Shots in the Dark (20 page)

Several seconds of silence followed, and then Joe said, “Maybe she was drugged.”

There were some tentative nods among the group, and then Mal said, “Or maybe we're looking at this all wrong. Consider this scenario. There's evidence that Tiffany was having an affair. Maybe the intended victim was Ben all along, and Tiffany was the mastermind. Maybe she wanted to get rid of him and didn't want to risk a nasty divorce, where she might have to share some of her money. Maybe the plan was for Ben to get out of the car when the carjacker demanded it and then get shot in the road. Then the carjacker could get into the car and drive off with Tiffany. Later she could say he took her at gunpoint and let her go at some point. In fact, if it was planned right, she could lay low some place and hide before going for help, giving the shooter a decent amount of time to get far away, ditch the car for a different one, and head for a hidey-hole and some future rendezvous.”

It was an interesting theory, and when I flashed back on the dark, morbid nature of Tiffany's paintings, it wasn't hard to imagine her doing something like that.

Frank shook his head and said, “I don't see how this could have been a planned thing by either party. In order for a planned scenario to work, assuming it happened the way Middleton said and some guy flagged them down, the planner would have needed a way to communicate with the shooter.”

“Cell phone?” Holly suggested.

“According to Ben Middleton, there was no cell service where they were,” I said.

“That's true,” Clay said. “It was discussed at the trial, and again the prosecution twisted it around, saying that Ben planned it that way to make sure no one could come to Tiffany's aid.”

“Except Middleton admitted that he drove into town earlier that day, and there was cell service available there,” Mal pointed out. “He could have called someone then.”

I frowned at this. “But he said they were planning to stay at the house at that point, so how would he have known they'd be on the road, headed home, later that day?”

“We're assuming Ben Middleton's version of the events is true,” Mal offered. “Maybe it wasn't Tiffany who insisted they head home. Maybe it was Ben.”

“I don't think so,” I told the group. “I had a strong sense that Middleton was telling us the truth, and Tiffany's mother verified the fact that her daughter sometimes had episodes where she would get moody, withdrawn, and spooked. That fits with what Ben described.”

“You talked to Tiffany's mother?” Frank said.

“I did. Clay was good enough to arrange a visit to their house earlier today, and I met the rest of the family, as well. But the only one I discussed the case with was Tiffany's mother, Kelly. She made it clear that Tiffany was a troubled young woman long before she met Middleton. And according to Middleton, Tiffany had been acting distant and withdrawn for months. She started sleeping in the guest room, she dropped the volunteer work she was doing at the animal shelter, and she didn't go out much.”

“Maybe that was because she was having an affair,” Holly suggested.

“Perhaps,” I said, thinking. “Maybe we should try to talk to some of the folks at the animal shelter and see if Tiffany ever mentioned anything along those lines.”

Sonja West perked up at that. “As luck would have it, a woman who volunteers at that same shelter is a regular client of mine. I know she worked with Tiffany, because she talked about her all the time back when the murder first happened. She comes in every other Monday for a mani-pedi, and she's scheduled to come in tomorrow morning. I'll talk to her and see what she knows.”

“That would be great,” I said, once again amazed by and grateful for the diversity of this group. “One other thing I learned from Ben Middleton is that his father-in-law hired a private eye to dig up some info on him and tail him for several weeks.” I looked over at Tyrese and Nick, both of whom had remained silent, listening. “Tyrese, Nick, any chance you guys would know who this was? Ben said he was quite distinctive looking—six-six, with a ruddy, pockmarked complexion and a large beaky nose.”

“Doesn't ring a bell with me,” Tyrese said. He grabbed a napkin, took a pen from his pocket, and scribbled down some notes.

Nick, his brow furrowed, said, “It sounds vaguely familiar to me, but I can't pull it out at the moment. Give me some time to think on it, and I'll ask around among some of the other guys, too.”

“Thanks, guys,” I said.

Nick beamed a smile back at me. “My pleasure,” he said.

This generated a grunt from Tyrese, which I took to be his tired form of agreement.

I was about to switch the topic of conversation to Tiffany's morbidly dark artwork when someone new entered the room and everyone's attention shifted.

“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa Claus bellowed from the doorway.

I looked over and smiled. The costume was perfect, with an authentic-looking wig, the red suit and black boots, an appropriately rounded belly, red, rosy cheeks, and sparkling brown eyes, which I recognized. Of course, I had the advantage of knowing ahead of time who Santa really was, but even so, it was hard to tell it was Duncan. He was carrying a big sack slung over one shoulder, and after entering the room, he set it down on the floor. Then he stood back, hands on his belly, and let out another string of ho-ho-hos, followed by a hearty “Merry Christmas!” His voice was well disguised, but even so, I experienced the rich chocolate taste that always came to me when I heard him speak. And I began to wonder if he had some theater background of his own, because the way he modulated and projected his voice hinted at some stage experience.

I watched with amusement as he unloaded a bunch of bottles of liquor, stuff I had agreed to donate to the cause. That was what Billy, Mal, and I had done in my office earlier, made a list of the drinks favored by everyone in the group. There was something for each person there: chardonnay for Cora, Kahlúa for Holly, gin for Carter, rum for Alicia, scotch for Tad, whiskey for Sam, vodka for Clay and Mal, brandy for Tyrese, and a six-pack each of assorted microbrewery beers for Joe and Frank. For the newcomers, I had to hope that what I had seen them drink so far was a favorite, and judging from the appreciative and somewhat surprised looks on their faces, I thought I got it right. Stephen McGregor got brandy, and Sonja West got a bottle of Amaretto.

I watched the group closely as Santa handed around the gifts. If anyone recognized that Santa was Duncan, they didn't let on. Since I hadn't known for sure who would be present, there were gifts for others in the group who weren't there at the moment: Tiny, whose work schedule had made him scarce lately; Dr. T; Tad; Kevin Baldwin; and Greg Nash, our Realtor newcomer. Duncan, aka Santa, set those gifts aside as he handed out the goodies. Then he tossed the extras back into the sack, wished everyone a happy holiday season, and left.

This was Mal's cue. With a mighty stretch and a faked yawn, he rose to his feet and said, “I'm wiped, so I think I better head home.”

I rose, too—it would seem odd if I didn't escort him out of the room—and told the others I was going to call it a night, as well. Amid a chorus of good wishes, thank-yous, and good nights, we exited the Capone Club room and headed downstairs.

When we reached the main floor, we headed for the back hallway, down which was the door to my apartment. Anyone watching would assume we were headed upstairs, but also down that hallway were the bathrooms. When we were outside the men's room door, we did a quick check of the hallway to make sure no one saw us, and Mal ducked inside. I then went on to my apartment entrance and unlocked the door. With that done, I turned and hobbled back to the bar, where I made small talk with Billy and Teddy for several interminably long minutes.

Finally, I felt my cue—the vibration of my cell phone in my pants pocket, letting me know I had a text. I checked the message to make sure it was the one I was waiting for, and when I saw that it was, I excused myself and headed toward my apartment. Just as I reached the hallway, Santa emerged and hollered out, “Merry Christmas, everyone!” as he made his way to the front door. His exit was marked by a chorus of return greetings from the patrons and a series of toasts. Moments later Santa had left the building.

I crutched my way down the hall, and when I was outside of the men's bathroom, I looked to make sure no one was nearby. Then I knocked on the door three times. It whipped open so fast, it startled me, nearly making me lose my balance. Duncan dashed out, headed for my apartment door, and disappeared inside my apartment in a matter of seconds, leaving me behind in his dust.

We had managed the switch unnoticed, and as I headed for my apartment, I was feeling both happy and just a little bit smug. When I opened my apartment door and stepped into the small foyer, Duncan was waiting there. After I locked the door to ensure no surprise visits, he bent down and kissed me on the lips.

“I've missed you, Mack Dalton,” he said in a low, husky voice that made me taste peppery chocolate.

“I saw you a little while ago,” I said just before he kissed me again, longer this time.

“Not the same,” he muttered against my lips.

We were both breathless when we finally parted, but Duncan clearly had some stamina left in him, because he swooped me off my feet and carried me up the stairs, one crutch jammed between me and his chest, the other banging on the stairs as he climbed them. I dropped the banging crutch as soon as we reached the top; the other one ended up in the bedroom with us.

And for the next hour or so, all my worries were cast aside.

* * *

Sometime later we were seated at my small kitchen table, eating cold chicken, cheese, and fruit, accompanied by a nice dry pinot. Duncan looked more relaxed and happy than I'd seen him in a long time. I was feeling pretty good myself, until he raised the topic that haunted me most.

“So where is this latest letter?”

I made a face, showing my disappointment.

“What? Did something happen to it?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It's not that. It's just that I was feeling so good about life . . . relaxed, happy, and content. And then you reminded me of my sword of Damocles.”

“Sorry,” he said, biting into a chunk of Gouda. “But I'm glad to know I left you feeling good for a little while at least.” He flashed a wicked smile and winked at me.

“You left me feeling great,” I said in a low, appreciative tone. “I guess I'm just disappointed that I couldn't bask in that glow a little longer.”

“I can bring the glow back later if you like.” As he said this, his eyes were dark as coals, like the entrance to a bottomless abyss, one I was more than willing to throw myself into.

“I
would
like,” I said. Then, with a sigh, I got up from the table and headed into my father's office to fetch the letter and its contents.

“Here you go,” I said when I returned, setting the letter, the aster, the weeping willow leaf, and the envelope on the table. All of them were inside the plastic Baggies we'd put them in earlier.

Duncan picked up the letter and read it through the Baggie, munching on some grapes as he did so. He frowned a little, scowled at one point, and then set the letter down.

Desperate to bring a little light into this cave of depression, I said, “Cora did some research on the recipients of the packages the letter writer sent, looking for any commonalities. She found one, though it might be a bit of a stretch. All the recipients have some connection to the university. Two of them are students, the art store guy carries books and supplies for many of the university art classes, and the spice shop lady sells her wares to several of the dorms and eateries on campus.”

Duncan cocked his head to one side, looking contemplative. “Is that all she found?”

“So far, yes. But I was thinking about it earlier, and it might be a reasonable lead. Whoever delivered those packages had to have access to information about each of the recipients, things like addresses and schedules. And in the case of the art store and the spice shop, access to invoices would have supplied the necessary information. What if the letter writer is someone who works in a billing or financial capacity at the university? They would have access to financial records of the students, which I think would also give them access to their schedules and home addresses, maybe even their work history. And they would also know all the vendors that deal with the school on a regular basis.”

Duncan considered this, and his expression lightened. “That's not a bad wrinkle,” he said. “Definitely worth looking into. It will be interesting to see if your visit to the cemetery tomorrow turns up anything related to the university.”

The reminder of tomorrow's agenda once again darkened my mood. A surge of anger swept through me, making me shudder. “When I get my hands on this damned letter writer, I'm going to . . . to . . . Argh!”

Duncan chuckled—not the reaction I was expecting.

I gave him a curious look.

“Sorry,” he said, swallowing whatever was in his mouth and taking a swig of wine to wash it down. “It's just that I love your spunk, your spirit. You have this fiery personality to go with your fiery hair.”

“That's such a stereotype,” I chastised.

“Most stereotypes exist because they have some basis in truth. Perhaps the genetic code for red hair is linked somehow to certain personality traits.”

I opened my mouth to object, but he continued before I could get a word out.

“Or perhaps the way people treat those with red hair spurs those personality traits. Nurture or nature?” he said, his eyebrows raised, a smile on his face. He popped a grape in his mouth before he added, “Which do you think it is?”

“Neither,” I said. “I think the whole stereotype is born out of a metaphor . . . red hair . . . fiery.”

Duncan conceded the battle. “Fair enough. Let's switch topics. How did your visit with Ben Middleton go?”

Over the next hour I filled him in on the progress we'd made, some of the scenarios we'd tossed around, and where we were going next. He tried to poke holes in some of the theories I shared with him, but in the end he agreed Ben Middleton might be innocent. He admitted as much with a frown.

“Why do I sense that the prospect doesn't make you happy?” I asked him.

“Don't get me wrong,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “If the man is truly innocent, I'm all in favor of proving it and seeing that he goes free. But . . .”

I waited for him to finish, but all he did was deepen his frown.

“But it's not going to make me any friends down at the police station,” I said, filling in words for him. “Is that what you're thinking?”

He nodded grimly. “Or with the DA's office. It won't make either of them look good if you discover they arrested and convicted an innocent man. The police in this country are under so much scrutiny these days as it is. Something like this is only going to reinforce the negative attitudes that seem so prevalent of late. It might have been better if you'd stuck to cold cases that haven't been solved yet. Figuring those out still makes the police look a tad incompetent, but not as bad as something like this will.”

I knew he was right, but it didn't change my conviction to pursue the case, and I said so. “However,” I noted, “maybe there's a way to do some damage control.”

“How so?”

“If we can prove Ben Middleton is innocent, what if I go to the DA and your superiors, present them with the exonerating evidence, and then let them take the credit for looking into it? I'm more than willing to stay out of the limelight and let someone else have the glory.”

Duncan shook his head and gave me a wistful look. “You're living in a fairy-tale land where morals and ethics rule, and good always wins out over evil. But that's naive thinking. There are a lot of politics involved here, and there are some folks who would rather see an innocent man rot in jail than risk their own reputation getting a smudge.”

“That's horrible!”

“Perhaps, but that doesn't mean it isn't true.”

His negativism irritated me. “Are you suggesting I let the case drop?”

“Not at all. I'm proud of you and what you're doing, Mack. But I'm also worried about you, about how you're going to hold up under all the fallout, and about how you'll deal with the inevitable disappointments and criticisms. There's bound to be some backlash, and I'm worried about how it might affect you.”

“You should also worry about how it's going to affect you,” I said. “You should probably distance yourself from me as much as possible.”

“I can handle the flack,” he said dismissively. “Don't worry about me. Besides, if you promise not to tell anyone where you heard it from, I'll tell you a little secret.”

I was intrigued, and he knew it. I pantomimed locking my lips and tossing an imaginary key over my shoulder. Then I waited for what seemed like forever.

“The chief had a little chat with me about you,” he said. “He's intrigued by what you've done, both with me and on your own, and he's interested in learning more about you. But that's his private view. Publicly, he needs to kowtow to the existing mayor and the DA to some extent, particularly since the mayor is up for reelection and reducing the crime rate is high on his political agenda. The chief is hoping to bring the mayor around at some point, but it's going to take some time, since they're still cleaning the egg off their faces from your past exploits.”

I shook my head, dismayed. “This political crap is so annoying. Why can't people just say what they mean and be forthright and responsible? If you screw up, say so and apologize. All this media manipulation and the attempts to divert attention and shrug off the blame just make the public more suspicious. A little more honesty would be so refreshing.”

“Honesty among politicians?” Duncan said, looking askance. “Surely you jest.”

I sighed and blinked hard. “All this politicking talk is making me dizzy,” I said, setting down my wineglass. “Or maybe it's the wine.”

“Or maybe it's my awesome presence,” Duncan said, only half sarcastic. “What do you say I take your mind off it all for a while?”

That made me smile, and without another word, I got up from my chair, grabbed my crutches, and headed for my bedroom. Duncan followed, and for the next several hours I was blissfully oblivious to the outside world and all the potential dangers, headaches, and pitfalls lurking within.