The Perfect Suspect (28 page)

“All very touching,” Wendell said. “I believe Catherine McLeod said she has information for you.”

The house went quiet. Catherine felt them both watching her, assessing her. Even Sydney, probably wondering if the
Journal
reporter had found a ruse to get inside the house, get her to talking. “There is someone,” she began, “who has sworn he saw your husband with a woman last June in Aspen. They were in the bar at the Hotel Jerome, and it looked like more than a friendly meeting.”

Sydney closed her eyes and started shaking her head. “This is the earthshaking information you have for me? A confirmation of the rumors? Please!” Her eyes burst open. “How is this supposed to help me?”

“The man who saw them together has identified the woman.” Sydney was still shaking her head, and Catherine held up her hand. “There's more,” she said. Then she explained about the woman on the sidewalk and the anonymous call. “The caller said that she saw the same woman on the porch at the Denver house just after she heard the gunshots.”

“A woman?” Sydney said. “Oh, my God. Don't tell me I'm the one they claim they saw. I was never in Aspen with David.”

“They've identified Detective Beckman,” Catherine said.

“What!” Wendell propelled himself over to his sister and took hold of her shoulders, as if he wanted to hold her up, but Catherine suspected he was the one who needed support. “You're telling us that the detective who has all but convicted my sister of murder, the detective is the killer? Why wasn't our lawyer informed? What the hell is going on? My sister is being railroaded. The police are protecting their own detective.”

“Internal Affairs was informed this morning. They have a statement from the witness in Aspen, and investigators are on their way there now to question him further. There is always the chance he is either lying or mistaken.” She didn't believe it; Lucky Jameson told the truth, she was certain. It only remained for the investigators to reach the same conclusion. “The witness who saw Beckman at the house hasn't come forward. She . . .”

“So, a woman was on her way to meet David.” Sydney's tone was low, almost accepting of something inevitable. “That explains why he didn't want me to come to the house. So much dull reading to wade through. He'd be asleep before I got there. No, no. We'll start over at breakfast.” She dropped her face into her hands and started sobbing.

Wendell patted at her shoulders, a helpless look about him, as if he were searching for the logical and comforting platitudes that would set matters right, but the words eluded him. Finally he tossed his head back and stared at Catherine. “Outrageous!” he said. He gave his sister's shoulder a final pat and stepped in front of her, as if he could protect her. “The DA has withheld information. I'll have our lawyer—”

“The DA didn't have the information,” Catherine said. “Internal Affairs is checking on the witness in Aspen, and the woman who called hasn't been identified. I've been trying to send her a message, and I'm hoping she'll call back. But based on the witness in Aspen, I suspect another investigation will be launched.”

“You're damn right it will.” Wendell strode into the entry, brushing past Catherine and shouting over one shoulder, “I'm going to call Landon's office right now. He had better get to the bottom of this.” A door slammed in another part of the house, sending a little rush of air through the living room.

Catherine waited a moment while the woman slumped on the armrest ran her fingers over the moisture on her cheeks and pulled herself upright. “Thank you,” she said “Now I know how the murder weapon got into the desk drawer in David's study. Obviously someone had planted it, but I didn't know who. I never suspected a detective.”

“Detective Beckman came here?”

Sydney nodded. “Oh, yes. Hours after David's murder, she and her partner showed up. So solicitous, pretending shock over what had happened, assuring us that the investigation took top priority with the police department, that they wouldn't rest until the murderer was charged. And all the time, all the time . . .” She stopped, as if she might break down again, then seemed to summon a new strength. “They made sure I would be convicted.”

“How do you think she planted the gun?” Catherine said.

“It was very easy, now that I think about it. How stupid I was. ‘Did your husband have a computer?' Detective Beckman said. We were standing right here.” She swept one hand toward an Oriental rug. “‘May I see it?'” she said. ‘Certainly' I said. ‘Be my guest. Go on into the study without a warrant. Look around all you want' or some such idiotic thing. I gave her carte blanche to walk into the study and put the gun in a drawer. I did try to follow her, I remember, but her partner, Martin somebody, jumped in front of me, started asking questions to keep me here.”

“How long was Beckman alone in the study?”

“Long enough,” Sydney said.

“I'm sorry for what you've been through,” Catherine said. She started toward the entry, then turned back. “Would you have any idea of who the witness at the house might be?”

Sydney gave a little strangled laugh. “Since I spent most of our marriage in denial, I was hardly collecting names.”

Catherine thanked her and turned into the entry. “Check the escort agencies,” Sydney called behind her. “He liked to avoid serious entanglements. Whores are good for that.”

The newsroom felt like home, familiar faces looking up from the cubicles, Marjorie bent over the computer screen, Jason clamping a phone to his ear. Driving down the mountains, onto I-70 and into Denver, Catherine had replayed the conversation in her mind. What had she done? Violated confidences? Hardly. Lucky Jameson had sworn out a statement, and Nick had spoken with Internal Affairs this morning. Before the day was over, Beckman herself would most likely be the subject of a new investigation. Sydney's lawyer would have the indictment thrown out on evidence that the lead detective was involved with the victim. A detective with a motive to kill David Mathews, a man who had agreed to reconcile with his wife, a man who didn't like serious entanglements. A man who, even while reconciling, might call an escort service.

She had owed Sydney Mathews the truth, Catherine realized. Since the morning of the murder, the frightened, small voice on the telephone, she had known who the killer was, but she hadn't been able to do anything. She had watched an innocent woman being mowed down by the justice system. The caller might not call back, but at least Sydney Mathews knew the truth.

She ducked into her own cubicle, checked her voice mail. Nothing. Checked her e-mail. A lot of junk, but nothing important. She typed in “Escort Services Denver” and ran her eyes down the sites forming on the screen. Twenty-two pages of sites. This would take all day, she thought, and what was she supposed to say when she called a service? “Hello, I'd like to speak to the woman in front of David Mathews's house the night he was killed?”

The phone started ringing, startling her. Larry with another Beckman story he'd remembered, she thought, then she saw the words in the readout: Hotel Francaise. She lifted the receiver. “McLeod,” she said.

“I'm the one who called you.” The woman's voice was small and tentative, fear seeping through the words, and Catherine was aware of exhaling, as if her own pent-up fear and discouragement had been freed. God, the woman must have read the blog. “Why didn't you do something?”

“I don't understand,” Catherine said.

“You didn't run my story.”

“I don't know your name. I can't run an unattributed story.” She couldn't have run it if she'd had a raft of names, not without bringing libel and slander suits down on the
Journal
.

“It's terrible what they're doing to David's wife. I saw her on TV. I told you who was on David's porch right after I heard the gunshots.”

“Listen,” Catherine searched for the words, gripping the receiver so hard her fingers felt numb, trying to keep the caller on the line. “There is someone else who can connect Mathews and Beckman. You're not alone. The police will have to believe your story. I'll go with you to Internal Affairs.”

“Like hell I'm talking to them. Beckman will hang me out to dry, like she's done to Sydney. And Sydney has money and connections and a high-priced lawyer. None of it mattered. They still charged her. You think they're gonna believe me? They'll say I'm lying to protect my own skin, that I was the one that went to David's house and shot him. They'll never believe me. But they'd believe you if you put the story in the newspaper!” The woman's voice edged toward hysteria. “I thought you'd want justice. I guess I was wrong.”

“Wait a minute,” Catherine said. “Don't hang up.” The line was already dead.

Catherine hit the key for the receptionist's desk. “I was disconnected,” she said “Can you get the caller back.”

It took a moment before the buzzing noise began. Catherine tapped out a fast rhythm against the edge of the desk.

“Hotel Francaise.” Woman's voice, thick accent. “How may I direct your call?”

Catherine jotted down the name, a boutique hotel a few blocks away. “I was just speaking with one of your guests,” she said. “We were cut off somehow. Could you ring the room?”

“One moment, please.” There was a pause, then the buzzing noise of a ringing phone.

An automated voice came on the line: “I'm sorry, but your party is not available. You may leave a message at the beep.”

27

Kim Gregory sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the ringing phone on the table. White plastic, red light flashing, like a wild animal that might spring into action and sink its teeth into her flesh. She pressed her knuckles hard against her mouth. What had she been thinking? Calling the reporter from the hotel? Of course she would get the number and call back. And now Catherine McLeod knew where she was. The light stopped flashing. She waited a moment, then lifted the receiver and pressed the messages button. The automated voice said there was one message. She closed her eyes and listened to the voice of Catherine McLeod: “You are in danger. Beckman knows you've contacted me. She's sure to be looking for you. I can help you, but you have to trust me. I'm on my way over to the hotel now. Please, meet me in the lobby.”

Kim propelled herself off the bed, flung the terry cloth robe she'd been wearing into the corner and began pulling on the pair of jeans and pink blouse that had been on the floor. God. God. God. She had to get away from here. She slipped on her sandals, dragged the Louis Vuitton bag out of the closet and started stuffing in her things: blue satin ball gown, short, pink, silk dinner dress, white slacks and sleeveless black top with turquoise beads at the neck. She scooped the pieces of jewelry off the dresser into the bag, then went into the bathroom and shoved her cosmetics into a small bag. Mr. Arnold Winston expected her to look beautiful, coiffured and manicured in designer pieces—he paid the bills, and the clothes and jewelry were hers to keep, one of the perks of her job. There were others: five-star dinners, dancing, hobnobbing with VIPs, riding in limousines with chauffeurs shuffling and bowing, and all she had to do was smile and smile and keep her mouth shut, and spend the week with a bald, lonely man from Atlanta, in town for business meetings and the social events that went with them. He was pathetic in bed, drunk, sick, so tired most nights he fell asleep when his head hit the pillow. None of that mattered. At the end of the week, she was free, with a new Louis Vuitton bag filled with new clothes, a pearl necklace and seven thousand dollars in cash. Two thou for the agency, which would leave her with five. Except there wouldn't be any money this week.

You are in danger. Beckman knows . . .
McLeod's voice spun in her head. She should never have trusted her. Trust nobody, Mama had said. She coughed out a laugh at the memory, then jammed the cosmetic bag into the Vuitton, pressed her knee on top and jerked at the zipper. What was she? All of nine years old, she and Mama traipsing from one dusthole, windblown, nowhere town to another. God, they'd pretty much covered Arizona, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico by then, and Mama with her fourth or fifth husband. After a while all the whisky reeking, bowlegged cowboys had blended together. When she was sixteen, she had gotten out. Sayonara, Mama. Adios. She could take care of herself, and she'd done a fine job. South Beach, first. Then Denver. No missteps. Tread carefully, go with the best clientele, stay safe. Once in a while, even the best pulled a surprise. Big shot from Florida knocked her unconscious in the hotel room a year ago. The agency had banned him, and spread the word to the other agencies. No respectable escort service would do business with him. When she thought about it, and she tried not to think about it, she always felt a stab of pity for the girls on Colfax he was probably picking up when he came to town.