The Undertaker's Widow (4 page)

Lou Anthony went straight from the Hoyt estate to the Justice Center to dictate his initial report. The last section recounted the incident with Lamar Hoyt, Jr., whose behavior was partially explained by the alcohol he had been drinking and partially by his intense hatred of Ellen Crease.

Lamar Hoyt, Sr., had been sixty-two when he was murdered. He was a hard-nosed businessman who had turned his father's funeral parlors into a business empire. Junior was the sole issue of Hoyt's first marriage. He had barely made it through college, where he had paid far more attention to football than academics, and had floundered around, failing at various jobs, until his father put him in charge of his mortuaries. Junior had not exactly thrived in the family business, but he had managed to keep it turning a profit. He had also earned himself a reputation as a drunk, a womanizer and a brawler, and he resented his father's refusal to let him play a bigger part in Hoyt Industries, his father's conglomerate. Anthony had learned all this from Ellen Crease, after Junior was escorted off the estate grounds and driven home by a Portland Police officer. Crease despised Junior for being a drunk and a weakling.

Anthony lived alone, so there was no one to disturb when he stumbled into the bedroom of his split-level at two-thirty in the morning. Lou's wife of twenty-two years
had died of cancer three years before but he had kept the house for visits from their kids. The hostile invader had been discovered during a routine physical; the battle to save Susan's life had been furious but short. She was gone eight months later. Lou's son was a freshman in college at the time and their daughter had just been accepted at Oregon State. He was thankful that Susan had died knowing that they had turned out well. There wasn't much else that he was thankful for except the job, which kept him occupied and distracted him from his grief.

After a few hours of sleep, Anthony was back at his desk reviewing the draft of his report and waiting for the reports from the crime lab and the results of a house-to-house canvas for witnesses that he had instituted shortly after his arrival at the Hoyt estate. Anthony did not expect much from the canvas. A stolen car had been found near the wall that surrounded the estate. He assumed that it was the burglar's getaway car. The fact that it was still parked at the scene meant that the burglar had probably been working solo, but you never knew. There might have been an accomplice who left on foot, though he could not imagine that happening in the previous night's storm when a nice, dry car was available. The estates on Crestview Drive were all set so far back from the street that he doubted the neighbors would have seen an accomplice slogging from the scene, anyway. Still, stranger things had happened and some crazy neighbor might have been out jogging or walking a dog. Anthony was not holding his breath.

“Lou.”

Anthony looked up and saw an excited Leroy Dennis bearing down on him with several sheets of paper in his hand.

“How do you feel about buying me lunch?” Dennis asked.

“Why would I buy you lunch, Leroy? The last time I sprung for you, you ate so much I almost had to file for bankruptcy.”

One of life's great mysteries was how Dennis could eat and eat and still not put on a pound.

“I'm a growing boy, Lou. My body just needs more than the average man. It has something to do with my sexual prowess.”

“Give me a break,” snorted Anthony, “or give me a reason why I should assist you in committing suicide by cholesterol overdose.”

Dennis not only ate like a machine, but he had an aversion to any kind of food that was even remotely healthy.

“This is the reason,” Dennis said, shaking the documents he held at Anthony. “What is that?”

“Uh-uh. No food, no facts. Hell, I'm so hungry I might just eat this exceptionally fine, and difficult-to-find, evidence.”

Anthony laughed. “You have to be the biggest asshole in the bureau, Leroy, but I was going to eat soon, anyway.”

Anthony stood up and walked over to the closet to get his raincoat. Dennis followed him.

“Now, what have you come up with?” he asked.

“The name of our perp,” Dennis answered, his tone suddenly serious. “I ran the burglar's prints through AFIS,” Dennis explained, mentioning the Automated Fingerprint Identification System that used computers to compare unknown prints to the prints stored in the computer's data banks. “We got a hit an hour ago.”

“Who do we have?”

“Martin Jablonski. He's got the rap sheet for the job. Armed robbery, assault, burglary. He was paroled from OSP eight months ago where he was serving time
for a pretty brutal home invasion that happened six years ago. Pistol-whipped an elderly couple. I talked to his parole officer. Jablonski's supposed to be living with his wife, Conchita Jablonski, and their two kids in an apartment off Martin Luther King near Burnside. He's been unemployed or working as temporary labor since he got out of prison.”

“Let's get a D.A. to write up an application for a search warrant, then visit the little woman,” Anthony said.

Dennis grinned. “Where do you think I've been this last hour? I'm two steps ahead of you. Sondra Barrett is working on the affidavit as we speak. She'll have it ready to take to a judge after lunch. Now, where shall we go?”

Anthony parked his car in front of an old brick apartment house a few blocks from the Burnside Bridge. The Jablonskis lived on the third floor. It was a walk-up. As they climbed the stairs, Dennis complained about the lack of an elevator and the god-awful smell in the stairwell.

The third floor was poorly lit. The outside light had to fight its way through a grime-covered window on one end of the corridor and was so weak from the effort that it ended up dull yellow. The lightbulbs that hung from the ceiling were either broken or of such low wattage that Anthony wondered why the super bothered to turn them on.

The Jablonskis' apartment did not have a bell, so Anthony bashed a meaty hand against the door and bellowed “Mrs. Jablonski” while he strained to hear if there was any movement inside. After his third try, Anthony heard a nervous “Who is it?” from the other side of the door.

“I'm Detective Anthony with the Portland Police, Mrs. Jablonski.”

“I don't wanna talk with you,” Conchita Jablonski answered. Her speech was thickened by a heavy Spanish accent. “Go away.”

“What?”

“I said, I don't wanna talk to no cops. Leave me alone.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Jablonski, but you have no choice. I have a search warrant. If you don't open the door, I'll have the super bring the key. It's about your husband.”

There was no sound inside the apartment. When the silence stretched to thirty seconds, Anthony turned to Dennis.

“Wait here while I round up the key.”

Dennis nodded. Anthony was about to walk to the stairs when he heard locks snap. The door opened a crack and Conchita Jablonski stared at Anthony through a gap in the door. The safety chain was still on. Anthony held up his badge so Mrs. Jablonski could see it through the narrow opening.

“This is Detective Dennis,” Anthony told her as he pointed over his shoulder. Dennis flashed her a friendly smile, but Mrs. Jablonski continued to regard the men with suspicion. “We need to talk to you about Martin.”

“For why?”

“Can we come in, please? I really don't want to discuss your business out here in the hall where all of your neighbors can hear.”

Mrs. Jablonski hesitated. Then she closed the door for a moment and took off the safety chain. A second later, the door swung into the apartment and Dennis followed Anthony inside.

The apartment was small, with two narrow bedrooms, a small living room and a tiny kitchen area that was separated from the living room by a low counter.
Both detectives were impressed by how clean Conchita Jablonski kept the apartment. Her two children huddled in the doorway of one of the bedrooms watching the detectives. They looked well cared for. A boy and a girl, both about six or seven, big-eyed and brown-skinned with soft black hair.

Conchita Jablonski was a heavyset, dark-complexioned woman with a pockmarked face. She led the detectives into the living room and seated herself in a frayed and shabby armchair. Dennis and Anthony sat across from her on a sagging couch.

“I have some bad news for you,” Anthony said. Conchita Jablonski's facial features stayed frozen, but her shoulders hunched as if she were preparing for a blow. She clasped her hands in her lap. “Martin broke into a home last night.” Conchita's features wavered. Her hands tightened on each other. “While he was in the house, he shot and killed someone.”

Conchita began to shake. The children saw the change in their mother and they looked frightened.

“Martin was also shot. He's dead.”

Conchita bent at the waist as if she had been punched in the stomach. She started to sob. Her shoulders shook. The children's eyes widened. They huddled together. Dennis stood up and walked over to the shaking woman. He knelt beside her chair.

“Mrs. Jablonski,” he began in a soft and sympathetic voice. Before he could say another word, Conchita Jablonski spun in her chair and slapped him across the face. Dennis was off balance. He fell onto the floor awkwardly, almost in slow motion, into a sitting position, more stunned than hurt.

“You bastards!” Conchita shrieked. “You killed my Marty!”

Anthony raced to her chair and restrained Mrs. Jablonski.

“He was robbing a house, Mrs. Jablonski. He murdered a woman's husband. He would have killed her, too, if she hadn't shot him.”

Conchita heard only parts of what Anthony said as she strained against him. Dennis struggled to his feet and helped subdue the distraught woman. She collapsed, sobbing, her head in her hands.

“Please, Mrs. Jablonski,” Dennis implored. “Your kids are scared. They need you.”

She fought for control, gulping air. The two children raced over to her and buried themselves in her skirt. She talked quietly to them, submerging her own grief. The detectives waited while she calmed them. Dennis brought her a glass of water, but she would not take it.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Dennis asked.

“What do you care?” the woman shot back angrily. “You cops never cared about me or Marty before. All you wanna do is lock him up.”

Anthony saw no reason to argue with Mrs. Jablonski. He held out the search warrant. “This is a court order that gives us the right to search your apartment. Detective Dennis will sit with you while I conduct the search.”

Mrs. Jablonski suddenly looked frightened. Anthony wondered why, but he did not ask. If there was something hidden in the tiny apartment, it would be easy to find. He decided to start in the bedroom that the adults used. He could hear Detective Dennis talking soothingly to Mrs. Jablonski as he tossed the covers off the small bed where the Jablonskis slept. He knelt down and looked under it but saw nothing.

There was men's and women's clothing in the cheap wooden chest of drawers but nothing else. When he was through with it, Anthony opened the door of the closet. Dirty men's clothes lay crumpled on the floor, but
there was nothing under them. Anthony peered up at a shelf that was just above his head. He pulled over a wooden chair that swayed slightly when he climbed up on it. Toward the back of the shelf was a shoe box. Inside were stacks of currency bound by rubber bands. Many stacks. The top bills were hundreds, fifties and twenties. Anthony stepped down from the chair and carried the shoe box into the living room.

“I've read Marty's file,” Anthony told her. “It says that you're on welfare and Marty was having trouble getting steady work. There's a lot of money in here. Where did it come from? Drugs? Was Marty selling drugs?”

“I ain't saying anything to you. You cops are all the same. I knew I shouldina let you in my house.”

“Listen, Conchita, I'm not gonna mess around with you,” Anthony said harshly. “Your husband killed a very important man. Now, all of a sudden, you're rolling in dough. You tell me where Marty got that money or I'll arrest you as an accessory to murder. What do you think happens to your kids if you're in jail?”

Conchita Jablonski wrapped her arms around her children and looked at Anthony with a combination of fear and loathing. He felt like a first-class heel, but Anthony did not let her know it.

“It's up to you, Conchita. You want your kids in foster care, keep playing games.”

The fight went out of Mrs. Jablonski. “I don't know where Marty got the money,” she answered in a small voice. “He just got it.”

“He never said from who?”

“Just that it was from some guy.”

“Did he tell you what this guy looked like?”

“No.”

“Marty didn't say what this guy wanted him to do for this money?” Dennis asked.

“When he was doin' something bad he wouldn't
tell me what it was because he didn't want me or the kids involved, but I knew it was no good.” She shook her head and started to cry. “I tol' him to give back the money, but he said it was for me and the kids. He felt real bad how we lived and how he couldn't get no job because of his record. He wanted to do something for us. And now he's dead.”

“I'm going to have to take this with me,” Anthony said. “I'll give you a receipt.”

“You can't take that money,” she sobbed. “I got the kids. How I gonna feed them?”

“That's blood money, Mrs. Jablonski,” Dennis told her. “Your husband may have been paid to kill someone for that money. You seem like a good woman. You take real good care of your kids and your home. You don't want that money. You know that money will only bring you grief.”

Anthony and Dennis spent twenty more minutes with Conchita Jablonski, but it soon became clear that she did not know anything more about the money, the man who had given it to her dead husband or the reason he had been given it. While Dennis finished searching the apartment, Anthony counted the cash in the shoe box and gave Mrs. Jablonski a receipt for $9,800. The detective figured that the actual amount Jablonski had been given was $10,000. The bills were secured by rubber bands in five-hundred-dollar bundles. Anthony had discovered a solitary rubber band under three hundred dollars in loose bills.