Witch House (7 page)

She pointed with her cigarette into the
bedroom. “That’s when René found the watch on the night stand.”

“Watch?”

“A man’s watch.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yes, and apparently, so did he. He threw the
watch at me, cut me here.” She held her arm up in a defensive
posture and showed me a mark on the back of her wrist. “Then he
told me the wedding was off and that he wanted his ring back.”

“So, you gave it to him.”

“I did. I threw it at him; threw that damn
watch at him, too. Hit him just below the eye with it. Sorry he
didn’t lose it.”

“The watch?”

“The eye! It bounced off his face and landed
in the toilet. Probably a good thing, or the son-of-a-bitch would
have stolen it from me.”

I looked at Carlos again. He still wore his
poker face, but I knew what he was thinking. I turned again to Ms.
Stiles. “Where is the watch now?”

“My boyfriend has it. I fished it out of the
toilet and gave it back to him this morning.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know, ten o’clock? What time is it
now?”

I checked my watch. “It’s almost one.”

“Then yes, ten o’clock.”

“I see. Ma'am, I understand you met René
Landau while he was in prison. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“How did that come about?”

“We met through his attorney.”

“Paul Kemper?”

“That’s right.”

“How do you know Mister Kemper?”

“I don’t know, met him in a bar, I
guess.”

“You guess?”

I had not noticed when, but at some point
along the interview, the curtain of smoke around her has stopped
lifting, but for what it was worth, she seemed more at ease in its
embrace. “Yes, it was in a bar,” she said, “a little
hole-in-the-wall on Jefferson. He bought me a few drinks, we had a
few laughs, and then he said he thought I should meet a friend of
his, who just landed a guest room at MCI up at Cedar Junction.”

“You knew he meant Walpole,” I said.

She expelled a cloud like Mount St. Helen.
“Yeah.”

“Did you get the impression that Mister
Kemper and Mister Landau were good friends?”

“No.”

“Did Mister Kemper tell you why René Landau
was in prison?”

“He did.” She waved her hand to dismiss the
reason and a large cigarette ash fell to the floor. “But I thought
René was cute, and I figured if I made him my boyfriend, he
couldn’t cheat on me so long as he was in prison.”

“With another woman,” said Carlos. I knew
what he meant.

“Of course,” she said, perhaps not catching
his drift. “Men are such flirts. I liked the idea of having a man
on a short leash. It was my idea to get married while he was still
in prison.”

“But you didn’t marry.”

“No.” She crushed her smoke out in the
ashtray and settled in to her chair, crossing her legs and letting
her gown ride up her thigh until nothing remained for the
imagination. “He didn’t want to marry me until he got out. I don’t
think he trusted me.”

“Did he ever say anything to you about the
money from the armored car robbery?”

“Money?”

“From the robbery.”

She seemed to dwell on that curiously long
before answering. “No.” She shook her head. “He never mentioned
anything about the money.”

“Did you know about the money?”

“I don’t know, maybe Kemper mentioned
it.”

“What did he say about it?”

She shrugged uneasily, and I got the sense
she wished she had not said anything to me about it. “I don’t
remember.” She uncrossed her legs and edged forward in her seat,
eyeing her smokes on the coffee table. Carlos met her halfway and
knocked the pack to within her reach, saving her from having to
stand and lean over the table to get them. “That was seventeen
years ago, Detective,” she said, easing back in her chair. “Who
remembers details like that from so long ago?”

“Indeed,” I said, “Who?” I waited until she
lit her cigarette. “Ms. Stiles, I am afraid I have something to
tell you that I probably should have told you sooner. It’s about
René.”

“Oh?”

“I am sorry to have to tell you this, but
René is dead; someone murdered him last night.”

This is the part where I expected one of two
things: both textbook reactions from a potential suspect in a
murder when she learns of the victim’s demise. Either she breaks
down to some degree in mock disbelief, perhaps crying, perhaps not,
but usually after staring into an imaginary black hole at a
distance just beyond reach; or the same occurs out of genuine
disbelief. The latter assuming she is entirely innocent. However,
that was not the case with Stephanie Stiles. Her reaction puzzled
me, and Carlos, too, if I read him correctly. Instead of the
visible signs of a woman brokenhearted by the loss of her fiancée,
Stiles appeared perplexed, as if contemplating alternate routes for
a journey she had already taken.

“Excuse me, Ms. Stiles?” I said, after
realizing she had no comment about it. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “René is
dead.”

“Are you not shocked by that news?”

“Shocked? Hardly, Detective.” She drew on her
cigarette and blew the smoke directly at me, her eyes and mine
locking in a sort of showdown to see who might blink first.

“Do you have any knowledge as to who would
want your fiancée dead?”

“Are you asking me if I killed him?”

“No, I wasn’t, but since you ask?”

She blinked. “My, you don’t beat around the
bush.”

I heard Carlos laugh at that, but he managed
to turn it into a convincing cough, complete with aggressive hand
fanning of the smoke enveloping us like a fog. I noticed then that
Ms. Stiles had opened her legs just enough that Carlos, if not
careful, might have caught an accidental glimpse of something he
did not want to see.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“No,” she said. “I did not kill René. If I
had, I would have kept his ring. It is the least he could give me
after all the years I waited for him.”

“Do you know anyone else that might have held
a grudge against him?”

“Not really, unless you consider that Indian
chief down at the casino. He was mighty pissed at René.”

“The Wampanoag Indian Casino?”

“Yes, it was the casino’s money he stole.
René told me several times over the years that someone from the
reservation tried to kill him in prison.”

“Is that right?”

“Check it out for yourself.”

“I will do that.”

She hit her cigarette one last time and
crushed it out in the ashtray. “Is that all, Detective?”

“Almost. I have just one more question. Can
you tell me where you were between one and three this morning?

“Is that when he died?”

“Yes.”

“I was here with a gentleman friend.”

“Can you give me his name?”

She shook her head. “I prefer not.”

“Why?”

“Because he is married. I do not think he
would appreciate his name coming out in association with a homicide
investigation.”

“I can subpoena you.”

“Then do it.” She smiled coldly.

I looked to Carlos. He had nothing else. “All
right, I guess we will go,” I said. I stood and offered her my
card. “If you change your mind, call me.”

She took the card and tossed it onto the
coffee table. “Don’t hold your breath.”

I pointed toward the door. “We’ll see
ourselves out.”

Back in the car, Carlos and I discussed our
thoughts on the colorful Ms. Stephanie Stiles. We had seen her kind
before. Women like that usually try to put up a front for such
interviews, but this woman would have none of that. Her
transparency served well to feed two schools of thought. Either she
had nothing to hide and let us see the disaffection in her
relationship with Landau, or she simply did not care, implying her
involvement in his death through her callas reaction to the news.
Carlos was of mind that she positioned herself as Landau’s fiancée
so that she might gain knowledge of the money’s whereabouts and
recover it for herself. I agreed, further suggesting that her
lawyer friend, Paul Kemper, arranged for the two to meet with just
that plan in mind.

“Why else would he introduce a woman of her
questionable scruples to a man in prison?” I asked.

Carlos said, “Maybe he is the mystery man who
left his watch on the nightstand.”

“Could be. I suppose it’s possible Kemper met
Stiles in the bar that night with one thing in mind.”

“Sleazy sex?”

“No, Carlos! He needed a soft
intervention.”

He shook his head. “I’m losing you.”

“Look, this is purely hypothetical, but what
if Kemper used his attorney client privilege to gain critical
knowledge about the robbery, convincing Landau to admit that the
money was still in play.”

“Oh, I see where you are going. The problem
came when Landau would not commit to its location. So, that’s when
Kemper worked Stiles into the equation, hoping she might coax it
out of him.”

“Exactly!”

“So, what do we do now?”

“Simple.” I smiled at the thought of the
chase finally getting under way. “Now we go see Mister Paul Kemper
and ask him a few questions.”

Paul Kemper hung his shingle upstairs from a
bail bondsman’s office in the downtown red light district. No small
coincidence, I imagined, as the proximity to each other likely
worked well for reciprocal referrals. Still, I found it strange
that he chose to set up shop in this manner. Dominic Spinelli said
that Kemper was once a highly regarded up and coming defense
attorney. I would have thought he had made a name for himself by
now, eliminating the need to represent low-life thugs and dregs
from the hood.

Carlos and I walked into Kemper’s office, and
right away noticed the distinct smell of nail polish and a severe
lack of cross-ventilation. A young woman doing her nails at the
reception counter looked up at us and smiled nervously. She invited
us in, frantically raking a field of cosmetics off her blotter and
into the top drawer of her desk. I got the impression she did not
get many visitors, as she seemed completely taken aback by our
presence, and maybe frightened, too. I pegged her at around
twenty-one years of age. I don’t know, maybe her makeup made her
look older. Carlos put her closer to eighteen, though just barely.
I asked later why he thought so, and he said because he noticed
only three other cars in the parking lot out front. One was a BMW
750i, which he assumed Kemper drove, and the late model Hummer H3T
seemed like the kind of car a bail bondsman might own, leaving the
Chevy Metro with its student parking permit on the windshield for
our young receptionist. I told him that was brilliant detective
work. He told me it was a trick Spinelli taught him—seems the boy
has a thing for younger women.

“We are here to see Paul Kemper,” I told the
receptionist. “Is he in?”

Her smile never waned. “Is he expecting
you?”

“If he’s smart,” said Carlos.

That drew her down. “I’m sorry?”

“He is not,” I said, flashing my badge and
I.D. “I’m Detective Marcella, N.C.P.D. This is Detective Rodriquez.
Would you see if he has a few minutes for us, please?”

“Of course.”

I thought the young woman would pick up the
phone and inform Kemper over the intercom. Instead, she got up,
walked to the door separating us from the adjacent room, opened it
and poked her head inside. I heard her announce us in a hush, and a
man’s voice not so hushed saying, “Who? Here? Now?” It dropped
considerably lower, however, for the next word that began with an
F. The receptionist asked what she should do and he answered, “Well
hell, Shannon, you have to show them in now, don’t you?”

She turned to us, embarrassed, and pushed the
door open fully. “Please go in.”

I smiled politely and brushed past her.
Carlos followed. She shut the door behind us and Paul Kemper, who
was sitting at his desk, stood and offered his hand. “Gentlemen,
please,” he pointed to two chairs opposite his desk, “make
yourselves comfortable.” We sat, and then he sat, edging his seat
and folding his hands neatly on top of the desk. “So tell me, what
can I do for you?”

“Mister Kemper,” I said, “I don’t know if the
young woman told you, but I am—”

“Detectives Marcella and Rodriquez, N.C.P.D.
I know, she told me. How can I help you?”

“We are investigating a homicide, Mister
Kemper, and we would like to ask you a few questions, if we
may.”

Right away, he grew noticeably uncomfortable.
Though his fingers remained clasped, his thumbs began spooling in
fidgety circles. “A homicide?”

“Yes. Do you know whose?”

His eyes, like a dragonfly, darted between
Carlos, the clock, the door and me. “No.”

“No?” I knew he was lying. “Are you
sure?”

“Of course.”

Behind me, the door opened. It was Shannon
again. I could see her reflection in the window behind Kemper, as
she held her finger up in interruption and said, “Sorry, Mister K.
It’s Stephanie Stiles again. Should I tell her you’re busy?”

His thumbs stopped spooling, reverse for a
single rotation, and then started in the other direction again.
“Yes, please, Shannon. Get a number. I’ll call her back.”

“But you have her number,” she said. “It is
in your Rolodex. Remember?”

“Thank you, Shannon! Now shut the door and do
not disturb us again, please.”

I waited until he looked at me again. “Do you
know René Landau, Mister Kemper?”

He pushed back with his hands and settled
into the folds of his crushed leather chair. “You know I do,
Detective, or else you would not be here. I take it that his is the
homicide you are investigating?”

“So you know about it?”

“Yes, I saw it on the news this morning.”