A Real Basket Case (12 page)

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that.” When Roger opened his mouth, she held up a hand. “I’ll tell you why in a minute. What I’m saying is that you don’t need to push so hard for money.” A thought struck her. “Or were you pushing for yourself? Do you really want to be a corporate power broker?”

Absently, Roger stroked her arm. “I thought I did. It’s what I’m supposed to want, to be bigger, better.”

“Is that your father talking?” Claire barely remembered Roger’s executive father. Always working late at the office or jetting to corporate meetings, he missed many family gatherings. He’d pushed his son to follow in his footsteps. She didn’t want Roger following him into an early grave from a massive heart attack.

“Maybe it’s my father talking. But how can you blame him, or me? That’s the mindset of the business world. You compete with your peers for the prize, the management positions that are listed in the annual reports. And if you don’t make it, you lose.”

He looked into her eyes. “But I didn’t realize I could lose you.”

Claire caressed his stubbled cheek. “You haven’t lost me. And I hope I haven’t lost you. But we need to work out some issues, maybe get some counseling, if we’re going to salvage our marriage.”

Roger cracked a bleak smile. “I don’t think they offer marriage counseling in prison.” He heaved a deep sigh. “I could very well be convicted, Claire. The police have a good case against me and no evidence for, or interest in, pursuing anyone else.”

When Roger shifted his legs underneath her, she said, “Your sciatic nerve bothering you again?”

“It’s been a long time since you sat in my lap.” Roger grinned. “You’ve put on a few pounds since then.”

“You!” Claire poked his round stomach. “Look who’s talking.”

Glad that Roger still had the ability to joke about something, she got up and resumed her seat on the sofa. But she held his hand again. She still needed to touch him, and though he probably wouldn’t admit it, he needed her touch, too.

Claire noticed a wistful, faraway look had come into his eyes. He seemed to be resigned to his fate. She had to pull him out of the drowning suck-hole of his depression. She shook his hand to get his attention.

“Let me tell you what I’ve been doing. I hope to find something that will convince Detective Wilson he’s got the wrong man.” Claire told him about her meeting with Leon.

Roger stared at her, slack-jawed. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Annoyed at the implication—again—that she was stupid, Claire said, “I met him in the middle of the day, right by a gas station.” The station was almost deserted, but Roger didn’t have to know that. She went on to describe her meeting with Enrique’s drug rival, leaving out Travis’s come-on.

Roger shook his head. “This is terrible, Claire. You’re putting yourself in danger, talking to these crooks.”

Hoping to wipe the horrified look off Roger’s face, Claire tried to joke. “Why would they bother hurting a middle-aged housewife? All they’d have to do is say ‘boo,’ and I’d run.” She outlined her suspicions that either of them, or Condoleza, could have shot Enrique or arranged to have him killed.

Roger listened silently with a pained expression. “None of this is doing any good. I want you to stop.”

“Stop? When I’m making such good progress?”

“Getting threatened by a drug kingpin who knows where you live is progress? No, I forbid it. We can hire Deb Burch to pick up where you left off. You’ve got to stop. You have no idea what you’re doing.”

Claire’s back stiffened. Forbid it? No idea what she was doing? “I’m doing this out of love for you, to prove you didn’t shoot Enrique. Deb’s in L.A. We can’t wait for her to return. You need to show Ned Peters that you’re innocent before he puts you on long-term leave.”

Roger leaned forward and gripped her hand. “I will not let you risk your life to save my job. It won’t do me much good in prison anyway.”

“Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said? I’m trying to clear you so you won’t go to prison.” Frustration welled up in Claire’s throat.

Roger shook his head and slumped in his chair. “It’s no use, Claire. You need to accept the idea of having a convict for a husband. The fact that I’m innocent doesn’t seem to make a hell of a lot of difference.”

Claire could see she was getting nowhere. He was too depressed to save himself. She had to lift his spirits. “Come home with me, then. Let me prove to you how much I still love you. I’ll make your favorite dinner, lamb chops and baked potatoes.”

Roger rubbed his chin for a moment, deep in thought. “Maybe you should get used to not having me around.”

The dejection in his face made Claire want to cry again. “Damn it. You haven’t been around much for years now. I’m tired of it, and I want you home.”

Roger looked away. “I’m not sure I’m ready to come home. You broke my trust. That’s damned hard to forgive.”

About to blurt out a reply, Claire clamped her mouth shut. She could tell he needed to think about the things she’d said. Also, if he came home, she doubted he’d let her go ahead with her plan to break into Condoleza’s apartment. She was determined to keep that appointment. Maybe she could find a clue, any clue, that would prove his innocence.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me right away,” she said. “I know that will take time. I just want the chance to earn your forgiveness.”

Roger nodded, his sad eyes tearing at her heart. “I guess after twenty-six years, I owe you that.”

“I can see tonight is too soon. I’ll come again tomorrow. We can talk more then.” Claire stood and put out her hand. “Will you walk me to the door?”

Roger took her hand. They walked down the hall in silence.

She put on her coat and opened the front door. She squeezed Roger’s hand and then kissed him full on the lips. “I’m not giving up on convincing you to come home.”

THIRTEEN:
THE SLEUTH

That evening, under a
brooding, starless sky, Claire pulled her car into the parking lot of the Faith Redeemer Baptist Church, its spire piercing the black night. The hulking church, with its tall, dark windows that stared down on her like damning eyes, sat two blocks from Condoleza’s apartment building. Claire didn’t want Condoleza, Travis, or one of their neighbors to recognize her car from her earlier visit.

She debated whether to park in the lot behind the church, where her BMW wouldn’t be visible from the street, or under a blazing streetlight in front. The first provided more cover and the second more security. She chose the back of the church.

A glance at her watch showed nine o’clock. She had called the church earlier to ask about evening activities. The secretary had told her the Wednesday night Bible study class met from eight to ten. No one should notice an extra car in the lot for another hour.

Claire pulled on her black stretch gloves. Feeling foolish, she had dressed all in black, like an actor dressing up to play spy. She patted the pocket of her leather coat. The dental pick and screwdriver were there, along with a miniature flashlight.

She peered out the window. At least the snow had stopped. The
lot contained about a dozen other cars, but no people. All the
Bible study participants were inside the church. After stepping out of the car, she locked it and slipped the keys into a pocket. Turning her collar up against the chill wind—and to hide her face—she strode toward Condoleza’s two-story garden apartment building.

“Spare a quarter?”

Claire jumped and stared at the darkened doorway of the dry cleaning store she had just passed.

A hunched, bearded figure in a sleeping bag held out a cupped hand. With his face in shadow, he seemed feral, almost inhuman.

After taking a deep breath to slow her racing heart, Claire said, “Sorry, I don’t have any money on me.”

She hurried on, wondering if the homeless man had gotten a good look at her or if he would try to follow. Her back crawled as she strained her ears to catch any sound of the man’s approach. With her fists clenched, she prepared to run, but a glance back confirmed he hadn’t moved. She decided to return to her car by a different route.

She turned a corner, entered an alley behind the apartment building, and clicked on her flashlight. She shuffled between snow-covered trash cans, mounds of discarded tires, and twisted pipes that cast garish shadows. A long-tailed, hairy creature scurried away from the flashlight’s beam and across her shoes.
A rat? She stifled a scream and stumbled into a battered bicycle. The bike lurched. She grabbed at it, but missed. It fell, clattering against a trash can.

She shut off the flashlight and stood stock-still, waiting for a reaction from the tenants. When she heard nothing, she released the breath she’d been holding. Leaning her hands on her knees, she sucked in deep breaths until her shakiness subsided.
Get a grip, Claire.

She carefully righted the bicycle, switched her flashlight on, and continued down the alley. Finally, she reached a place where she could see the rear of Condoleza’s apartment on the floor above her. A light shone out of one window.

Did that mean they were home? Or did they leave a light on when they went out? Maybe they weren’t going dancing. Claire chewed on her lip and debated giving up on the whole venture.

The light came from the larger window, which she presumed belonged to the bedroom. Another light switched on in the small window, probably the bathroom. A shadow moved in front of the curtain. A toilet flushed. The idea that someone could be getting ready to go out gave her hope.

Claire waited fifteen minutes, stamping her feet and hugging herself to stay warm. Finally, both lights went out. She worked her way to the corner of the building and looked around to the street. Footsteps clattered on the balcony stairs above, accompanied by conversation. She recognized the boisterous male voice as belonging to Travis. She slipped into the shadows of the alley and crouched behind a trash can.

Soon Travis and Condoleza walked past the alley, the girl’s spiked heels tapping a staccato beat on the sidewalk. She twirled and fell laughing into his arms. A whiff of flowery perfume teased Claire’s nose.

The couple’s footsteps stopped, and a car door opened. After two doors slammed shut, the car drove away. Claire forced herself to wait five more minutes.

At last, she crept to the side of the building and glanced up and down the street. Empty. Keeping her steps soft and noiseless, she circled to the front. She walked up the stairs and across the balcony past a half dozen apartments to Condoleza’s door. Again, Claire glanced around. Again, she saw no one.

She licked her dry lips. After removing the dental pick and small
flathead screwdriver from her pocket, she slid both into the deadbolt keyhole. As she had done on her kitchen door, she probed
for the lock pins. Then she heard voices. Her heart leapt into her throat as she whirled around.

Two men, each carrying a six-pack of beer, strode across the parking lot toward the stairs.

Claire darted away from Condoleza’s door. Realizing her haste could look suspicious, she checked her flight and walked deliberately toward the stairs, as if she were leaving one of the apartments. She stood aside to let the men pass and nodded when one said, “Evenin’.”

Stiff-backed, she walked down the stairs and around the corner. Safely behind the building, she closed her eyes in relief and slid her hands into her pockets.

Oh, God.
She’d left the tools in the keyhole. How could she have been so stupid?

She crossed her fingers, hoping the men didn’t go to the end of the balcony and see the tools. After a few minutes of anxious wait
ing, she ascended the stairs again and crept to Condoleza’s door. The pick and screwdriver still protruded from the keyhole.

Claire sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

Determined to avoid any more delays, she worked the dental pick furiously until she heard the click of the deadbolt sliding back. She shoved the door open, slipped inside, and shut it behind her. Leaning against the door, she swiped an ice-cold hand across her sweaty brow. So far, so good.

She flicked on her small flashlight and aimed it low to keep the beam from lighting the apartment windows. Starting her search
at the bookcase under the TV, she looked for papers, photos, anything that might shed some light on the relationship between Enrique and Condoleza, on Travis or even Leon. The flashlight illuminated
an open shoebox of photographs. She sat on the floor, clenched the flashlight between her teeth, and thumbed through the photos.

She found a picture of Leon sitting at a table cluttered with glasses and beer bottles. Flanked by Enrique and Condoleza, he had an arm draped over each. Claire flipped the photo over and read the date printed on the back. Four months ago.

Farther back, she found a picture of Travis, standing with two other men. She recognized one as Leon’s driver. On the back was scrawled, “Someday I will kick Travis’s ass. E.”

Was it written by Enrique, or did Leon’s driver’s name start with “E”?

Below the first scrawl, in a different color ink, written with a different handwriting, it said: “I kicked yours first. T.”

Was the second message written at the same time, in the spirit of friendly rivalry, or was it written after Travis killed Enrique? She pocketed the photo. Maybe the police could make something of it. But how would she explain having it in her possession? She shook her head. She’d figure that out later.

The remaining photos held nothing of interest. She replaced the shoebox and scanned the rest of the bookcase. No papers, only
Spanish-language scandal magazines, a worn Spanish-English
dictionary, and a few TV program guides.

She moved on to the kitchen. A stack of mail yielded only unpaid bills. Opening drawers, she found one stuffed with receipts. She rifled through them and saw one with a sizeable amount for a nine-millimeter handgun from a gun emporium in Woodland Park, Colorado. Dated approximately a year ago, the receipt was probably for Enrique’s gun—the gun that had been used to kill him. Condoleza must have known Enrique owned it, maybe even where he kept it.

Claire lifted the lid of a cookie jar shaped like a sad-eyed bulldog. Inside, a stack of small plasticine envelopes filled with white powder lay partially covered by a handful of gingersnaps.
Cocaine?
She slammed the lid on the jar. No way was she going to touch that stuff.

Down the hall, she swept the flashlight’s narrow beam across a disheveled bedroom. A dresser, end table, and queen-sized bed comprised the furnishings. A musty odor of sour sweat and dirty laundry hung in the air. Clothes, shoes, and newspapers littered the floor. Resisting the motherly urge to pick up the damp towel on the floor, she stepped over a few piles and made her way to the dresser.

She opened the top drawer. A thin journal peeked out from under a pile of women’s thong panties. Claire pulled the book out and opened it. Tiny, cursive writing in Spanish covered its lined pages. A woman’s handwriting, different from the men’s scrawls on the back of the photos, so unless another woman occupied the apartment, virtually impossible, this was Condoleza’s diary.

A date was written in the top left corner of the first page. Claire translated the date into October second, over four months ago.

She hoped her rusty high-school Spanish would be enough to translate the entries. She flipped through the pages until she found an entry for the current month, February, and sat on the edge of the bed to study the text. The names of Enrique, Leon, and Travis appeared on the next few pages.

On one page, Enrique and Travis were mentioned in the same sentence. She studied the words.
Travis tiene envidia de Enrique.
Envidia
looked a lot like “envious.” Maybe Travis was envious of Enrique, of his success. Or jealous. She thought the same word could be used for either envy or jealousy in Spanish. Travis could be jealous of Enrique’s relationship with Condoleza. Claire rubbed her aching forehead. If only she could remember more Spanish.

A rustling at the front door made her head jerk up. Glancing at her watch, she saw an hour had passed since Condoleza and Travis had left.
They couldn’t be home already. Oh God!

With her heart doing a clog dance against her chest wall, Claire shoved the journal in the dresser drawer. She ran to the window, opened it, and looked out. The drop to the alley below was straight
down, with nothing to break her fall but metal trash cans. The fa
miliar woozy tingle that signaled her fear of heights crept up her legs. Claire grabbed the window frame and closed her eyes.
No, can’t do that.
She shut the window.

The front door creaked open. Condoleza said, “But I’m sure I locked it when we left.”

“Be double damn sure next time. We got an investment to protect,” Travis replied. “Get me some ice. My eye hurts.”

“
Imbécil
. Why’d you have to pick a fight with that
hombre
?” Condoleza’s heels clicked on the kitchen floor.

“The bastard was dissin’ me. He asked for it.”

An ice tray cracked, and ice clattered into the kitchen sink.

Frantically, Claire searched the bedroom for a hiding place. She tiptoed to the small closet.
Damn. Crammed full
.

“Here’s your ice,” Condoleza said. “So much for dancing. I’m going to bed.”

Claire’s gaze lit on the bed. She dropped to the floor, on the side away from the bedroom door, and looked under. The bed frame stood high enough off the floor for her to squeeze under. The light from the hallway exposed wadded-up tissues, dust balls, used condoms, and spider webs.

Condoleza’s heels clicked down the hallway.

Claire had no choice. She scooted under the springs.

Condoleza flipped the switch, and light flooded the room.

Claire held her breath but could have sworn her heart thundered loud enough to be heard next door. The wood slats that held the springs above her grazed her breasts and nose. A jagged piece of the slat that should have been over her knees lay next to her legs. Her skin tingled as she imagined spiders crawling over her. She clenched her teeth.

Shoes hit the floor, then the bathroom door closed.

With a shudder, Claire swiped a spider web from her face and hoped the occupant had scurried away.
God, I hate spiders.

The toilet flushed. Condoleza sat on the foot of the bed. The box springs sagged onto Claire’s knees.

Travis walked into the room. “Hey, Leza, you ain’t mad at me, are you?”

Claire turned her head toward his voice and caught a glimpse of two large bare feet stepping out of a pair of trousers dropped on the floor. The feet walked to where Condoleza’s feet were being stripped of their stockings.

Condoleza sighed. “I was just starting to groove, and you had to pick a fight.”

“Sorry, baby.” His feet spread wider.

“Go away.” Condoleza’s tone was firm, tinged with anger.

Travis stumbled back then stepped forward again. “C’mon, I said I’m sorry. I’ll take you out again. Let’s kiss and make up.”

After a moment, a faint smack signaled the end of a long kiss. “I’m still mad.” But Condoleza’s voice showed she was softening.

“I’ll make it up to you. Love ya’ real good, baby.” The smacks and moans of serious necking followed.

Claire cringed.
How am I going to get out of here?

A zipper slowly unzipped. His voice dropped lower. “Let’s make our own music. Stand up and come to papa.”

The springs lifted, and a slinky red dress pooled on the floor at the end of the bed. Condoleza’s feet stepped out of the dress and kicked it aside. Then with toes curled, one foot caressed Travis’s ankle.

Condoleza moaned.

A black lace bra fell on top of the dress.

Claire rolled her eyes.
Oh, God
.