested.”

Wendell Lane gripped the bronze doorknob. “This is harassment, pure and simple.” He stared out into the rock and vehicle strewn yard, and Ryan could almost see the options clashing in his expression. Slam the door, or let them in. Either way, they were going to interview Sydney Mathews sooner or later. Finally, the man seemed to reach the same conclusion. His shoulders sank, and he stepped back, motioning them into the entry with his head. “Five minutes,” he said. “Anything you want to ask my sister after five minutes will have to wait.” He threw out an arm directing them into the formal living room on the left, an expanse of gleaming antique chests and tables and thick-cushioned, taupe-colored sofas. Blue velvet draperies had been pulled to the sides of the windows allowing the sun to stream across a section of polished wood floor.

Living room for formal occasions only.
David's voice was as clear as if he had materialized beside her. Ryan remembered how he had waved toward the living room, his voice echoing around the entry. He had brought her to Evergreen only that one night. Sydney had gone to New York to shop, he'd said. They would be alone. He had showed her his study on the other side of the entry, then guided her through the great room that ran across the rear of the house, the kitchen, an expanse of cherry cabinets, steel and granite, the music room and theater with raised, leather seats, the projection room with a screen against the far wall. Then up the stairs that wound above the entry and along the corridors that led to five or six bedrooms—she hadn't bothered to count. On into the master bedroom suite with its own living room, kitchen and bathroom, and closets bigger than her apartment. That night, she had felt as if it were all hers. David, and the house, and the exhilarating atmosphere of his life. Sydney didn't exist. Nothing else had existed.

Ryan realized that Sydney Mathews's brother had left her and Martin standing in the living room. There was a shuffling noise of people breaking up, hushed tones of farewells and a hiss of movement across the entry. Out of the corner of her eye, Ryan caught sight of Sydney Mathews encircled by supporters patting her shoulders, pulling her in for hugs, and Wendell Lane flinging open the door and ushering the visitors out.

“I'm going to want to look around the study,” Ryan said, leaning close to Martin. “We need to know if Mathews kept a computer here.”

“Where do you think the study is?”

Ryan had to stop herself from nodding in the direction of the double doors across the entry. How would Detective Ryan Beckman know where the study was located in a home she had never seen before? “We'll find out. Just keep the widow out of the way while I have a look around.”

Martin nodded as Sydney Mathews walked into the living room, Wendell Lane at her side. “I suppose I should thank you,” she said. “At least you cleared out the crowd just when I was on the verge of throwing them out. Why does everyone think the survivor—God, what a terrible word—needs to hear a lot of platitudes and saccharine comments from people she hardly knows and doesn't, frankly, give a damn about?” She drew in a long breath, ran her gaze around the room and across the furniture, as if she were assuring herself that everything was in place. “We might as well sit down. You could have offered them a seat,” she said, glancing at her brother.

Ryan perched at the edge of a sofa and dropped her bag at her feet. The gun made a soft thump on the Oriental carpet. Something about Sydney Mathews was off-key, a sour note. This wasn't the widow who had thrown herself at the officers this morning, screaming and shouting. This woman was self-contained, rational and angry. Ryan had seen reactions like this before from the family members of murder victims. The shock and grief were set aside and, in their place, a focused intent on revenge. Sydney Mathews wanted nothing except to see her husband's killer identified and brought to justice. She was dangerous.

“What is it you want?” Sydney dropped onto the thick armrest of a side chair and focused a steady gaze across the inlaid wood coffee table. Drops of sunlight sparkled on the surface and shone in the glass vase of fresh flowers that, Ryan realized, explained the faint funereal smells suffusing the living room.

“Why weren't you at the house with your husband last night?” Ryan said.

“What kind of question is that?” Wendell Lane stood behind the chair, hovering over his sister.

“Just answer the question, Mrs. Mathews.” Martin remained standing. He was thumbing through the pages of the small notebook he always kept in his jacket pocket. He would not sit down, Ryan knew. Both officers could not be at the disadvantage of being seated in any situation.

“You don't have to answer,” Wendell said.

Sydney's nostrils flared; she opened and closed her mouth before she said, “This is also my home. Why wouldn't I be here?”

“We understand Mr. Mathews spent most of his time in the Denver house,” Ryan said. It was true, but she hoped Martin would think she was guessing. “How would you characterize your relationship with your husband? Was it usual for you to live apart? Were you separated? Had you quarreled?”

“I find your questions outrageous,” Wendell said. He placed a hand on Sydney's shoulder. “You don't have to answer anything.”

“Oh, for godssakes.” Sydney brushed her brother's hand away. “Who are we kidding? Everybody in Denver has heard the rumors. Did my husband chase other women? Yes. It was part of his makeup. He was handsome, rich, powerful and weak. Frankly, any number of tramps threw themselves at him. But when his little affairs ended, he always came back to me. And I forgave him because I loved him and he needed me.”

“Don't say any more,” Wendell said.

“Mr. Lane,” Martin said. “You'll have to wait in another room.”

“What?”

“We're interviewing Mrs. Mathews. You have to leave.”

Wendell Lane took a long moment before he started across the room, slow, jerky movements as if he were trying to latch onto a reason to turn back. “Call me, if you need me,” he said, throwing a glance at his sister before he went out into the entry.

Sydney said, “We had an understanding, David and I. He had a certain amount of freedom, shall we say, and in return, I was Mrs. David Mathews. I was the only one who could help him get what he wanted more than anything else in the world—recognition, applause, adoration. The governor presiding at the capitol, living in the governor's mansion, driving around in a chauffeured sedan. That was his dream since he was a little boy, a poor, stupid boy from most assuredly not the right Chicago neighborhood. David wanted to be somebody. I was the ticket to fulfilling his dream, and he came close, very close.” Her voice cracked, and she looked away for a moment. “I was behind him all the way to the governor's mansion, the dutiful, proud, uncompromised wife. As long as none of his affairs embarrassed me publicly, I had agreed to stay with him.” She gave a nervous gasp of a laugh and hurried on: “He didn't keep his promise. The rumors started running rampant. By the time a reporter asked about David's unfaithfulness, I knew he was no longer being discreet. So two weeks ago, we separated. Naturally, I hoped we could work things out, but—” Her voice cracked and vibrated. “There wasn't time.”

Ryan had to grip the edge of the cushion to keep from sliding to the floor. Lies, all of it lies. Everything David had led her to believe. How he and Sydney would stay together only until the election was over. How the marriage was nothing but a sham. Then, two weeks ago, he had told her he and Sydney had reconciled. Reconciled! She wanted to throw her head back and laugh out loud. Two weeks ago, he and Sydney had separated. The reconciliation he claimed was nothing more than campaign spin, as if Ryan were the public and he was a faithful husband. All the religious conservatives who might have a hard time voting for an adulterer could, in good conscience, pull the lever for David Mathews.

Lies, lies, lies. My God, she had believed him when he said he was going back to Sydney, but that was only the excuse he had used to break things off with
her.
She felt as if her heart might stop beating. The picture was clear, as if a curtain had been pulled away from a window. She saw everything now. There was someone else in David's life. The woman on the sidewalk. Ryan swallowed hard and held on to the cushion. The room twirled in slow motion at the periphery of her vision.

Ryan tried to concentrate on what Sydney was saying. Something about the money Daddy had left her allowing David to buy a partnership in the company, the Lane family name and reputation opening the right doors. “You'll learn the truth sooner or later,” Sydney said, shifting about and glancing around the room. “You might as well find out now. It's background information, wouldn't you agree? Yes,” she said, answering her own question and facing Ryan again. “My husband was a flawed man. Ambitious and greedy and susceptible to flattery from any woman stupid enough to believe she could replace me. Any number of people might have wanted him dead. I want his killer drawn and quartered, do you understand? I want his killer tracked down like the animal she is.”

“She?” Martin said. “You suspect a woman killed your husband?”

Ryan felt sick and disoriented. She was grateful to Martin for asking the question and giving her a moment to collect herself. Before the woman on the sidewalk could ever identify her, she had to close the case with solid evidence that could not be overlooked or swept aside. Airtight evidence any jury would find compelling without a reasonable doubt. She lifted her bag into her lap and pressed her fingers against the hard metal of the gun inside.

“I suggest you start with his whores.”

“Names?”

“What makes you think I was privy to any of the sordid details?”

“Anyone who might have the information?”

“I'm sure you'll check with his campaign staff,” Sydney said. Ryan could feel the woman's resolve—it was like a physical object in the room. A woman intent on having her husband's killer brought to justice. “The groupies that gave up their own lives to get David elected. They really thought he'd take them along to the capitol. Nice jobs with big paychecks. They didn't know him. Did I mention that my husband was a user? He used me, I admit, but the difference is that I allowed it. I fell in love with David Mathews when I was just out of college, a debutante in a white dress with the choice of dozens of wealthy, respectable suitors from the right families.” She tossed her head back and emitted a tiny, strained laugh. “And I had to fall for David. Funny, when you think of it. At least I knew he was a man on the way to the top. He would never drop me, unlike those poor saps working in his campaign, because he couldn't.”