Dead Lift (6 page)

Chapter Ten

That evening, I curled up on Claire’s sofa, unable to tune out the wind and rain, and shamelessly waded through her private papers. It wasn’t my work ethic that had me skipping dinner, losing track of time, but rather my growing obsession with a woman who seemed equal parts sweet and sour. A human yin-yan. For three days, I’d flip-flopped between believing and doubting her.

Jeannie was at Tone Zone working out with Natalie, an arrangement I hoped would supremely frustrate them both. She’d dropped me off at Claire’s and would be back soon enough, but waiting alone in a huge house during a monsoon was grossly unsettling. The lights had already flickered twice, but at least I’d found something.

Two term life insurance policies, each for a million bucks, had been misfiled between Claire’s parents’ living wills. I wasn’t surprised that Daniel had listed Claire as his sole beneficiary, but I found it curious that Claire hadn’t listed him at all. Her sons would equally share the million dollar payout if their mother died. The policy said their names were Joshua and Logan. Their birthdates put them at fourteen and twelve.

A separate folder, marked Medical, which I’d skipped earlier because I’d expected it to contain boring things like dentist’s bills, turned out to have three years’ worth of invoices from a therapist. The most recent was dated only two weeks ago.

I paged through financial records. The 401k assets and mutual fund portfolios were all in Daniel’s name. I flipped through account statements and did some mental addition. The couple had almost $900,000 tucked away, and my mind swam with questions about what a divorce would mean for Claire and her boys financially.

I returned the paperwork to its folders and headed upstairs for the guest room, where Jeannie had left the box she’d found stashed in the master closet. The upstairs hallway was dark now, all natural light having been snuffed by the storm. I turned at the top of the stairs and passed the boys’ rooms, flinching a little at the thought of Logan’s enormous snake behind Door Number One.

The box was where Jeannie had left it. Inside, I found letters, cards, e-mails…all manner of random correspondence, spanning decades, written by various people. Soon I better understood, at least in part, why Claire was in counseling.

Dear Claire
, one postcard dated 1999 said,
I was not aware that we shared so many anger issues. I am not ignoring you nor your issues with me, but I’m not up to this right now, and so much of what you wrote about is very old. The hiking here is excellent and we’ve even seen some moose. Not quite as big as the one shown on the reverse. Try to enjoy what’s left of summer. Mom

A different note, written on a sheet of loose leaf, concluded with:
We said we’d do this as long as we both wanted to. I try to want it. But I don’t anymore. It’s time for me to move on. You know I’ll always be here for the boys, right? Tell them I’ll always be here for them.—Ruben

That one had been scribbled eight years ago in tiny little block-looking letters that had been hastily pressed into the page.

Dear Mom
, the next one said, written in crayon on green construction paper,
I hat you. your Mean and I wish I had Tanners famule
.

Then, an e-mail:
God I want you. All day long I see your skin, remember your taste. Your lingering perfume gets me hard and I’m crazy when I can’t have you. Can you make it up here this weekend? (She’s gone until Monday.) Daniel

For reasons I didn’t understand, or maybe ones I understood a little too well, it seemed to me that Claire held on tightly to heartbreak. I read everything in her little cedar box—a rejection from UC Berkeley, two divorce decrees, a prayer card from her grandfather’s funeral. Each item was years, if not decades, old. So when I unfolded a note dated only a month ago, my heart raced.

Beside me, my phone rang inside my purse and I ignored it.

I tapped the paper in my hand, thinking everything over, but too many disjointed ideas flooded me. I pulled a notebook and pen from my bag and scribbled.

53-year-old mother of two

Headed for divorce #3

Loaded, at least for now

Independent boys, maybe troubled

Rift with mom

Fears ex will take kids

Habitual adulterer

Lonely

Wants better

I stared at my list and felt like I’d moved the case forward, though I wasn’t sure how. My phone rang again. I reached into my bag and groped for the button to silence it. Whatever was gelling in my head had to set before I could switch gears.

Over and over I read the list, until finally I saw it.
Lonely. Wants better
. Not facts, only hunches. My intuition was finally kicking in.

I thought back to my time in the jail with her. She’d seemed to fear Ruben more than a conviction. It didn’t make sense that a woman would spend years in therapy unsaddling old hurts and then do something stupid, like murder a guy, and risk losing her kids right before breaking free from the latest in a series of damaging relationships.

I neatly stacked the notes and letters back into the box and headed toward the master bedroom, wondering, not for the first time, who had it in for both Claire and Dr. Platt. As I crossed the upstairs hall, a door thumped closed downstairs. Then there were beeps. Someone was keying in the alarm code.

I didn’t know if it’d be better to wait out of sight until whoever it was left, or to go downstairs and…what? Introduce myself? Whoever was downstairs knew the alarm code, so at least I wasn’t dealing with a thief or worse. I descended. At the last step, I remembered the box and set it quietly on the floor.

Rounding the corner at the foyer entrance, I discovered a rain-soaked man standing in Claire’s kitchen, wiping water from his drenched hair and fishing for something underneath his dripping poncho. When he saw me, he freed his hand and straightened, almost brightened.

“Well, hi.” He smiled good-naturedly, plainly less troubled by my presence than I was by his.

I stayed in the foyer, one hand on the banister, unsure what to say. Truly, the man was utterly soaked. Through the window behind him, I noticed the storm had worsened, a change I’d missed while absorbed in Claire’s private letters.

I tried not to sound nervous. “Who are you?”

He shook his wet head in the way of a drenched dog, only more adorably, and ran his fingers through sharply cut blond hair. Then he pulled the poncho over his head and hung it on the doorknob. A pool of water collected at his feet. For an instant, something about him seemed familiar.

“Kevin Burke,” he said. “Want a beer?”

I was relieved when he stepped out of view and I heard the refrigerator open. I needed a minute to collect myself, erase whatever evidence of shock might be on my face. I edged as far as the kitchen entrance and stopped. He produced two bottles of Heineken and set them on the granite countertop, then opened the pantry door, stepped on a lever to open the garbage can lid, and spit out gum.

It occurred to me that Claire could be living with this guy. “Do you live here? Am I in your house?”

“It’s Claire’s house,” he said simply.

“Yes, I know it’s her house but I thought maybe…” I shook my head. There was no tactful ending.

He grinned. “I still don’t know who you are.”

I cleared my throat. Told to the wrong person, a lie could be dangerous. “Emily Locke. A new acquaintance of Claire’s.”

He nodded, but didn’t answer.

My instinct was to ask why he was there, but his extreme level of comfort and familiarity with the place put me on alert. If anything, I should probably have been justifying myself to him. But the circumstances were too delicate. I didn’t know which of Claire’s friends knew what about her recent tangle with the law.

He offered me a beer, but I shook my head.

“Coke then?”

Soft drinks weren’t my thing, but I wanted to be cordial. “Sure. Thanks.”

He opened the fridge, put the beer back, and came out with a ginger ale. It was the third time in as many months that a local had used the term “Coke” to mean any damn kind of soft drink. This was another peculiarity about Houston life that made me feel like Alice after she’d fallen down the rabbit hole.

I didn’t like ginger ale, but opened it anyway.

He leaned backward on the sink and took a swig. I propped myself in the archway leading toward the enormous downstairs hallway and forced a swallow. Too chicken to volunteer why I’d come, but uncomfortable with our silence, I took the age-old cop out. “How long do you give this rain?”

He laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“What?”

“You live in a cave? Tropical storm just hit between Beaumont and Lake Charles.”

“A tropical storm?” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a chance to read the paper or watch the news.

Kevin took another sip. “
Elena
.” The way he drew out the storm’s name made it sound sexy and intriguing, like an unforgettable woman he may have once spent the night with. “Southwest Freeway’s flooding. Better stay off the roads tonight.” He opened the freezer door. “I’m not staying myself. Just stopped by as a favor to Logan.”

Before I registered what he meant, Kevin dropped something hard into the sink. It landed with a loud
thwack
as if he’d tossed in a rock.

“Is that—”

“These guys take a while to thaw. I’ll come back when the storm lets up.” He paused. “You ever feed a snake?”

I shook my head.

“Amazing the way their jaws stretch.” He looked out the window. “I didn’t see a car outside. You need a ride somewhere?”

“My ride’s coming.”

Kevin finished off the rest of his beer and wrangled back into his wet poncho. “Nice meeting you. Stay dry.”

I nodded a goodbye and he pulled open the backdoor. The rain was diagonal and loud. Somewhere out of sight, wind chimes were being abused by the gusts, their notes uncharacteristically angry. Kevin closed the door behind him with powerful finality and when the house fell silent in his absence, my unsettled, spooky feeling returned. The lights browned out, and I knew Kevin was right. If I didn’t want to get stuck on impassable roads, it was time to go home. I went back upstairs toward my phone, picking up the cedar box on my way. Through the foyer window I watched Kevin’s Mustang pull out of the drive.

I checked my phone. The calls I’d ignored had been from Vince and I dialed him right away without bothering to play his messages.

“You okay?” I could hear the concern in his voice.

“Sort of. I’m at the client’s house. Jeannie’s coming for me.”

“Jeannie’s with me,” he said. “I thought y’all were at that gym so I went over with the truck when I heard about the flooding.”

“It only started raining a few hours ago. How can there be flooding?”

“This ain’t Ohio, woman. You’re at sea level now. Nowhere for water to go.”

“So am I stuck here?”

“At least for a while. Guy in front of us has water to his axles. We’ve been in the car twenty minutes and gone maybe a half-mile. Turn on the TV, you’ll see.”

I wished I’d been at that snooty gym. Then at least I’d be with Vince and Jeannie instead of stranded in a strange house with a thawing rat.

“I’m jealous,” I said.

“Don’t be.” It was Jeannie now. “You’re warm and dry in a swanky house with Versace and Chanel. We’re in traffic.”

“At least you have each other.”

“I’ll tell you what I have. A limp. From that lunatic trainer you hired.”

“You deserved each other. I’d have taken your place had I known I’d get stuck here.”

“Make popcorn or something. Put in a DVD. I know what I’d be doing if I were stuck in that house.”

“I’m not trying on her clothes.”

“Then try the jewelry.”

“No,” I said. “This is my job, not a field trip. Put Vince back on.”

The phone shuffled and I heard murmurs.

“Thank you,” I said when he was back on the line. “For trying to help us, and for getting Jeannie out of there.”

“Give this a few hours,” he said. “We flood fast, but after the rain stops, water recedes sooner than you’d think.”

“Guess I’ll go mope now.”

“Sit tight,” he said. “And Emily?”

“What?” I was deep in self-pity now.

“See you soon.”

Stupid job
. If I had a normal job like everybody else, I’d be in Vince’s arms right now. Or at least I’d be in his truck.

We hung up and I loitered in Claire’s upstairs hallway, unsure how to pass the time now that I’d searched every nook and cranny and violated her privacy abominably. It had served a valuable purpose, though. A better understanding of our complex, conflicted client had nearly convinced me of her innocence. This freed my mind to address other matters.

For example, revenge was a great motive for Diana to ruin Claire, but so far nothing suggested why she’d kill her husband’s business partner to do it.

Then a random, disconcerting thought. Would Logan really send someone out in this storm to feed his snake? He’d been here himself only hours ago.

Chapter Eleven

Vince never came. He couldn’t. Downtown Houston was hit hard, the Southwest Freeway under water. Jeannie had urged me to make myself at home, and I knew Claire wouldn’t have minded under the circumstances, but I still couldn’t bring myself to eat her food, slip into her nightie, or sleep in her bed. So around eleven-thirty, hungry and fully dressed except for my shoes, I collapsed on top of the covers on the bed in her guest room and hoped for a break in the weather.

At some point, I fell asleep and dreamed in a strange way I often did—where real-life noises, like a car engine and a door closing, got incorporated into my dream. Eventually, quiet returned and Vince spooned into me, pulling me tight. His warm, strong hand travelled from my hip to my waist, then over my ribs, and finally inched forward, where it cupped my breast. I felt his hot breath and tongue on my neck and, eyes still closed, I rolled over, gathered him in my arms and pulled him close with a leg. But then he spoke, and the voice was all wrong.

My eyes popped open. A stranger had joined me in bed and he
reeked
of alcohol.

I thrust a knee into his crotch. He curled into himself and I fisted a wad of his hair and used it jam his head even further toward his chest. He reached up to free his hair and I grabbed his hand and wrenched it behind his back, moving myself over him so that I could drive his shoulder as far out of alignment as possible. He groaned but didn’t put up the fight I’d expected.

“I thought you were Claire.” There was a subtle slur.

“Who are you?” I pushed his unnaturally bent arm further up his back. He grunted but didn’t struggle. My purse, with pepper spray inside, was a few feet away on the dresser. I let go of his arm and lunged for it. A bedside lamp switched on.

In the new light, I watched a middle-aged man with still-toned pecs and abs but a pasty complexion and swollen left jaw rub and stretch his shoulder. He regarded me with what I interpreted as drunken amusement. Naked except for boxers, he propped himself on an elbow.

His eyes twinkled, not in the kindly Santa Claus way. “A saucy one, you are.”

“How’d you get in here? Who are you?”

He sat up. “I used my key.”

Hell, I thought, is there anyone in town who
doesn’t
have a key to this house? And the security code?

I felt around for the pepper spray inside my bag while I bumbled into my shoes.

“Don’t tell me you got a piece in there, honey.”

“I’m leaving,” I said, heading for the door. “If you know what’s good for you, stay in that bed.”

“I’ll stay in this bed because I’m plain-ass tired, not because my wife’s latest romp tells me what to do.”

In the doorway, I stopped and flipped on the overhead lights. “Daniel?” It made sense he’d sleep in the guest room.

“I didn’t know she was into girls now.”

“Where have you been since Thursday?”

“None of your damn business.”

“The police want to talk to you.”

He leered at me, dropping his gaze to my legs and then letting it crawl back up. “They probably wanna talk to you too, sugar.”

“I’m not a hooker.”

He shrugged.

“They thought you might be dead. And that Claire did it.”

He managed something between a laugh and a snort. “She’s crazy enough.” He flipped off the bedside light, sprawled across the bed, and closed his eyes. “Turn out the lights.”

“Don’t you care where she is?”

“No.”

“You don’t wonder why a stranger’s in your house?”

“No.”

“At least tell me where you’ve been.”

“If I do, will you leave?”

“Sure.”

“Vegas.”

I turned out the light. “Your wife’s in jail.”

“About time.”

I left through the kitchen, forgetting until the door closed behind me that I had no car. Rain had let up but the driveway was partly submerged and I accidentally sloshed into a puddle and waterlogged my shoes. Claire’s security lights got me to the end of the drive and then the neighborhood street lights took over from there. The block was stone silent, porch lights the only sign of life.

My cell phone said it was quarter past four, but what startled me more was seeing the date, July thirteenth. In my haste to get away from Daniel, I’d forgotten it was my birthday.

Joy
.

Still fighting my stupid new nails, I successfully dialed my apartment on the second try but Jeannie didn’t answer. I figured she was sleeping hard and tried again, but there was still no answer.

Next I tried her cell with the same result. Then I tried my apartment one more time.

Maybe they’d stayed at Vince’s.

“Emily?” he said, heavy sleep in his voice. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said, “But my Goldilocks gig is up. Papa Bear’s back.”

“The husband?”

“Yeah. A real charmer.”

Vince exhaled, and I imagined him pushing back covers, sitting up. No shirt. An image so sexy it was cruel. “Where are you?”

“Walking south on Larchmont.”

“In
this
?”

“In what?”

“I swear, woman, you’re a handful. Try not to get blown away before I get there.”

I didn’t know what that meant but was glad he was coming. A few blocks later I rounded the corner, continuing on the route I knew he’d use. Under street lamps, I saw that low-lying areas were submerged, and below me, the rapid
whoosh
of water pulsing through the neighborhood’s drainage system reminded me how much water had already receded.

The temperature had dropped to probably the mid-eighties and the air was so thick and damp I thought I felt the smallest of rain drops on my face and bare arms. The unmistakable scent of steaming blacktop hung in the air as I passed sleeping houses and dormant cars. I didn’t hear a single motor anywhere. Nobody wanted to be out on a morning like this.

Thoughts and counter-thoughts came at machine-gun pace, and I knew that only a long, hard run would organize them. But it would have to wait until I got home and could change. Nothing good ever came from running in mules.

Instead I planned my day. Top priority was a visit to Platt’s neighbors. With any luck, someone would know what had bothered him enough to prompt his question to the police. Then there was the nine o’clock facial at Tone Zone that seemed not only frivolous but pointless, since breaking into Diana’s inner circle was obviously impossible. I made a mental note to cancel the appointment. When the hour was decent, I’d call Richard. His police buddies would want to know that Daniel still had a pulse.

Then I reconsidered.
If I’m awake, Richard can be awake too
.

But Linda answered, gracious even in slumber, and I wanted to kick myself for rousing her. A big, fat drop landed on my head. If it hadn’t been cool to the touch, I’d have sworn it was bird poop.

“Hold on, honey,” she said. “I’ll put him on.”

Another huge drop hit me, then another.

“What’s up, kiddo?” Richard said. I pictured him sitting up in bed too, checking his watch and rubbing a stubbly cheek. My shirtless Vince image had been way better.

“Claire didn’t off her husband,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“I just got out of bed with him.” The wind picked up and I ducked my head. “Tell your police buddies he’s at his house if they want to question him.”

“You didn’t say you were going to their house.”

“I don’t say a lot of things. See what you can find on a guy named Kevin Burke. This is one messed up marriage.”

“We sort of got that from the neighbors.”

“Right, but there’s more. The financial accounts are Daniel’s. She gets a million dollars in life insurance if he dies and probably also inherits all the stocks.”

“Again, no surprise.”

“But if
she
dies, the insurance pays out to her kids.”

“Okay.”

“They’re in the middle of a divorce. What happens when they split?”

“It’s is a community-property state. Unless there’s a prenup, she’ll get half of those portfolios and everything else.”

“Say he wants to keep his share and hers too. There’s not much incentive to kill her. It’s a lot of risk and effort and he wouldn’t get any insurance.”

“No, but he’d keep his investments.”

“Sure. But maybe he keeps them anyway. Say he squirrels the money away while she’s all tied up in jail and can’t do anything to stop him. He could hide it off-shore or something.”

“You think Daniel framed Claire to give himself time to hide their money?”

“The murder weapon came out of their toolbox. Easy for Daniel to get. Harder for Diana.”

“There’s a problem, of course.”

“A huge one.” Bigger than my immediate problem—saturated clouds now freely dumping rain that pelted me like marbles.

“Why would Daniel want Platt dead?” Richard asked. Our connection was breaking.

I shook my head, frustrated. “Why would Diana?”

“We have to assume—” he dropped out, then came back “—ties into what Platt tried to—” then dropped out “—someone was getting swindled.”

I thought the spotty connection had more to do with a wet phone than with signal strength.

“Call you later.” I hung up, unsure if he’d heard.

***

It was a half-hour before oncoming headlights bounced in the distance. The rain had settled into a steady, persistent tempo and having no place to take shelter, I ignored my soaked clothes and ruined shoes and continued walking the route I knew Vince would take. I squinted toward the approaching vehicle, hoping to make out Vince’s pick-up, but water only streamed down my forehead and pooled in my eyes. The truck passed me before I recognized it, spraying water as it went, and I pulled my phone out of my water-logged bag but the damn thing was on the fritz.

I watched Vince disappear down the boulevard behind me. At one point his brake lights flared and I held out hope for a U-turn, but no luck. The lights dimmed, grew even smaller. The only motorist out at four-thirty in the morning continued his diligent search for a stupid woman stomping and cursing blocks behind him.