Five O’Clock Shadow (2 page)

Chapter Two

“No.”

“No, you don't know? No, you don't want to help us?” The detective was leaning over her and the tone of his voice had just the edge of exasperation as it filled the sparsely furnished, stark white room. “You were in shock, could it have been possible that this strange child in white robes—”

“A man's white tee shirt.” She accentuated her enunciation, punctuated each word with aspirated pauses. She wasn't crazy. She had reported what she'd seen but the sigh from her interrogator said he thought she was bonkers. And probably his pal did too—the one standing by her hospital window that looked out onto Montgomery Boulevard from Heights Psychiatric. So, maybe these guys weren't the only ones who thought she was…how did her chart read—“Possibly dangerous to self”? When instead she was simply a twenty-eight-year-old widow trying to figure out why the accident, only it wasn't an accident, had happened. One week ago.

She didn't realize she was crying until she heard one of the detectives whisper, “Should we get someone?”

“No.” She willed her voice to sound strong. They were here to help, and she had to know. Some of the pain was slowly being replaced by an insatiable curiosity. And instead of killing the cat, that just might make her well, help her have a reason to get out of there.

She pulled herself up straighter and reached for a box of Kleenex on the metal nightstand. She took an elaborate minute to dab at her eyes, usually her best feature, large, warm-brown, wide-set under naturally arching brows, but now they oozed along with her nose, a roughed-up red blotch in the middle of an otherwise pale cream complexion. She had to stop crying. But as many times as she admonished herself to “get a grip,” she'd slip back into a little “poor me.” She took a deep breath and smoothed the light blanket over her legs and hugged a pillow to her chest before she gave him her attention again. He waited, watching her every move.

“Was the child a boy or a girl?” he asked.

“I don't know.” She laughed self-consciously. “I couldn't tell.…The features seemed androgynous, just those of a curly-headed kid, maybe seven or eight, nine, I don't know, probably, a boy, if I had to guess. I think I
thought
it was a boy at the time.”

“But you're not sure?”

“No.” She could close her eyes and see the child clearly, his or her face registering horror, then wide-eyed fear as Pauly approached.

“And you had never seen this child before? Not at the launch site?”

“No. I would swear that the child ended up in the gondola later. He wasn't there when they took off.”

“Why weren't you flying with them?”

Pauly paused. What was this? Some sort of accusation? “I'm afraid of heights. My knees bang together just
thinking
about the rim of the Grand Canyon.” The man just stared, then turned over a page in his notebook. Did he expect her to say more? “I was the photographer,” she finished lamely.

“If you were afraid of heights, why did you arrange such a flight for your husband?”

“The flight was a gift.” Pauly thought with a smile of how thrilled Randy had been. He'd been a pest, bugged the balloon crew mercilessly with a hundred questions about how things worked. But that was the engineer in him, the inquiring mind. And the crew indulged him, explained burners and ropes and flight patterns.

“Who was the gift from?”

“My grandmother. The gift was one of the reasons we honeymooned in New Mexico. Randy was starting a project the end of the month. It seemed easier to stay home.”

“And this project? Do you know what it involved?”

“Randy is…Randy…was an hydrologist.” She paused just a second to see if he would ask her what that was. He had seemed to hesitate over the spelling. “The contract was funded by the Federal government. There's been a lot of talk about New Mexico selling water to neighboring states in the future. Randy was to have assessed the Rio Grande and its tributaries to see if, combined with the aquifers around Albuquerque, that would be possible.”

“In this state that could get a little dicey.” The cop by the window threw in. Pauly glanced over her shoulder. God, he was cute. But that didn't seem an appropriate thought for a widow. She cleared her throat.

“It's controversial, of course. Randy called it a ‘political hot potato.' He would have checked on toxic waste, equal distribution of resources, things like that. Toes would have gotten stepped on.”

“Were you familiar with the flight plan?”

“What?” The abrupt change of subject caught her off guard.

“Did you know the route that the balloon would take?”

“Only that they would fly from the West Mesa, along the Rio Grande river, and touch down somewhere three or four miles south. Buffalo Corner, I think. The pilot had promised Randy a little splash and dash. That's where they go up and down quickly, skimming the gondola across the water.”

“Yes, I know. Did you have an unobstructed view of the balloon from point of ascent to when they reached the Alameda bridge?”

“No, of course not.” Pauly paused; she couldn't keep the exasperation out of her voice; it was like explaining something to children. “I got into my car and went directly to the Alameda bridge to set up for pictures. I stopped by Grams—my grandmother lives just a mile from the bridge, to see if she'd like to watch. That took approximately twenty minutes, then it took another twenty or so before the balloon came back into view as it followed the river and floated towards the bridge.” She paused to take a breath: “Have you asked the crew these questions? The company's name is Mesa Landings. I'd think they would be the ones who could help you.”

“We've questioned the crew. No one saw a child.”

“That doesn't mean a child didn't exist. He could have jumped into the gondola while they were playing splash and dash. The pilot had been skipping along the sandbars for a good fifteen minutes before I started taking pictures. Maybe, the child had been stranded in the middle of the river on a sand bar and when they ducked down, he jumped in.”

The detective looked at her. “Not wearing any clothing at six o'clock on a Sunday morning?”

She had to admit it didn't make sense, but she didn't have another explanation.

“Do you feel up to going over your pictures?”

She hadn't noticed the stacks of eight and a half by eleven glossy photos on the table in the corner. They had been enlarged, probably to show detail, which meant they might have found something. She slid out of bed glad that there wasn't a mirror to show her the tangled, clumped mess of her hair that she could feel clinging to her head. She pulled the night-shirt below her knees but not before she saw the detective by the window give her legs an appreciative once-over.

“You're on duty, and they're off limits.” She lowered her voice just above a whisper and smiled sweetly then watched the red creep up his neck before she pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. The first hint of the old Pauly. Maybe she was going to be all right.

And then she heard her breath coming in thick, short gasps. There in front of her was a pictorial reenactment of the murder, murder and death by coincidence…frame by frame. The brutal death of her husband because Randy had been in the wrong place at the wrong time…but, maybe, so was the pilot.

“I don't think I can do this. I don't think I'm ready.”

She had pushed back from the table but was clutching the edge, steadying herself, staring at the glossy muddy brown river in sharp contrast to the glossy yellow and red balloon and the glossy brittle trees. The starkness drew her back and something else. Death was hidden somewhere in those trees. What if someone had been stalking them? Hidden from view at the launch site, tailing her in a car, adjusting the sights of a long-range weapon, aiming it at—

“There. What do you see?” The detective leaned close as he separated one photo from the rest. Clean-shaven, Aqua Velva fresh, fortyish, intent on noting her reaction, his gray eyes swept her face.

The man at the window had moved to stand behind her. He was younger, still in his twenties somewhere, with a hard muscled physique and trim-fitting uniform. Maybe he was still in training; he hadn't added much to the discussion so far. The detective in front of her was pointing to something, a blur of black roundness, just a knobby protrusion high up in an ancient cottonwood at the river's edge, the tree's sparse fall foliage not quite concealing him.

“Try this shot.” He rummaged through the stack before finding just the one he wanted.

Pauly gasped. In the enlarged photo she was staring into the round eye holes of a dark ski mask and could see the outline of a long-barreled weapon.

“Sort of rules out kids trying to scare up a rabbit with a .22, doesn't it?” she said.

The detective looked at her, tight-lipped, no hint of a smile. She wanted to scream, “it's a joke,” but she didn't. She just sat there waiting for someone to say something. The man in back of her shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“We're talking SWAT team accuracy. Must have shot the pilot just as he was ascending full throttle. Here at the corner of this photo is a flash. Then you're concentrating on the balloon, and I think that's the last picture we have of the perp.” He quickly looked through the stack in front of her. “Yeah, that's it.”

“But no kid?” The question came from the man standing behind her. At least he was allowed to speak once in awhile. Pauly didn't turn to look at him.

“
Nada,
” his pal answered.

At any other time, she would have been impressed with her photography. The shots were good—good light, good framing. Pauly picked out five enlarged photos of the gondola when it was twenty, then thirty feet above her and scrutinized each. The detectives were right. There was no hint of a child. The pilot was obscured from view, but Randy was leaning over the side, waving at her, something in his hand, possibly a helmet? Yes, he was holding a helmet. Would it have helped if it had been on his head? She didn't think so because the next series of photos showed the explosion. She couldn't even remember taking those pictures. A knot of pain constricted her chest. She shuffled the pictures together and placed them back on the table, then, on impulse, pulled out the shot of the murderer again.

“I'm sure you're investigating the pilot, and this company, Mesa Landings. Maybe there was some reason, some
one
who might have wanted the pilot dead.” She looked from one to the other. “Bad business dealings, that sort of thing.”

“Right.” The detective swung a leg over a chair opposite her and leaned against its back. “Unless the pilot wasn't the primary target.”

She jerked her head up to stare at him as he stared back.
Not
the target? That left Randy. “That's absurd.” She turned to look at the man behind her. “In fact, that really pisses me off. That you two could come in here and suspect, and accuse.” Nothing. Both men were biding their time. Watching her, waiting for her to do what? Most likely, they didn't know. She took a deep breath.

“Is there something you're not telling me?” She was feeling stronger.

“Not necessarily. Is there something you're not telling us?”

Cute. They probably rehearsed this. Just dicking around.

“Such as?”

“Were you getting along with your husband?”

“Getting along? We had been married one week, for Christ's sake.” She wanted to throttle them. But she had to admit the anger felt good, washed away any ‘poor me' feelings in two seconds.

“Was there a reason you got married after what…a whirlwind courtship?”

“You mean, like I could be pregnant?” It was painful to even say the word.

“Are you?”

“No.” She didn't try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. It was obvious that they didn't know about the little debacle at the hospital, the discovery of the
vas deferens
in two pieces. Abruptly she asked, “Where is this leading?” And with a look, she dared him to get cute again, say something like “where do you want it to lead?” But he didn't. He leaned back against the wall, tipping the chair off of two of its legs, and looked relaxed and in control.

“Tell me about your husband. His business, how you met, that sort of thing.” From somewhere under the pictures, he produced a tape recorder, small, not much bigger than a pack of cigarettes.

She wasn't thrilled, but this was probably inevitable, might as well get it over with.

“I met Randy—”

“Full name of victim?”

They both laughed—a spontaneous burst of sound. Victim of her meeting him and marrying him? Macabre humor. It broke the tension for a moment.

“Randall Vincent McIntyre. I met Randy when I interviewed for a technical writer's position with his company in April.”

“April of this year?”

“Yes. I started immediately and was promoted to supervisor of technical editing and writing within two months. I began dating Randy sometime later, in the summer.”

“Name of the firm?” The man sitting opposite her still asked all the questions, but the presence of the other detective behind her, the pressure of his hand weighing against the back of her chair made her feel cornered. Every once in a while, she knew their eyes met above her head. Silent messages? A strength in numbers thing? She just wished they would get this over with and leave.

“There were three founders, Randy, Tom Dougal, and Archer Brandon. MDB, Inc.”

“And to the best of your knowledge, the firm is solvent?”

“Yes. They've grown from the three of them to over one hundred and twenty employees in a little over three years.”

“Any idea of the company's worth? Maybe, I should ask, do you have any idea what your cut will be?”