Downfall (17 page)

JOANNA REMEMBERED THAT AT SOME POINT IN THE DAY, A TRAY OF
Subway sandwiches had appeared briefly on one of the tables near the back of the SVSSE library, but she had been too busy at the time to eat and had somehow missed the boat on grabbing one of them. She'd had a single doughnut, much earlier, but that was it. By the time she showed up at Café Roka, she was ten minutes late, still in uniform, and starving.

Housed in the space that had once been a Rexall drugstore, the restaurant still boasted some of the original fittings, including a tin ceiling that gleamed dully overhead. Butch, Marcie, and Bob were already seated and sharing a bottle of Monsoon Red, from the Flying Leap vineyard in nearby Santa Cruz County. There was a glass at Joanna's place, but she passed on wine for two reasons—she was pregnant and still working.

“You have to go back in tonight?” Butch asked with a frown when he heard that news.

“There was a homicide over by Sun Sites earlier today,” Joanna explained. “Detective Howell is bringing the suspect into the Justice Center later, and I want to be there for the initial interview.”

“A third homicide in addition to the two you were already working?” Bob asked.

Joanna nodded. “Homicides don't necessarily take any time off, not even when there's a death in someone else's family.”

She waited to see if either Bob or Marcie would voice any objections to her working right then. Much to her relief, they did not. Settled in with a glass of iced tea, Joanna was mildly amused to find Bob was beyond impressed with how good the wine was, especially since it was grown in Arizona. If grapes could be grown in the vast desert valleys of California, there was no reason they couldn't be grown in Arizona's valleys, too, but Joanna didn't bother pointing that out. People from out of state often had peculiar ideas about Arizona's being nothing but an arid, uninhabitable desert. Most of the time Joanna was content to let those folks keep right on maintaining what she regarded as rather quaint misapprehensions.

The two couples had polished off their appetizers and had started on salads when Bob looked Joanna straight in the eye and broached the subject she had been dreading all along. “I'm sorry about the executor thing,” he said. “I'm sure knowing that I'd been handed that job must have come as a shock.”

There it was—the whole issue out in the open, just like that.

“It did,” Joanna admitted, “but I'm sure it was Mother's decision. I don't see that you have any reason to apologize.”

“I do, because I'm the one responsible,” Bob explained. “She and George appointed me their executors at my suggestion. You see, I'd already been through the whole estate settlement issue several years earlier when my adoptive parents died. I can tell you, sorting out all those details was an immense, time-consuming pain in the butt. My parents were fairly well off, and I was their only child, but you'd be surprised at the number of cousins and shirttail relations who came crawling out of the woodwork looking for a handout.

“It took months to unload their properties and to get all the
T
s crossed and
I
s dotted in settling their affairs. When George and Mother first broached the subject to me, I thought that since my current job is totally flexible and yours is not, I'd be better equipped to handle all those details than you, just in terms of the time and energy required, and that was before I had any idea that another baby was on the way. Congratulations on that score,” he added with a smile.

Joanna tried to smile back—tried and failed.

“Of course, at the time, none of us knew that the need for an executor would arise so suddenly and tragically or so soon. When they were working on redrawing their wills last spring, I had no inkling that something like this would happen in only a few months' time. By the way, Burton Kimball let me know that the attorney for the shooter's family has been in touch. They're hoping to stave off a wrongful-death suit. His first offer was three hundred thousand dollars each—three hundred for George and three hundred for our mother. Burton says you might do better at trial. He also thinks he can move the settlement needle up a little from the original offer, but it's entirely up to you.”

“Up to me?” Joanna asked. “What about you?”

“With a single exception, you're the sole beneficiary of both estates,” Bob explained. “I made it very clear to both George and Eleanor that my adoptive parents had taken care of Marcie's and my needs, and that we lacked for nothing. I assured them that there was no need for me to come swooping in from out of the blue, seemingly at the last minute, to deprive you of your birthright.”

“You're to receive nothing from their estates?”

“Not one thin dime,” Bob answered with another smile. “And that's exactly how I want it.”

Part of Joanna's anxiety about meeting up with Bob—something she hadn't shared with Butch—was her concern that Bob would inherit things that should have gone to her or to her kids. Suddenly ashamed that she had been both so greedy and so wrong, she was grateful to be in a shadowy, candlelit room where the hot flush that colored her face wasn't quite so visible.

“I don't want the settlement money, either,” Joanna said. “It's blood money.”

“As far as I can tell, George's only surviving relative is his nephew, Harold, his late sister's son. George left him a bequest in his will, but I've been given to understand that Harold's health is compromised, and he's living in rather straitened circumstances. The wrongful-death payment would count as a real windfall for him—a life-changing windfall. If you don't accept your share of the settlement, chances are that might compromise the nephew's receiving his.”

“What do you suggest, then,” Joanna asked, “about the shooter's settlement offer?”

“First off, give Burton a chance to move the needle, and then accept their final offer. You don't want to wind up in court. It'll take too much time, energy, and focus. I say take the money, walk away, and be done with it. And if you don't want to use the money? Fine. Put it aside. Use it to pay your kids' way through school so they don't graduate from college with crippling loads of debt. I think if our mother knew that's what was happening, she'd be thrilled with that kind of outcome—that she had helped guarantee her grandchildren's education.”

Joanna gave it some thought. Finally she nodded. “Sounds like good advice,” she said.

“As for the cemetery-plot issue?” Bob continued. “I just happen to have the certificate of purchase in hand, but now that you've come up with such a terrific solution, we don't really need the additional plot. How about if I leave the certificate with you? Once things settle down, maybe the Rojas family will agree to buy it back, or perhaps someone else will want it. In any event, with so much going on right now, there's no need to deal with any of that immediately. Those details can all be ironed out later.”

The salad plates disappeared from the table and the entrées arrived. A still-famished Joanna was ready to dive into her steak and shrimp, but Bob held up his wineglass.

“First, I'd like to propose a toast,” he said. “To Eleanor and George. I know I came as a bit of a surprise to you especially, Joanna, but thank you for sharing them with me. I wouldn't have missed getting to know them for anything.”

They clinked glasses all around—three wineglasses and Joanna's iced tea. But then, before Joanna could pick up her fork and eat, she had to track down her purse and locate a tissue. She
was embarrassed to be seen crying in public, especially while in uniform, but she cried anyway. She couldn't help it.

It turned out Joanna hadn't needed Agent Watkins to serve as a human shield in dealing with her brother. All she had needed was a little more faith in the kind of man he really was.

JOANNA WAS BACK IN HER JUSTICE CENTER OFFICE WHEN DEB
showed up in the doorway about eight thirty. Dinner had been delicious and far more pleasant than she'd anticipated. Where she really wanted to be right then was at home in bed.

“Katherine Hopkins is in the interview room,” Detective Howell announced. “She's been booked and changed into a jumpsuit. There was blood spatter on her golf duds. We took them into evidence.”

“She hit her husband with a golf club hard enough to cause blood spatter?” Joanna asked.

Deb nodded. “The victim's name is Hal—short for Halford Hopkins. She hit him twice, once going and once coming. And yes, there's definitely blood spatter. This wasn't a love tap, not by any means.”

“And you've got eyewitnesses.”

“Three of them—the other couple, the ones Katherine and Hal Hopkins were playing golf with, and a groundskeeper who was sitting on a mower nearby waiting to mow the green when they cleared it.”

“And she still hasn't lawyered up?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, then,” Joanna said, rising from her desk, “let's get this over with.”

They walked into the interview room together. The woman seated at the table was a grandmotherly-looking sort with white hair, hearing aids, and a bright smile that revealed a set of false teeth. In a grandmother-of-the-year contest, had there been a category for “least likely to commit murder,” Katherine Hopkins would have been at the very head of the class.

“Good evening, Mrs. Hopkins,” Joanna said. “I'm Sheriff Brady. My other detectives are busy working another case just now, so I'll be joining Detective Howell for this interview.”

“Please call me Kay,” the woman said. “My given name is Katherine, but as I told Detective Howell, I've never seen myself as a Katherine. It always sounded a little uppity to me. I'm more of a plain Jane kind of girl.”

Joanna took a seat and then waited while Deb went through the formalities of starting the recording process, including announcing the time and date as well as the names of the people in the room.

“Just for the record,” Deb said, “I would like you to assure Sheriff Brady that you have been formally read your rights and that you're still willing to talk to us.”

“Absolutely,” Kay said. “I'm perfectly willing to talk. Why wouldn't I? After all, it's inarguably clear that I did it, and it
wasn't an accident, either. I meant to hit him, and I did. All I really wanted was for him to shut up for a change. I've put up with that man telling me what to do for the past thirty-five years. Today, when he told me how to line up my shot? It was the last straw. I buy the groceries, do the cooking, look after the house, and balance the checkbook. Lately, when he's been so sick he could barely lift his head off the pillow, I've looked after him, too. But there he was today, telling me that I was too dim to read the line on a putting green. It's geometry, for Pete's sake. I got straight A's in geometry. I just hit the end of my rope, that's all.”

You hit the end of your rope, but you also hit your husband,
Joanna thought. Then she remembered Drexel Nelson. What exactly had he said when she had come to tell him that Susan was dead? Something to the effect that having his erring wife murdered spared him the disgrace of having to divorce her.

Yup,
Joanna thought.
As Yogi Berra would have said, “It's déjà vu all over again.”

“You and your husband—Halford—were married for thirty-five years, correct?” Joanna asked.

“Call him Hal, but yes. That's how long we were married—almost half my life. I was married once before when I was very young, but it didn't last.”

“Given that,” Joanna ventured, “you don't seem to be particularly . . . well . . . upset. In fact, you don't appear to be the least bit distressed by what's happened.”

“I suppose you'd like it better if I were hysterical, tearing my hair, and crying my eyes out,” Kay said. “That's what women are expected to do under circumstances like these—weep and wail and act like it's the end of the world. Well, it isn't. I'm something
of a realist, you see. I did the crime, and I'm prepared to do the time. I'm willing to stand up and accept the consequences of my behavior.”

“So before today on the golf course, had you and Hal been having any difficulties?” Detective Howell asked.

Kay sighed. “He'd been having some ongoing health issues lately, and he wasn't what I'd call an easy patient. In fact, today was the first time in several weeks that he felt well enough to play golf. After being locked up with him for weeks at a time, I was ready for an outing, too.”

“What hole was this where it happened?” Joanna asked.

“Hole seven,” Kay said at once. “It's a par three.”

“What about the previous holes? Did the two of you have issues on any of the others?”

“Of course we had,” she said. “He didn't like the way I drove the cart. I wasn't playing ‘heads-up' golf. I was taking too much time. It was one thing after another, all the way along.”

“And that's why you snapped?” Joanna asked.

“Exactly.”

“Most people in your circumstances would have called for an attorney by now. They wouldn't still be talking to us the way you are. Why is that?”

Kay Hopkins shrugged. “I already said. I did it. There were eyewitnesses who saw me do it. My plan is to plead guilty and take my medicine.”

“You're prepared to write out a full confession?”

“Of course.”

“Why don't you go ahead and do that, then?” Joanna suggested. “Detective Howell and I will leave you to it.”

It took Deb a moment to shut down the taping process, then
she followed Joanna out into the hall. “I guess that's that, then,” she said.

“Not so fast,” Joanna cautioned. “This is all way too neat and easy, and I'm not sure I'm buying it. A signed confession to murder should give us ample probable cause to search her home. I want you to get a warrant to do that first thing in the morning. And make sure that the warrant includes all electronic devices—cell phones, computers, everything.”

“But why? The murder happened on the golf course,” Deb objected. “She and Hal weren't even at the house when this all went down.”

“Right,” Joanna replied. “The way Kay tells it, she put up with Hal's bossing her around for thirty-five years, but today is when he finally pushed her over the edge? Why? I don't think this just happened out of the blue. Something led up to this fatal outcome, and I want to know what that something is. The way things stand right now, Kay can't be charged with anything more than manslaughter. I want you to go through her computer—every e-mail, text, and Internet search—and see what's there.”

“You're thinking we'll find signs of premeditation—that she'd been planning on taking him out all along and this was her first opportunity?”

Joanna shook her head. “I've been in this job for a long time now. Maybe it's finally getting to me. Maybe I'm starting to see conspiracies where none exist. Maybe a whack on the head—even a well-deserved whack—is just that—a whack on the head. But all the same, Deb, humor me on this. Get the warrant and see where it takes us.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Deb said. “Will do.”

“And while you're getting warrants, I want one for Susan and
Drexel Nelson's house. We had one for her classroom and for her electronics, but now I want one for their house as well. You have the address?”

“Got it.”

“Okay, then.”

Joanna glanced at the clock. It was almost ten. “I'm beat and heading home now. I'm scheduling a meet up with the whole team here in the conference room tomorrow morning at ten. We'll find out then where everything stands. I'll be off work on Friday for sure.”

Deb started to walk away then changed her mind, stopped, and turned back around. “I'm so sorry about your mom and George,” she said. “This week must have been awful for you, but I understand completely why you've been here at work. With everything that's gone on, if you had tried to stay home, you would have gone nuts.”

“And maybe tried taking Butch out with a pitching wedge?” Joanna asked with a small grin. “No, wait. That wouldn't work because I don't own a pitching wedge, and neither does he. But thanks for the kind words, Deb. And thanks for understanding. Not everyone does, you know.”

Deb nodded. “Most especially Marliss Shackleford,” she said. “See you tomorrow morning, then, Sheriff Brady, ten o'clock sharp.”