Trophy Widow (29 page)

“Correct?”

“Your client is innocent.”

I caught my breath. “So Billy Woodward killed Michael Green?”

“I do not know any names, but if this Woodward fellow was once in adult films and was once the boyfriend of the victim's fiancée, then he is the killer.” He had a pained expression. “Good heavens, Miss Gold, that poor woman.”

“Did Sebastian tell you about the paintings he sold?”

“He did. He sold them at an art gallery operated by the fiancée, correct?”

I nodded. “Tell me what else he told you, Reverend. Tell me the whole story.”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowed in thought. “Sebastian's remorse was obvious when we first met. His story came out in bits and pieces over the period of a year. It took months for the trust between us to build sufficiently for him to reveal some of the more appalling details.”

He paused, organizing his recollections. “His paintings were his Achilles' heel. He had sacrificed so much over the years in the pursuit of his dream of becoming an artist. By the time of the events in question, the dream seemed to be receding. Then a new man came into his life. They became lovers. The man was apparently quite powerful.”

“In government?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps in business or law. Sebastian never told me. Several months into their relationship, this man told Sebastian that he could help him gain access to a far more lucrative market for his paintings. I don't recall the details, Miss Gold, except that a powerful talent agency placed Sebastian's paintings at a gallery that turned out to be owned by a woman he knew from his years in the adult film business. Purely a coincidence, apparently. Both had struggled to transform their lives, and now here they were, thrown together again by chance or by fate. In any event, his paintings began to sell, and at prices far in excess of any prior sales.”

“Did he ever get suspicious?”

“Eventually he did, but he never asked questions. You must understand, Miss Gold, that after all those lean years his dream had come true. He was afraid to do anything that might burst that magic bubble.”

“So what went wrong?”

“Someone began blackmailing his boyfriend.”

“Over what?”

“It was never clear. But whatever it was, Sebastian's lover decided that the blackmailer had to die. Perhaps to motivate Sebastian, he told him that the blackmailer had threatened to destroy Sebastian's career as well.”

“Did he tell Sebastian who this blackmailer was?”

“All Sebastian told me was that this blackmailer was engaged to marry the owner of the gallery that sold his paintings. Now, of course, I realize that the blackmailer was Michael Green.”

“Assuming that there really was a blackmailer.”

“You are correct. Sebastian relied solely upon what his lover told him. He never had any direct dealings with the alleged blackmailer.”

“So what happened?”

Reverend Wells explained that Sebastian helped work out the details of the murder plot, including the choice of Billy Woodward as the actual killer. Sebastian's boyfriend insisted that someone else take the fall for the killing. He explained to Sebastian that neither one of them could afford the risk of having the police poke around in the victim's business affairs in search of a suspect. The evidence at the scene of the crime had to point conclusively away from Green's professional life. That meant that the killer needed to implicate the victim's wife, or at least that's what his boyfriend told him. Sebastian explained all of this to Billy, who readily agreed, apparently excited by the opportunity to finally, in his words, “hit the big time.”

Billy threw himself into the planning phase, right down to preparing a “screenplay” in which he scripted out each of his various encounters with the victim's wife during the weeks leading up to the event. He rehearsed each scene, editing his lines, tightening the dialogue. Through it all, Sebastian served as his sole contact. Woodward never knew the identity of the man who was paying for the killing or the reason for the killing. He didn't seem to care. Woodward was operating in his own fantasy world where he was the knight in shining armor rescuing the fair maiden from the clutches of the evil lawyer Michael Green.

“What was the fee?” I asked.

“There were two, actually. There was a five-thousand-dollar fee for killing the man, and a two-thousand-dollar bonus if the killer was able to retrieve a certain videotape from the blackmailer's residence.”

“What was on the videotape?”

Reverend Wells shook his head. “Sebastian never knew. Apparently, the killer didn't, either. He brought back all the videotapes he could find at the victim's residence. Sebastian told me that there were about two dozen videocassettes—half were store-bought movies and the rest were home-taped.”

“Did he watch any?”

“No.”

“Were any of store-bought ones X-rated?”

“A few, but Sebastian didn't recognize the titles or the actors.”

“So what did he do?”

“Sebastian turned them all over to his lover.”

“And?”

“One of the tapes must have been the right one, because his lover gave him another two thousand dollars in cash to pass along to the killer.”

“Did he learn which videotape it was?”

“I do not believe so.”

I reviewed my notes. The factual chronology of Sebastian's story matched the sequence of events culminating in Michael Green's murder. Moreover, the blackmail twist made perfect sense. It was precisely the sort of spark that could detonate an unstable conspiracy. All of which made the two-thousand-dollar bonus maddening to contemplate. That videotape must have held the key to Michael Green's death. That was also the one videotape that had surely been destroyed.

What's gone is gone
, I told myself, trying to quell my frustration.
Focus on what might still be left
.

“What happened after the killing?” I asked.

Reverend Wells sighed. “Things began to fall apart. Sebastian's artistic career came to an abrupt halt. He never sold another painting. A few weeks later his relationship with his lover ended. From there he descended into a period of depression during which he was unemployed and abusing drugs. It took him nearly three years to reassemble his life. By the time I met him he was painting again—working nights as a waiter and devoting his days to his art. Although he was drug-free and sober, he was a tormented soul, filled with remorse over his involvement in that murder.” Reverend Wells paused. “The pathway to atonement is an onerous one for the wicked, Miss Gold. Over time, though, I sincerely believe that he began to find some measure of comfort in Jesus.” He shook his head sadly. “I pray that Jesus is with him now.”

“When did you last talk to him?”

“He came to church on the Sunday before he—before his death. We spoke briefly after the service. He seemed apprehensive. Unfortunately, there was a Sunday school picnic at Forest Park immediately following the service. I am afraid that all of us were a bit harried with the logistics.” Wells made a helpless gesture. “I was unable to give him the time and comfort he needed.”

I waited.

He looked down at the desk and sighed. “That was the last time I spoke to the young man.”

I watched him sitting there, his head still down. In the growing silence I was beginning to feel like an intruder. I stood and gathered my things.

“Thank you, Reverend,” I said quietly. “You've been extremely helpful.”

He looked up at me. “I am so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You helped him find some peace.”

He shook his head. “When Sebastian told me of the killer's suicide, I thought in my weakness that perhaps the Lord had worked divine retribution—that Jesus had perhaps nudged the scales of justice a little more into balance. In my focus on Sebastian, I never thought to ask what happened to the former wife—to the innocent woman set up to take the blame for the murder. I never thought to ask if anyone had been arrested, much less prosecuted, for that heinous crime. I never thought to ask whether anyone else was suffering.”

“We each do what we can, Reverend.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “I could have done more. I
should
have done more. I have been derelict in my duties, and because of that an innocent woman has been unjustly incarcerated.”

“She was already in prison when Sebastian confessed to you. You had no reason to know that she was the one.”

“I had every reason to ask, Miss Gold. Instead, I compound the sins of others.” He looked up at me, pain in his eyes. “Please tell your client how deeply sorry I am.”

“No, Reverend. I'm going to tell her how much you have helped here.”

He turned toward the window. I backed out of his study and softly closed the door.

Chapter Thirty-three

From Goodfellow Baptist Church, I drove east toward the Mississippi River. The address I'd scribbled into my appointment calendar turned out to be a storefront office in a dingy section of South Broadway near Soulard Market. I left Ozzie in the car with the windows vented and walked up to the office. As I did, the U.S. Marshal pulled in alongside my car. I looked back and he nodded at me. He left his engine idling, his windows up. I turned to the office door. The faded legend stenciled in black on the pebble-glass read:

THE BLITZ AGENCY
• Licensed Investigator •
• Divorce • Child Custody • Skip Tracing •
• Video Surveillance Our Specialty •

I knocked.

Silence.

I knocked louder.

“Hey,” an angry voice called from somewhere inside, “I fucking heard you.”

The muffled sound of approaching footsteps, the unclicking of a dead-bolt lock.

A man in his forties yanked the door open. His eyes slowly moved down my body and back up again. He stood about five nine and wore aviator glasses with lenses tinted a brownish yellow. His thinning brown hair was slicked straight back, the comb lines still visible from whatever pomade he used to lube it up.

“You Gold?” he asked.

“You Blitz?”

He grunted. “Nah, I'm the fucking tooth fairy.”

He adjusted the wide collar on his gray polyester short-sleeve shirt, which he wore with the top two buttons open. He had on tight black slacks—probably tighter now than when he bought them—and scuffed alligator shoes with pointy toes. The edge of a tattoo peeked out from the sleeve of his right arm. He wore a gold-link bracelet on one wrist and a black watch with a leather strap on the other. No rings or other jewelry.

He jerked his head toward the inside of his office. “Let's go-”

I followed him through a rundown reception area—four metal chairs on a threadbare gray rug—and back into his office. The smell hit me first—the sour reek of congealed hamburger grease mixed with remnants of grilled onions, fries, and ketchup. I spotted the crumpled White Castle takeout bag and empty drink cup stuffed into the wastebasket near his desk.

I glanced around the office. The wood paneling on the walls was slightly warped and had peeled back in a few places. A framed private investigator certificate was on one wall and a mounted sailfish on another. The certificate had faded to yellow and the sailfish looked as if he'd caught it from the back of a pickup and drove off with it flopping and dragging behind. Scotch-taped to the wall above his credenza was a five-by-seven color shot of Blitz and a busty blonde standing on the deck of a motorboat, each holding up a can of Michelob. The shot was overexposed, as were both of them—the blonde spilling out of her bikini top, Blitz striking a jaunty pose, his hairy gut covering nowhere near enough of his tiny yellow Speedo.

“Grab a seat,” he said as he moved around his desk. He paused to take a big unlit cigar from the ashtray and jammed the chewed end into his mouth as he settled in behind his desk.

I started to thank him for meeting with me but he cut me off, holding up his hands.

“First things first, lady. Let's see some dead presidents.”

Dead presidents
, I repeated to myself with a straight face. The guy was a piece of work. I reached for my purse and removed the envelope. He watched closely as I counted out the currency on the top of his desk. “Twenty—forty—sixty—seventy—seventy-five.”

When I leaned back in my chair, he picked up the cash and recounted, just to be sure. Watching him count, I tried to imagine how Michael Green had hooked up with this sleazebag. Perhaps you could say that Ron Blitz had the look of a guy who got results for his clients—not a bad look for a private eye. He also had the look of a guy who got results with methods you were better off not knowing about—again, not a bad look for a certain type of case.

“Okay,” he said, folding the money in half and stuffing the bills into his shirt pocket. He checked his watch. “Meter's running, lady. You got one hour.”

“Let's talk about Michael Green.”

“What about him?”

“You did some work for him. About six months before he died.”

“Oh, yeah? Says who?”

“Says you.”

“Me? What the hell you talking about?”

“Here.” From my briefcase I removed the photocopy of his billing statement to Green and slid it across his desktop. “This is your bill for services you sent him.”

He snatched it up and studied it. He looked up with a grin. His uneven teeth were stained brown from the cigars. “Yeah?”

“What did he hire you to do?”

“Hey, lady, you ever hear about privileged communications?”

“The privilege is conditional. Did you work on a personal matter for Mr. Green or was it for one of his clients?”

“What's it matter?”

“If it's personal, there's no privilege.”

“Why's that?”

“He's dead. The privilege died with him.”

“Is that so? Maybe I should check that out with my own lawyer. Yeah, I think I will. I'll get back to you on it someday.”

“Look, Mr. Blitz, I didn't come here to play games with you. I paid you for an hour of your time. I want what I paid for. I want you to tell me why Mr. Green hired you and what you did for him. We can do it the easy way or we can do it the hard way. Your choice.”

He gave me an amused look. “What's the hard way, little lady? You gonna hit me with your purse?”

I gestured toward the front door. “I have a U.S. Marshal waiting in front of your office in a car.”

He snorted. “Yeah, right. And I got J. Edgar Hoover waiting in my crapper in an evening gown.”

I stood up. “Come on. I'll introduce you.”

His grin faded. “The fuck you talking about?”

“Let's go, tough guy.”

He stared at me a moment. You could almost hear the gears ratcheting inside his head. He got to his feet. “You shitting me, lady?”

“See for yourself.”

He followed me through the reception area and out the front door. I'd suspected in advance that Blitz might try to jerk me around. I'd given U.S. Marshal Tommy Jenkins the heads-up before we left the Goodfellow Baptist Church.

As we came through the front door, Jenkins got out of his car. He had on a dark blue suit, white shirt, narrow tie, and reflecting sunglasses. He had the build of an NFL linebacker. He wore his thick blond hair in a crew cut.

“Marshal Jenkins, this is Ron Blitz.”

Expressionless, Tommy Jenkins reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a black leather holder. He flipped it open and showed Blitz his badge. Then he turned to me.

“Is this man obstructing your investigation, Miss Gold?”

“Frankly, he's not been real cooperative, Marshal.”

“I'm disappointed to hear that.” He turned to Blitz and stared down at him. “Do I need to take you downtown, sir? Do I need to ask two of my colleagues at the FBI to take charge of your interrogation while we thoroughly search your office?”

“Whoa, dude.” Blitz had his hands up. “Time out, eh?” He was squinting into the distorted dual images of himself in Jenkins's reflecting sunglasses. “I'll answer the lady's questions, okay? I had some concerns about confidentiality, if you know what I mean. I deal in sensitive subjects. My clients are sensitive people. Real sensitive, if you catch my drift. Didn't want to breach any confidences. But the lady has allayed those concerns.”

Jenkins stared at him, impassive. “Allayed?”

“Yeah. Like I'm okay with it now, okay?”

Jenkins turned to me. “Your choice, ma'am. You can give this man another chance or if you prefer I can haul him downtown and toss him in a holding cell.”

I pretended to weigh the options as Blitz glanced back and forth between Jenkins and me. Like most men of his ilk, Blitz was entirely predictable, as if he wore the diagram to his hardwired brain stamped on his forehead. He was a bully and a schemer. Being in the presence of a woman seeking information triggered both of those qualities. The remedy was simple enough: set up a confrontation with an alpha male who'd growl and bare his teeth and make a symbolic display of a gigantic, engorged penis. Blitz responded as if he were hung like a hamster.

I said, “I'll give him one more chance, Marshal.”

“I'll wait right here, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Marshal.”

He nodded. “Ma'am.”

Although Blitz didn't quite slink back to his office, he certainly was more subdued when I resumed my questions.

“Why did Michael Green hire you?”

“He wanted me to tail this big nigger.”

I flinched at the term
nigger
. Trying to ignore it, I asked, “Was that individual's name Sebastian Curry?”

“Yeah,” he said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “That's him. A waiter. Fucking guy thought he was an artist, too. Painted during the day. Bunch of abstract shit, if you ask me. Like a kindergartner with finger paints. Anyway, Green wanted to see if I could catch him in a compromising position, if you know what I mean.”

“Did Green tell you why he wanted you to follow Curry?”

“Just told me to stick with the guy, night and day, film everything, find out who he was banging.”

So
, I thought,
did Michael Green decide that Sebastian Curry would lead him to the source? But that made no sense. Green already knew the source. In fact, the source had apparently given him Sebastian Curry's name. So what was the point of tailing Sebastian
?

“Did Mr. Green tell you anything else about Curry?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you who his client was?”

“Nope.”

“Did you ask?”

“Nope.”

“Had you ever done work for Green before?”

“Nope.”

“How did he get to you?”

Blitz shrugged. “Probably a referral. I get a lot of lawyer business on referrals.”

“So you followed Curry?”

“Sure did.”

“And what did you observe?”

“I observed that he was a fag, which, frankly, was a shocker.”

“Why?”

“Green never told me that part. I first thought he might be banging this broad who ran this art gallery. Hell, I'd do her in a heartbeat. Anyway, I tailed that spade maybe ten days, and he visited her at least three times.”

“Don't use those words,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Words like
nigger
and
spade
. I don't like them.”

Blitz raised his eyebrows and chuckled. “Well, whoop-de-do. Excuuuuuse me, Miss Manners.”

I ignored his moronic repartee. “Let's go back to the woman who ran the art gallery. Where did he visit her?”

“At her gallery. He'd bring her one of his shitty paintings each time and leave it there. I thought maybe he'd try to nail her, maybe in the back room, but no dice. He only saw her at the gallery, and only during the day.”

“What else did you observe?”

“He had this waiter gig at night over at King Louie's on Chouteau. Couple of nights he went out to bars or clubs after hours with some of the other staff, but he'd end up going home alone.”

“Eventually, you caught him.”

“Oh, yeah.” Blitz chuckled. “Big time, lady.”

“Another man?”

“You got that right. Turns out he was queer as a three-dollar bill. But the faggot was also hung like a bull, I'll say that for him.”

“Who was his boyfriend?”

“Don't know.”

“Did he look familiar?”

“Not to me.”

“Only one boyfriend?”

“Only saw one.”

“Did you get it on camera?”

He grinned proudly. “It's what they pay me for. Better than a goddamn episode on the Discovery Channel.”

“Did you show it to Green?”

“Sure did. Right here in the office.” He jerked his thumb behind him. “Got me a TV and VCR in the back room.”

“How did Green react?”

Blitz took the unlit cigar out of his mouth and grinned at it, nodding his head. “He fucking loved it. Slapping me on the back, shaking my hand. Guy must have had a real hard-on for the nig—the Negro.” He jammed the cigar back in his mouth and leaned back in his chair, pleased with the memory.

“Did you give him the videotape?”

“Two copies. That's what he wanted. Not one but two.”

“Did he tell you why he wanted two?”

Blitz gave me a look as if I was a naïve schoolgirl. “Hey, I didn't fall off the fucking turnip truck, lady. I didn't need to ask. He wanted one for safekeeping and one to make that big nig—uh, that large Negro gentleman squirm.”

“Did he tell you what happened?”

Blitz shook his head. “Like in the military: don't ask, don't tell. I sent him my bill, he paid by return mail, I closed the file.”

“You knew he was killed a few months later.”

“Sure. Goddamn ex-wife chopped off his johnson. Sounds a little like my ex, for chrissake. Man, talk about a ball-breaker.”

“Any idea who else might have killed him?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “I'm not following you.”

I switched subjects. “Did you get any other business from Michael Green?”

“Never heard from him again.”

“I assume you kept the original of the videotape?”

“Jeez, do I look like a fucking moron?”

I chose to treat that as a rhetorical question.

“I'd like a copy,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, gesturing around his office, “does this look like Blockbuster Video?”

I stared at him. “Listen carefully, Ron. You have two options. Option one is you give me a copy. Right here, right now. Then I leave, and you probably never hear from me again. Option two is you refuse. Then the U.S. Marshal hauls you downtown, puts you in a holding cell, gets a search warrant, comes back here with three other federal officers, and they tear this place apart and maybe stumble onto some other incriminating evidence while they're dumping every one of your file drawers onto the floor.” I folded my arms over my chest. “What's your choice, Ron? Door Number One or Door Number Two?”