The Perfect Suspect (5 page)

The elevator opened into the first floor lobby of gleaming tile floors and white walls that stretched toward a wall of windows. The morning crowd hurried past on the street outside. She jammed her badge into the slot next to the elevators across the lobby. The newspaper's business and legal offices spread over two upper floors, but the heart of the paper—the newsroom—was on the fifth floor beyond the small lobby where the stone-faced receptionist with tightly pulled back hair sat behind a desk and defied anyone to pass without permission. Six months ago, the paper had decamped across downtown from the old brick building it had occupied for fifty years. The shrinking financial statements, loss of classifieds and other ads, consolidation of departments and layoffs had all contributed to the move. Ironic, she thought, that as the paper got smaller, it had moved into a building appropriate for an expanding enterprise.

“Is it true? David Mathews murdered?” The receptionist wheeled her chair sideways and knocked a pen against the edge of the desk, like a conductor tapping the rostrum to bring the orchestra to attention.

“Looks like it,” Catherine said, trying for a smile that said, “Sorry, no time to chat.” She darted past the desk, inserted her badge into the security slot and hurried through the opening door into the newsroom. A wide corridor ran around the rows of glass-enclosed cubicles where reporters jammed phones into their necks and hunched over computer screens that glowed and jumped with black text. The sounds of ticking computer keys and subdued conversations buzzed like an electrical current. She knocked on the glass door with the sign that read Marjorie Fennerman, Managing Editor, before stepping into an office twice the size of the cubicles. Marjorie sat behind the desk, head tipped toward a phone with the speaker turned on. “Damn TV and bloggers.” A man's voice, crackling and distant, erupted into the office. “They're ahead of us on this story, Marjorie. I don't like it. They're reporting that Mathews's wife identified his body. What the hell are your people doing?”

Behind Marjorie, pictures flashed across a small, muted TV, and Catherine caught a glimpse of the scene she had just left: David Mathews's house, the crowd of reporters and gawkers standing around, the gurney with the lumpy gray bag bumping out the door and down the sidewalk. Then Detective Ryan Beckman in the doorway.

“We're on it, B.J.,” Marjorie said, and Catherine brought her attention back to the large woman with white, fleshy arms below the short sleeves of her red blouse, a mass of brown curls that radiated from her head and thick brown eyebrows that merged when she frowned. She had a desperate look about her, as if she might spring across the desk and pummel the phone. Bernard James Marshall had been the
Journal
publisher for a quarter of a century. With a scratch of a pen, he had let a dozen beat reporters, assistants and trainees go. He had closed departments, consolidated others. He could close down the newspaper. The atmosphere was always awkward and tense whenever B.J. inserted himself into the daily routine, as if he might be on the brink of stopping everything. “As soon as we have confirmation,” Marjorie said, “we'll post the story on the website and in the blogs. I don't want to run prematurely with this, then find out the TV reporters got it wrong and some other guy was shot in Mathews's house. We have a reputation for checking facts and running accurate stories. We're not a bunch of self-appointed bloggers.”

“Just get the damn story!”

“As I said, we're—” Marjorie stopped. The disconnect signal droned from the speaker. She pushed the off button and swiveled herself square to the desk. “You have the confirmation, I hope,” she said.

Catherine told her that Jason had gone to police headquarters for a press briefing taking place in thirty minutes, and watched Marjorie study her wrist watch as if she could hurry the hands around. “From the way Sydney Mathews reacted at the house, I'm pretty sure she was convinced the dead man was her husband. The bloggers are going with that.”

Marjorie continued to study the watch. “How the hell did the TV reporters know about the wife identifying the body? They've got to have somebody inside the coroner's office. It's going to be at least thirty or forty minutes before Jason can post the confirmation.” She looked up. “I want a piece on your side, shock at campaign headquarters, reaction from party officials, that kind of thing. Scene at the house, anything else to flesh out the story.” She gave a little wave of dismissal.

Catherine went back into the newsroom, ignoring the heads that swung toward her, the eyes that lasered into her, and the cacophony of questions that followed her down the corridor. “So what's the story?” “Mathews murdered?” “What happened?” She stopped outside her cubicle and looked back at what was a comical scene, really: reporters perched on the edge of chairs they had wheeled into the corridor, watching her with the look of a hungry pack of dogs. “It looks like Mathews was killed,” she said, “but we're still waiting for the official ID.” That seemed to satisfy them, because they began rolling back into the cubicles.

She took her own chair, turned on the computer and pulled her cell from her bag before stashing the bag in the bottom drawer. There was a new text from Nick that gave her a little jolt of pleasure and, for an instant, pushed away the somber reality that the man destined to be the next governor had been shot to death. “Afternoon flight. Dinner 2 nite? Gaetano's. 7:00 p.m.”

She texted back one word: “Great.” She would have something to look forward to all day, something relaxing and exciting at the same time, which was how her relationship with Nick had been from the beginning: solid, yet shifting and surprising, as if they were still taking each other's measure, not quite sure, but wanting to be, she thought. At least it was true on her part. She set the phone on the far side of the desk, out of sight. Gaetano's, 7 p.m. She didn't want any other texts that might mean a cancellation, a change in plans, the end of something that was just beginning.

She brought up the file with the articles on David Mathews that she had written over the last six months and began glancing through them, starting with the announcement of his candidacy last January. A bitter cold day on the steps of the state capitol—the people's house, where candidates traditionally made their announcements—snow piled on the ground and crusting the branches of the trees in Civic Center, and the freezing wind whipping her coat about her legs and working its way into her bones. She had waited with the TV and radio reporters, the bloggers, campaign volunteers, supporters and a few homeless men who had wandered over. Finally David Mathews had emerged through the double bronze doors and lifted both arms in a victory pose, as if he had already won the governorship. The crowd had gone wild.

“Thank you, everyone!” The man's voice had burst through the brisk air. “It's great to see all of you.” He paused, as if to give the sincerity time to find its mark in the hopeful, upturned faces. “What do we want?” he shouted. A forest of red signs with white lettering grew from knots of supporters clustered in the front. The chanting began, encouraged by the sign holders who waved the signs overhead and pumped fists in the air. “Take back our state! Take back our state!”

Mathews had let the chant subside to a low, intermittent roar before he said, “The great state of Colorado has been in the hands of special interests long enough. Unions, federal regulators, oil and gas companies. I say enough! We must take it back. That's what I intend to do as the next governor of Colorado.”

The crowd had shouted and screamed, Catherine remembered, a single, enormous animal crouching around her, energy focused on the handsome, silver-haired man standing on the top step, framed by the granite and bronze of the people's house. “Together!” he shouted. “Together! We will reclaim our heritage. We are Westerners. We are independent. We are self-sufficient. We will take care of our own business.” The animal roared and rocked to the words. “I'm a businessman,” he went on. “I know how successful businesses work. I promise you that this state will be run like an efficient business. We will welcome new businesses in Colorado. Come to Colorado, we'll say. We understand what businesses need to profit and benefit the community. Count on me to provide the services and education our people need and expect. Can I count on you?”

The animal burst into cheers, then coalesced into another chant. “Count on us! Count on us!”

Catherine remembered writing furiously in her notepad, recording everything, even her own impressions. The event had been as organized and choreographed as a Broadway show at the Buell Theater a mile away. Plants in the crowd—all those signs and cheerleaders hadn't just shown up. David Mathews intended to go all the way to the governor's office upstairs from where he stood, waving his arms, smiling, glowing with the anticipation of success.

The story was half written in her head by the time Catherine had walked back to the Journal and settled in front of her computer. She filled in the background material she had gathered before the announcement. It was those background notes that she reviewed now: “Mathews is the president and CEO of Mathews Properties, formerly Mathews and Kane Properties, one of Denver's largest development firms. Founded in 2000, the firm has developed large properties throughout the Denver Metro area, including Landmark Homes, the Silverstone Condominiums, and the Orangewood shopping malls in Lakewood, Glendale and Leaning Tree. Last year, Broderick Kane had accused Mathews of fraud and demanded an investigation. The police turned the matter over to the district attorney's office, but Kane withdrew his complaint. The matter was settled amicably with Mathews purchasing his partner's interests and becoming the sole owner of the company. Sources close to the transaction said that Mathews paid close to five million dollars.”

The notes had touched on other aspects of the man's life. How Mathews had moved to Denver in the late nineties from Chicago, leaving behind a decade-long career in real estate. “When you're a skier, you want to be close to the mountains,” he said. “I can do business anywhere.” How Mathews and his wife, Sydney, were active in social events and known for their philanthropic support of the arts in Denver.

Catherine read down the columns of text in the next articles. There had been no challenges to Mathews's candidacy from the party. At the convention in the spring, he had walked away with the nomination amid the party's glee at having found the perfect, silver-haired candidate, handsome, successful, admirable, with excellent name recognition. A few weeks later, he had chosen his running mate for lieutenant governor, a political hack the Republican party owed a favor to named Easton Sherer. David Mathews could have run with a salamander, and nobody would have cared. Even though Mathews was the only candidate, state law required a primary election. Mathews had set a record for the largest number of votes in a primary.

A message appeared on the screen: a new posting on the
Journal
's website. Catherine clicked on the site. At the top was the byline of Jason Metcalf. “David Mathews, Republican candidate for governor, was found shot to death early this morning in his home in the Cherry Creek area. According to a Denver police spokesperson, Mathews sustained two gunshot wounds in the chest and one in the thigh. The chest wounds were fatal. His body was found at 5:00 a.m. on his living room floor by his housekeeper. Police are asking anyone who may have seen anything unusual in the vicinity last night to come forward.”

Catherine opened a new window and began typing out her part of the story, recapitulating some of the background details, pasting other details from previous articles. Then she picked up the phone and called Mathews's campaign headquarters. The buzzing sound of a phone ringing on the ground floor of one of Mathews's buildings on Colorado Boulevard went on and on. No answer, not even voice mail. She called party headquarters. “Colorado Republican Party.” A man had picked up after the first ring.

“Catherine McLeod of the
Journal
,” she said.

“We have no comment, except that the death of an outstanding and talented man like Dave Mathews is a terrible calamity for the people of this state.”

“And you are . . .”

“A spokesperson at party headquarters.”

“What comes next?”

“How could we have any plans at this point?” There would be a statement later, he said, and hung up.

Catherine added the comments and sent the article to Marjorie. Nothing new, nothing substantial, but it was something to run alongside Jason's post.

She pulled her bag out of the drawer and got to her feet just as the phone rang. It would start now, she thought. All the people shocked and upset by the news, the sign wavers on the capitol steps last January, the volunteers who filled the campaign headquarters every time she had gone there, would start calling, wanting to talk about David Mathews's murder, hoping to tease out something behind the news that a reporter might know. She lifted the receiver. “Catherine McLeod,” she said.

The line was quiet. For an instant, she thought no one was on the other end. Finally a woman's voice, little more than a whisper, floated toward her. Catherine had to press the phone tight against her ear and plug a finger into her other ear to block out the background noise.

“I know the killer.”

“Who is this,” Catherine said.

“It doesn't matter. I was there.”

“Are we talking about David Mathews?”

There was no answer.

“You were at his house when he was killed?”

“I'm telling you I saw the killer.”

“Have you gone to the police?” My God, a witness. Someone else had been at the house besides Mathews and the killer.