Violent Crimes (19 page)

Amanda had a court appearance in Washington County in the afternoon and needed her car, so she drove to work at seven that morning. It was pitch-black when she left her garage and started to walk to her office. Suddenly the caws of hundreds of crows echoed through the canyon of high-rise buildings that lined the street. The eerie cacophony set her nerves on edge, and she looked around for the source of the unearthly sound.

Tall trees had been planted on both sides of Sixth Avenue. Amanda looked up and shuddered. Hundreds of crows perched on the highest tree limbs. The death-black birds radiated menace, and their call grated on her. They seemed to be waiting for the order to attack, like the predatory birds in the Hitchcock horror film. Amanda walked faster, and her heartbeat didn't slow down until she was in the lobby of the Stockman Building, with solid walls between her and the crows.

She gave one last look through the glass doors and noticed a woman standing across the street. She was wearing a business
suit and had short black hair, and something about her looked familiar. It wasn't the suit or the haircut—it was her build! She had the same build as the heavyset blonde who had ridden up to her floor in the parking garage when Tom Beatty had been waiting for her. Amanda stared at the woman, but a bus drove by and blocked her view. When the bus had passed, the woman was nowhere to be seen. Amanda shook her head. It couldn't be the same woman. They were dressed differently and their hair color and styles were completely different. Amanda decided that she was still unnerved by the crows and that her fear was playing tricks with her imagination.

Amanda took the elevator to her floor and had just turned on her computer when Kate Ross burst into her office and dropped the morning paper on her desk.

“Have you seen this?” Kate asked, pointing at the headline.

Amanda swore as she read the lead article about Reginald Kiner's murder.

“When Tom told me he thought Reginald Kiner was involved in this mess, Kiner's name rang a bell but I couldn't remember where I'd heard it before. Then I remembered. You told me that Greg Nowicki used Carol White as an informant about ten years ago to bust a mid-level drug dealer.”

“Kiner was Nowicki's partner! He knew Carol White!”

“Exactly. He knew Nowicki used White as an informant, so he could set up Tom by paying White to go to Nowicki with her bullshit story about Tom selling drugs.”

“I just interviewed Neil Denton,” Kate said. “He was IA when Kiner was with PPB. He was investigating Kiner.”

“Why?”

Kate told her boss what she'd learned from Denton.

“Damn,” Amanda said when Kate finished. “Kiner had to be involved in this. He might have been our best chance of clearing Tom and Brandon. Now he's dead.”

Amanda sounded more dejected than Kate could ever remember.

“He's not our only chance,” the investigator said. “We still have Hamilton.”

“Yeah, but he can stonewall now that Kiner's dead and can't hurt him,” Amanda said.

“He'll still be scared of what Tom can do to him.”

Amanda let her chin sink to her chest and sighed. “Okay, let's see if we can bluff Hamilton.”

A dangerous-looking man holding an automatic weapon signaled Amanda to stop as soon as she turned into the drive that led to Mark Hamilton's house. As the man approached the driver's window, he spoke into a radio.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“Yes, we'd like to talk to Mr. Hamilton.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“No, but why don't you tell him that Amanda Jaffe and Kate Ross, friends of Tom Beatty, would like to chat.”

The guard tensed when Amanda spoke Beatty's name. Then he backed away and talked into the radio so low that Amanda couldn't hear what he was saying. A short time later, he told Amanda to drive to the end of the road and park.

A fire-engine-red Porsche was positioned near the front door
of Hamilton's house. While Amanda was parking, another guard walked up to her window.

“Please step out of the car,” he commanded. “I've got to search you before you can go inside.”

“No problem,” Amanda said.

After the man did a professional pat-down the women were escorted into the house, where another bodyguard was waiting.

“Wow,” Amanda thought, “something really shook up Hamilton.”

She wondered if it was Kiner's murder, the fact that Tom Beatty was still at large, or both of the above.

Hamilton was waiting for them in his den, dressed in a warm-up suit and T-shirt. He was unshaven, his hair was in disarray, and he looked like a train had run over his face. Angela Forsythe, a Waspy, blonde beach girl with a UCLA law degree, was sitting next to him. Angela was a formidable defense attorney whom new DAs frequently underestimated because of her airhead-blond looks.

“Angela,” Amanda said with a nod.

“Amanda,” Angela answered.

“Are those your wheels parked by the front door?”

“You bet,” Angela answered with a smile.

“Are you going to pay them off with the fee you get for representing Mr. Hamilton?”

Angela laughed. “I guess you didn't take the class in tact at charm school. But, yes, Mr. Hamilton has retained me. So, what can we do for you?”

Amanda stared directly at Hamilton, who wouldn't meet her eye.

“Kate and I have a confidential matter we'd like to discuss with your client that concerns a client of ours.”

Angela started to speak, but Hamilton waved her off. Though it was early in the morning, he was holding a glass half filled with liquor. When he spoke, his speech was slurred, and Amanda deduced that this was not his first drink of the day.

“Why don't you wait outside,” Hamilton told his lawyer. “I don't think we'll be long, and I can call you in if I think it's necessary.”

“I don't know if that's such a good idea,” Angela said.

“Well, I do. So please step out.”

Angela colored, but she picked up her attaché case and left the room. While she was leaving, Amanda studied Hamilton's face.

“You don't look so good,” she said.

“Your psycho client did this,” Hamilton answered angrily, pointing to the stitches on his cheek and the tip of his ear.

“Is that why you have all the firepower guarding you?”

“What do you want?” Hamilton asked, ignoring Amanda's question.

“I'm sorry Mr. Beatty hurt you, but he did have some provocation. Murdering his friend Christine Larson, then trying to frame him by putting her body in his bedroom . . . Well, anyone would be a tad upset if that happened to them.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Hamilton insisted. “That's what I told him, but he still broke my nose and cut off part of my ear.”

“Have you filed a complaint with the police?”

“That's none of your business.”

“So you haven't told the authorities that Dale Masterson hired Reginald Kiner to murder Miss Larson?”

“That's not true. Anything I told Beatty I said to stop him from cutting me. I was scared to death, so I fed him what he wanted to hear to get him out of my house.”

“You know Mr. Kiner was murdered last night, right?”

“The cops were already here. Did Beatty kill him?”

“I have no idea who shot Mr. Kiner, but if I were you I would worry if it was Mr. Beatty.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice panicky.

“With Kiner dead, you're the only person who can tell the police Mr. Beatty didn't kill Christine or your law partner.”

“Why would I do that? I think the man's a lunatic who is perfectly capable of beating Christine and Dale to death.”

“But you know he didn't, because you know Kiner and Masterson were involved.”

“I know no such thing.”

Amanda stood up. “If that's your position, I guess there's no reason for me to stay.”

“Wait—do you know how to get in touch with Beatty? Can you assure him I had nothing to do with Christine Larson's murder or the attempt to frame him?”

“Mr. Hamilton, I have no idea where Tom Beatty is hiding and no way to get in touch with him, but—if I did—why would I tell him you're an innocent party?”

“Because he might kill me if you don't.”

“You have all these bodyguards to protect you. I'm certain you'll be fine, especially if you're innocent.”

“Get out.”

“We'll go, but you should think about something: Once Tom's name is cleared, he won't have any reason to come after you.”

Angela was waiting in the hall outside the den.

“He's all yours,” Amanda said as they passed her on their way to the car.

“How come Angela drives a Porsche and you're driving a ten-year-old Volvo?” Kate asked as they drove away.

“I don't have self-esteem issues,” Amanda said.

Kate smiled. Then she got serious. “If Hamilton doesn't crack, we're at a dead end.”

“It looks that way,” Amanda answered with a sigh.

The two women drove in silence for a while, both working mentally on a way to unknot the problem Kiner's murder had created.

“What do we know about our killer?” Amanda asked.

“He's got a connection with Kiner, but that could be for one of two reasons. If Kiner was arranging hits for money for Masterson and Hamilton, he has probably done the same thing for other people. And then there's his job, which involves dealing with dangerous people in trouble spots all over the world. So he could have been killed because of something he was doing that had no connection with our cases.”

“What's possibility number two?” Amanda asked.

“If the person who killed Kiner was involved in Larson's and Masterson's murders and the attempts on Tom Beatty's life, Kiner was probably killed to keep him from talking.”

“Mark Hamilton is the obvious suspect.”

“It could also be someone else we don't know about.”

Amanda swore. “I was starting to think I had a handle on this case. Now I have no idea what's going on.”

Moments after Billie Brewster rang Veronica Masterson's doorbell, a brown-skinned maid in a crisp white uniform opened the door. Billie flashed her badge and told her that they wanted to speak to the lady of the house. While they waited, Billie looked around the Masterson property. She spotted three gardeners. One was pruning hedges, one was mowing the lawn, and one was on his knees, working in a flower garden. Billie thought about the tiny cottage where she and Sherman had grown up. The lawn was a small brown patch overrun by weeds and surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence. If flowers ever grew in it, Billie had never seen them.

“Senorita Masterson is by the pool,” the maid said when she returned. “This way, please.”

Any evidence that the Masterson house had been a crime scene had disappeared, and there was a notable absence of the stench of death when they passed the den. The maid led the detectives through a massive living room and out a set of French windows that opened onto a wide flagstone patio. A narrow strip
of lawn separated the patio from a large pool. Veronica Masterson was stretched out on a lounge chair, clothed—if you could call it that—in a skimpy, yellow string bikini that was unlike any widow's weeds Billie had ever seen. Veronica's eyes were hidden behind a pair of designer sunglasses.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Masterson,” Billie said.

“Have you caught Dale's killer?” Veronica asked without turning her head.

“Not yet, but we're getting close. That's why we're here. We have a few questions we'd like to ask you.”

“Okay.”

“You seem to be handling your grief well,” Billie said.

“Life goes on,” Veronica answered with a brief shrug. “Dale and I weren't married that long. I mean I miss him, you know, but . . .” She shrugged again.

“Yeah,” Billie said. “I get it. So, we heard you made out pretty well.”

Veronica turned her head toward Billie. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“The will—we heard you got this house and a lot of dough. Not a bad return for such a short investment.”

“Why do you care?”

“When a person is murdered we always ask who had a motive,” Billie said.

“Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting? That I might have . . .”

She paused, her mouth agape, giving the impression that she was speechless. Then she laughed.

“Did you ever meet Dale? Do you know how much bigger
than me he was? You try telling a jury that I beat him to death and they'll fall over laughing.”

“Oh, we never thought for a moment that you could do the deed, but you or your boyfriend could have hired someone to do it for you.”

“What boyfriend?” Veronica asked, and Billie thought she sounded nervous.

“There are rumors about you and Mark Hamilton. Are they true?”

“I don't like where this conversation is going. I think you should leave.”

“One more question, then we will: Where were you between seven thirty and nine thirty last night?” Billie asked.

“Why? What happened last night?”

“The prime suspect in your husband's murder was shot to death,” Billie said, staring hard at Veronica to catch her reaction.

“Who was he?”

“A man named Reginald Kiner. Ever heard of him?”

“No, and if you think I shot him . . .”

Before she could complete the sentence, a muscular, bare-chested man in a black swimsuit walked across the lawn. Billie put him in his mid-thirties. He had wavy black hair and clean features. In a TV movie he would be the club tennis pro who was screwing the rich widow. Billie wondered if life might be imitating art.

“Any problems, babe?” the man asked as he looked back and forth between the detectives.

“None whatsoever.” Veronica smiled. “Derrick, can you tell these nice detectives where we were last night between seven thirty and nine thirty?”

Derrick blushed. “Where we were
exactly
?”

“No need to be shy. We're all adults,” Veronica answered.

“Uh, in Veronica's bedroom.”

“The whole time?” Billie asked, knowing what he'd answer but asking just the same.

Derrick nodded.

“Satisfied?” Veronica asked.

“For now,” Billie answered. She started to leave, but halted and turned to Derrick.

“You aren't a tennis pro by any chance, are you?”

Derrick looked confused. “No, I'm an electrical engineer, why?”

“Just an idea I had,” Billie said before she turned her back on the lovebirds ands led Hotchkiss back to their car.