Bad Karma (2 page)

“Yeah, but you’re from Jersey.”

Eli made a face. “Whatever. Reason two, this shirt reminds me of the most joyous day of my life. October 2nd, 1978. A little pop fly that ends up in the screen above the Green Monster, crushing the hopes and dreams of Red Sox fans everywhere. What could be a better day than that?”

“Eli, you’re a cruel man. If you keep wearing that jersey I might have to get a T-shirt made showing A-Rod slapping the ball out of Bronson Arroyo’s glove.”

That brought a chuckle from Eli. “The curse of A-Rod,” he said. “Who would’ve thought it would come to that?” He leaned back, stretching. “Are you planning on catching any games now that the dreaded Red Sox are in town?”

“I’m thinking of it. Any interest in joining me at Coors Field tomorrow?”

Eli made a face. “Interleague play’s a blight on the game. I have no intention of encouraging it with my attendance.”

“A purist, huh?”

“That’s right. If it were up to me, the designated hitter would go the way of the Dodo. But at least the American League mostly plays on grass. Nothing’s worse than seeing the grand old game played on carpet.” Eli leaned further back in his seat. The wooden chair under him creaked a bit, but held. “How about heading over to the Center? We’ll work out some new out-of-body exercises. I’ll make you up a cassette.”

Shannon checked his watch, then looked around the shop before turning his gaze back to Eli. “I can’t this morning. I’m going to be meeting a prospective client soon.” He braced himself for Eli’s standard lecture on how his working as a private detective interfered with his spiritual development. “
How can you elevate yourself when you’re constantly mired in the worst that people can do
,” was Eli’s usual argument. Maybe it was true but he’d been a cop for ten years—six of them as a detective 1st grade— before losing those two fingers, and he wasn’t willing to give up that part of his life, at least not yet. Even if all he had left of it was doing occasional private detective jobs. If it took a little longer for him to achieve his out-of-body experiences because of it, he was sure his mom and Joe would understand.

Shannon could see Eli’s long-standing argument forming over his friend’s face, but as quickly as a shadow passing, it was gone.

“Call me this afternoon then,” Eli said, sighing.

Shannon nodded. He knew that if he had mentioned who the prospective client was, Eli would’ve argued with him until he was blue in the face.

Chapter 2

Shannon had forty minutes before he was supposed to meet Paul Devens. Eight-fifty in the morning, and the sky was already a rich blue with almost no haze. Shannon stood looking at the sun and felt a dry heat warm his face. They’d been having a hot July so far, and the forecast for that day was to hit a hundred by noon. He started walking towards Devens’ office on Broadway. The part of Pearl Street he was on was mostly for locals, but as he walked west and past the courthouse that started to change. By the time he got to the outdoor mall area, the shops were mostly expensive art boutiques and the restaurants trendier and more tourist-oriented.

Shannon found a bench to sit on. A few bicyclists passed him and some stray pedestrians were strolling around, but since it was Tuesday and only a quarter past nine in the morning, the street was mostly empty. By noon it would be crowded, and by Friday the street would be jumping. As Shannon relaxed on the bench, he spotted a young man in military fatigues and shoulder-length hair walking toward him. The man’s gait seemed off, and it wasn’t until he got closer that Shannon realized he had a prosthetic leg. He joined Shannon on the bench, nodded toward Shannon’s damaged hand and tapped his own prosthetic leg.

“Tikrit,” he said. “How about you?”

Shannon shook his head. “I wasn’t over there.”

“Hey, man, sorry.” He frowned and scratched his head. “I thought you lost your fingers by mortar or something like that.”

“No, not that way. It happened when I was a police officer.” Shannon didn’t bother elaborating. He held out his hand and introduced himself. The other man shook hands, gave his own name as Kyle Jones and told Shannon he used to be a member of the First Marine Division.

“Hey, man, however it happened, we’re all brothers, you know?” Jones’ eyes grew distant as he stared past Shannon in the general direction of the Flatirons. “We all gotta keep moving forward, know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean.” Shannon saw a glint of confusion in Jones’ eyes as the ex-marine’s gaze shifted from the mountains back to him. “Kyle, what do you say I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Kyle considered it, shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m all set for now. Remember brother, just cause you’re missing something don’t mean you’re not whole. Me, don’t matter that I’m missing a leg, I’m hiking a mountain today.” He got off the bench, nodded towards Shannon and headed off in the direction of the Flatirons. From where he was starting, the trail was maybe a mile away. Shannon watched as the ex-marine strode down Pearl Street. When he was out of sight, Shannon left to meet his nine-thirty appointment.

***

Shannon stood admiring the view of the Flatirons from the fourth floor office. Devens told him, “If you think that’s something, you should see it when there’s lightning out there. Absolutely spectacular.”

Paul Devens was in his mid-thirties, maybe a year or two younger than Shannon. Blond and thin with a sunburned face, he looked like he religiously used the racing bicycle that he kept in a corner of his office. Along the walls were several acrylic paintings of animals done in a primitive style, almost like cave paintings, with the acrylic paint layered on in thick swirls. One of them was of a bear, another of a herd of buffalo stampeding towards an orange sun, and a final painting of three horses all on their hind legs. Shannon walked over to a shelf holding clay figurines, each of a Native American woman with children either in her arms, on her lap, resting on her head, or in some cases, a combination of all three. Shannon picked one up and studied it.

“A Navajo storyteller,” Devens said. “I collect them. Would you like some coffee, tea, soda?”

Shannon shook his head, placed the figurine back on the shelf and took a seat across from Devens’ desk. “For an attorney’s office, you’ve got very good energy here,” Shannon said.

Devens walked over to a small kitchen area, poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat down behind his desk to join Shannon. “Nice backhanded compliment.” Devens smiled thinly. “But thanks, I guess.”

“No offense meant. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I would’ve expected enough bad energy to be brought into any law office to keep it from having this type of feel.”

Devens raised an eyebrow. “Now I’ve heard everything, an ex-Boston homicide detective –”

Shannon corrected him. “Retired Cambridge, Massachusetts police detective.”

“Okay, an ex-Cambridge police detective turned private investigator who studies Feng Shui?”

“Maybe not Feng Shui.” Shannon flashed an embarrassed smile. “But I’ve taken my share of new age courses since moving to Boulder. I think your City Council requires it now of all new residents.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if someday they passed a regulation like that.” Devens’ smile faded. He brought a hand up to his face and squeezed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. When he took his hand away, his expression had grown somber. “About your theory concerning good and bad energy in a law office, my practice is mostly real estate issues, occasionally some water law cases. I usually don’t get involved with murders. Actually, Taylor Carver and Linda Gibson’s are a first for me.”

Shannon sympathized. Murder can be a hard thing to connect yourself to regardless of the capacity—whether it’s as a lawyer, reporter, investigator, or whatever. When Devens had first called him, it sounded as if the life drained out of the attorney’s voice when he talked about needing someone to investigate these murders. The age of both victims seemed particularly to get to him. Both were young—Taylor Carver was twenty-three, Linda Gibson only nineteen. Both were students at the University of Colorado, with Taylor working on a Masters in English and Linda enrolled in an undergraduate program in film studies. Three months ago they were beaten to death in the bedroom of an off-campus condo they shared. Early reports had it that the bedroom looked worse than a slaughterhouse. After that, the police stonewalled the media. Stuff still leaked out, mostly stories that the police were bungling the case and had nothing. Early on, the police spokesman at the news briefings had a deer in the headlights look. The last few weeks that Shannon caught him on the news, he seemed more harried and short-tempered than anything else.

“These are a tough couple of murders to be your first,” Shannon said.

“You’re not kidding.” Devens rubbed his eyes again. “I wish the police could’ve solved this, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”

“From what I’ve seen so far, I’d have to agree. Any information from them?”

“Nothing.” Devens’ thin smile reappeared. “They won’t say one word to me. But I have a good friend in the DA’s office—we graduated law school together. From what he hears, the police have run out of leads.”

“Any suspects?”

“None as far as he knows.”

“When a case goes cold like this, it gets solved because the perp does something stupid, like getting drunk and bragging about the crime or selling something he stole from the victims. Your client’s probably better off giving the police more time than spending money on me.”

Devens made a face as if he had a bad case of gas. “He doesn’t want to do that,” he said. “I told him about your background, how you solved that serial murder case back in Massachusetts, and he wants you on this.”

“Which family would I be working for?”

“What?”

“Aren’t you acting on behalf of one of the families involved?” Shannon asked.

“Hardly. I told you, I handle real estate issues. My client owns the condo that Carver and Gibson were murdered in.”

Shannon leaned back in his chair. “Why is he involved?”

“He’s being sued. Carver’s mother brought the suit, claiming that my client failed to provide proper security.”

“Did he?”

“A deadbolt on the front door is supposedly rusted and hard to turn. According to my DA friend, the door had only its chain lock on when it was forced open.”

“How much are they suing for?”

“Five million.” Devens rubbed his eyes again, this time squeezing hard enough that the whites of his knuckles showed. When he took his hand away, both eyes were red. “The theory the lawsuit is espousing is that one or more strangers were able to gain access to the condo due to my client’s negligence. My client owns several properties. He’s got money, Carver’s mother doesn’t. A sympathetic jury could wipe him out. Our best bet is to put a name and face to the killer or killers. If it turns out to be strangers, at least the jury will put some of the responsibility on them. And who knows, maybe it will turn out to be someone the victims knew, in which case I’d have a shot of dismissing the lawsuit. Maybe the murders will turn out to be drug-related.”

Shannon stared hard at Devens. “If you’re looking for someone to dig up dirt on the victims, you’ll have to look elsewhere,” he said.

Devens had no trouble meeting Shannon’s stare. “That’s not what I’m looking for. I have to be able to sleep nights. The only thing I want to hire you for is to find out who killed Taylor Carver and Linda Gibson, and why. Nothing else.”

Shannon started laughing but it died quickly in his throat. “This has got to be a first.”

“What?”

“Investigating a double-murder for a lawsuit.”

“Nature of the litigious society we live in. So Bill, are you available?”

Shannon thought about it, nodded. “I guess I am.”

“Good.” Devens held out his right hand and, outside of a slight flinch, gave no indication that the hand he took hold of was missing a couple of fingers. “I already went over your fee with my client and he’s fine with it. Before you leave, I’ll write you a check for a retainer. Just tell me the amount you need.”

“Five thousand will cover the first two weeks.” Shannon paused. “I need your client’s name and phone number.”

Devens frowned. “Why?”

“See if he knows anything. Maybe Carver or Gibson had complained to him about other tenants. Also, I’m going to need access to the condo.”

“My client’s name is Chris Jackson. I’ll get you his phone number before you leave, but he’s not going to be able to tell you anything,” he said. “He has a realtor who acts as a middleman between him and his tenants.” He lowered his hands to his desk and started making slow circling motions as if he were smoothing out wrinkles on the wooden surface. “About getting into the condo, that could be a problem. The police still have it sealed off.”

“After three months?”

“That’s what they’re doing. What I heard is two days after the murder, Taylor Carver’s mother drove a U-Haul up to the condo. I guess she was going to empty the place out, and she wasn’t very gracious when the police stopped her. They decided after that to take their sweet time in releasing the condo.”

“I’ll try talking to the police and see if they let me in, but is there anything you can do in case they’re not cooperative?”

“Okay. I’ll go to court tomorrow and file for a hearing.”

Shannon’s glance wandered towards the clay Navajo storytellers. As he absent-mindedly looked at them, he realized what the figurines symbolized: a mother caring enough about her children to make sure they knew about her people’s history. He turned back to Devens. “What about Carver’s mother–any idea if she’ll be helpful?”

Devens showed his thin smile again as he shook his head. “My impression is she cares more about a five million dollar judgment than anything else right now.”

“I probably should talk to her,” Shannon said.

“Okay. It couldn’t hurt. I’ll get you her address and phone number. She lives out in Loveland with another son. The father’s out of the picture.”

Devens collected several papers for Shannon and wrote him a retainer check. Before leaving, they shook hands again, and at the door Shannon gave the collection of Navajo storytellers a quick nod.

Shannon’s first stop after leaving Devens’ office was the public library where he searched through three months of
Denver Examiners
for articles on the double murder. Other than that Linda Gibson was from Wichita, Kansas, the only new thing he learned was the name of the lead police investigator. When he was done with the articles he made copies of newspaper photos of Carver and Gibson which showed them when they were alive and able to smile brightly for the camera. He was struck by how attractive both of them were. Taylor Carver reminded him of the actor who played the elf, Legolas, in the
Lord of the Rings
movies, and Linda Gibson, at least from her high school graduation picture, looked like a young Heather Locklear.

Shannon next visited the University of Colorado’s campus. The first half-dozen students he stopped had no idea which building the English department was in, but he found an older man with a well-groomed white beard and mustache who was able to give him directions. The man seemed to be trying hard to give the impression that he was a professor, both by the way he carried himself and his outfit, which on a summer day topping a hundred degrees, included a sports jacket complete with patches on the elbows.

“You’re not by any chance an English professor?” Shannon asked.

“No, economics.” The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously behind designer glasses. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m trying to find people who knew either Taylor Carver or Linda Gibson.” As the man’s face remained blank, Shannon handed him copies of the newspaper photos he had made of both victims. “They were the two students murdered here,” Shannon said.

The economics professor’s face aged a dozen years as he looked at the pictures. “Tragic incident.” He handed the copies back to Shannon. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I never met either of them.”

“Any rumors circulating on campus on what might have happened?”

The professor shook his head. He looked past Shannon, as if all he wanted to do was get away from him. “Murders are rare in Boulder,” he said. “In my experience, the few we unfortunately suffer tend to be drug-related. I really must be going.”

Shannon thanked him for his help, and watched as the professor moved quickly down the stone path, almost as if he were in a jog.

The English department office was empty when Shannon got there. After a ten minute wait, a middle-aged woman entered and took a seat at the administrator’s desk. She smiled sadly at Shannon when he asked about Taylor Carver.