Shadow of Doubt (23 page)

S
tan awoke in his own bed several hours later. He could smell Celia's scent on the pillow next to him, and the fragrance sent sweet relief washing over him. Groggy, he turned over and slid his hand to her side of the bed, reaching for her, but the coldness of the sheets jolted him back to reality.

That image of her with Lee Barnett filled the big screen of his mind again, and the words of the letter echoed. Barnett had told her he loved her, as if the two of them had exchanged those words many times before. But when? How could she have been carrying on an affair without Stan's knowing it?

Something didn't ring true. The note slipped under the door was enough of a red flag. If, indeed, Celia had been seeing Lee Barnett, wouldn't he know that she was staying with her Aunt Aggie? Why would he have slipped a note under their door, unless he knew that Stan would be the one to find it?

Why would Celia have killed her first husband, why would she have tried to kill him, why would she claim she was pregnant, why would she have an affair with a man barely out of prison, why would she have lied all these years about her love for Stan? What would she possibly have to gain? None of it made any sense.

He got up and walked weakly into the living room. His father was sound asleep in his recliner. Some World War II movie was playing on the television. His mother had lain down on the couch and was sleeping. He felt sorry for them. They hadn't gotten much sleep lately, and the one night they had tried to go home to rest they had been called back because of the second murder attempt.

Stan decided not to wake them. He sat down in an easy chair adjacent to the couch. The letter was lying on the table next to it, and he picked it up and read it again. He thought of the explanation Celia had given—that someone had written a check and sent it to him, that there was a letter that she had not written, that it had her signature. It was typed, just as this one was. Why would he type it?

The possibility suddenly occurred to him that he could go straight to the source—look in the man's face and ask him those questions. Wouldn't he know if the man wanted him dead? Wouldn't he be able to see if there were lies in his eyes? As a detective, he was more astute than most. His instincts paid off well. Maybe he would be able to tell.

The cops who were working on the case now were passionately involved, because he was the victim, their one detective, their friend, their brother. Someone needed to be equally passionate on the other side. Celia had no one. Not even him.

Maybe, just because of the years of happiness she had brought him, he owed it to her to go to Barnett and see what he could determine.

He quietly went into the foyer and slipped out the front door. T.J. Porter was sitting on a lawn chair beside the front door. He got up as soon as he saw Stan. “Stan, should you be up?”

“I'm okay,” he said, already out of breath. “Look, I need a favor.”

“What favor?”

“I need for you to take me somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I want you to take me to the Bonaparte Court apartments.”

T.J. looked at him like he was crazy. “Stan, sit down.”

Stan sat with relief in the folding lawn chair and looked up at the huge man.

“Stan, this isn't a good idea, man. You don't need to be out. You just got out of the hospital. You can barely walk.”

“I can make it. Just get me there.”

“Why? What purpose would it serve?”

“Nothing illegal,” Stan said. “I want to talk to Lee Barnett. I want to look him in the eye and talk to him.”

T.J. ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “I can't do it, Stan. I'm sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Because I've been told to guard you.”

“You weren't told to imprison me, you were told to protect me. Now, you can go along and protect me.”

“But Sid said—”

“I don't care what Sid said. I'm still on the police force. And Sid is my subordinate. So are you.”

“But Stan, you can't pull rank when you're so sick. You're not on active duty right now.”

“I don't recall taking a leave of absence. I'm on sick leave. That's all. Now, I order you, as your superior, to take me where I want to go.”

T.J. looked miserably divided. “What about your parents?”

“My parents are fine,” he said. “It's me the killer's after, not them. As long as you're guarding me, you're doing your job.”

T.J. breathed a heavy, defeated sigh. “All right, Stan, get in the car.”

Stan went to the car, opened the door, and sank into the front seat. T.J. got in on the other side and pulled out of the driveway. “Did you tell your folks?”

“They're sleeping,” Stan said. “I'll be back before they even wake up.”

He leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes as T.J. drove. Silently, he prayed that he would be able to see clearly what was going on. If his wife was an adulteress, he needed to know. If she was a killer, he needed to know that, too. If Lee Barnett had anything at all to do with this, he had to see it.

It took only ten minutes to reach the Bonaparte Court apartments on Rue Matin, and T.J. pulled into the parking space closest to Barnett's apartment. Stan gave him a look. “Do you know which apartment it is?”

“Right there,” T.J. said, pointing to the one on the second floor. “B-5. We've been patrolling it at least hourly. Stan, I don't know how you'll get up those stairs.”

“Don't worry about it,” Stan said. “I'll make it.”

“I'm coming with you.”

Stan thought that over for a moment, then decided it probably was a good idea. “Yeah, if I'm facing my killer, then I probably do need an armed guard.”

T.J. got out, came around to the passenger side, and helped Stan out of his seat. “Stan, it won't be easy getting you up those stairs, buddy.”

“I can do it,” Stan said. “Just give me a little time.”

He took the steps one at a time, stopping to rest on each one. T.J. put his arm around his waist and helped him up the final few steps. He was sweating and had to stop to catch his breath before they got to the door.

“You sure you want to do this, buddy?” T.J. asked.

“I'm sure.”

They reached the door, and T.J. rapped hard on it. For a moment, there was no answer, then a muffled, “Who is it?”

“Po-lice,” T.J. said.

Stan shot him a look. “You didn't have to tell him that.”

“That's exactly who we are,” T.J. said. “Best way to get him to open the door that I know of.”

“Or to make him run out the back window,” Stan said. But there was no need to worry. The door opened and Stan found himself facing Lee Barnett for the first time. He stared at the man. His hair was unwashed, his face unshaven. Dark shadows defined his bloodshot eyes, as if he were hung over. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and Stan saw the tally marks tattooed on his arm.

Could Celia really be involved with a man like this?

“Yeah, what do you people want now?” Lee asked.

“My name is Stan Shepherd,” Stan said.

Lee's face changed and his eyes opened wider. “You're outa the hospital?” he asked.

Stan gazed intently into his eyes, looking for some sign of evil. Was this the orderly in the surgical mask and glasses? He wasn't sure. “Yeah, I'm out. I want to talk to you.”

“Is this police business?” Barnett asked. “Or personal?”

“A little of both,” Stan said.

Barnett backed up from the door. “Well, I guess you oughta come in, then,” he said. Stan looked at T.J., who seemed a little uncertain about whether they should go inside. T.J. patted his weapon, then nodded that it was probably all right. The two men went inside.

Barnett nodded toward the couch, and Stan gratefully sank down. “I thought you were practically dead,” Barnett said.

Stan nodded pensively. “Somebody would like to see me that way.”

“Sounds like it.” Barnett took the seat across from them. “I think I know why you're here.”

Stan waited. Often silence was the best catalyst he knew to get someone talking.

“You're here to ask if I'm the one who poisoned you.”

Stan waited for him to go on, to hang himself.

“Well, I'm not.” He said the words without flinching, without averting his eyes. He looked intently at Stan, as if determined to make him believe.

Stan reached into his back pocket and pulled out the envelope that he'd found under the door today. “You know anything about this?” he asked.

Barnett eyed the envelope, and so did T.J. “No, what is it?”

His response seemed genuine, but Stan watched him nonetheless, waiting for some flicker of deceit. He pulled the letter out. “It's a letter to my wife. Has your signature on it.”

Barnett got up, grabbed the letter, and peered down at it. “Now how would I have typed this? And anyway, that isn't my signature. I don't write like that.”

Stan watched him carefully. “Can you prove you didn't write it?”

Barnett held his hands up. “Can anybody prove anything? All I can tell you is that I don't have a typewriter
or
a computer. How would I have printed this out? You can search this apartment high and low. I don't have that much stuff here, anyway.”

Stan nodded to T.J. and the big cop got up and began to go through the rooms, looking for some sign of a typewriter or computer.

“I'll tell you somethin' else,” Barnett said. “I can guarantee you that's not my signature.” He pulled out a driver's license that had been issued the day after he'd gotten out of prison, and handed it to Stan. “See, that's my signature, right there. Nothin' like the one on that letter.”

“Then who wrote this and why did they put it under my door?”

Barnett almost laughed. “Don't you see? It's just part of the game they're playing.”

“Who's playing?”

“Whoever this is that's tryin' to set me up.” Barnett was beginning to break out in a sweat, and he leaned back in the chair. “Look, I understand where you're comin' from. You're the one who almost bought the farm, and you're prob'ly not feeling so good right now. But I didn't have a thing to do with this, and neither did Celia.”

Stan might have predicted that Barnett would defend her, but it still hurt. He sat for a moment, trying to compose himself, trying to fight the emotions overcoming him. He was a cop, he told himself, and he was here as a cop, no matter how he felt.

“She came here yesterday,” Barnett said matter-of-factly. Stan wondered why Barnett would volunteer that if, indeed, anything was going on. “She was mad as a hornet. It was the first time I'd seen her since before I went to prison, and she looked awful. She was furious at me, man, and I could tell just from lookin' at her that she didn't have nothin' to do with poisonin' you.”

Stan kept staring at Barnett. “What about the letter she sent you? The checks?”

“Apparently it wasn't her.” He got up and paced around the floor. “Some fictitious priest named Father Mueller brought the letter to the prison chaplain. I ain't been able to find him, and now I'm wonderin' if it wasn't the killer himself.”

T.J. came back in and shook his head. There was nothing with which Barnett could have typed the letter. That didn't rule out one of those all-purpose office shops. There wasn't one in Newpointe, but he could have gone to Slidell or New Orleans.

“Look, man, there wasn't a happier guy alive than I was a coupla weeks ago when I got that letter and those checks and thought they were from Celia. I tell you what, talk about redemption. I thought maybe there really was a God, and he had sent Celia to rescue me. But then I got here, and everything started breakin' loose, and I realized that I'd been had, that some jerk out there didn't care if a ex-con got blamed for doin' somethin' he hadn't done. And, to tell you the truth, when I first realized I'd been set up, I thought Celia set me up. I thought she'd probably tried to off you, then pinned it on me since I was convenient. But yesterday when she came to see me, I knew better.”

“Did she come into your apartment?” Stan asked.

“No, of course not. She wouldn't be that stupid. Don't forget I just got out of prison. She wouldn't trust me.”

Stan's mouth trembled slightly, and he pulled the snapshot from his pocket and stared down at it. Then he held it up where Barnett could see. “Explain this.”

Barnett took the picture, squinted down at it, then began to laugh. “Oh, this is priceless.”

Stan couldn't find the humor.

“I musta held her for a split second, right after she slapped the fire outa me. It was in self-defense, man. I can't believe this guy got that picture at exactly that moment. He's a master. He'd get rich as a paparazzo.” He studied it with a look of amusement. “Come on, man, give me a break. Look at my face in the picture. It's not exactly tender.”

“I can't see much of it,” Stan said. “I can't see any of hers.”

Dismissively, he thrust the picture back at Stan. “Well, if you had seen hers, you would have seen that she was cryin' and her face was beet red. Let me tell you somethin'. She can pack a wallop when she wants to.”

Stan would have found that amusing, if it hadn't been so sad. He knew all too well how much of an emotional wallop she could pack. He stared down at the picture, then looked at the letter and back up to Barnett. “You know there's no law against having an affair with another man's wife,” he said. “You can't go to jail for it. If you're having an affair with my wife, I need to know that now. I need to know whether my wife is involved in this in any way.”

Lee Barnett gaped at him. “And you claim to love her?”

Stan didn't appreciate the question.

“No, really, I mean it, man,” Barnett said. “You're the guy who's supposed to love and cherish her, right? I mean, you married her. You've lived with her all this time. You know her better than anybody else. But here I am, ain't laid eyes on her in years, and I see her one time and I know for sure she's tellin' the truth. Man, if she ain't after an affair, maybe she ought to be.”