No Place to Die (19 page)

Valentine’s Day fell on a Wednesday.

Beverly woke up wearing only the T-shirt. Her panties and the sweatpants were still on the floor where McClain had dropped them the night before. McClain
was not in the room, but he hadn’t put the cable back on her ankle, and so she assumed that he was still in the house somewhere. She got up and used the bathroom, then dressed again and sat on the bed. Only then did she stop to realize what the date was.

She thought of David and began crying softly. Pushing aside the image of him falling to the floor in the garage, she thought about how sentimental he had always been.

Before meeting David, Beverly had never really cared much about Valentine’s Day one way or the other. To her way of thinking, it was just another of those manufactured holidays—like Grandparents Day, or Secretary’s Day—that the greeting-card companies, the restaurateurs, and the chocolate makers had invented to pump up their bottom lines.

But for David, it was the real deal. Their first Valentine’s Day together had been their fourth date, three years ago now. He’d sent two dozen beautiful red roses to her office, making her the envy of every woman in the place.

Her first reaction was to be a bit put off by it, thinking that he was making a grand gesture just for the sake of impressing her. And in truth, she was a bit disappointed both in him and in herself, because she hadn’t judged him to be a guy who would feel compelled to do something like that. That night he had taken her to T. Cook’s for dinner, and she’d been all prepared to be cool and distant. But it was immediately apparent that he was completely sincere.

Over cocktails, he’d told her that he hoped he wasn’t coming on too strong. The last thing he wanted to do, he said, was to scare her off. But the truth of the matter was that he’d never looked forward so much to a Valentine’s Day before. Preparing for the trial, watching her in court, he’d been totally overwhelmed, he told her. He couldn’t wait for the trial to end so that he
could ask her out, and he was terrified at the prospect that she might say no. He was falling in love with her, he said.

They had slept together for the first time that night. And on each of the next two Valentine’s Days, David had sent two dozen red roses to her office and had taken her to dinner at T. Cook’s.

Just after nine o’clock, McClain came into the room to find Beverly sitting on the bed, crying. He stood in the doorway for a moment, holding a tray of food in his hands and watching her. Then he looked away and pushed the door nearly closed with his elbow. He set the tray on the table. In addition to the cereal, milk, and orange juice, there was an apple, a banana, and a box of raisins.

Beverly continued to cry, and he handed her the roll of paper towels. She pulled a sheet off the roll, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. Then she looked up at McClain.

“I have to go out,” he said. “I could be gone much of the day, so I left some fruit with your breakfast.”

She looked away, refusing even to acknowledge him. He gave her a minute or so and then said, “Come sit on the edge of the bed.”

Saying nothing, she turned and dropped her feet to the floor. McClain took the two wrenches out of his back pocket and set them on the floor. From the other back pocket, he produced a white athletic sock. He pulled it onto Beverly’s foot then picked up the cable and bolted it around her ankle. He put the tools back in his pocket and looked up to see Beverly staring into her lap, refusing to meet his eyes.

He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’ll see you when I see you.”

McClain left the room, bolting the door behind him.
Beverly remained sitting on the bed, clutching the wadded-up paper towel, staring into her lap, and ignoring the breakfast that McClain had set out on the table. Two hours later, it was still sitting there.

At eleven o’clock, Maggie and I rang the doorbell at the home of Carl McClain’s ex-wife in Fountain Hills. The house was probably worth at least a million five, even given the depressed state of the Valley’s current realestate market. Taking in the view of the surrounding neighborhood, Maggie said, “It looks like the lady did pretty well for herself after she dumped McClain.”

“The lady” answered the door wearing sandals, designer jeans and a form-fitting white top. The first thought that crossed my mind was that the guy who’d replaced Carl McClain in her affections was doing pretty well himself. The second thought that crossed my mind was that Carl McClain must have been a total fucking idiot to be out consorting with hookers.

“Mrs. Randolph?” I asked.

The woman acknowledged that she was Mrs. Randolph, and Maggie and I showed her our IDs and badges. Randolph sighed heavily. “Please come in,” she said. “I saw the news last night and figured that sooner or later someone would be coming to see me.”

Randolph led us into comfortable living room and offered us seats on the couch. She sat on a love seat at a right angle to the couch and leaned forward, resting her forearms on her thighs. Cutting right to the chase, she said, “I assume you’re here to talk to me about Carl.”

“Yes, ma’am, we are,” Maggie responded.

“Well,” Randolph said, “all I can tell you is that I haven’t seen the guy in seventeen years. And in all that time, I’ve never heard a word from him, which is fine by me. I wish to hell they’d just left him in prison.”

“Well, Mrs. Randolph,” I said, “it turns out that he
was
innocent, after all.”

She pushed a stray hair back into place and fixed me with deep blue eyes. “Innocent?” she said. “Well, now, that’s a relative term, isn’t it, Detective Richardson? Carl may not have killed that woman, but he did screw her, if you’ll pardon my French. And it’s not like she was the first.”

She looked away and focused on a spot somewhere in the middle distance. “I was twenty-one years old at the time, with an eighteen-month-old daughter and another baby on the way. We were dirt-poor, living in a ramshackle trailer park like a couple of derelicts, and Carl was working only sporadically, mostly when he felt like it. But he still had money for whiskey and hookers. Christ…” she said, her voice trailing away.

“So what did you do, Mrs. Randolph?” Maggie asked sympathetically.

The woman gave a hard, self-deprecating laugh. “I did the only thing I could do, Detective. I scraped up enough money for an abortion. Then I swallowed my pride, packed up my daughter, and went home to my mother. Every day for the next two years, I ate a boatload of crap, listening to my mother say, ‘I told you so,’ while I went to a community college and tried to save myself.

“I worked hard, got the degree, and managed to get a reasonably decent job. Then I moved myself and my daughter into an apartment of our own and reclaimed my life. Shortly after that, I was lucky enough to meet a man who was the polar opposite of Carl McClain. He married me, adopted my daughter, and has been an
absolutely fantastic husband and father in every way. My life was perfect. And then one day I picked up the paper and read that Carl had been released from prison—that he was an ‘innocent’ man.”

“I imagine that must have been quite a shock,” I said.

Randolph laughed ruefully. “That’s the understatement of the year, Detective.”

“And I gather that McClain has not attempted to contact you since his release?”

She shook her head. “No, he hasn’t. But then I doubt that he’d know how to find me. My mother was the last link to my former life, and she died eight years ago. I have no friends or acquaintances from the days when I was married to Carl, and I haven’t used his name since I divorced him. I went back to my maiden name then, but I haven’t used that in the last thirteen years, either.”

“Well, still,” Maggie said, “if he wanted to find you, it wouldn’t be all that hard. Your divorce is a matter of public record, and of course, so is your marriage to Mr. Randolph. We had no difficulty finding you and, I’m sorry to say, neither would McClain.”

“I suppose,” she sighed. “And my husband and I did discuss the possibility after we saw the news last night. Do you think that we’re in danger?”

“We honestly don’t know the answer to that, ma’am,” Maggie replied. “We have no way of knowing what your former husband is thinking or what he might be planning to do next. But of course, it is possible that he might be angry with you for divorcing him and for cutting off any contact between him and his daughter. You should take precautions just in case.”

Randolph nodded wearily. “Yes, I know,” she said in a resigned voice. “My husband and I talked about it last night. Our daughter plays softball for ASU and they’re on a road trip to Palm Springs starting today.
We decided that we’d fly over and be with her there. My husband had a couple of things to do in his office this morning, and then we’ll be going to the airport at noon. We don’t plan to be back until Monday. Do you think you can catch Carl between now and then?”

“Well, we’re certainly trying our best, Mrs. Randolph,” I said. “In all honesty, though, it just depends on what he does over the next few days. If he’s out on the streets, someone may recognize him, and we may get him. But if he goes to ground after all the publicity, he may be able to hide indefinitely. Needless to say, though, if he should contact you in any way, be sure to let us know immediately.”

“Of course I will,” she sighed.

Randolph stared at the floor for another few seconds, then looked back up to meet my eyes. “I know now that Carl didn’t kill that woman,” she said. “All the same, I sure as hell wish you could have left him right where he was.”

McClain left his rented house and headed in the general direction of the Civic Plaza. It was a beautiful morning, sunny and in the low sixties, and he decided that he should be getting out more often at this hour of the day, taking advantage of his freedom and of the great climate at this time of the year.

From Tonto Street, he went left onto First Avenue and then walked ten blocks north to the Wells Fargo bank where he had rented a large safe-deposit box. At the service counter, he signed the ledger as Alan Fischer and wrote in the date, February 14. Only then
did he realize that it was Valentine’s Day, and only then did he understand the probable reason why Beverly had been so depressed this morning. He shook his head, now feeling a bit depressed himself, and followed the attractive customer-service representative down the hall to the elevators.

The woman escorted him downstairs to the vault. There he handed her his key and waited patiently as she inserted it and the master key into the door fronting his box. The woman stood aside and asked McClain if he’d like to take the box to a private booth. He indicated that he would, and pulled the box out of its slot. The woman led him to an unoccupied booth and left him, saying, “Just let me know when you’re ready to put the box back, Mr. Fischer.”

“Mr. Fischer” assured her that he would and closed the door of the small cubicle behind him. He then opened the box, which held two additional sets of fake IDs, a handful of keepsakes, and $101,300 in cash.

The money represented the proceeds from the sale of his mother’s house. His father had abandoned the two of them when Carl was five, and neither he nor his mother had ever seen or heard from the son of a bitch again. After that, his mother had raised him alone, sometimes working two jobs to make ends meet. She’d managed somehow to hang on to the house in Glendale, and it was the only real home that Carl had ever known.

In his father’s absence, Carl became his mother’s “little man,” and she was the only one who had steadfastly believed in his innocence. Upon his conviction, she’d insisted on taking out a second mortgage on the house to hire a new lawyer and fund an appeal, but Carl had refused. His mother had sacrificed enough on his behalf already, and she’d had precious little to show for it, even before he was arrested and charged with homicide.

When his mother died of a heart attack two years ago, McClain had inherited the house. Through his mother’s attorney, he arranged for its sale, and was fortunate enough to sell the house at the peak of the realestate boom, netting McClain a little over $140,000. He’d used up about $25,000 of the money funding his own appeals before Charlie Woolsey finally copped to the murder of Gloria Kelly and McClain was set free.

Once out of prison, McClain had converted the balance of his inheritance to cash and hidden it from any sort of scrutiny in the safe-deposit box. Using contacts from his prison days, he’d purchased three sets of excellent fake IDs, including that of “Alan Fischer,” the one that he’d used to rent the safe-deposit box as well as the house where he was now holding Beverly Thompson. A portion of the remaining money would fund his revenge, and after that, he planned to use the last of the fake IDs and the balance of the cash to start a new life somewhere far from Arizona.

McClain counted out three thousand dollars, figuring that should be enough, and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he dug down into the box and retrieved a small photo of Amanda and Tiffani that had been taken at a studio in a JCPenney store when Tiffani was eight months old.

It had changed him, having a daughter and another child on the way. While he might not have become a model citizen overnight, he had felt a growing sense of responsibility. He’d also developed a newfound appreciation and respect for Amanda, who was now the mother of his daughter and not just some stupid, if attractive, girl he had once conned into bed. He’d understood that it was time for him to get his shit together and face up to his responsibilities. And then something totally stupid like random recreational sex had brought it all to a dismal end.

He spent a couple of minutes studying the picture, then said quietly, “Happy Valentine’s Day, girls.”

Then he closed up the box, summoned the customer-service representative, and returned the box to the vault.

Three blocks from the bank, McClain stopped in front of a coffee shop, dropped fifty cents into a sidewalk vending machine, and bought a copy of the morning’s
Arizona Republic
. Inside, he got a cup of black coffee and took the coffee and the paper to a table in front of the window. He took a sip of the coffee, then opened the
Republic
and read with interest the articles relating to the murder of Harold Roe and the hunt for his suspected killer. Fortunately, the photo of the “suspected killer” looked nothing at all like the current edition of Carl McClain, and satisfied that the police were no closer to finding him than they’d been a week ago, McClain nonchalantly turned to the classifieds and found
AUTOMOBILES FOR SALE.

He’d bought the van expressly for the purpose of abducting Beverly Thompson, and it had come in unexpectedly handy when he had no other way to get at the judge. But he figured that he’d have no further use of such a vehicle and so decided to go in an entirely different direction, especially since the cops were now expecting to find him driving a van.

While drinking his coffee, he circled several possibilities. Then he got some change from the girl at the counter and took the paper to a pay phone in the back of the shop. The second call he made was to a woman who’d advertised a seven-year-old Ford Taurus for sale. The woman insisted that the car was in very good shape and explained that she was selling it only so that she could buy a nearly new Mustang convertible from her brother-in-law, who was going into the air
force. McClain wrote down the address and told the woman that he’d come by to look at the car in thirty minutes or so.

He found a cab and took it to the address, which was just across the city limits in Glendale. The woman who answered the door was a chunky blonde, twenty-three or four maybe, wearing low-rise jeans and spilling out of a blue halter top. The Taurus was parked at the street—a tired, gray, nondescript car that would vanish perfectly into the sea of vehicles that flooded the Valley’s streets and freeways every day.

McClain walked around the car examining it with a critical eye that was intended to suggest that he wasn’t all that knocked out by what he was seeing. He noted a couple of dings and scratches, then squatted down and examined the tires, sighing and shaking his head as he ran his fingers over the remaining tread. He stood up, turned to the woman, and said, “How many miles did you say it had on it?”

“Seventy-two thousand,” she replied brightly. “Here, you can see for yourself.”

She opened the door and leaned into the car, inserting the key into the ignition while exposing a butterfly tattoo at the small of her back and the top of the hot pink thong-style panties that she was wearing under the jeans. Backing out of the car, she invited McClain to sit behind the wheel and start up the engine.

He did so, noting that the mileage was as advertised. The engine ran quietly and smoothly, and McClain observed that the interior, while worn, was still in pretty good shape for a car of its age. The blonde leaned into the window, offering McClain a generous look at her breasts, and said, “So what do you think?”

“Well, it seems okay,” he replied. “Can we take it for a test spin?”

The woman readily agreed and jumped in on the passenger’s side. McClain drove the car several blocks
down the street and back, noting a little play in the steering but detecting no serious problems. He parked back in front of the woman’s house and pulled the lever to pop the hood. He stepped around to the front of the car, raised the hood, and pulled out the dipstick. He held it out for the woman to see and said, “Looks like it’s been a while since you changed the oil.”

She shrugged as if embarrassed. “I’ve been meaning to, you know, but since I decided to sell it…”

She let the sentence hang in the air while McClain replaced the dipstick and dropped the hood. Turning to the woman, he said, “You have a clean title?”

She nodded. “Right in the house, all ready to go. All I have to do is sign it.”

“And you’re asking twenty-nine hundred?”

“Right.”

McClain pulled the roll of bills from his pocket, letting her get a good look. “What would you say to twenty-five hundred, cash on the spot?”

The blonde thought about it for a moment while biting her lower lip. Then she looked up at him and said tentatively, “Could you go twenty-seven?”

McClain shook his head. “I would, except that I’m going to have to replace those tires right away.”

She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, thrusting her chest out and letting him think about it for a minute. Then, when he said nothing more, she shrugged and said, “Okay, twenty-five hundred would be acceptable.”

They went into the house and the blonde signed over the title. McClain had her write him a bill of sale as well, and then he counted out the twenty-five hundred. She walked him back out to the Taurus and let him get another good look at her boobs and ass as she collected a few personal belongings from the trunk and the glove box. Then they thanked each other and McClain drove his new car away.