The Mirror and the Mask (27 page)

“Because he's a brutal bastard, that's why. I suspect he found out about Susan and me. If so, he would have wanted to make her pay.”

“By murdering her?”

“Maybe he didn't intend for her to die, but a few broken bones would have been fine with him.”

“But let's consider another possibility,” said Sterling. “Let's say you were terrified by what Susan was proposing. We know that you
talked to her Wednesday afternoon. We have her phone records. We also have a text message from you telling Susan—”

Kristjan erupted out of his chair. “I know all about that. It's bullshit. I was advising her about the sale of a house.”

“Sit down, Mr. Robbe,” said Ramos.

“This is ridiculous. You think I murdered Susan?”

Neither cop responded until Kristjan took his seat.

“Now,” said Ramos, “let's think about this. You already stated you knew Susan was planning to murder her husband. It's no stretch, based on what you've just told us, to say you were hyperconcerned that Susan might go through with her plans over your objections. Let's say you were terrified that she wouldn't pull it off successfully, and that the resulting investigation would uncover your affair and ultimately implicate you in the murder. Does any of this sound plausible to you, Mr. Robbe?”

“You have no proof of any of that.”

Sterling shifted in his chair. “We believe that whoever murdered Susan Bowman did it without premeditation. It was an impulse.”

“It was Jack,” insisted Kristjan.

“Jack, or someone in her family. Or your wife. Or you, Mr. Robbe.”

“I didn't murder her. Neither did my wife.”

Ramos was a man full of patience. “Susan sustained a number of severe injuries. You've undoubtedly already heard that her shoulder was fractured. She had multiple contusions. The lacerations on her head and body were mostly from glass fragments. When she fell, she was holding a crystal vase filled with cut flowers. Our preliminary investigation suggested that some of the injuries were inconsistent with a fall down the stairs. We now know that what killed Mrs. Bowman—what propelled her down those stairs—was a severe blow to the side of the head. Head wounds bleed profusely. None of the other injuries she sustained would likely have been fatal. But, as I said, the head injury was the clincher. Her skull was crushed. She bled out
fairly quickly.” He paused, watched Kristjan for his reaction. “Next to the stairs is a metal and glass table, Mr. Robbe. On the table is a bronze sculpture—a nude woman. It's not large, but it's heavy. It sits on top of a block of weathered wood. A sprue in the foot anchors the bronze to the wood base. It slips in and out quite easily. Are you familiar with the one I'm talking about?”

“Of course I'm familiar with it. I was with her when she bought it.”

“Really. Well, that was the murder weapon. It was there for the taking, selected, most likely, in the heat of the moment. We know it was the weapon because we found trace evidence—microscopic amounts of blood, skin, hair—embedded in the bronze. Our murderer had the presence of mind to wash it before putting it back, but, lucky for us, he missed a spot.”

Kristjan felt suddenly light-headed.

“We need your cooperation, Mr. Robbe,” said Ramos. “If you didn't murder Mrs. Bowman—”

“I didn't,” said Kristjan, his fist hitting the table so hard it made the cans of Pepsi jump. He'd forgotten all about his.

“That's good to hear. We'd like to get your fingerprints today. And we'd like to schedule a polygraph test for sometime tomorrow.”

“No way,” said Kristjan, sliding back from the table. “This is getting way too crazy for me. In fact, I'm not saying another word until I talk to a lawyer.”

Sterling grunted. “So much for cooperation.” He closed his file folder, picked up both pop cans, and left the room.

“I do understand,” said Ramos. “Even if Sterling doesn't. You should talk to a lawyer.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, by the way, we were able to pull another piece of evidence off the sculpture. Whoever washed it had to be in the middle of an adrenaline rush. Speeding through something like that can be risky.”

“What was the evidence?”

“A fingerprint. About as clear a print as I've ever seen.” He mimicked drinking from a soda can, then smiled. “Thanks again for coming in, Mr. Robbe. You and your wife have been a big help today.”

 

 

 

S
hortly after three, Cordelia pulled her Volvo up behind a mound of dirty snow in the Lyme House parking lot and stared down her nose at Jane. “Call her
again
.”

“I've already called her three times and left two messages,” said Jane, frustrated not just because Cordelia was issuing commands, but also because she was afraid Annie might be in real danger, and this time not from Jack. All the way home from Stillwater, she'd been trying to think through the possibilities.

“Work with me here for just another minute. Let's say Aunt Grace was right and Curt did attack Susan after his dad died. We have to keep in mind that he was much younger then, a teenager. And that he received psychological help and has, one would assume, been fine ever since. He's in med school. That should mean something. Therefore, it doesn't necessarily follow that Annie's in any danger, or that he was the one who pushed Susan down the stairs.”

“Therefore. Forthwith,” said Cordelia. “Use the original Latin for all I care.
Non compos mentis
. All I can say is,
res ipsa loquitur
.”

“I didn't know you spoke Latin.”

“
Ignorantia juris neminem excusat
.”

“Pardon me?”

“Ignorance of my genius is no excuse.”

“What was the second thing you quoted?”

“
Res ipsa loquitur
? It means the thing speaks for itself. And it does. If Curt was capable of murder
then
, he's capable of it now.” She added, under her breath, “Maybe that's what happened to Sunny.”

“What?”

“All I'm saying is, Sunny had to know he'd tried to off his mom when they were kids. It's possible she guessed what happened and challenged him about it. Humans are instinctively feral when it comes to protecting their own skins.”

“Are you saying that he kidnapped Sunny?”

“Kidnapped smidnapped. I'm saying he got rid of her before she could spill what she knew to the police. He murdered once out of rage. The first time's the hard one. I'm not saying that taking his sister out was easy, but to save himself from rotting in prison for the rest of his life, he might have convinced himself it was necessary.”

Jane gazed out the window at the ice covering Lake Harriet. “Annie was so sure Jack did it. She said that when he found out Susan was cheating on him, he must have lost it.”

“At this point, it's all conjecture. But I'd put my money on Curt. Call the police. Tell them what Aunt Grace, the family dypso, had to say.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, lord.”

“What?”

“I was supposed to be at the theater an hour ago.”

“Then you better shove off,” said Jane, unhooking her seat belt. “What are you going to do?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“Well, if you need me, or my laserlike intelligence, you know where to find me.”

 

Jane spent the next half hour drinking too much coffee and worrying about Annie. Attempting to OD on caffeine wasn't one of her smarter ideas. She sat for a while at her desk, tapping a pencil against the coffee mug, thinking through the entire situation. She finally phoned Nolan.

“I need your advice and your help.”

“Annie Archer again?”

“Afraid so.” She explained what she'd just learned from Aunt Grace, and then she asked a favor. They discussed it for a few minutes, Jane making her case. He eventually agreed to help, but in return he insisted that she call the Stillwater PD and tell them what she knew. As soon as they said good-bye, she tapped in the number for directory assistance. She eventually reached a homicide detective named Sterling. She related Aunt Grace's story, and he said he appreciated the tip and would follow up on it.

But it wasn't enough. Jane dug out the white pages and looked up Curt's phone number. Thankfully, there was only one Curt Llewelyn in the Twin Cities. From the address, she figured he lived near the university. She picked up the phone to call him, then slid the receiver back into its cradle. By now he probably knew all about her. He'd never answer the phone if her name or “Lyme House” came up on his caller ID. That left only one option.

Pulling on her peacoat, Jane raced out to her car. Her leg felt much stronger. Maybe it was nervous energy, or excess caffeine. Whatever the case, she was glad for the respite from the pain.

As the digital clock in her Mini Cooper hit four, Jane found a parking space near the condo complex. She ran the half block to the front doors, tension building up inside her like steam in a pressure
cooker. If Curt refused to answer his door, she'd break it down. But when she entered the lobby and saw the security system, she knew her Sam Spade approach wasn't going to get her anywhere.

Standing next to a wall of mailboxes, she looked through the list of names until she found Llewelyn. Next to it was a code number. She tapped it into the security phone and waited.

Curt answered before the end of the first ring. “Llewelyn.”

“I need to speak to Annie.” She didn't identify herself. Surprisingly, he didn't ask.

“She's not here. She left a little while ago.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“Sorry. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Do you have any idea when she'll be back?”

“By seven.”

He didn't sound angry. If anything, he sounded nice, as if he was trying to be helpful. She had no way of knowing if he was telling the truth and no way to get into his unit to find out. Feeling thwarted, she thanked him and hung up. Maybe Annie
had
left. If so, she might be on the way to her house right now. She might even be there.

Bolting for the door, Jane raced back to her car.

 

Annie rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and turned to look at the clock above the desk. It read five twenty.

“Jesus H—” she said under her breath. Curt was undoubtedly passed out on the living room couch. As far as she was concerned, this was it. There was no way she could go see Jane and be back in time to make dinner with him at seven.

“Dooley, stop that,” she said, annoyed that he was scratching at the door. It occurred to her that she'd forgotten to take him outside when she got back from the funeral. “Come on, baby, you're going to wear a hole in the wood.”

She was glad she'd changed into her army sweater and jeans before
lying down. It would make leaving—for good—that much faster. She flipped the lock back and pulled the door open. The hallway was dark. Dooley made straight for the bathroom door, digging to get in.

“What's with you, baby?” She switched on the overhead light. “Curt?” she called, knocking softly. He liked to drink and soak in the bathtub, said it helped him relax. “You were supposed to wake me, remember?” She knocked harder.

When he didn't respond, she tried the handle and found that it was unlocked. She pushed inside. Dozens of tiny votive candles were lit and scattered around the room. He'd set up a romantic scene, complete with champagne bottle and two champagne flutes. She needed to be somewhere and he was playing games.

“Forget it. I'm leaving.” All she could see of him were his feet.

Dooley sniffed along the edge of the tub, whining.

“Good-bye,” she shouted. That's when she noticed that the water looked wrong, darker than it should be.

“Curt?” she said a bit more hesitantly this time. She inched closer, saw that his eyes were closed. “Come on, don't play games.” He was unnaturally still. She plunged her hand into the water, pulled out his arm, saw the bleeding gash. “Curt, wake up.” She shook his shoulders, felt along his neck for a pulse.

“You crazy idiot,” she cried.

Bolting from the room, she flipped on the light in the kitchen and lunged for the phone. She hit 911. As soon as she heard a voice on the other end, she started screaming. “He's cut his wrists. We need an ambulance right away.”

 

Ten minutes later the EMTs were wheeling Curt out on a stretcher. “Can I come with you?” she asked.

“It would be better if you drove your own car,” called one of the the paramedics as they rushed down the hall toward the elevator.

“Where are you taking him?”

“It's all on the paperwork you signed. HCMC. Just a few blocks away.” They disappeared into the elevator.

Annie felt a cold deep in her bones. She raced around the condo, turning on lights, finding her car keys, making sure she had her pocketbook, all the while dithering about Dooley. Should she take him with her or leave him? She wasn't sure how long she'd be at the hospital. Curt was in bad shape. She might want to stay the night. There was no time to think. She'd make sure Dooley was snuggled into her sleeping bag before she left him in her car. His fur was long. He'd be okay.