Courting Disaster (20 page)

Paavo phoned Olympia and asked her to come to the Homicide bureau at the Hall of Justice. She didn't ask why, which he appreciated. As one who worked with cops, she should be smarter than that.

When she walked in, though, she wasn't nearly so docile. Or so smart. She was an attractive woman, the sort a man immediately noticed, with her wild mass of dark hair, large breasts, heavily made-up eyes, red lips, and a personality that matched her appearance.

“I already talked to Inspector Mayfield,” she said as Paavo led her into the interrogation room. “I thought we covered everything.”

“There's a bit more,” he said. “You worked in files on the night Tyler was killed. Who saw you there?”

“What are you talking about? I was at work! Everyone saw me! I told Mayfield. Check with the others.” She reached for cigarettes in her purse, then threw them down in disgust, knowing without asking about the workplace no-smoking pol
icy. She was emotionally on edge, and Paavo could make good use of that.

“You were in the files area alone,” he told her. “It's easy to leave it unseen by going through the back door near the women's room.”

Her eyes flashed. “Sounds like you've been there.”

He nodded.

“It might be easy to sneak out,” she said, “but I didn't.”

“You saw Tyler that evening at the Athina,” he prodded, then stood. “It wasn't the first time you'd taken off work to see what he was up to.”

Her gaze lifted, following him. “You're crazy!”

“Am I? Why would he have told people you did it, if it was all fantasy? Why else would your mother have said she was afraid you'd be fired because of Tyler?”

“You talked to my mother? She never would have said that!”

He placed his palms on the table. “She also said you loved him.”

“Nonsense!”

“Why would Eleni lie about it?”

“Go to hell!” she yelled.

“Tyler is dead, Olympia. And now you deny you loved him? Was it so meaningless?” She stared at the marks and blemishes on the tabletop, not answering. His voice gentled. “You loved him. Everyone knows it. Why do you deny it now?”

“God! All right!” Her eyes grew teary and she covered them a moment before saying, “I cared
about him, okay? Maybe I did love him. But I wouldn't hurt him.”

“You followed him that night, though, didn't you?”

She shut her eyes a long moment.
She's going to confess,
Paavo thought, surprisingly sorry at the thought. It was a shame that scum like Tyler Marsh should cause this vivacious woman to spend the rest of her life in prison.

“All right,” she said, grabbing her cigarettes, removing one from the pack, and holding it even though she couldn't smoke. “I'll tell you what happened. I looked in the restaurant before going to work and saw him with an attractive blonde. She was alone, and clearly enjoying his attention. I was sure he was going to take her to his apartment. I hated the thought—another conquest for him. I thought when he and Hannah split he'd come back to me. He did, but not like before. He didn't love me. There were always other women—”

“So what did you do?” Paavo asked, wanting to bring her back on track. He didn't need her tales of a jilted lover.

She tapped the unfiltered end of the cigarette against the pack. “I snuck out from work and went to his place to see if my suspicion was right. I sat in my car, watching. The lights were on in his apartment. I saw movement. I was sure it was the blonde. I was deciding if I wanted to go in there and break up his little tryst when a man left Tyler's, got into a car, and drove away. Relieved, I went back to work. That was all.”

“Did you?” Paavo asked. “I should think you'd
have gone into Tyler's apartment. That was why you were there. You wanted to see him. Confront him.”

“No! I only wanted to know what he was up to. And I had to get back to work. My files shift was nearly over. I've been warned, you see.”

He nodded, studying her. “Didn't it occur to you that you might have seen his murderer? That you should have come to the police with this information?”

She shook her head. “The man I saw wasn't running or acting guilty. In fact, he looked familiar—one of Tyler's friends from the Athina, I figured. He didn't look like a killer. The one who killed him, I'm sure, was Hannah. Everybody thinks so.”

“And Hannah Dzanic does look like a killer to you?” he asked.

“Absolutely!”

“I see.” He sat on the edge of the desk near her. “You work around cops, Olympia. With the timing of Tyler's murder, and the man you saw, surely you had to consider—”

“Maybe I did, Inspector,” she blurted out as she hurled the cigarette hard into the wastebasket. “Maybe I also thought…No, I shouldn't say. You'll think me too heartless.”

“What?”

She began to gasp for breath as she forced out the words. “That if he was killed by a friend, it meant he did someone else dirt just like he did me. And…and I was glad he was killed!” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she began to sob.

Paavo went out to the secretary for a box of Kleenex and water, gave her moment to herself, then brought them into the interrogation room.

“You said the man looked familiar. Any idea who he might be?”

She wiped her eyes and shook her head.

“Did you get his license plate number?”

Same response.

“What did he look like?”

She swallowed hard a couple of times, then sipped some water, trying to compose herself. “He was tall,” she began. “Taller than Tyler, I'm sure, and his hair seemed either blond or gray—it was hard to tell in the streetlight. His face was pale, and very stern.”

“Age?”

“I'm not sure. He didn't dress like a young man. He wore an overcoat. It appeared black in the darkness, but I'm not sure it was. He had a bulky middle-aged sort of look—a bit of a stomach, you know?”

“What was the make of car?”

“That I remember well because I thought Tyler's friends had either moved up in the world, or he was a drug dealer. It was one of those big BMWs, not the kind you usually see.”

“Was he wearing gloves?”

Olympia turned sharply, her gaze questioning. “Gloves? I'm not sure. The night was cold, foggy.”

“If there was blood on him, could you have seen it?”

She shook her head. “The street lamps were too far, and his clothes too dark.”

Paavo nodded. That was as he'd expected. Still…

“Money, middle-aged, blond…” he murmured. He'd seen someone not long ago who fit that description. “I'm going to show you some mug shots, Miss Pappas. I'd like you to see if you can identify the man.”

“As I said, it was dark, Inspector.”

“Do your best.”

He brought her a pile of mug shots of middle-aged blond men. She picked one out immediately.

“This is him! I can't believe it.” She pointed to a photo of Lance Vandermeer. “Who is he?”

“You're fairly certain?” Paavo asked.

“As certain as I can be considering that it was night and some distance away.”

“Do you think you might be confusing the man you saw that night with someone else from the Athina?”

She studied the photo. “No. I
have
seen him before with Tyler, though—maybe the Athina, maybe elsewhere. I can't remember. You see, I've followed—Hell, never mind. But I'm sure this is the man with Tyler the night he died.”

Paavo stood. “You've been a big help, Miss Pappas. Thank you for your cooperation. We'll be calling you soon.”

“Inspector Smith,” she said after shaking his hand to leave, “Tyler Marsh was a good man. A little greedy and he did a few things wrong, but his heart was good. I could have turned him around. I know it.” Tears glistened. “That's why I never gave up on him. Why I still love him.”

Paavo showed her to the door and made a call to Rebecca Mayfield. Time for them to pay a visit to Lance Vandermeer.

 

“Angie, what am I going to do?” Stan asked when she opened her door. He looked worse than ever. The bags under his eyes had turned into steamer trunks. The baby was still adhered to him.

“It's Hannah, isn't it?” Angie asked, opening the door wide so he could enter her apartment.

“That's right. I don't know what to do about her.” He headed straight to Angie's refrigerator.

She followed. “I'm sure she'll come to love you the way you do her,” Angie counseled. “Just give her time.”

He gaped at her, a plate of leftover lasagna in his hand. “What are you talking about?”

“Don't play coy. You, Hannah, and the baby are so cute together,” she said, beaming at him. “You're completely devoted to them both. I can tell these things. Now, you simply have to decide when's a good time to make this a permanent arrangement.”

“No!” He shouted.

She was taken aback. “Why not? You're in love.”

“This is not love!” He heated the food in the microwave.

Angie put a place mat and utensils on the kitchen table for him. “What's that supposed to mean? You're happy, aren't you?”

“Happy? Oh, sure. Look at me, don't I look happy?” He gazed woefully down at himself. So did Angie.

Stan was a man who'd used “product” in his hair even before it became fashionable for men. Now his hair was dry and unruly, and Angie had to admit she'd never seen him before with splotches of grease and gunk on his clothes. Even his casual clothes had always been tailored and neat, with a marked preference for just-from-the-dry-cleaners button-down shirts and knit pullovers. Lately, however, all he wore were T-shirts.

She couldn't help but frown. “Well, actually…”

To her horror, he burst into tears. “I knew it!” he wailed. “I'm a mess. A complete mess!”

“Don't be silly.” The microwave beeped and even after Angie put the lasagna in front of him, his tears continued. “It's not that bad,” she hurried to add. “I mean, for the sake of the baby—”

“Everything's for the sake of the baby!” he cried, bawling harder. Angie ran to the counter and pulled out a wad of Kleenex. She'd never seen Stan so upset before. He took it, but instead of using it, he just held it in his hands. “She's a beautiful baby, a great kid, in fact, and she has the good taste to really like me and wants to be with me all the time. But my clothes perpetually smell like a baby, Angie! I don't have time to do anything but take care of her. She's taken over my entire life! If I had a girlfriend who was half so demanding, I'd ditch her so fast she'd spin like a top from turbulence as I ran out the door!”

“Stan, calm down,” Angie said.

“Calm? You're telling me to be calm? How can I be calm? I don't have time to even get a haircut, let
alone take my clothes to the dry cleaner. For the first time, ever, I've had to use my washing machine and dryer. Up to now, they'd been plant stands. Hannah was the one who showed me how to work them!”

“Good for her.” Angie folded her arms.

He scowled at her with disgust. “How can one baby take up so much time? Do you know how starved I am for adult conversation? Even when Hannah's awake, which isn't often, we talk about Kaitlyn!”

Angie poured them both some iced tea and sat across from him. “I'm sure it's not that bad.”

“Bad? I'll tell you what's bad. It's being Mr. Nice Guy who lets a stranger and her baby take over his apartment, his kitchen, even his bathroom! Do you know what it's like to find a woman's underwear in my bathroom? I'm sleeping on the sofa, and most nights it's so covered with stuff from the baby I can hardly find it to go to bed. And she's always apologizing for being there, for being trouble. Do you know how annoying it is to be around someone who's constantly grateful? And when I ask her what she wants to eat, she says she doesn't know, that it's up to me. I have to make all these decisions about food, when all I really want to do is to come over here and see what you've got left over.”

He took a big bite of lasagna and seemed ready to cry again, this time from pure ecstasy.

“She's trying to be a good guest, that's all,” Angie patiently explained. “And to not interfere with things you want. How can it bother you?”

He ate another big bite, then swallowed. “How can it? Good question. That's what I tell myself. I shouldn't care. I should put up with it. All of it. The constant smell of slightly soured milk in my apartment. Trying to decide if I prefer to use Pampers and have them sit in plastic bags fermenting until I gather them together and dispose of them, or use cloth diapers that have to be shaken out in the toilet then lay rotting in a pail until a sour-faced delivery man picks them up. And I thought my job was crummy!
What do I care about diapers, anyway?
Nothing! I've found out more about diapers than I've ever wanted to know.” He began to sob even harder. “Just thinking about them makes me sick!”

“Stan, control yourself!” Angie said, growing increasingly worried.

“I don't want to control myself! I have controlled myself, over and over for days, watching my nice life turned completely upside down! Did you know I tried making her omelets, for God's sake, just to get her to eat more than a few little nibbles? The woman wasn't well nourished to begin with, and then having the baby, and soon after going through all that with Tyler, she needs bed rest, almost constant bed rest, and lots of good food. But I don't want to cook. I don't know how to cook. I hate to cook! And I especially don't want to cook smelly eggs! The apartment reeks of them for hours, along with all the baby smells. Do you know babies do nothing but sleep, eat, cry, and dirty their diapers? That's it.”

“Stop already!” she pleaded. “I had no idea.”

He grabbed another wad of Kleenex and blew his nose. “Angie, what am I going to do? I want my nice life back! Hell, I want my bed back!”