Ghost Ups Her Game Page 13

I wished I could tell Iris she was wrong. I couldn’t.

  A door opened at the end of the corridor. A rush of air conditioning from the hallway beyond stirred the lifeless air.

  Iris’s head jerked toward the bars. ‘They’re coming for me.’

  ‘Quick. Did you see anyone in the park?’

  ‘I wasn’t looking. Not really. I was hurrying.’

  Footsteps on concrete. It took less than a minute. A jailer at the lock. The cell door opened. ‘This way, ma’am.’

  A screen separated Iris Gallagher and Megan Wynn.

  Our bodies tell the story of our lives at a precise moment.

  Iris Gallagher’s air of elegance was undiminished, a lacy white top, slim turquoise slacks, white sandals. She was still classically lovely with her fine-boned intelligent face, but her eyes held fear and the destabilizing understanding that she was no longer free, that she would soon return to a cell, a prisoner.

  Megan Wynn brought with her an aura of success and happiness. She was not only a partner in Smith and Wynn, her own encounter with fear far behind her, she was also Mrs Blaine Smith and that union would buoy her forever.

  Megan said carefully, ‘I understand an old friend recommended me. Bailey Ruth?’

  I smiled. Iris was in good hands. Megan would represent her with skill and passion, but it was up to me to save her.

  Sam stood in the broiling late afternoon sunshine, watching as a tech held up a cell phone with metal pincers. ‘Victim’s prints. Some smeared.’ His young face was pink with heat, too. ‘Most recent call at six minutes after four p.m. to Iris Gallagher. Duration of call one minute, forty-three seconds. Phone was found in back left pocket of uniform pants. Right front trouser pocket contained driver’s license, a five and four ones. Left trouser pocket held a comb, lipstick, and two wrapped peppermint candies.’ The tech blinked.

  Was a peppermint candy Nicole’s treat during a long afternoon or evening at work?

  ‘Yo.’ The sudden shout came from the bank of the lake.

  Sam turned to look, shaded his eyes.

  ‘Found it.’ The shout was exultant. A cluster of officers stood on the bank. Several held long large rakes in their hands. The ground was littered with an assortment of debris from the lake bottom: pop bottles, a hubcap, sodden plastic bags, tangled weeds, a tire, a rusted trumpet, a half-dozen beer cans. The shouter clutched the lower portion of a rake handle, held it high in triumph.

  Sam strode across the dusty ground.

  The homemade blackjack was a replica of the weapon which killed Matt Lambert, a man’s black sock with the weighted bottom, the upper portion twisted in a knot that left enough length to grip and swing.

  Sam was brisk. ‘Good work, Daniels.’ He turned to gesture, but two crime techs were already on their way. When they arrived, Sam pointed. ‘Compare the weapon to the first one. See if the analysis is back from the lab. See if this one contains the same kind of sand. Check to see if the sand matched the sand here in the park. Get a search warrant for the Gallagher house and grounds. Look for sand in Gallagher’s yard. Look for men’s socks in her house.’ He turned to Judy Weitz. ‘What do you have on Gallagher’s personal life?’

  Judy held a small iPad, tapped several times. ‘Widow. Husband a major killed in Afghanistan. She came here to teach. Originally from Scottsdale, Arizona. BA in English, University of Arizona. MA University of Oregon. As an army wife she lived at various posts and overseas. Came to Adelaide in 2012 from Fort Sill.’

  A ping. Sam pulled out his cell. His jaw jutted. ‘Chief Cobb.’ His hot face looked hotter. ‘We have a person of interest, Neva.’ Sam jerked a thumb at the cell phone as Detective-Sergeant Hal Price, his face flushed in the heat, joined him. Hal gave him a sympathetic glance.

  I understood his brusque tone. Adelaide’s mayor would replace Sam with her own handpicked favorite, Howie Harris, in a heartbeat, given the chance. Her Honor was a big woman with a politician’s plastic face, wide eyes, smile on demand, and bleating tone that reached the back of any hall. ‘We’ve taken the suspect into custody … Yeah, I’ll keep overtime to a minimum. I’ll get everything to the DA Monday morning. I’ll give you a heads-up. You can have a news conference … City Hall steps? It should work out fine.’ He clicked off.

  Hal was sardonic. ‘She wants to campaign on how she keeps the streets safe, but don’t have any detectives on overtime.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘We’ve got lots of overtime on this one from last night. But announcing the arrest on City Hall steps will put her in a good humor.’

  By this time Monday morning, Iris would be publicly identified as a murder suspect.

  I stood at the end of the pier, my hands gripping the top railing. I was close to panic. All the facts supported Sam. By now the police likely had a witness who saw Iris on the ground floor. Sam would unearth Iris’s visit today to Nicole’s apartment. Iris would refuse to answer questions. Sam would conclude she’d gone to see Nicole about Thursday night and met her at the park either promising to go with Nicole to the police to explain what they did downstairs, or that Iris agreed to bring money to the carousel but instead killed Nicole.

  Sam would build a strong, powerful, persuasive case. Her arrest, possibly as a material witness, possibly on a murder charge, would be broadcast to the world Monday.

  I had one slender hope.

  ELEVEN

  In the hallway outside Nicole’s kitchenette, I Appeared as Officer Loy. I knocked.

  The door opened in an instant. Jolene’s round face was slack with shock. Tears welled in her blue eyes. ‘I’m getting ready to go to my mom’s house in Rolf. I can’t stay here now.’

  ‘Of course. I’m so sorry, Jolene.’

  ‘I told the other officers, they just left, that a redheaded policewoman was talking to Nicole when I got here for lunch. They said there wasn’t a redheaded policewoman.’

  ‘New hires,’ I murmured. I tapped my name badge, gold letters on black, Officer M. Loy.

  ‘Oh. Well. I guess it’s like everything now. Here today, gone tomorrow.’ A gulp. ‘Gone …’ That brought a fresh rush of tears.

  I moved forward. ‘I’ll just take a moment. I know those officers asked about Mrs Gallagher’s visit.’

  That reassured her. She nodded and held the door open.

  I led the way to the sofa. ‘Of course you told them all about Mrs Gallagher.’

  She nodded. ‘They said Mrs Gallagher found Nicole. They said Nicole was hit on her neck and was lying in the swan seats at the carousel.’ Her lips quivered.

  I wished I could take her in my arms, make the world better, strip away horror and fear and the realization that her friend no longer moved fast, spat like a cat if provoked, was fun and clever when she felt safe. I hoped Jolene would some day feel safe again.

  I spoke quietly. ‘Finding Nicole’s body was a great shock for Mrs Gallagher. Nicole called, asked her to come to the park. But she arrived too late to save Nicole.’

  Jolene’s face changed. ‘I guess those officers didn’t know that’s what happened. They asked what Nicole said about Mrs Gallagher. Nicole didn’t say much, just that Mrs Gallagher was really nice. They asked if Nicole acted scared of her. I said that was silly. Nobody would be scared of Mrs Gallagher.’

  ‘Did Nicole say anything to you about what happened when she went downstairs last night at Rose Bower?’ I kept my voice matter of fact, as if this were a question like any other, just a search for information, no big deal. Inside I hoped with all my heart for something, anything, a pointer, a hint, an arrow that turned away from Iris.

  Jolene wiped her sleeve against her damp cheeks. ‘She …’ Jolene stopped. Her gaze slid way from me.

  I was swift. ‘Anything Nicole said about that night can help us find the person who killed her.’

  Jolene clasped her hands together. They twisted and turned. ‘The officers asked who to notify. I told them there wasn’t anybody. Just me. We were friends. We went all that way through school. Nicole’s dad left whe
n she was real little. Her mom took some of those drugs and didn’t wake up. She had an old aunt but the aunt didn’t like Nicole, turned her out when she was in junior high. My folks let her stay with us. We were all she had. She got jobs, even as a kid, worked all the way through school, insisted my mom take that money to help with food and stuff. She almost never got to buy anything new. We came here to go to school and all the time she worked. My folks could help me some. Nicole had to do everything on her own. So she was … like mad if she thought somebody wasn’t treating her right. Not that she expected to be treated right. That’s why she loved my mom and dad so much. They were good to her. She told my mom she’d make her proud. Nicole never gave up. She was determined to go to school and get a good job and have the things other people have. Like nice clothes. And a car. And a nice place to live.’

  I knew why Jolene told me. She wanted me to understand why Nicole did what she did. ‘What did Nicole say about last night?’

  Now those blue eyes looked haunted. ‘After you left, I said it must be awful to be some place where somebody got killed. Nicole said it was kind of neat to know something people would like to know. I asked what she meant. She said, “Good thing I don’t give up. I went downstairs to tell that jerk” – she meant Mr Lambert – “what I thought of him. He was walking into the room with somebody. And maybe the police would be real interested to know who it was. I heard him say, “Glad you could come.” The door shut. I didn’t have much time. I had to get back upstairs. I decided to barge in, tell him what I thought of him. When I opened the door, I took one look and beat it. I can tell the police. Or not.” I told her she might get in trouble. She said she wasn’t the person in trouble, and she didn’t owe anything to Matt Lambert.’

  I once again looked from the terrace of the Kirk house toward the lake in White Deer Park and the cordoned area of the carousel. Uniformed technicians continued their painstaking investigation of the ride and the area around it. Police cars and vans still glinted in the late afternoon sun, including Sam’s old brown sedan. An ambulance was parked next to the carousel, ready to carry Nicole Potter to the morgue after the last photo was taken, the last measurement made.

  If I could grip Sam’s arm, turn him toward the hillside where I stood, I’d tell him he had the case wrong. Nicole didn’t choose White Deer Park for her meeting with a murderer. The murderer suggested the park when Nicole called, made her demand. Nicole surely realized she was threatening a dangerous person, but what could seem safer than a park late on a summer afternoon? When the call came from Nicole, the murderer suggested the park and the carousel. ‘The carousel is close to a nice parking lot.’ Nicole’s childhood might not have included visits here or a ride atop the zebra or buffalo or a chance to lunge for the gold ring, but certainly she would know the location.

  As realtors say, ‘Location, location, location.’

  ‘Sam,’ if only he were here to hear me, ‘the Kirk house is right above the park. The Kirks are big donors. The Kirks were at the dinner last night. Both of them left the table. How easy was it to persuade Nicole to come to the park? Easy, right? Parks in daytime are busy, safe. There are people about. Somebody fishing on the pier. Joggers. Mothers with strollers. Safe, right? But the murderer slipped down the hillside, moved through the grove of trees, watched for Nicole’s arrival, then strolled to the carousel.’

  There was no reply. There would be no reply. If I spoke these words to Sam, he’d point out the Kirks were not the only banquet guests last night who lived near the park. Iris Gallagher’s home was on the other side of the park and access equally easy for her. I could make the point that Iris’s home was modest, but he would counter that – to Nicole – Iris must seem quite well-to-do. I might insist Nicole surely wouldn’t try to blackmail Iris. Iris was her champion. Iris tried to help her. Sam would shrug. Maybe Nicole tried blackmail, maybe she told Iris she didn’t feel good about not telling the police she saw Iris downstairs. Whatever, Iris couldn’t afford to let Nicole tell what she’d seen. I would insist Iris cared about the girl, wanted to help her have a better life. Sam would shrug again. Sure, Iris championed Nicole, but now Nicole was a threat. Murderers don’t ignore threats.

  I was convinced that someone from the house behind me selected the park, arrived at the carousel, met Nicole. A casual wave to suggest they sit on the seat with the swan sides, the tall swan sides that provided privacy. An agreement was reached. So much money. The murderer rose, nodding, then reached into a purse or pocket and, quickly as a forehand smash, yanked out the bludgeon, swung and struck the still-seated Nicole. And she died.

  The house behind me.

  I stood in the foyer and felt a chill. Did silent death move freely about this place? I suppose I expected to feel a sense of evil, as if a snake coiled in one corner, a rack of poisons loomed on a wall, or a miasma of gloom tainted the air. Instead I found myself in joyful surroundings, a hand-painted azure ceiling with gold crescents that evoked an early morning sky and fading moon. Borders on the cream floor tiles matched the bronze hands of the antique tall clock. The clock hands glittered in sunlight streaming through a side window.

  I looked through an archway at an inviting living area with custom wallpaper of bright daisies on three walls. On one wall was a hand-painted scene of an old-fashioned bandstand festooned with Fourth of July bunting.

  I knew that bandstand in the park across the street from City Hall. I’d listened to ‘Stars and Stripes Forever’, shepherded my kids through the ice-cream line, Bobby Mac one of the servers, grinning when he saw us. Memories tugged at my heart.

  As if he understood, a black Lab, stretched out on a tan linen sofa, lifted his head and looked at me with a smile. Yes, Labs smile. A Siamese cat stretched on a window valance, blue eyes watching me. I walked into the room with its contented creatures and lovely furnishings. A paperback book lay on a side table. The cover featured a pyramid against an orange sky framed by blue above and below, the title Cry in the Night in white letters.

  The dining room was formal, Chippendale table and chairs. Crimson velvet drapes framed tall windows. The hue was repeated below the chair rail. Above was a hand-painted desert scene, brilliant with sunlight. One cabinet held delicate Limoges china, another crystal wine glasses. Everything about this house spoke of good taste and comfort and welcome.

  Hundreds of volumes filled pine bookcases in a small library. I drifted by the shelves. Chaucer. Shakespeare. Blake and Cowper. Rabelais and Sartre. Dumas and Dickens. Colonial American writers, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century novelists. Poetry. Biographies.

  I looked at an oil painting above the fireplace. A slender blonde in her forties held firmly to the tiller of a sailboat. A gusty wind tugged at her white shirt and slacks, rippled the water with foaming crests. She wasn’t quite pretty, but she would always get a second glance, a high forehead and thin nose, deep-set brilliantly blue eyes, high cheekbones and a square chin, perhaps a Scandinavian heritage. The artist captured her delight in speed, her determination to prevail against the wind. Her smile was triumphant. Her posture said: My boat, my day, my life. The painting exuded vigor, excitement, enthusiasm. She was the kind of person picked as a jury foreman or CEO or committee chair – smart, quick, impatient. I wondered if I would soon see her.

  I regained the hall, walked through an archway into a family room. Large screen television, pool table, comfortable leather chairs and sofas, Navajo rugs on a planked floor. The drapes were drawn against the late afternoon sun.

  Where was everyone? All those cars parked in the drive certainly suggested people were in residence.

  At the back of the house, I poked into the kitchen. A tall, heavyset woman with broad shoulders and strong hands added sprigs of mint to three tall tumblers on a serving tray. She picked up the tray, turned toward a door. She wore a plain white blouse, dark skirt, and sturdy leather shoes. I noted a small tattoo of a lizard on her left arm. She was big enough that she could have been formidable, but her face in repose was pleasant and g
ood humored.

  The kitchen was large with three doors. She walked to a back door, opened it. She held the screen with an elbow as she carefully took the three steps to the terrace. She carried the tray around a row of potted ferns and turned toward the inviting pool with its cascade of water at the far end.

  A man stood with his back to the terrace, vigorously toweling. He blocked my view of two people seated at a table with an umbrella. A one-story white stucco building, decorated with murals of Adelaide landmarks, was likely a facility for swimmers. Some twenty feet beyond at the end of a flagstone path was a fairly large structure with floor-to-roof windows.

  Once again I looked down the hillside into White Deer Park. Three police cars and two vans remained near the carousel. The ambulance was gone, and with it the body of a girl who had made a fatal mistake.

  By the time I reached the table, the housekeeper had served the drinks and was on her way back to the house.

  I recognized George Kirk and Melissa Kirk.

  George’s curly hair was plastered to his head. He gave a final swipe with a towel then plopped into a webbed chair. His bare chest was muscular. Water dripped from his yellow-and-blue-stripe swim trunks.

  Aviator sunglasses hid Melissa’s eyes. The bones in her face looked sharp and she moved restively in her chair. I didn’t know their companion, a young woman, likely mid-twenties, with an exotic heart-shaped face. Shining auburn hair was pulled back in a chignon with one tendril loose near her cheek. Spectacular thick dark lashes fringed almond-shaped brown eyes, accentuating their rich chocolate depth. A chartreuse blouse emphasized the glow of dusky skin and was a contrast to a pale watermelon bubble skirt, quite short. Her bare legs were crossed.

  George wadded the towel, dropped it to the concrete. His gaze traveled from an ankle, up a shapely leg to the hem of the bubble skirt, and down. His interest was intense and obvious.

  I glanced at Melissa. Her lips quirked in a sardonic smile. Neither George nor the woman with shapely legs noticed.