Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission (14 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

I don’t know why it surprised me, but somehow it did. I’d never imagined Kate McConnell as a city girl, but that’s exactly what she was. Her home turned out to be a posh condominium in a gated community high in the Avenues district, not more than two miles from the home of Levi Vogue. The condo was a second-floor unit looking down on an outdoor pool and hot tub surrounded by a mature garden with sitting benches strategically placed around the grounds.

She’d arrived moments before I did and was busy in the kitchen transferring the Chinese food from cartons to serving dishes. She directed me to the plates and silverware and had me set the table on the outdoor patio deck. She grabbed two wine glasses and an open bottle of Chardonnay. When I declined the wine, she sent me to the refrigerator to help myself to a beer. The fridge contained a dozen bottles of Coors. Since Kate wasn’t a beer drinker, I assumed the beer probably belonged to Stoddard. Kate reached around me and opened the freezer door. Out came a large and very cold beer stein. As for Stoddard, I decided not to go there.

“So tell me, how did you end up with a career in state corrections?” Kate asked.

“Well, I got in quite by accident. Becoming a cop certainly wasn’t on my radar screen as a kid. In high school, my priorities were basketball, girls, and academics—in that order. Occasionally, the order changed to girls, basketball, and academics. But academics was never the first priority. Don’t get me wrong. I got by all right, but I was never on anybody’s short list to become valedictorian of my senior class.

“After high school, I was fortunate enough to have several full-ride scholarship offers in basketball from some pretty decent Division I schools. I signed a letter-of-intent with the University of New Mexico and headed off to Albuquerque. I lasted two years in the program before tearing up the ACL in my left knee.”

“Did you have to have surgery?”

“I did, and I’ve got an ugly scar to prove it. I wish the medical community had the technology twenty years ago that they do today. The knee still isn’t right.”

“That’s not good. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Anyway, my basketball career came to an abrupt end and so did the athletic scholarship that paid the bills. Much to my parents’ chagrin, I dropped out of school and headed north to Santa Fe. I fell in love with the town but needed a job if I was going to stay. One day as I was perusing the local paper, I noticed an ad for a corrections officer at the New Mexico State Prison. The prison is just outside Santa Fe. It was shortly after the big riot—you know, the one where the inmates damn near burned the entire place to the ground. They were begging for help. If you were breathing and standing upright, they offered you a job.”

“So, you worked at the state prison for a while, and then returned to Utah and went to work for the Department of Corrections?” Kate asked.

“That’s about it. My folks really wanted me to come back, live at home for a while, and finish my degree at the University of Utah. I took them up on everything but the living at home part. I’d been on my own long enough that moving home didn’t hold much appeal. I think they were relieved when I decided to live in Salt Lake City.

“How about you?”

“Well, my story is a bit different from yours. I grew up in Spokane, Washington. My mom started out as a dispatcher in the Spokane Police Department when she was twenty. Twenty-seven years later, she had risen from a clerical job to deputy chief of police. I saw her and that’s what I knew I wanted to do. So, it would be fair to say that I knew I wanted to be a cop from the time I was old enough to understand what my mother did for a living. She’s been a great mother and a great role model. At her urging, I set my sights a little higher than the Spokane P.D. I wanted to get into the FBI as a special agent. And unlike you, Sam, my priorities were academics and sports, volleyball mostly. And unlike you, I
was
the valedictorian of my senior class.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Like you, after high school, I had a number of volleyball scholarship offers to choose from. I selected Washington State University because of its reputation as a place to study criminology. I actually turned down the athletic aid and entered on a Presidential Scholarship instead. I graduated four years later with dual degrees in criminal justice and psychology. Along the way, I played four years on the women’s volleyball team and even managed a couple of years as all-conference honorable mention.”

“Wow. I’m impressed. That’s still a long way from the Salt Lake City Police Department.”

“Actually, several factors came into play. One was that I knew the area pretty well and liked it. I had an aunt who lived in Salt Lake City for quite a few years, and my parents brought me to visit her several times when I was a kid. Also, my mother was well connected to the chief of police, and he encouraged me to apply. It’s been a good experience, even though when I came, I never intended to stay permanently. I thought the experience would be just the right ticket for entree into the FBI. And it probably was.”

Kate didn’t offer any specifics regarding her meteoric rise through the ranks of the Salt Lake City Police Department. Her reputation at solving high-visibility homicide cases had made her something of a media celebrity throughout the Salt Lake Valley. Some in the business believed that McConnell was on the fast track to one day becoming the first female Salt Lake City Chief of Police, assuming no major screw-ups along the way.

“Aside from the job, I really enjoy living near downtown. It gives me easy access to lots of good restaurants. And the cultural amenities available in the city are really quite impressive.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I have season tickets to the Utah Symphony as well as the Salt Lake Acting Company. The community theater here is great, and we also get some good Broadway plays. On occasion, I take in an opera or the ballet. What more could a girl ask for?”

She tossed the ball to me. “What kind of things do you enjoy doing when you’re not chasing down bad guys or playing Mr. Mom?”

It occurred to me that if it’s true that opposites attract, I might have a chance with Kate. Otherwise, forget about it. I could hardly stand to tell her that my “cultural interests” consisted largely of chasing around the Wasatch mountains on skis or a mountain bike. I also enjoyed quaffing beer at Utah Grizzly hockey games, and I attended an occasional rodeo for good measure. It wouldn’t take Einstein to figure out that our respective lists of leisure activities didn’t seem terribly compatible. Given a choice between attending an opera or going to the dentist for a root canal, I’d probably choose the opera, but only by the slimmest of margins.

After confessing my cultural shortcomings, I couldn’t tell if Kate was horrified or merely amused. In any event, I was sorry that the pleasant buzz I’d been working on had receded into a state of dour sobriety resulting from too much Hunan beef and steamed rice and too little beer.

***

We cleared away the dinner dishes and spent the next hour at her dining-room table comparing our lists of forgery candidates, any one of whom could have created the false suicide note. My list contained every offender currently under state correctional supervision for a forgery conviction. We eliminated those offenders locked up in prison or a county jail. We then compared Kate’s list with my longer list of probationers and parolees under departmental supervision. We pared the list down to nineteen possible candidates, nine of whom appeared on both lists. We agreed to split the group of nine among Kate, Vince Turner, and me.

***

It was starting to get late. “Let’s put this stuff away, okay? How about an after-dinner drink before we call it a night?” said Kate.

“I’d like that.”

“Brandy okay?”

“Great.”

Kate directed me into her dimly lit living room while she went to get the brandy. We sat down on the couch next to each other. Our knees were touching. When I attempted to make eye contact with her, she quickly looked away. Neither of us spoke, but somehow, the silence didn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable. As I raised the snifter to my lips, I let the unmistakable wood-smoke smell of brandy fill my nostrils. I removed the snifter and noticed the faint odor of Kate’s perfume. When I looked over at her again, she was still looking away. She must have felt my eyes on her because she turned and met my gaze. This time she didn’t look away. We leaned toward each other and kissed that first slow kiss, gentle and exploring. We parted just long enough to deposit our brandy snifters on the nearby coffee table and then we kissed again. I felt every part of me stir as our tongues danced the dance of an intimate new relationship.

Our breathing became labored and our arousal more pronounced. I felt Kate’s hand begin to tentatively stroke my chest and then move lower across my abdomen. With one hand I gently caressed her right breast while kissing her neck and ear. Her hand moved lower until she felt the hardness through my jeans. Slowly I began to unbutton her shirt. Under the denim, she wore a lacy white bra that only partially concealed small but firm breasts. I felt her stiffen as she pulled away and stood up.

“Sam, we’ve got to stop. This can’t go any further. Christ, think about it. We’ve got a murder investigation on our hands. We’ve got to stay focused. Besides, you’re trying to get over a divorce and I’m involved with someone else. This just isn’t going to work.”

I quickly got up off the couch and offered an awkward apology. “Sorry, Kate. You’re absolutely right. I’m glad at least one of us had the good sense to put the brakes on before something happened that we both might regret.”

“Hey! We’re both adults. I’m the one who invited you here in the first place. It was an impulsive thing to do, and I usually don’t behave impulsively. And please don’t misunderstand. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy being with you because I do. It’s just too complicated right now. We need to call a timeout and think about this.”

“I understand what you’re saying and I agree.” I thanked her for a nice evening and headed home to take a cold shower.

Chapter Thirty-two

As I drove home and my libido returned to something approaching normal, a couple of thoughts occurred to me. The incident at Kate’s, while awkward, probably turned out for the best. Sleeping with someone changed things significantly. I hoped our impromptu interlude wouldn’t interfere with our ability to work together effectively. Besides, I’d have to be a couple bricks short of a full load not to recognize that Kate’s relationship with Tom Stoddard had progressed well beyond the casual dinner-date stage. The guy kept his beer in her refrigerator and probably some of his clothes in her closet. And what, if anything, would Kate say to Stoddard about her relationship with me? Perhaps, nothing. I was glad I didn’t have to deal with that one.

Since the divorce, providing stability for Sara has been my number one priority. A relationship with Kate, or anyone else for that matter, would only be a distraction.

***

I spent Sunday morning with Sara and Aunt June. I drove everybody over to Prospector Square, where we had brunch at a local favorite, the Ore House restaurant. During the meal, Aunt June asked about Baxter Shaw. “I know you’ve been busy. You probably haven’t had time to call that dear Baxter Shaw you were telling me about to arrange a little get-together?”

“Not yet. But let me see what I can do this week. I think Baxter might be one of those retired types who enjoys spending some of his spare time at the court house watching whatever interesting trial might be in progress. Would lunch be okay? And would you like me along as chaperon?” I teased.

“Well, I can sure put his time to better use than sitting around in some court room,” she said. “Lunch at Little America would be nice. As far as your acting as chaperon, thanks for the offer, but I think we’ll be just fine.”

After brunch, I dropped Aunt June back at the house and spent the rest of the morning with Sara at the local duck pond, you guessed it, feeding the ducks.

***

By mid-afternoon, I was off the mountain and in search of the three forgery suspects I had been assigned to interview.

Of the three—Walter Gale, Wendell Rich, and Vaughn Gardner—Gale looked to be the most interesting. Recently released from the Utah State Prison, where he had served five years on three concurrent one-to-fifteen-year forgery sentences, Gale had the look of a first-rate forger.

Gale was middle-aged, with no prior criminal history. He had billed himself as a legitimate buyer and seller of historical documents. Trouble was, most of the documents he sold as historic originals turned out to be high-quality forgeries.

Apparently, an experienced collector of historical documents became suspicious about a letter he’d purchased from Gale, allegedly written by legendary mountain man and scout, Kit Carson. He turned the letter over to a nationally renowned document examiner in New York City, who determined that it was an exceptionally well crafted fake. Gale’s world crumbled around him as victim after victim came forward with a variety of forged documents. His Department of Corrections file showed that the Board of Pardons had slapped him with a restitution bill of almost one-quarter of a million dollars.

I found Walter Gale living at the home of his married daughter in Provo. It seemed that his wife of twenty years divorced him shortly after he entered prison, and moved back to California to begin a new life. My gut told me Gale was too good at his craft to have involved himself in creating a forged suicide note like this one. It seemed far beneath his skill level, and besides, getting caught would earn him a one-way ticket back to prison. I hoped by contacting him without advance warning, if he was involved, he might confess, or slip and say something incriminating. He didn’t do either.

Gale was polite and cooperative. I showed him a copy of the suicide note and explained the nature of my visit. He firmly denied any involvement in the incident. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I’ve only been out of prison for a few months. My daughter and her husband have been kind enough to let me live with them while I try to put my life back together. I work forty hours a week as a salesman at an Ultimate Electronics store in Orem. I can’t have a checking account, a credit card, or any installment debt. I’ve got a restitution bill big enough to choke a horse. And I get the impression that my PO would like nothing better than to see me screw up so he can have me sent back to prison. I’ve been there and I’m not going back. And quite frankly, this looks like a simple job, not worthy of my time or expertise. And it probably didn’t pay much either.”

He sounded convincing. He volunteered to offer an opinion on the quality of the forgery. He examined the note and the samples of Slick Watts’ handwriting. He agreed with the document examiner’s conclusion that the suicide note was an above-average piece of work, not something done by a rank amateur.

“Tell me,” I said. “Can you think of anybody in the business who might be responsible for the job?”

“Sorry,” he replied. “I’m out of that life now, and I’m not about to look back. If you like, I could take a look at the list you’ve working from.”

I declined his offer, thanked him, and got up to leave.

As I reached the front door, Gale said, “Hey, Mr. Kincaid. Tell me why you’re limiting the search to guys out here in the community?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Just what I said. Who’s to say the guy who wrote that note isn’t locked up at the state prison right now?”

“Are you trying to tell me something, Walter?”

“No, not necessarily. It was just a thought,” he replied.