Bad Karma (16 page)

“Who hired you to do this?” she demanded.

“Taylor Carver’s mother–”

“I don’t believe that woman would spend a dime hiring you!”

“I don’t believe so either. But she’s suing the owner of the condo that your daughter and Carver rented.” Shannon explained the whole story to her.

“Simply unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head. “I swear that woman must be pure white trash. And that’s the family Linda had to get involved with. Par for the course with her.” She stepped aside, letting Shannon enter past her. “I promised you ten minutes and I’ll give you exactly that.”

She led Shannon from a marble foyer into a room that could’ve been a small modern art museum. The room was large and the ceiling high enough to hold a basketball court. The walls were covered with modern abstract paintings. Shannon spotted Picasso’s signature on a watercolor of naked women done in blue and orange, but the painting that stopped him was one of a temple resting on a foundation of prayer books and pages that had been torn from them.

“My husband collects those,” Mrs. Gibson said to Shannon as she sidled up next to him. “I couldn’t tell you a thing about any of them. Follow me and we’ll talk in the kitchen. You have eight and a half minutes left of the ten I promised you.”

She led him through a living room, then into a kitchen larger than Shannon’s apartment back in Boulder. The living room walls displayed more artwork and family photographs were scattered about on tables and built-in shelves. Most of the photos were either of Mrs. Gibson alone or with her husband. A few had a teenage girl that he didn’t recognize. She was blond like Linda, but had a squarer face that was shaped more like her mother’s.

The kitchen he’d been taken to was all glass and stainless steel. Mrs. Gibson directed Shannon to sit at an oval-shaped glass table and asked if he’d like anything to drink. He told her water would be fine.

“Mineral or flat?” she asked.

“Whatever comes out of the tap.”

She smiled at that, took a bottle of San Pellegrino water from the refrigerator and handed it to Shannon. “I think you’ll enjoy this a tad more,” she said as she took a chair diagonally across from his.

Shannon took out his miniature tape recorder and asked whether she’d mind if he recorded their conversation. She told him she’d prefer he didn’t. He hesitated, but turned the recorder off and put it away.

“Those ten minutes were asked for figuratively,” Shannon said. He tried smiling at her but a dull ache from his jaw ruined it. “I’d hope you’d be willing to spend more time if it meant finding the persons responsible for your daughter’s death.”

“You hoped wrong, Mr. Shannon. As far as I’m concerned, Linda’s responsible for the choices she made and any consequences that followed. I’m through beating myself up over them.”  She gave Shannon a thin, condescending smile. “Oh, I can see from your expression that you’re judging me as an awful mother. That’s your choice, but I’d suggest you have a daughter like Linda and then judge me. Besides, how do I know you’re any good as a detective and that my talking to you isn’t a complete waste of my time?”

“You don’t. I can tell you I solved a fair amount of cases when I was a police detective for six years. And unfortunately, more than my share of murders.”

“You were a police officer for six years?”

“Ten. Six as detective.”

“Where was this?”

“Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

That seemed to catch her attention. “I take it then you’re a better detective than you are a fighter,” she said half under her breath.

“You should see what the other two guys look like,” Shannon said, this time keeping his smile intact. “Could you tell me about your daughter?”

“Tell you about Linda?” She gave Shannon a sad, thoughtful smile. “Where to begin. When she was young she was a sweet girl, always trying so hard to please.” Her mouth began to crumble but she caught it. After the moment passed, she added, “Things changed around puberty. The last ten years it’s been nothing but a battle with her.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“Everything was my fault.” She sniffed a couple of times but her eyes remained clear. “All her mistakes, all her bad judgment, all her problems were my fault. According to her I was responsible for everything that went wrong in her life.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Thanksgiving. She brought her boyfriend with her.”

“Taylor Carver?”

“Yes. What a horrible young man. Impolite, snide, with this ‘holier than thou’ attitude. I could’ve just scratched his eyes out. And of course Linda was in rare form.” She sniffed some more. This time a little wetness showed around her eyes. “I washed my hands of my daughter after that. The things she dared say to me!”

“Which were?”

She shook her head. “I’m not dignifying her comments by repeating them.”

“Anything that might explain what happened to her?”

“No.”

Shannon sighed. “I wish you’d tell me. There might be something in them that could help.”

“There isn’t.” She checked her watch and smiled thinly at Shannon. “You have three minutes left.”

“Was your daughter doing drugs?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me with the way she acted. But not that I know of.”

“Anything at all you can think of to explain what happened?”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

“I didn’t see any pictures of Linda in your living room.”

“You are a good detective, aren’t you? I told you, I washed my hands of her.”

“Who’s the other girl?”

“My daughter, Gloria.” Mrs. Gibson smiled bitterly. “She’s enrolled in private school in France. A twelve month program. This one, I’m not giving any excuses to blame me.”

“Could you give me her phone number–”

“No. I’m sorry. Mr. Shannon, but you’re not contacting her. She’s only sixteen.”

“Her sister was murdered.”

“And she has therapists to talk to. She doesn’t need a private eye. Sorry.” A buzzer went off on her watch, and she again showed Shannon her condescending smile. “And I am sorry, but your ten minutes are up.”

Shannon could tell there was no point in asking for more time. Nor did he think he’d get anywhere even if she gave it. He pushed himself out of his chair and ignored the throbbing in his jaw as he smiled at her. “I’d like to thank you for your ten minutes,” he told her. “I’d also like to talk to your husband. Do you have a phone number where I can reach him?”

She seemed surprised, maybe even disappointed that Shannon didn’t put up a fight for more time. “I’ll give it to you on the way out.” Walking with him, she slid her arm under his. “You probably think I’m an awful person for writing my daughter off like I did, but I’m not! As far as I’m concerned I lost her years ago. Thanksgiving was only the final straw. Mr. Shannon, believe it or not, I’ve been grieving for my daughter for a long time now. I’m so worn out from it, though.”

She stopped in the living room to find one of her husband’s business cards. According to the card, Fred Gibson ran a commodity trading firm in the heart of downtown Wichita. At the door, Shannon asked whether they had any other children.

“Trying to sneak in another question, Mr. Shannon? But no, only the two, thank God.”

“Well, thanks again for taking the time to see me.”

“For whatever good it did you. Have a safe trip back to Colorado, Mr. Shannon.”

Once back in the car, he thought about calling the husband but knew that the wife would beat him to the punch. Instead he navigated to downtown Wichita where he hit more traffic than he would’ve expected, and after a few missed turns, found Gibson’s office address.

The office was on the sixth floor and was filled with dark wood and expensive leather furnishings. The receptionist’s eyes opened with alarm as Shannon approached her and they stayed large as she shifted her view from his bruises to his bandaged hand. Shannon gave the receptionist his name and told her that Mr. Gibson was expecting him. Her expression was a mix of wariness and extreme skepticism, but it changed quickly after she got on the phone and consulted with Gibson. With a warm smile she told him that Mr. Gibson’s office was the first door on the right.

“You don’t by any chance box?” she asked Shannon.

“Excuse me?”

“So many of our clients are into extreme sports,” she said. “Rock climbing, hang gliding, skyboarding. I think people who are into that type of adrenaline rush really get off on commodity trading.” She lightly tapped a finger to her lips as her smile grew larger. “You look to me like you could be an amateur boxer.”

Shannon shook his head. “Strictly street fighting. But only if I’m ganged up on,” he said, winking at her.

Fred Gibson was waiting at the door when Shannon entered. He pumped Shannon’s hand, all the while a confused and harried look on his face. He was a big man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. With his deep tan, solid jaw and sculpted nose, he would’ve been good looking if it weren’t for large and slightly bulging round eyes that gave the impression that he was missing his eyelids.

“Betty gave me your name as, um, Bill Shannon,” he said, his large round eyes trying hard to squint. “Is that right? I can’t recall us agreeing to meet.”

“I’m investigating your daughter’s death. Your wife told me she’d call you and let you know I was on my way over.”

Gibson slapped his forehead in an overly exaggerated manner. “That’s right. Mindy did call. I’m sorry, I don’t know where my head’s at today.” He ushered Shannon to a chair, then sat behind his desk. Like his home, an expensive collection of abstract paintings were displayed on the walls, mostly what looked like sunsets with different shades of yellows, oranges and blues. Shannon picked up a framed picture from his desk of two girls holding hands, both blond and wearing party dresses, one several years older than the other. The older one was Linda, maybe at age thirteen. She was smiling in the picture but a solemn look in her eyes seemed to contradict it.

“Those are my two girls,” Gibson said. He pushed a hand through his hair, all the while maintaining a friendly smile. “I understand you came here from Colorado. I’m sorry, but I don’t know how we can possibly help you.”

“I’m hoping you can give me some insight into Linda.”

He tried squinting again, this time appearing more genuinely confused. “Why would that do any good? From what I understand this was a random act. That a psychopath broke into their apartment.”

“Who told you that?”

“Jim Munson. He’s a police detective here in Wichita who’s been contacting the Boulder police for me.”

“The Boulder police haven’t made a determination yet as to what happened. Do you mind if I tape record our conversation?”

Gibson had fallen into a funk, his eyes dazed as he stared at one of his sunset paintings. Shannon had to ask twice about recording their conversation before Gibson snapped out of it. He gave Shannon’s recorder a confused look before nodding and telling Shannon to do what he needed to.

Shannon placed the recorder on the desk between the two of them, turned it on and asked Gibson about Linda.

“What’s there for me to say? She was my little girl. I loved her with all my heart.”

“From the pictures I saw of her she was very attractive.”

He nodded, his solid jaw pushed out slightly. “Yes, she was.”

“Can you think of anyone here who might’ve been obsessed with her? Someone who might’ve followed her to Colorado?”

He shook his head.

“Never any problems with stalkers?”

“No.”

“Anyone you didn’t know show up at the funeral?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I was in no state of mind to notice something like that.”

“Anything odd occur at the funeral?”

Gibson shook his head.

“Any strange phone calls? Anything odd happen afterwards?”

Again, he shook his head. “Why are you asking this?”

“If it was a serial killer, he might have made an appearance at the funeral or afterwards. Sometimes that’s how they get their kicks. How did Linda get along with her sister?”

“She was four years older than Gloria, but they got along fine.”

“I’d like to talk with Gloria. Maybe Linda told her something she didn’t tell you or your wife.”

Gibson gave him a tired smile. “This has been very hard on Gloria as you could well expect, and my wife and I don’t want to upset her any further. I’ll talk to her. If she has any information, I’ll get back to you.”

Shannon nodded, took out a notepad and made a show of consulting it. “I understand Linda and your wife didn’t get along very well.”

 “No, that’s not true.” He hesitated, put a hand up to his eyes and squeezed them with his thumb and ring finger. “Mr. Shannon, have you ever lost a child due to violence? You have no idea how difficult it is to cope with something like that.”

“I haven’t lost a child, but I have lost people close to me. I have some idea what you’re going through. Your wife, though, she made it pretty clear that she had no relationship with your daughter at the time of her death.”

“That’s Mindy’s way of dealing with it. Blowing up past fights and arguments as a way to emotionally protect herself. But trust me, my wife, in her own way, is in as much pain as I am over this.”

“She told me about Thanksgiving.”

Gibson’s head moved to the side as if he’d been slapped. “What did she say?” he asked, his voice pinched, not quite right.

“That your daughter made accusations against you and your wife. That things got ugly.”

“There were no accusations made,” he said slowly in the same pinched voice. “Linda was very good at pushing buttons, and that’s all that happened. When she wanted to she could have a cruel sense of humor.”

“Can I ask you what was said?”

He shook his head, his jaw pushed further out. “It’s not worth repeating.”

“How about telling me about Taylor Carver?”

“I didn’t like him.”

“Why not?”

“Among other things, he was an opportunist.” Gibson checked a clock on his desk and told Shannon he had to get back to work. “I’m afraid this couldn’t have been very productive for either of us.”

“No, it’s been helpful.” Shannon reached for his tape recorder, but stopped himself, and made a further show of studying his notepad. After flipping through several pages, he asked, “Did you know a Candace Murphy?”