Half in Love with Artful Death (28 page)

Rhodes ran back through the hotel to the county car. As he passed the desk, he called out to the Patels.

“Call 911. My deputy's on the stairs, third floor.”

Rhodes rushed out the front door and jumped into the county car. Marilyn was just pulling out onto the highway. Instead of heading back into town, she turned toward Obert. Rhodes was glad of that because it meant he wouldn't be chasing her through the after-church traffic.

He started the car and rolled out of the lot after Marilyn. He gave Hack a call on the radio to give him his location and to let him know he was chasing a suspect.

“Ruth's been in Milsby,” Hack said. “She's on the way back. Want me to send her?”

“Yes,” Rhodes said. “I'll try to make the stop, but I might need some backup.”

He didn't give Hack a chance to ask anything more. He had other things to do. Marilyn was a quarter of a mile ahead of him, driving a little over the speed limit. Rhodes didn't think he'd have any trouble overtaking her. The Prius was great for gas mileage, but it couldn't match the Dodge for speed and power.

Marilyn passed one of the old oil fields from which the forest of derricks had long since disappeared but where some of the wells were still producing even after a hundred years. Not much, but a little, and a little oil was better than none.

Rhodes caught up with her just past the oil field. He turned on his flashers, but Marilyn didn't stop. Instead, she increased her speed.

Rhodes knew she'd seen him, so he turned on the siren to give her another chance to stop. She paid no attention. He hadn't really expected her to.

Since they were on a long, straight stretch of road with no cars headed in their direction, Rhodes pulled into the left lane and mashed down the accelerator. In a couple of seconds he was right alongside Marilyn. He looked over at her and motioned for her to pull over on the shoulder. She ignored him and drove faster.

Rhodes let her pull ahead of him. When he'd dropped back behind her, he considered his options. He knew Marilyn couldn't outrun him, but he couldn't just chase her until she ran out of gas. Considering the difference in the gas mileage of a Prius and a big-engine Dodge, Rhodes was a lot more likely to run out of gas than Marilyn was. And even though the towns ahead of them were small, she was still likely to be a danger to herself and others if she kept going.

Rhodes decided that his best bet was a PIT stop, which was how he referred to the Pursuit Intervention Technique. The highway was clear, the road was level, and there was plenty of room on both sides.

It should be simple enough to perform the maneuver, but it might not work, considering the fact that the Prius was a front-wheel-drive vehicle. A really good driver could regain control of the car and start back in the opposite direction. Rhodes hoped Marilyn wasn't a really good driver.

He pulled into the left lane again and glanced at the speedometer. Almost sixty-five. He started to pull alongside Marilyn again. He got as close to her car as he dared, and as soon as the nose of the county car was even with the Prius's front door, Rhodes applied the brake.

The big Dodge didn't slow much, and Rhodes pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, slamming the front part of the Dodge against the rear quarter of the Prius.

Metal crashed and squealed, Rhodes braked the Dodge, and the Prius spun down the road. Marilyn couldn't regain control, and the Prius spun around three times before it left the road and slid into the ditch on the left-hand side. Rhodes drove off the road, stopped, and jumped out of his car. He ran to the Prius.

Marilyn sat behind the wheel, looking dazed. The car's air bag had deployed. Rhodes stuck the pistol back in his pocket and opened the door. Marilyn turned her head toward him but didn't speak. Rhodes pulled her from the car and got the cuffs from his front pocket. She didn't resist when he cuffed her arms behind her.

Just as he got that done, Ruth Grady drove up. She stopped near Rhodes's car and got out.

“Need any help?” she asked.

“I think everything's under control,” Rhodes told her. “I need to give her the Miranda warning.”

He recited the warning to Marilyn and asked if she understood it. She nodded.

“I'd like to hear you say it,” he told her. “Did you understand?”

“Yes,” she said. Her face was powdered and red from the air bag. “I understand.”

Rhodes turned to Ruth. “I'll let you transport the prisoner to the jail, though. I'm going to check on Buddy. He might be hurt.”

“Where is he?”

“He's at the hotel back near town. Fell down some stairs. He'll be okay.”

“You think your car is driveable?”

“The fender's a little crushed, but that's all. The commissioners are going to be upset, though. I seem to have banged up a lot of cars lately.”

“They'll get over it,” Ruth said. “They always do. What are the charges against the prisoner?”

“We can start with theft of services,” Rhodes said. “I don't think Ms. Bradley paid her hotel bill.”

*   *   *

Manish Patel was apologetic. “I am sorry I allowed her to escape, but I didn't know if she was armed.” He smiled. “Besides, she had paid her bill.”

“You're joking,” Rhodes said.

“No, I am not. She checked out on the TV in her room. The bill is charged to her credit card.”

“I have a feeling she won't be paying off her card this month,” Rhodes said, thinking that he'd have to come up with a different charge to hold Marilyn on. Assaulting an officer would do for a start. “I guess the card company will make good on the charges.”

He and Patel were in the office again, talking over what had just happened. The paramedics had taken Buddy to the hospital for observation. He didn't seem to have any broken bones, but he probably had a mild concussion, along with a few bruises and contusions, so they'd keep him for several hours if not overnight. Buddy had protested the whole time they were putting him into the ambulance, but it didn't do him any good.

“If she is a killer who has been brought to justice,” Patel said, “then I suppose I can forgo collecting a few dollars. I hope she will be punished.”

“She will be,” Rhodes said. “Or I hope she will. There's one little problem.”

“And what is that?”

“We have to prove she did it,” Rhodes said.

*   *   *

Ruth Grady put Marilyn Bradley in the interview room. Rhodes watched through the two-way mirror as Marilyn sat at the old wooden table with the scarred top. Ruth left the room and joined Rhodes.

Marilyn didn't look much the worse for her encounter with the Prius's air bag, Rhodes thought, but she didn't seem a bit happy about being where she was. Rhodes didn't blame her. In her place, he'd have been unhappy, too.

“You going to let her wait a while?” Ruth asked.

“Just a couple of minutes,” Rhodes said. “I think she'll tell me what I want to know.”

“What if she asks for a lawyer?”

Rhodes shrugged. “Then we'll have to stop talking.”

“What if she doesn't ask for a lawyer but doesn't confess?”

“You're just a little ray of sunshine,” Rhodes said, and Ruth grinned.

In the interview room, Marilyn looked at the mirror, looked at the other walls, looked at the ceiling. She didn't seem nervous, just unhappy.

“You think she will?” Ruth asked. “Ask for a lawyer, I mean.”

“We'll see,” Rhodes said. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck,” Ruth said, and Rhodes went into the room.

He sat in the chair opposite Marilyn and said, “You almost got away from me.”

“You wrecked my car,” she said. “Sage Barton couldn't have done it better.”

Rhodes wished she hadn't brought up Sage Barton. He didn't want to talk about that.

“I hope the county plans to pay for the car,” Marilyn continued. “It's a very nice one.”

“We can talk about that if you want to,” Rhodes said. He took a small digital recorder from his pocket and set it on the table. “Before we get started, though, you should know that I'm going to record our conversation.”

“Go ahead,” Marilyn said. “I don't care.”

Rhodes turned on the recorder, said a few words, and played them back to be sure the recorder was working. He didn't trust technology to work more than half the time, but the recorder was fine.

“Now that I know the recorder's doing its job,” he said, “I should tell you that you have a right to have a lawyer present if you want one.”

Marilyn gave a wry grin. “I have a right to remain silent, too. You told me that. It seems as if I have a lot of rights.”

“That's what the justice system is all about,” Rhodes said. “Fairness.”

“Fairness? You want to tell that to all those innocent people who spend years on Death Row? How many have been freed in Texas now?”

“Quite a few,” Rhodes said, “but not a one from this county.”

“That's not going to help me, though, is it.”

“Probably not, but you won't get the death penalty. What you did wasn't premeditated, was it?”

“How do you know what I did? I might not have done anything. I didn't skip on my hotel bill, you know.”

“I know, but you did assault an officer.”

“That was an accident,” Marilyn said. “He was in the way. They need a better door-closer, or whatever those things are called. That door shouldn't have opened that fast.”

Rhodes had gone by the hospital after leaving the hotel. Buddy was sitting up in bed and ready to leave. He'd told Rhodes what had happened. Just as he'd pulled on the door to open it, Marilyn had pushed it from the other side. His pulling along with her pushing had caused the door to crack him a good one in the forehead.

“My deputy would agree with you,” Rhodes said, “but you hurt him because you were running. You'd seen us in the parking lot, and since you knew what we were there for, you thought you'd better leave town fast.”

“I wanted to get home in time for lunch,” Marilyn said.

“Nice try,” Rhodes told her. “It won't work, though. I know you killed Burt Collins, and I can prove it.”

“How?” Marilyn asked. She looked genuinely curious.

Rhodes decided he'd tell her. It wouldn't do any harm.

“You made a big mistake the other night at the reception when we were talking about the bust that the killer used to hit Burt. You said that a bust of a NASCAR driver wasn't art. Nobody knew that a bust of a NASCAR driver was the murder weapon. Some people knew it was a bust, but nobody knew who it was.”

Actually, Seepy Benton had known, but he was the only person outside the department who did. Rhodes trusted him not to talk, just as he trusted his deputies. Even Eric Stewart hadn't known, and he'd seen the bust. Rhodes hadn't enlightened him.

“I didn't say that.”

“You did, and there are witnesses. That's not all, though. Burt was blackmailing you.”

“He … how do you know that?”

Rhodes hadn't known it, but he'd suspected it. He said, “You weren't going to win any awards, and you knew it. You were upset and jealous. It wasn't the first time you hadn't won, or even the second or third. Maybe you thought the judges weren't fair to you.”

“They weren't. My art is beautiful. So much of what was in the gallery was just … trash.”

That was one way to look at it. Eye of the beholder, Rhodes supposed.

“Anyway,” he said, “you're the one who defaced the paintings. You got back early and didn't think anyone would see you. Nobody would have if Burt hadn't happened by. He told us he didn't do it, but nobody believed him. You tossed the spray-paint can in the trash and let him take the blame. Were you wearing gloves?”

Marilyn leaned back from the table and slumped in her chair. “I keep disposable gloves in my purse. I need them sometimes when I'm painting.”

Rhodes nodded. “You saw people coming back, and you hid in the antiques store. All you had to do was wait until people were in the room. Then you could come back out and mingle. Nobody would notice where you came from. Maybe you hoped Burt would get away before he got caught, but he didn't. He was happy to take the blame for defacing the art because he thought he might be able to get some money from you. He called the hotel later and asked for your room. The desk clerk told me that this morning.”

Rhodes didn't know how well Sunny Patel's testimony about that would hold up, but he wouldn't have to worry about it if Marilyn would give him a confession.

“He told you to come to his house,” Rhodes said. “To talk. He didn't want to be seen at the hotel. When he asked you for money to keep quiet, you got upset. That's when you hit him with the bust.”

“He was a terrible man,” Marilyn said, “but at least his house was a minor work of art. Or so I thought.”

“He didn't think it was art,” Rhodes said. “He just used the cheapest paint he could get.”

“He told me that and said his house was ugly. He hated it. That's why I hit him, you know. Not because he asked me for money. He asked for money, all right, and he said if I didn't give it to him, he'd tell everybody what I'd done. He said I was crazy, too. Not because of spraying the paintings but because I didn't know anything about what was pretty and what wasn't. He said that the paintings in the gallery were awful, especially the one with the crazy stairs. He said he didn't blame me for trying to paint over it. He laughed about that, and I got upset. I grabbed that bust, and it scared him. He turned to run, and I hit him. I didn't mean to kill him.”

Rhodes believed her. Maybe the district attorney would, too, but Rhodes doubted it.

“Death shouldn't be like that,” Marilyn said. “So quick and ugly. It should be beautiful, a work of art, like life. Do you know John Keats?”