Vixen (14 page)

But even with the victim a prominent member of society, their investigation was likely to be superficial. Andrew Vorhees had a considerable amount of clout, and unless he had good reason to suspect foul play, he'd want the case closed quickly and with the least amount of publicity. The final verdict, in all likelihood, would be accidental death.

Which meant that unless Kenneth Beckett could be talked into testifying against his sister, she and Frank Chaleen would get away with cold-blooded murder.

 

16

Tamara, Runyon, and I held an early conference in her office the following morning. After hearing Jake's account of Margaret Vorhees' death—he'd notified us both after the police let him leave St. Francis Wood—it seemed pretty clear what Cory Beckett's motives were; we all agreed on that. Payback for the attempted frame-up was part of it, but the primary motive had to be greed: with the present Mrs. Vorhees out of the way, Cory had a clear shot at becoming the next in line. Marrying fat cats, as Tamara pointed out, had been her deal all along.

At first consideration, it seemed incredible that the murder plan had been carried out only two days after Runyon had confronted Frank Chaleen. But the more you considered the principals and the issues involved, the less untenable it seemed. Cory Beckett was whip-smart, bold, relentless, deadly clever, a brilliant manipulator of men, and at least a borderline psychotic—certainly unbalanced enough to consider herself invincible. She would not have gone ahead if she hadn't believed they would get away with it.

Timing was the primary reason: Margaret Vorhees had to die before her brother's trial. Once the woman was dead, Cory could work on Andrew Vorhees, as next of kin, to use his influence with the DA's office to drop the theft charge. Clearly she had no qualms about using Kenneth—shifting the frame to him had gotten her off the hook so she could plan her revenge—but she cared just enough not to want him to go to prison. As wicked as she was, in her own way she was still her brother's keeper.

Margaret Vorhees' death had been carefully manufactured. And she'd kept herself and Kenneth from being suspects if the police questioned the accident setup by inviting Vorhees to their apartment last night—perfect alibis for both of them. Chaleen was obviously putty in her hands; if he'd had had any qualms about doing the dirty work, she'd beguiled him into it the same way she'd hooked him in the first place—by using sex and the promise of a large cash payoff once she was married to Vorhees. As Tamara said, “Chaleen's the kind of dude who can be bought. Now particularly, with his business in trouble and a string of debts piling up. Plus he's a risk taker, like her. Willing to do whatever's necessary for the big prize.”

If Cory suspected it was her brother who was responsible for the tip-off to Runyon, it probably wouldn't matter all that much to her. She'd always been able to control Kenneth, the same as any other man. And she knew that he had no hard evidence to pass along; that without it, Tamara and Jake and I could not afford to take our suspicions to the police. Runyon had done the right thing last night. If I'd been in his place, I'd have kept my mouth shut as well—and hated having to do so as much as he did.

I asked Jake how he thought Kenneth would react to the news of Margaret Vorhees' death.

“If he accuses his sister, she'll just play innocent. The monoxide job looks like an accident—she'll swear to him that it was, that neither she nor Chaleen had anything to do with it.”

“But he'll know she's lying. Is there any chance he'll be upset enough to defy her, go to the police on his own?”

“The way I read him, no, not much. More than likely he'll end up doing what he's always done—giving her the benefit of the doubt.”

“Real love-hate thing there,” Tamara said.

Runyon said, “That's what's tearing him apart. He wants to break loose from her, but he can't do it on his own. Took about all the courage he had to run off to Belardi's, and he only managed that because he's terrified of going to prison.”

“Must have some guts to reach out to you the way he has.”

“Desperate cry for help, not an act of courage.”

I said, “Sees you as an authority figure, a father confessor.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“You think he'll contact you again?”

“He might if he can get away from her long enough to use a phone. Figures she took his cell away from him after bringing him back from Belardi's.”

“If you do hear, try to get together with him again in person and convince him to do the right thing. From what you've told us, he's not too coherent on the phone. And you seem to be the only person besides his sister he'll listen to.”

Tamara said musingly, “You know, one thing bothers me. That gun Kenny found. He claims Cory never owned a piece before. And Chaleen didn't use it or need it last night. Then why did she buy it?”

“Protection's the obvious answer.”

“Who from? Chaleen? No reason for her to be afraid of lover boy Vorhees.”

“That we know about,” I said. “She may not have either of them as tightly controlled as we surmise, Chaleen in particular. The gun could be an insurance policy.”

“Here's another idea. She bought it for some new scheme she's cooking up.”

“Such as?”

“Who knows? Bitch is capable of anything, right? Any damn thing at all.”

“Whatever the reason,” Runyon said, “I wish I knew what she's done with it. I don't like the idea that it's still in the apartment.”

“If it is, she's got it hid this time where Kenny can't find it.”

“Let's hope so.”

“You don't think she'd use it on him?”

“That's not what worries me.”

“Kenny using it on her?”

“Not that, either. I doubt he's capable of harming her, or else he'd have done it long ago.”

“Uh, oh. Use it on himself, then?”

“That's it.”

I said, “He strike you as potentially suicidal, Jake?”

“No, but there's no way to be sure. He's weak, scared, on the ragged edge. Hates himself as well as his sister. If the trial goes badly, if there's enough pressure to push him over the line, he might decide killing himself is his only way out.”

The phone rang just then, as if to add an exclamation point to Jake's words. Tamara slid her chair around to answer the call. Listened, raised an eyebrow in Runyon's direction, listened some more. “I'll see if he's available,” she said, tapped the hold button, and said to us, “Andrew Vorhees' secretary. Man wants to see Jake ASAP.”

Well, we might have expected it, though not this soon. Runyon and I exchanged glances; he nodded, and I said to Tamara, “Go ahead and make an appointment.”

She did that. “Vorhees' office at eleven,” she said when she broke the connection. “Man's wife dies last night, he's in his office bright and early this morning. Business as usual.”

Runyon said, “He'd say it was his way of keeping his mind off his loss.”

“Yeah, sure. What'll you tell him when he asks why you were out at his house?”

“Nothing that'll reflect badly on us. Play it by ear.”

“Right.”

“There's another way to handle it,” I said.

Tamara raised an eyebrow. “What way?”

“Jake and I both keep the appointment. Double up on him. Two are more convincing than one.”

“What do you mean, convincing?”

“There doesn't seem to be much we can do to prove Cory and Chaleen are murderers, at least not directly. But there is something we can do to rock the boat she doesn't want rocked. If we work it right, we might even be able to punch enough holes to sink it.”

 

17

When you faced Andrew Vorhees in his plush Civic Center office, it was easy enough to see how he'd been able to forge a successful political and business career despite his scandal-ridden private life. He cut an imposing figure behind a broad cherrywood desk: lean, athletic body encased in a black silk suit that must have cost a couple of thousand dollars, thick dark-curled hair whitening slightly at the temples, craggy features, piercing slate-colored eyes. The kind of self-confident, strong-willed mover-and-shaker who dominates most any room he's in.

If he was bothered at all by the fact that I'd accompanied Runyon, he didn't show it. There was no delay when his secretary announced us, and no visible reaction when she showed us in. Just one question to me: “Who are you?” I told him and he nodded and let the matter drop.

He wore a tight, solemn expression this morning; that and the black suit were his only sops to being newly widowed. If he'd had any feelings left for his dead wife, they were well concealed. When I said, “I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Vorhees,” and Runyon added his condolences in turn, he made a vague gesture as if we'd expressed sorrow over the fact that the weather wasn't better today. He tight-gripped each of our hands for a few seconds while his eyes probed ours: trying to read us and at the same time let us know he was the alpha male here. Jake and I showed him about as much of the inner man as he was showing us, just enough so that he understood we were not intimidated by him.

The first thing he said after we were seated was, “I've never known any private detectives before.” He didn't quite make the words “private detectives” sound like an indictment, but close enough.

“A business like any other,” I said.

Vorhees picked up a turquoise-and-silver letter opener, held it between thumb and forefinger and tipped it in Runyon's direction. Bluntly, he asked, “Were you working for my wife?”

“No.”

“Never had any dealings with her?”

“Not before last night. I never met her while she was alive.”

“Then what were you doing at my house?”

“I went there to talk to her.”

“About what?”

“Things I felt concerned her.”

I said, “The same things I spoke to her about three days ago.”

Vorhees frowned at that. “Oh, so
you
had dealings with her.”

“Of a sort.”

“What does that mean? What did you speak to her about?”

“Relationships, mainly.”

“Margaret and I were separated—I suppose you know that.”

“I'd heard as much.”

“Well?”

“Not your relationship with your wife. Yours with Cory Beckett.”

Vorhees' spine stiffened. He made another jabbing motion with the letter opener, toward me this time, before he said, “Even if that were true, my private life is none of your affair. Nor was it any of my wife's affair. I told you, we were legally separated.”

“Are you denying a relationship with Cory Beckett?”

“I don't have to confirm or deny anything to you.”

“No, you don't. But it so happens I saw you coming out of her apartment building about a week ago. I mentioned it to her, but evidently she didn't mention it to you.”

She hadn't. His effort to hide the fact didn't quite come off. “What were you doing there?”

“She was my client at the time. I don't have to tell you she hired our firm to find her brother when he disappeared three weeks ago. One reason I went to see her that day was to inform her that we'd located him, or rather Mr. Runyon had.”

“One reason?”

“The other is that I don't like being lied to.”

“By Cory Beckett? About what?”

“Why don't you ask her?”

“I'm asking you.”

“The theft her brother's charged with,” I said. “The fact that it was a frame-up and she was the intended target, not him. The fact that it was her idea he take the blame and that she had help shifting it to him.”

The skin across Vorhees' forehead bunched into ribbed rows. He let the letter opener drop with a small clatter on the desktop.

“Bullshit,” he said.

“Facts.”

“How could you know all that?”

“We're detectives, remember?”

He didn't say anything for a time. Then, “Why would Cory want to frame her brother?”

“Ask her.”

“The hell I will. I don't believe it. She loves the kid, she's doing everything she can to get him off. She'd have to be crazy to do what you're accusing her of.”

“Or sane and full of schemes.”

“Schemes? What kind of schemes?”

“That's not for us to say.”

“Why the hell not, if you think you know?”

“Legal and ethical reasons.”

“Legal and ethical,” he said, as if they were dirty words.

Runyon said, “Aren't you going to ask us who arranged the frame in the first place?”

“If I thought it was true, I wouldn't have to ask.”

“Or who allegedly helped her shift it to her brother?”

“… All right. Who?”

“The same person allegedly recruited to frame her.”

“Goddamn it, who?”

“Allegedly,” I said, “Frank Chaleen.”

The name rocked him like a blow. He got abruptly to his feet, stood woodenly for a clutch of seconds, then leaned forward and flattened his hands on the desktop.

“Bullshit,” he said again.

“Fact.”

“Cory hardly knows Chaleen.”

“She knows him a lot better than you think.”

“How do you know she does?”

Runyon said, “When Kenneth ran off, he went to a place called Belardi's on the Petaluma River. That's where I found him. He wouldn't leave with me, so she drove up to convince him and bring him home.”

“I know that. So what?”

“Chaleen was with her.”

Vorhees started to say something, changed his mind, and opted for a stony silence.

On the ride down here from South Park, Jake and I had decided to push the envelope with him as far as possible. I'd already taken the biggest chance in suggesting, if not directly accusing, Frank Chaleen of complicity in a crime. Now it was time for the capper.