Hardy 11 - Suspect, The (10 page)

Q: I'm sorry, Mrs. Sutcliff. Can we go back to Bethany for a minute. Bethany is who?

A: Bethany Robley. She lives across the street, that stucco place right there two houses up. She and Kymberly know each other.

Q:
  
And Bethany told you that Stuart came home last night?

A:
  
That's what she said. She said it was around eleven thirty.

Q:
  
Why did she think that?

A: I got the impression that she saw him. Her bedroom's right in that upstairs front window. You can see it from here, see? I can't believe he actually killed her, though I guess somebody must have. He really seems like such a nice man.

Q:
  
Well, that's still kind of an open question.

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The door at the stucco house across the street opened to a heavyset, gray-haired African American woman in a brown jogging outfit. "Yes? Can I help you?"

Introducing himself, Juhle had his badge out, and held it up in his wallet. "Is this the home of Bethany Robley?"

It is.”

"I'd like to ask her a few questions, if you don't mind."

"Maybe I do. I'm her mother. What's this about? What's she done?"

"She's done nothing, ma'am. It's about your neighbors across the street there. The Gormans. You may have heard that Mrs. Gorman died this morning."

"There wasn't any Mrs. Gorman. There was Dr. Dryden, Caryn, married to Stuart, if that's who you mean." Mrs. Robley had her arms crossed, and stepping forward, she completely blocked the door. "And that's got nothing to do with my daughter. She had nothing to do with them."

"I understand she was a friend of Kymberly's, their daughter."

"Okay, that. They know each other, all right, but Kym's gone up to school and she hasn't been over there since ..."

Behind Mrs. Robley, Juhle heard a younger voice. "It's okay, Mom. I can talk to him."

"Not unless I say so, you can't." The mother came back at Juhle, holding her daughter back with an extended palm. "Are we going to be wanting a lawyer here, Inspector? You think my little girl had anything at all to do with Caryn's dying?"

"I've got no reason to think that, ma'am. I'd just like to ask her a couple of questions about what, if anything, she might have seen last night. From her window."

"And that's all?"

"That's all. Promise."

The mother half turned and Juhle caught a glimpse of a young woman of about his own height. She was wearing a Galileo High sweatshirt, a short black skirt, white tennis shoes.

"I'm gonna be with you the whole time," Mrs. Robley said.

"Fine with me."

A few seconds passed, and then the large woman sighed and moved to the side to let her daughter come forward. Bethany stepped up into the doorway—a clear, wide forehead and a solemn expression on her face. A keen intelligence seemed to emanate from a penetrating gaze out of deeply set eyes. To Juhle, she looked far too serious for a young woman of her age; she could easily have passed for twenty-five.

And Juhle immediately recognized a key truth: If Bethany was going to be one of his witnesses—and he thought that was a reasonable likelihood at this stage—he couldn't have asked for a better one. "I won't take up much of your time," he began. He looked behind Bethany to her mother, held up his tiny tape recorder. "I'd like to record what we say here." He shrugged apologetically. "It's just that I don't take really good notes, and I want to make sure I've got it exactly right. Is that all right with you, Mrs. Robley?"

"Ask my daughter."

Bethany shrugged with a slight awkwardness. "That's okay, I guess."

"Thank you." Juhle quickly dictated his standard intro into the device, then came back to his subject. "Well, Bethany, I was just over at Mrs. Sutcliff's house talking to her, and she told me that you were one of the people with her standing on the corner this morning when I pulled up. Do you remember that?" Sure.

"Well, she—Mrs. Sutcliff, I mean—she told me that you said you saw Mr. Gorman get home last night. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Do you happen to remember roughly what time that was?"

"Actually, I remember exactly. He got home at eleven thirty. That's my lights-out time on a school night, and I was just finishing at my desk when I saw him turn into the driveway."

"And where's your desk?"

"Just under the window there that looks down on the street."

Juhle paused to consider his next question. "And you're sure it was Mr. Gorman? Did you see him get out of the car?"

"No. But it must have been him. He opened the garage automatically and went inside. Then closed it behind him. So I never saw him. But it was his car."

"You know his car on sight?"

Her lip curled downward, the question apparently striking her as insulting. "Sure. I've gone skiing in it with Kym maybe ten times. So yes, I know the car."

"I didn't mean any offense," Juhle said. "I guess I'm just asking how sure you are."

"What? That it was Stuart? I don't know. I told you I didn't see him. But if he was driving his car, it was him. Because that was his car."

"And how did you know that?"

"I don't know. I just knew."

Mrs. Robley decided to put in her two cents. "She knows what she knows, Inspector. She's not lying to you."

"Of course not. There's no question of that." Juhle spoke matter-of-factly to Bethany. "I'm sorry if I sound critical. That's not my intention. I'm just trying to make sure of what you're saying. So now, getting back to Stuart, you watched him pull his car into his garage across the street and then close the garage door behind him?"

"No." Again, the question seemed to frustrate her. "Look, I'm sure. No. I just saw him pull up and I'm like, 'Oh, Stuart's getting home,' and then went over and got in bed. I didn't think anything about it, except that I noticed it. The end. And I didn't sit at the window and watch until he closed the garage door behind him. Why would I do that? It wasn't all that interesting, dull though the rest of my life might be."

Juhle hesitated, a fragment of a barely remembered something nagging at him. "But I believe you said . . . can you give me just a second?"

"Sure. More, if you need."

He thanked her, then walked a few steps down to the sidewalk and rewound the tape recorder. In a minute, he was back up at the door with Bethany. "Here," he said, "listen to this."

When he pushed the recorder’s play button, they heard her voice saying,
"No. He opened the garage automatically and went inside. Then closed it behind him. So I never saw him. But it was his car."

"See?" he said. "You hear it?"

"What?"

"You say, 'Then closed it behind him.' Which you just said you didn't see him do."

"I didn't. See him close it, I mean."

"Well, which is it?"

"It was closed."

"Okay." Juhle rubbed away the crease in his forehead. He killed another few seconds fast-forwarding his tape recorder to the end again, and turned it back to record. Then he said, "Excuse me, Bethany, for being so dumb. But then how did you know it was closed behind him if you didn't see him close it?"

For a brief moment, the question seemed to stump her. Her normally grave expression turned to a look of near-despair before she suddenly broke into a surprisingly quite lovely smile. "Because I saw him
open
it later," she said. "So it had to be closed."

"You saw him open it? When was this?"

"Twelve forty-five. Pretty much exactly again." She brought her shoulders up in a shrug. "I had insomnia. I always have insomnia. I hate it. But then I had to get up and go to the bathroom and I noticed it had been an hour and fifteen minutes already that I'd been awake, which made me start freaking out about how tired I'd be for school today." She let out a heavy sigh. "And which I am. Was. God."

"So what happened? You looked out the window and . . ."

"And Stuart was backing out again . . ."

"Backing out? At quarter to one in the morning?"

"I know. I thought that was a little weird too. But really, I wasn't thinking too much about him or anything else except getting some sleep." Stifling a sudden yawn, she smiled again. "Sorry. Just talking about it, sometimes, you know . . ."

"I hear you. But I noticed you called Mr. Gorman Stuart. Do you know him well?"

"Not well, no. But he's Kym's dad. I know him okay. He doesn't like to be called Mr. Gorman."

"And you and Kym are friends?"

"Well, kind of. She's a little up and down, you know. Hyper up and then kind of a drag down. And lately not so much. Actual friends, I mean, except we ski together sometimes. Anyway, we've known each other since fourth grade." She brought a finger to her mouth and chewed the end of it. "This is going to kill her."

"Were she and her mom close?"

"No. I mean her dad."

"What about her dad?"

"Well, you just said. What you were investigating. I mean, if he killed her."

"I didn't say that, Bethany. We don't have any one suspect right now. But you're saying Kymberly and her mom didn't get along?"

The girl shrugged. "Her mom was pretty busy most of the time." Reaching back, she touched her own mother's hand briefly, then came back to Juhle. "Caryn wasn't really that bad."

"Did people say she was?"

Bethany shrugged. "Sometimes the two of them—Stuart and Kym—they'd be a little sarcastic. But they both loved her, I think.

You don't think Stuart killed her, do you? I can't believe he'd do anything like that."

Juhle kept it matter-of-fact. "I'm just talking to people, Bethany. Trying to get to what happened. I might have to talk to you again. Would that be all right?"

"Sure. I guess."

Juhle peeked around behind her. "Mrs. Robley?"

"If it's okay with her."

"All right, then. Thank you both for your time."

8

Stuart was standing by the couch
,
stretching. He and Gina had been going over issues for the past couple of hours when suddenly he'd become aware of the time and jumped up. "Well," he was saying, "whether or not we hit most of it, I've got to get going if I want to be on time for Kym, and I do. If Juhle calls you, maybe you can just set up a time we can all talk. But not tonight, okay, please. My girl's going to need me. That's the most important thing right now."

"Sure. Of course." Gina had pulled her heavy satchel over in front of her and dropped her well-used legal pad into one of its sections. "We'll just stay in wait-and-see mode until we hear from Juhle. If he calls me tonight, I'll tell him you need time with your daughter and ask if we can set up a time tomorrow or the next day."

"You think he will? Call you tonight?"

"Maybe not, unless there's been some break in the case we don't know about. Either way, I'll try to check in with him again, get some sense of things." She looked up at him. "Are you sure you're all right?"

He shook his head, weariness now all over him. "Just thinking about Kym." Staring into empty space across the room, he blinked rapidly a few times. "And Caryn. She's really gone, isn't she?"

"I'm afraid so."

Squeezing at his temples, he sighed deeply, then looked across at her. "Jesus, what a waste. What an unbelievable, colossal fucking waste."

The Travelodge was barely a mile from Gina's condominium. Most of it was uphill, true, but to Gina's mind, that just made it a better exercise opportunity. So after she told Stuart that he should go on ahead, that she'd let herself out and get the door, she waited until he'd gone, then took off her black pumps, dropped them into the satchel and replaced them with the pair of tennis shoes that she always carried in her bag.

Outside, the evening was still warm, although the ocean breeze had increased enough to stir up the occasional wisp of dust or debris in the gutters. Gina walked with an athletic ease, her satchel converted to a backpack. Ahead of her, across Van Ness Avenue, the street began its steep climb that summitted at the oft-photographed view of Lombard as the "crookedest street in the world."

When she got to the top, Gina was breathing hard. Good. That's what exercise was—breathing hard. She stopped a minute to take in the view. In front of her, down in the valley, North Beach, the towers of Sts. Peter and Paul Church, and a slice of Fisherman's Wharf, with Telegraph Hill and Coit Tower beyond them. Behind her, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Presidio, and from this height the glint of the sun off the Pacific Ocean on the horizon as well.

She was aware of course that on a lot of days and nights—maybe even most of them—the fog could be so thick here that you couldn't see your hand in front of your face, but when the place conspired with the weather at a moment like this, Gina thought a person could live here for a hundred years and still not grow tired of it.