Unknown Means (31 page)

Clio Helms, her twenty-something-year-old skin still dewy fresh well past dinnertime, sat back to gaze at her guest. Her desk chair had been upholstered in a 1970s orange, and the stuffing escaped

from its shackles at points; the scratched desk sat in the very middle of the room, to be buffeted by every passerby; Clio’s desk organizer consisted of a series of small cardboard boxes, but the reporter smiled as if the seller had just lowered the price on an item she wanted. And in a way, Evelyn had.

“And I get an interview?”

“After the arrest. And I still can’t give out any nonsanctioned information. I mean, I won’t be able to tell you things that the cops and the prosecutors are holding back in preparation for trial. But I can explain the forensic techniques I used—without specifics, of course.”

Clio nodded with mock solemnity. “Of course.”

“That’s the best I can do.”

“I understand perfectly,” she purred, a cat with one paw on the canary’s tail. Evelyn would have to watch every word, to think not twice but three times before speaking around this woman, or the ME would be dangling her job over the precipice. He could forgive any mistake except bad publicity, and losing this case because Evelyn had talked too much would result in very bad publicity indeed.

“So what are we searching for?”

“Something to connect the three victims.” The victims’ names and the assumption that they shared the same murderer had already been published, so Evelyn felt safe with this tack. “I’d like to find mentions of them intersecting, being in the same place at the same time.”

“This must be serendipity.” Clio bounced up, pulling a delicate pink sweater from the back of her chair—no elbow-patched tweed blazers for her. “I had been planning to do the very same thing, but between the salt mine disaster and that fire on the East Side, I haven’t had time.”

“I hope you didn’t have other plans for tonight.”

“Tonight, hmm.” The reporter pushed the button for the elevator. “Tonight was supposed to be the assistant to the mayor’s press secretary. Six-two, works out, is a Big Brother, likes dogs.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll wait.”

The Archive Department took up half of one massive floor.

Most of it contained floor-to-ceiling files, but five computer monitors lined one long table.

“How long ago are we talking?” Clio asked.

The rapes had begun four years ago, as far as they knew. Grace had married three years ago. Craig might have been hurt two years ago, according to the nurse’s aide, but it could have been longer than that. “Four years.”

“Wow.” Clio settled herself in a metal chair in front of the first monitor. “I hope you’ve had dinner. There’s a vending machine down the hall if you haven’t.”

Evelyn sat down and tried David again while they waited for the monitor to warm up. She got only a buzzing noise.

“You might not get any reception in here. The walls are pretty thick. So we’re looking for any mention of Kelly Alexander, Grace Markham, and Frances Duarte, together or separately. Anyone else?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?” the reporter pressed.

No way could she mention Craig Sinclair. If his name popped up, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. “Nope.”

Clio typed the names, her fingers flying in a blur. Evelyn noticed a large scar on the back of her left hand, the healed tissue standing out in a jagged line. That must have bled a lot. She said nothing, not wanting to like Clio Helms any more than she could already help. The Simpson trial had made most forensic technicians quite paranoid.

“Okay. May, four years ago. Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Summer Festival Committee . . .”

An hour and a half and two stale granola bars later, Clio sipped a diet cola and asked, “How did you get into this line of work, anyway?”

“I watched a lot of cop shows when I was a kid.”

“So why not become a cop?”

“I don’t like people. Wait, that didn’t come out right—remember I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep all week. I couldn’t deal with stressed-out human beings day in, day out. I did like science, so it was a natural compromise.”

“But you can deal with dead bodies?”

“They’re quiet. Crap—that’s not going to wind up in the Sunday magazine, is it?”

“I should be so lucky, to see my byline there.” At Evelyn’s frown, the girl reassured her. “Relax. I’m not out to ‘get’ you. I’m just curious. How do you cope with seeing death, violent death, up close and personal?” She ignored her monitor, turning to the forensic scientist.

“Doesn’t it ever get to you?”

Evelyn answered honestly. “Not yet.”

“How is that possible?”

“You don’t think about it.”

“It’s that simple?”

“It’s that simple. There’s no point in me standing there and weeping over a life cut short. It won’t do the victims or their families any good, and it certainly won’t help me. I think about what tests I have to do, what evidence I have to collect, what paperwork I have to fill out, and maybe what to make for dinner.”

“You just turn your feelings off?”

“Yeah, pretty much. You learn to do that early on, or you get into another line of work.”

“Then turn them back on when you go home at night?”

Did she? Or had they been in sleep mode for so long that they might stay that way? Could that be why she wanted David close but not too close?

Maybe he was right. Maybe she made excuses and put off decisions because she didn’t want to face either living constantly with the sharp emotions he aroused in her or enduring the pain of losing him. Feelings were more comfortable at a distance, locked up in a little box at the back of her mind.

“I have a problem with that,” Clio continued, flicking through electronic pages. “When I’m writing certain stories, I go home and neglect everyone, my parents, my boyfriend, my dog. Here’s another one—October 2006. ‘Heiress involved in accident.’”

Evelyn abandoned her thoughts with relief. “What was that?”

“ ‘Kelly Alexander, heiress to the Alexander salt mine, was involved in a two-car accident at Euclid and East Ninth late Saturday night while returning home from a fund-raising event. The driver of the other car was injured. Police have not ruled out alcohol as a factor, nor determined who was at fault.’ Period. That’s pretty lame,”

Clio critiqued. “No follow-up on the salt mine angle? Who wrote this?”

“Does it say who the other driver was?”

“No. Let’s go on. A week later: ‘Kelly Alexander was arraigned in common pleas court this morning on a charge of DUI. She pled not guilty, stating that she was not the driver of the car. A trial date has been set for November twentieth.’ Okay, next. December eleventh—guess it got delayed. ‘Heiress found not guilty of DUI. A jury returned a not-guilty verdict in thirty minutes in the case of salt mine owner Kelly Alexander. Members interviewed afterward said that blood on the steering wheel proved Alexander to be the driver of the vehicle, despite her assertion that she was not, but still her blood alcohol level was not sufficient for a DUI charge. Also, the other driver, Craig Sinclair, had possibly run a red light and caused the accident. Alexander, the daughter of salt mine owner’ . . . blah blah blah, the typical bio.”

“I don’t believe it,” Evelyn said. Kelly had hit Craig, and now Craig’s father left a picture of a car next to her corpse.

“Me neither. This is buried in State and Local. It should have been on page one.”

“Who else was in the car?”

“You know what I think? We had an interim editor at the time who had worked in the Legal Department, and the guy was a real

candy-ass. Afraid of his own shadow, much less a lawsuit from one of the richest men in Ohio. What was that?”

“If Kelly said she wasn’t the driver, she must have blamed someone else in the car with her.”

Clio nodded, tossing curls to and fro. “No passengers are mentioned. Hey, maybe this is where she, what did you say, ‘intersected’

with Marissa? Wouldn’t Marissa have testified in the trial?”

“Not DUI—that would be the Toxicology Department.” A tremor ran through Evelyn’s stomach . . . Did this killer have another ME staff member on his hit list?

She needed to get into Toxicology’s records, but that wouldn’t be any easier than getting patient information from Mrs. Ellis, and besides, everyone in that department had gone home for the day.

The blood on the steering wheel—that could have been sent for DNA, to Marissa.

“So you think this Craig Sinclair is taking his revenge on the woman who hit him two years ago?”

“I don’t know.” That was true enough; she couldn’t see how Craig could take revenge on anyone. But his protective mother? His mysterious father? Her heart began to pound. “I’d like to know who else was in that car.”

“And besides, if Marissa verified that Kelly was the driver, why would the victim be mad at her?” Clio shook her head. “I like it, but it’s kind of far-fetched.”

“You’re right there.” Evelyn sat back, feigning disappointment, willing her body to stay still when it wanted to dash from the room.

“I’ll check it out, but let’s go on. Next story?”

C H A P T E R

31

FINDING DAVID’S CAR IN HER DRIVEWAY FILLED HER

with conflicting surges of adrenaline. Had something happened to Angel? Marissa? Or had he come to say good-bye, to tell her that love wasn’t going to be enough?

Angel, seated at the kitchen table, looked up from her books.

“About time you got home.”

“I was—”

“Yeah. Working.” But she spoke without malice and seemed amused. “We were eating. David made gumbo.”

The detective emerged from the refrigerator with a brick of cheese and seemed to be suppressing a grin himself.

“Gumbo?” Evelyn shook off her wet coat and left her shoes by the door. “Where does a midwestern boy learn to cook gumbo?”

“Ah, just one of the many mysteries of my past.”

“It’s not bad,” Angel admitted. “Well, once he got done telling me all sorts of gross stories about drunk-driving accidents, anyway.”

“I could add one of my own tonight,” Evelyn said, thinking of Craig Sinclair’s damaged body. “But perhaps you’ve had enough.”

“Definitely enough.”

David set a steaming bowl in front of her. It smelled so good

that she forgave them both for the fun they were having at her surprise. “Thanks.”

“It’s all part of my master plan to make myself indispensable.”

“It’s working.”

“Where have you been, anyway?”

Halfway through the list of what Evelyn had learned from Clio Helms, Angel yawned and collected her books. “It’s almost mid-night and I’m going to bed, so keep it down.”

“Actually,” her mother told her, “David and I have to go out.”

FACE-TO-FACE interviewing often revealed much more than a voice on the phone. Besides, Evelyn planned to go straight on to work and find out if or how Marissa had become involved with Kelly Alexander’s DUI trial.

The night doorman buzzed the Quinn residence only after examining David’s badge and ID like a jeweler with the Hope diamond. Markham’s voice bellowed over the electronic speaker.

“What the hell do you want now? Do you know what time it is?”

“It’s twelve forty-five,” David informed him with a sort of relish.

“We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Go away.”

“You’re a material witness who has still not been cleared in the murder of his wife, Markham. I can place you in temporary custody if I want to.”

Inside the elevator, Evelyn asked, “Could you really? Take him into custody?”

“I’m not sure. Probably not, but to screw with him, it would be worth the risk.”

Markham did not look as suave in the wee hours as he did during the day, and he did not seem to try to. He and Barbara stood cross-armed in their foyer, refusing to let Evelyn and David any farther into the apartment.

“The car accident?” William Markham asked after David explained their purpose. “What the hell are you asking about that for?”

“We’ll take up less of your time if you just answer the questions, sir. Do you remember a car accident in which Kelly Alexander was charged with DUI about two years ago?”

“Hell, yeah. She said Grace was driving.”

“What?”

“They were coming home from some fund-raising thing . . . the kids’ hospital—”

“Butterfly Babies?” Evelyn asked.

He nodded. “They’d all been drinking, but they’d had a full meal too, Grace said. Kelly T-boned some kid at East Ninth, and she was worried about bad publicity for the mine—all Kelly cares about is that stupid mine, believe me—and when the cops got her on the Breathalyzer, she panicked and told them Grace was driving.

It wasn’t much of a defense—she was sitting in the driver’s seat when the damn cop arrived, and it was her car.”

“She tried to pin it on Grace?” asked Barbara, who seemed to be hearing this story for the first time.

“For about ten minutes. She gave Grace this song and dance that she thought Grace hadn’t drunk anything, so she couldn’t be charged—which was a lie, they were all drinking and Kelly knew it.

The judge threw it out anyway—Kelly blew under a point-eight alcohol level, and the other guy ran a red light.”

“Did Grace get angry about it?”

“She was pretty ticked, yeah. Of course she wouldn’t admit it to me, since I’d been telling her for years what a bitch Kelly Alexander is. She’d be civil to Kelly in public, but they stopped hanging together after that.” He yawned, setting off a chain reaction in the foyer. “Oh hell, you can come in. Babs, honey, do we have any coffee?”

“Certainly. Right in the cabinet over the pot.”

He scowled, whirled, and they followed him to the kitchen. To