Unreasonable Doubt (12 page)

He didn't hear her.

Chapter Twenty-two

Molly Smith was also watching Walter Desmond. Although she was trying very hard not to look as though she were. He was with one of the dragon boat women. They walked together like any longtime couple or two casual friends. They didn't touch, but kept in step and chatted. That is, the woman chatted, and her laughter drifted down the street, while Desmond looked around, wide-eyed. It made Smith think of herself the first time she'd been to Seattle on a visit to her grandparents. The child who'd always lived near a small town and grew up with the wilderness as her playground had been awed by the zooming traffic on the highway, the tall buildings stretching overhead. “Catching flies?” her older brother Samwise said, and she snapped her mouth shut. After sticking her tongue out at him first, of course.

She'd come out of the pedestrian walkway leading to the alley that ran behind the Mountain in Winter Gallery, thinking she could fry an egg under her Kevlar vest if she were so inclined, at the moment Desmond and the woman went past. The cops on the beat had been ordered to patrol the alleys and walkways regularly. That alley in particular was often used as a shortcut or as a place for shop employees to park. Not today. Today, everyone was spooked.

Most everyone, anyway. She'd run off a pack of teenage boys hanging around the back of the convenience store who said they were on guard.
Oh, great
. Fourteen-year-old vigilantes hopped up on testosterone and action movies. That was sure to end well.

The police had been ordered not to interfere with Walter Desmond in any way. Molly Smith had no intention of breaking that order. She hadn't seen Dave Evans or Jeff Glendenning since Thursday evening. She'd tossed and turned all that night (more like all morning, as she'd finished work as the sun was coming up) and eventually decided to say nothing about what had happened. Not to Evans or Glendenning or anyone. Glendenning was a sergeant and these days he was just filling in time waiting for retirement. Nothing she could do about him. But Evans was her contemporary, the same level as her, and they worked closely together. She'd be keeping her eye on him.

Desmond and his friend stopped at The Front Street Diner, where a section of the sidewalk had been marked out as a patio. Walt took off his hat and scratched at his short gray hair as they studied the restaurant menu displayed on a stand at the hostess desk. A couple, looking like they were back from a hike in multi-pocketed khaki pants and cotton shirts, thick socks, and solid boots, got up from a table, hefted their backpacks, and left. The hostess picked up menus and gestured to Walt and Carolanne to follow her.

Smith decided to head in the other direction. She'd cross at the intersection and walk back through town on the far side of the street. If she so much as looked at Walt Desmond sideways, he might think she was bothering him.

Before she could move, a man ran past, followed closely by, of all people, a worried-looking Meredith Morgenstern. Meredith caught Smith's eye and said, “There's going to be trouble.”

The man grabbed Desmond's arm and spun him around. Desmond dropped his hat. “You bastard,” the man yelled. “You murderous bastard.”

Carolanne screamed. Passersby either leapt out of the way or gathered around to get a better view. Desmond had twisted out of the other man's grip and had his arm pinned behind his back before Smith could so much as blink, much less interfere. Meredith had her phone out and held it up in front of her, snapping pictures.

“Break it up.” Smith pushed her way through the crowd. “What's going on here?”

“That man,” Carolanne yelled and pointed. “He attacked my friend for no reason at all.”

The man struggled in Desmond's grip. With a single twist, Smith knew, Desmond could break his arm. The man looked at her. His eyes were dark, his hair black, his skin olive, living testimony to his southern European heritage. Smith's heart sank. This had to be the D'Angelo son. He looked a lot like his dad.

“Thank you, Mr. Desmond,” Smith said. “You can let go now. There'll be no more trouble here.”

Desmond stared at her for a long time. She did not look away. Then he shoved the man toward her. “I did nothing to him.”

“Nothing! You call murdering my sister nothing? Arrest him,” D'Angelo shouted at Smith, spittle flying, eyes red with rage. “He attacked me.”

“Sir,” Smith said, “you can't say that. I was standing right over there. I saw everything that happened. You ran at this man and you would have assaulted him had he not been faster than you. Is your name D'Angelo?”

“As I'm sure you know.” He was considerably overweight, his face flamed red, and a vein pulsed in his forehead. Sweat dripped down his cheeks. He swiped his hand across his face.

Guy's a walking heart attack,
Smith thought. “Why don't you come with me, Mr. D'Angelo? We'll go for a walk, let these people enjoy their lunch.”

D'Angelo turned back to Desmond, who had pushed Carolanne behind him. Walt's face was perfectly calm: it showed so little emotion it might have been carved of granite. In contrast, Carolanne's eyes were wide with shock, her lip trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. D'Angelo clenched and unclenched his fists. He looked as though he might explode any second.

“Please, Mr. D'Angelo,” Smith said, “if you attempt to continue this fight, I will have to ask you to come with me.”

“You'd arrest me? And let that son of a bitch sit in the sun and have a drink?”

“Do you know his first name?” Smith whispered to Meredith.

“Tony.”

“Tony, help me out here, please. Mr. Desmond has as much right to walk the streets as anyone else. Don't make an issue of it. Go home.”

For several long seconds no one moved. Cars continued to drive by on the street, but a crowd was gathering. She heard whispers of “Poor Sophia” and “How dare he?” along with “Crooked cops.” This could turn ugly in a flash. She touched her radio. Time to call for backup. Walter Desmond was clearly able to handle Tony D'Angelo, but she feared if it came to a fight, some of the men standing around might decide to jump in.

Tony pulled back his head and spat. A lump of phlegm landed at Walt's feet but he did not so much as flinch. He kept his expressionless eyes fixed on Tony.

“Stay out of my way, you murderous bastard.” Tony turned and walked away. As he passed Smith he said, “Useless cops.”

She looked at Walt. He nodded, ever so slightly.

“Okay, everyone, show's over. Break it up.” People shifted their feet. They muttered to their neighbors. “Now!” she shouted. The back of the crowd began to peel away, and soon the street had returned to normal. Carolanne bent over and scooped up Walt's hat. She handed it to him, and he put it on his head without a word. On the other side of the street, Smith's mother stood in her shop doorway, watching. She held her phone in her hand.

Smith smiled to herself. She encountered plenty of problems policing in the small town where many of the residents had known her since she was a toddler, but there were advantages too. Such as Mom as backup.

“We'll pass on that lunch,” Walt said to the hostess. “I've lost my appetite.” He gave Smith a weak smile. “Looks like you've come to my rescue once again. Thank you.” He walked away, head high, steps firm.

Carolanne hurried to catch up with him. Meredith took a step to follow but Smith glared at her. “Butt out, Meredith.”

Meredith lifted one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Is that any way to talk to a member of the Fourth Estate?”

“Yes,” Smith said.

“I'd better check to see if Tony's okay,” Meredith said, making her retreat.

“About that lunch tomorrow,” Smith called after her, “it's off.” She'd been prepared to sit down with Meredith, talk about the old times, and catch up with their lives (not that she much cared what Meredith was up to). Seeing as how Meredith had managed to get herself involved in the D'Angelo/Desmond situation, no doubt digging for dirt to write a story, the more sensational the better, any gesture of friendship was not gonna happen.

Smith trotted after Carolanne and Walter. The woman had grabbed his arm. “Don't let them chase you away, Walt.”

“Discretion,” he said, “is the better part of valor.”

Smith fell into step beside them. “Mind if I walk with you?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “Happy to have you, in case I need a bodyguard.”

The incident might never have happened. The crowd had dispersed as if into thin air, and no one was paying them any attention. No one, other than the young guy who dashed across the street the moment he caught sight of the uniformed officer heading his way, trailing the scent of pot behind him like a cloud.

“Why are you here, Mr. Desmond?” Smith blurted out without thinking. “You had to know feelings would be running high. That was Tony D'Angelo, Sophia's brother. What's he supposed to think, seeing you?”

“He's supposed to think it's a good thing an innocent man was exonerated. As is everyone else in this town.”

“Are you that naïve?” Smith asked. “The D'Angelos have spent a lot of years hating you.” The words spilled out, almost as if they were out of her control. It wasn't her place to editorialize on Walter Desmond's life decisions or on the psychology of the grieving family. “It's been the entire focus of their life for more than twenty years. They can't simply turn around and say all is forgiven, even if the courts can.”

“But he didn't do it,” Carolanne shouted. “Why can't people see that?”

“It's okay,” Desmond said. “It was a mistake, coming here, to Trafalgar. I understand that now. My lawyers warned me against it. I'd liked it here. I'd been happy here. I'll be on my way tomorrow.”

“No,” Carolanne said. “Don't let them run you out of town. They'll forget soon enough and go back to minding someone else's business.”

He smiled at her. “You have a good heart.”

“I'll leave you now,” Smith said. “Call us if you need us.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I didn't kill Sophia.”

“I've read the summary of the appeal,” Smith said. She wouldn't come right out and say she believed him, although she did.

“As I didn't do it, someone else did. Is your department going to be looking into that?”

“As far as I know, the case has been reopened.”

“That's good,” Carolanne said. “Soon as they catch the other guy, then everyone will know you're innocent, Walt.”

Smith watched them walk away. They didn't touch, but it seemed as though they moved closer together.

She'd called Walt naïve, but that wasn't the right word. Hopeful, maybe. Carolanne, now, she was naïve. The chances of Winters finding the killer all these years later were pretty much nil. Without another man heading for prison, no one was going to let this go. And even if they were so inclined, Smith had recognized the look on Meredith's face as she snapped pictures of the two men facing each other down. She was determined to get the story, no matter how much trouble it churned up. Her pictures wouldn't look good on the front page of the
Gazette
. The muscle-bound ex-con and the much shorter, flabby man peering through his thick glasses.

Chapter Twenty-three

Detective Ray Lopez came into the office and tossed his jacket over his chair. “It's a scorcher out there, and they're calling for more of the same over the weekend. Getting anywhere with that?”

Winters rubbed his eyes. “Nowhere. What about you?”

“Might be. I had Merrill come in for a picture lineup, and showed her all the sex offenders we have on file. She didn't recognize anyone. I'm not surprised. Unlikely she got much of a look at him. Everything seems to have happened mighty fast. I also took the pictures around to your place to show them to Eliza. Hope that was okay,” he mumbled. Lopez didn't have to ask. It wasn't up to John Winters, who had no role in this other than as husband of the victim, to object or not. “She couldn't pick out anyone definite either. However, I am hopeful about one thing,” Lopez said.

“Yes?”

“I did a reenactment with Ron Gavin acting the perp, and it's possible, likely even, the guy put his hand on Eliza's car. He needed to brace himself to hold her in place. We got some good prints.”

Winters smiled. Fingerprints from a car parked in a public place wouldn't be worth much in court, but it was a start, a good start, toward trying to identify the guy.

“Gavin's going to rush the prints. It helps that Eliza's car's so clean.”

“She takes it to the carwash regularly. The drive-through, where not a human hand touches it.”

“We also got some hairs off Eliza's shirt. She and Merrill both said the man had long hair. Longer than what's normal these days, anyway. I've sent them to the lab. I won't get the results as fast as the fingerprints, but they'll be worth more.”

“Good work, Ray,” Winters said. Eliza's hair was brown with caramel highlights. His, what he had left of it, was more gray than anything else and nothing anyone would call long. They had no pets, and Eliza wasn't ever inclined to stop and stroke a dog or cat on the street. When it came to people, she wasn't a hugger and it was highly unlikely she'd ever get close enough to any of her customers to transfer their hair to her. “They give you an approximation of how long it'll take?”

“To get the test results back? The fingerprints, Ron's running them now. The hair, I'm hoping for within a couple of days.”

Winters whistled. “That's fast.”

“Attack on a cop's wife? Yeah, they can be fast.”

“Thanks, Ray.” Winters had no doubt his detective had pulled in a heck of a lot of favors.

Lopez glanced at the clock. It was after five. “Not my place to tell you what to do, but you should be off home. That case has waited twenty-five years.”

“I appreciate the advice,” Winters said. “I checked in earlier and fixed Eliza something to eat. She's resting, but her spirits are good.”

“Glad to hear it. I'm going to type up my notes and then head off myself. Madeline's preparing a picnic supper to eat down by the lake. She says it reminds her of her childhood, before the days of home air conditioning, when the nights were hot and humid and her mother couldn't bear to be in the kitchen. Or even in the house.”

“Nice memories,” Winters said.

“Not really. Her mother always made fish paste sandwiches, soggy potato salad, and opened a can of fruit salad. To this day, Madeline hates fish paste and potato salad, and don't get me started on her opinion of canned fruit.”

Winters laughed. “That's what family memories are made of. The good and the not-so-good.”

“I can't imagine,” Lopez said, “what it must be like for families like the D'Angelos where every memory gives nothing but pain.”

“Got a minute?” Molly Smith appeared in the doorway. She'd taken off her Kevlar vest and was fanning herself with a piece of paper.

“Sure,” Winters said. “Hot out there?”

“I might invent breathable bulletproof clothing. I'd make my fortune.”

“I'll take a piece of that action,” Lopez said. He moved to shut down his computer, but the e-mail program beeped to let him know he had a message.

“What's up, Molly?” Winters asked.

“Sophia D'Angelo's brother, Tony, attempted to assault Walt Desmond at the Front Street Diner this afternoon.”

“Yes!” Smith and Winters turned at the shout to see Lopez leaping to his feet and punching the air. “Got him! The fingerprints on Eliza's car? A match. A known scumball by the name of Richard James Anderson. Anderson did three years in prison for sexual assault. He was released on parole six months ago. According to his parole records, his most recent address is given as…ta da…Trafalgar, British Columbia.”

“Oh, yeah,” Smith said. “We're aware of him. Makes my skin crawl just to look at him.”

“I included a picture of him in the photo lineup for Merrill and Eliza,” Lopez said. “They didn't pick him out, but that's not surprising. Among other thing's his hair's a lot longer than when his mug shot was taken.”

Good work.” Winters got to his feet and reached for his jacket. “Let's pay a call on Mr. Anderson.”

“I will pay a call,” Lopez said. “You will stay here.”

Winters dropped back into his chair. “Right.”

“Looks like that picnic's going to be delayed. I'll let you know what Mr. Anderson has to say for himself. Molly, I need a uniform. Want to come along?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

“I want to hear what happened in town earlier, but there's no hurry,” Winters said. “I'll be here for another hour or so. Fill me in if you get back in time, or give me a call at home.”

“Will do,” she said.

After Lopez and Smith left, Winters returned his attention to the old files.

***

Smith was back so soon, he knew they'd had no luck.

“Not at home. He has a basement apartment in a house that's been divided up. The landlady lives in one of the units and she was in. She said she hasn't seen him in a couple of days. We told her to call us soon as he comes back, but not to let him know we were asking.”

“Think he's done a runner?”

Smith shrugged. “He kindly left his curtains open and so, with the landlady's permission, I took a peek through the window. All his stuff seems to be there. It's one heck of a mess, anyway. We've put a BOLO out on him and his car. Won't be long until we have him in our tender care, John.”

He wasn't so sure of that. Some of these people seemed to be able to fly under official radar for a long time, particularly if they had friends of similar mind. He leaned back in his chair and ran his thumb across the surface of his watch. “Tell me about the incident earlier. Did they get into a fight? Walt Desmond and the D'Angelo brother? What's his name?”

“Tony. It wasn't much of a fight. Tony was so far outmatched it was almost funny. Walt swatted him away as though he was a pesky fly. Walt held him off, and that was all. I was no more than ten meters away, and saw the whole thing go down, so no one can get into a he said/he said game. I reported it, but it made me wonder if you're making any progress on Sophia's case.”

“This sort of cold case is very time-consuming, Molly. I have boxes and boxes of documents to wade through. I need to speak to the D'Angelos again, and I'm simply dreading it.”

“My mom said something interesting about Sophia,” Smith said.

“Go ahead.” Winters often wished he could put Lucky Smith on the payroll. She wasn't a gossip, and she didn't interfere in people's private affairs, but she was a keen observer of human nature. She knew just about everyone in the Mid-Kootenays, and those she didn't know, weren't worth knowing. She was involved in many community groups and would be actively working for one side or another on just about any controversial issue that came up. She had a memory for people, and the things they said or did, as sharp as any he'd ever seen. Winters sometimes wondered how Paul Keller could keep up.

“Mom didn't know Sophia or her family, but she did know that not everyone thought Sophia was the paragon of virtue the papers painted her as. I've glanced over some of the reports. Everyone said what a nice person she was. That's normal in a high-profile case. I guess I'm just thinking if that wasn't true…”

“She might have had enemies,” Winters said. A murder investigation was often about digging up the dirt. Uncovering hidden secrets. Secrets of the dead person; secrets of someone who might have wanted them dead; secrets, sometimes, of a great many innocent people. When a death was as brutal and widely publicized as this one had been, people believed it was important to show respect, not only for the deceased, but the grieving family. Anything, any rumor, any suspicion, which shone a bad light on the victim had to be buried deeply. It was an important skill for an investigating detective to be able to worm out dark secrets from a witness who might only be wanting to do what they saw as the right thing.

If there was one thing Doug Kibbens appeared not to have been it was a skilled interrogator.

“What are you thinking?” Winters asked.

“A boyfriend she ditched, maybe?” Smith said. “Someone's boyfriend she stole. Did you come across anyone like that?”

“The case was shoddy, Molly. And that's the problem. Kibbens questioned her current boyfriend. He worked as a bartender and was at home alone that afternoon. He had no alibi, but his clothes had no blood on them and his fingerprints were not found at the scene. He was soon eliminated from their inquiries. Then again, everyone, except for Walt Desmond, was eliminated almost immediately. There was, however, one point of interest. I passed over it thinking it wasn't significant, but you're reminding me. The boyfriend said he and Sophia had been going out for about three months, but he'd never met her parents. They, on the other hand, insisted she didn't have a boyfriend. She told her coworker her boyfriend had given her the missing bracelet, but her parents said Sophia had bought it for herself. There seems to have been no attempt, at least not that I can find, to locate any other boyfriends, either current or in her past. Sophia had been at university before moving back home in the summer, but it doesn't appear that Kibbens so much as attempted to contact anyone she might have known there.”

“What about that boyfriend? Is he still around? Does he have anything to say?”

Winters shook his head. “I'd like to talk to him, but the file says he was from Australia. He left Trafalgar a few months after Sophia's death. The trail's going to be difficult to pick up.”

“Here's an idea. The brother, Tony, was with Meredith Morgenstern when I saw them. She witnessed the altercation.”

Winters groaned.

“That made me think. What about Tony or Gino D'Angelo? Were they ever considered suspects?”

“No. Tony was still in high school, and he was at basketball practice that afternoon. Gino worked for the city, he's an accountant, and was at his desk in city hall at the time his daughter died. Mrs. D'Angelo was home alone, but she'd phoned her mother to wish her a happy birthday at four, and the police have a record of the call. She used a landline. Not many people had cell phones back then.”

“Sophia died on her grandmother's birthday? That's so sad. It was in January, right?”

“January 15.” Winters sucked in a breath.

“What?” Smith said.

January 15.
Where else had he seen that date recently? He swung back to his computer and scrambled through the files, while Smith watched with a questioning look on her face.

Sophia D'Angelo had been murdered on January 15, 1991.

Sergeant Doug Kibbens had died in a car accident, a suspected suicide, on January 15, 1992. Exactly one year later.

Coincidence? It could be. But John Winters didn't put much stock in coincidence. He opened the report on Kibbens' accident. He felt Smith's breath on his neck as she leaned over his shoulder to read along.

“That was the investigating officer?” she said.

“Yes.” Kibbens' car had burned on impact but not been totally destroyed. A full forensic analysis of the wreck and the scene had been done. No evidence had been found pointing to any foul play or tampering of the vehicle. The brakes or brake lines did not appear to have been interfered with.

“Single-vehicle accident. Middle of the day. No witnesses,” Smith said. “You think suicide?”

“Yeah. Barb says that's what they thought, too, but out of respect they covered it up in the report. No one can say for sure. He might have had a heart attack behind the wheel. There wasn't much left of him for the autopsy. It's the date that interests me. And it interests me a great deal. Anniversaries are important things. A year is nothing other than one more ride around the sun, but people remember dates. Birthdays. Weddings. Deaths. Sometimes deaths most of all.”

“Why would Kibbens have killed himself on that day?”

“Precisely the question, isn't it? He was an experienced cop. He'd seen a lot. He'd spent some time in Edmonton and in Calgary. Big city, big-city crime. The D'Angelo scene was ugly and messy, but any cop who's attended at a traffic fatality has seen worse.”

Smith grimaced.

“There was nothing about that case that should have bothered him so much he'd kill himself a year later. Unless…”

“Unless,” Smith finished the thought, “he killed her himself.”