Barry Friedman - Dead End (3 page)

Nancy returned while Fiala was trying to yank
open the file case. “Mr. Horner kept his personal papers in that cabinet. I
don’t have a key.”

Fiala said, “Mind if we look for it?”

Nancy shrugged. “Mr. Bost said you could see
anything that would be helpful. I guess it’s all right. Certainly he won’t be
needing—.” She didn’t finish the sentence and dabbed her eyes with a tissue as
she walked back to her office.

The key lay in the first place Fiala looked: the
desk drawer, in the middle of a pile of paper clips. The files held copies of
Horner’s will, a trust deed of which he and his wife were grantors, several
brokerage statements and a folder of letters. Maharos flipped through the
letters, using the end of his ball- point pen to turn them. Several were
handwritten, most were typed. He handed the folder to Fiala. “Let’s take these.
We’ll look at them later.”

A loose-leaf calendar lay on the desk, opened to
yesterday’s date. The page opposite the date was noted, “Lawton.”

Maharos leafed through several of the preceding pages.
The handwritten notes on each were, for the most part illegible. Many appeared
to be doodles. He called to Nancy through the open door. “I’d like to take this
calendar and go over it in my office”

An empty white plastic bag lined the wastebasket
next to Horner’s desk. Fiala looked under the bag, found nothing else in the
basket. He said, “Good cleaning service they got here.”

The single desk drawer held, in addition to the
assortment of paper clips, a few blank labels and a checkbook. The stubs were made
out to people whose names meant nothing to Maharos, but he told Nancy he would
take the book along for further examination. Fiala wrote out a receipt for the
items they removed.

Maharos asked Nancy to come into Horner’s office.
He leaned back in the chair behind Horner’s desk, beckoned her to sit in one of
the chairs opposite. Fiala sat in one of the other chairs, the notebook on his
knee.

Maharos asked, “How long have you been working
here, Nancy?”

“A little over three years.”

“Have you been Mr. Horner’s secretary all that
time?”

“No.” She gestured with her chin to the two girls
who were typing in the adjacent area. “I’d been in the steno pool for about six
months. Then, when Mary—Mr. Horner’s secretary at the time—left, I took over.”

“What time did you last see Mr. Horner?”

“At about five-fifteen yesterday afternoon. He
was sitting right here at his desk reading a file when I popped my head in and
said goodnight.”

“Do you know what file he’d been reading?”

“I’m not sure, but I think Mr. Lawton’s file.”

“The arbitration?”

She nodded.

“Did he expect someone to come in after you
left?”

“No. He had no appointments scheduled.”

“Would he have scheduled someone without your
knowledge?”

“I doubt it. He never made appointments
himself—at least without notifying me.”

Maharos said, “Was it usual for him to stay after
you left?”

She nodded. “Mr. Horner was a hard worker, often
the last one to leave.”

Fiala said, “Where did he usually park?”

Nancy pointed to the parking lot, visible through
the window. “That’s the parking lot for the building. He always left his car
there.”

Maharos walked to the window and looked out. More
than thirty cars were in the marked spaces. “Did he have a special space?”

Nancy Taylor walked to the window and pointed to
a place at the far left. “That’s the space reserved for his car—when someone
else didn’t grab it.”

“Did that happen often?”

She smiled. “I can’t tell you how many times he’d
walk in here steaming. He’d yell like Papa Bear, ‘Who’s in my space?’”

“What about yesterday?”

She thought for a moment. Shrugged. “I’m afraid I
don’t know.”

Maharos nodded to Fiala, watched as he made a
note to question the other building occupants. Find out if anyone saw Horner
leave. Check if he’d been alone.

Maharos said, “Was anyone else in the office when
you left?”

She thought for a moment. “No, the other
secretaries actually left a few minutes earlier. Mr. Bost had gone home at
around four-thirty.”

Maharos said, “Do you open all your boss’s mail?”

“Yes.”

“Have you at any time seen anything that might be
considered a threatening letter?”

She shook her head. “No, not life-threatening.
He’s had several letters from clients who were unhappy about one thing or
another.”

“For example?”

“Well, two or three wrote that they thought his
fee seemed too high for the settlement they received. He wrote back or called
each one and explained that the state Industrial Commission prescribes the
amount.”

“Do you remember who they were?”

“Not off the top of my head. But I can look
through the files and get the names for you.”

“I’d appreciate it. Any other unhappy people?”

She thought for a few moments. “I recall one man
who sounded angry, complaining about the small settlement. He accused Mr.
Horner of not pleading his case hard enough. I can get the correspondence out,
but I know Mr. Horner got the maximum allowable in that case.”

“Can you get his file for me?”

“Yes, but it won’t be much help. The man died. He
had black lung disease. I guess even the maximum isn’t enough for something
like that.”

Maharos nodded.

“Nancy, do you know anything about Mr. Horner’s
social life?”

She slipped a cigarette from a pack she held, lit
it and shook her head as she exhaled a cloud of smoke. Uh-oh. She needed time.
“Very little. He handled any social calls himself. Mrs. Horner kept their social
calendar.”

“How well do you know Mrs. Horner?”

“She’d come down here once in a while. I guess
four little children kept her pretty busy at home.”

“Did you and your husband have any social
relationship with the Horners?”

“Ex-husband. No, I never saw the Horners
socially.”

“Or Mr. Horner alone?”

She frowned. “Mr. Horner was a married man,
Detective.”

“You understand why I have to ask these
questions, even though I know they may be embarrassing. The only way we’re
going to find out who killed Mr. Horner is to know as much as possible about
the man. In a homicide investigation, sometimes people try to hide things from
us because the truth may be painful. But sooner or later we find out, and it
saves time to know from the start.”

She nodded. “Oh, of course, I understand.”

“So, do you want to answer my last question?”

“Did I go out with Mr. Horner? No, our
relationship was entirely professional.” She blew a cloud of smoke and jabbed
out the cigarette in an ashtray.

Maharos stood up. “Thank you. I may be calling on
you again in the next few days if anything comes up, if I need answers to any
other questions.”

“Certainly, any time.”

Nancy Taylor led the way out of the office.

In the blue Chevy, Fiala took a plastic envelope
out of the glove compartment. He removed his suit jacket and, from one of its
side pockets, shook into the envelope Nancy’s cigarette butt.

Maharos watched, grinning. “You didn’t believe
her either?”

Fiala shrugged. “Like you always say, take no
chances.”

The Horners’ white clapboard, two-story home was
in an upper middle-class neighborhood. Bikes, toy autos, and skateboards lay
scattered on the lawns, basketball hoops projected above many of the garage
doors.

When Maharos and Fiala drove up and parked in the
driveway, a clutch of onlookers on the sidewalk were gaping at the house A man
in his late thirties, wearing a gray business suit, opened the door partway.
Maharos had his shield case in his hand. “I’m Detective Al Maharos. This is my
partner, Frank Fiala.”

“I’m Tom Hendricks, Sally’s brother. Come on in.”

In the small living room, an attractive brunette
sat in the middle of the couch, an arm around each of the little girls they’d
seen in the photograph on Horner’s desk a few hours earlier. The girls’ eyes
were red and swollen, their lower lips trembled.

Hendricks said, “This is my wife Sue, and Toni
and Karen Horner. Sally’s upstairs. I’ll get her.”

Maharos said, “Listen, if she’s still resting,
don’t disturb her.”

“She’s awake now,” said Sue Hendricks. She
smoothed the hair of the younger girl. “The boys are staying over at my
sister’s.”

Hendricks went upstairs and a minute later came
down with Sally Horner leaning on his arm. She wore a long, blue robe. Strands
of light brown hair stood out from her head like quills, she wore no makeup and
her eyes had a glazed, far-away stare.

Sue Hendricks got up from the couch. “I’ll be in
the kitchen with the girls, Sally.”

Hendricks said, “I’ll stay here with Sally, in
case she needs me.”

Maharos and Fiala stood until Hendricks eased her
down on a sectional chair. He dragged a chair to her side and sat with an arm
draped across the back of her easy chair.

Maharos said, “I can’t tell you how sorry we are
about your husband, Mrs. Horner. We hated to bother you, but it’s important
that we move along with our investigation as fast as possible.”

She nodded but remained silent.

From her zombie-like appearance, Maharos didn’t
expect to get much useful information. “I’m not going to ask you too many
questions. But the most important is: did your husband have any enemies, anyone
who might have threatened him?”

Sally Horner continued to stare off into space.
Finally, in a barely audible voice, she said, “Nancy Taylor.”

Maharos and Fiala exchanged looks.

Maharos said, “His secretary?”

She nodded.

“What makes you think she had anything to do with
it?”

Her eyes narrowed. “They were—he planned to fire
her.”

“When did he tell you this?”

“Two days ago. The day before he—“ She covered
her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook, her sobs silent.

“Why was he firing her?”

Sally Horner slid her hands from her face and
stared at the floor without answering.

Maharos waited but she said nothing. He said,
“Mrs. Horner, was anything going on between your husband and Mrs. Taylor?”

A small nod.

“How did you find out?”

“He—he told me.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.” Her voice grew stronger. “Two
days ago George looked—I don’t know, depressed when he came home. I asked him
if he’d had a bad day. He told me about firing Nancy Taylor. I asked why. He
told me about—you know, sleeping with her.” She paused, gazed at the window.
Maharos waited for her to continue. “He said it happened only once, knew he’d
made a mistake. She kept inviting him to her place. He refused. Finally, he
told her if she didn’t stop pestering him, he’d fire her. She said if he did,
she’d tell me about their ‘affair’.”

“Did your husband say she’d threatened him?
Threatened to kill him?”

“No. But who else could have done it?”

“Mrs. Horner, before he told you, did you have
any idea that your husband and Mrs. Taylor had—been together?”

She snugged her robe close to her body. “I don’t
know. One time, about six months ago, I thought maybe they’d had an affair.
She’s attractive, divorced. Well, you know how men are. But I passed it off.
Told myself I’d been concerned about nothing. Never gave it much thought
again—until—“

“When did you talk to your husband last?”

She gazed at the carpet, her lips trembling,
seemed to be struggling to keep in control. When she looked up her eyes were
brimming. She took a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “Yesterday
morning, at breakfast.”

“Did he say anything about his plans for the
day?”

She shook her head. “He rarely told me anything
about his business.”

“Did he say anything about coming home late for
dinner—or anything like that?”

“No, but he frequently worked late.”

She told them that around eight-thirty when she
received no reply at the office phone she called Harrison Bost at his home. He
said he had no idea where Horner had gone but assured her he’d turn up, “I
thought he might have stopped off somewhere on his way home.”

“At Mrs. Taylor’s?”

Her glance dropped to the floor. She spoke softly
. “It crossed my mind.”

“Did you call there?”

“Nancy Taylor’s home?”

Maharos nodded.

“No. I guess… I didn’t really want to know.”

Hendricks stood up, leaned across Mrs. Horner. He
gently placed his arm across her shoulders. “You okay, honey?”

She patted his hand, smiled feebly.

“Mrs. Horner,” said Maharos, “I know this may be
painful for you, but it’s important that we know. When did your husband and
Mrs. Taylor—become intimate?”

Sally Horner’s eyelids drooped, as though she was
about to drop off to sleep. When she spoke, her voice was low. Maharos leaned
forward to hear. In February, Horner went to Cleveland on a Federal court case.
The case was continued to the next day. He called to tell her that because of
the icy roads he’d stay at a Cleveland hotel.

Maharos said, “Was Mrs. Taylor with him?”

Mrs. Horner nodded. “I didn’t know until later.
They had dinner and a few drinks and then’s when it happened.”

“The only time?”

She shrugged. “That’s what George told me.”

“What did you say after he told you?”

Sally Horner’s lips quivered. “I guess I became a
little hysterical. At first I told George that I couldn’t go on living with
him. I’d get a divorce. He kept on telling me that it happened one time, a
one-night thing. Never happened before, would never happen again.

 
“For a few
hours I…” She shook her head. “Finally, I got hold of myself. Realized he’d
always been a good, affectionate, thoughtful husband. With four young children,
it wouldn’t be easy for me if I lost him. So I told him I couldn’t forgive him,
I could never forget it, but I’d stay with him for the children’s sake. He
promised he would get rid of that. . “

A practical woman, Maharos thought. “A little
while ago, when I asked if you thought your husband might be at Mrs. Taylor’s
house when he hadn’t come home, you said, ‘It crossed my mind.’ Did you worry
that they might be making up, that he might have changed his mind about firing
her?”

Sally Horner took a deep breath before she
answered. “I didn’t know what to think. It seemed as though my world fell
apart. I—I just lost any feeling of security. Before, I never had any reason to
mistrust him. Afterward—after he told me about himself and Nancy Taylor, I
wondered if I could believe anything he told me.”

“Just a few more questions, Mrs. Horner,” said
Maharos. “I know you called in to the Youngstown Police Department around ten.”

“Uh-huh. They said it was too soon to start a missing
person search, but I gave the officer who took the call a description of my
husband anyway. I spent the rest of the night sitting here in this chair,
praying. A lot of good it did.”

“Do you know any reason for your husband being at
Portage Lakes? Do you know anyone there?”

“That’s where they found him, isn’t it?”

Maharos nodded.

“No, I don’t know anyone who lives there—or even
nearby.”

Maharos took a deep breath, let it out. Now came
the tough part. “Mrs. Horner, who was home with you last evening?”

She drew her brows together. “Just the children.
Is that what you mean?”

“Uh-huh. What time did you eat?”

Mrs. Horner’s head came up. She glared at
Maharos, the glaze in her eyes replaced by fire. “Look, I don’t know what
you’re driving at. I don’t remember what time we ate. Six-thirty, seven. What
difference does it make?”

Tom Hendricks had been sitting on the arm of
Sally’s easy chair. He stood, his jaw jutting, color gone from his face. “What
are you trying to do, Detective? Hasn’t this poor girl been through enough?”

Maharos held up his hand. He spoke quietly. “Take
it easy, both of you. There are certain things I’ve got to find out. I know
this is a difficult time for all of you. Mrs. Horner, I’m just trying to
establish where you spent last evening between six and ten.”

Mrs. Horner shouted the answer. “Right here.
Cooking dinner for my family. Feeding my four children. Wondering where my
husband had gone. Worrying because he hadn’t come home. That’s where I was.”

Maharos had expected the reaction. Like a dental
drill burrowing into a tooth, he had exposed a sensitive nerve, the part of
every inquiry he disliked most. But he had to do it. Sally Horner was a
suspect. She had the motive. Whether or not she had the desire or the means to
murder her husband, or have him murdered, remained to be seen.

Maharos and Fiala stood up. They’d learn nothing
more from Mrs. Horner. Maharos already knew that she had been notified when
Horner’s body had been discovered at around six this morning. She had come down
to the morgue with her brother to make the identification.

Maharos said, “I appreciate your talking to us,
Mrs. Horner. We may want to talk to you again later on.”

Sally Horner said nothing. Head bowed, she
silently sobbed into a tissue. Hendricks, seated on the arm of her chair,
gently massaged her shoulder.

At the door, Fiala turned around. “By the way,
Mrs. Horner, do you smoke?”

She raised her head and slowly shook her head,
her voice now subdued. “Not for years, why?”

“Just curious.”

In the car, Maharos said, “Well, let’s go talk to
that secretary again. This time we’ll take her downtown.” He nudged Fiala with
his elbow. “I’m glad you remembered about the tech’s report.”

They had seen a preliminary report from the Crime
Lab. Cigarette butts had been found in the ashtray of Horner’s car. The butts
were stained with lipstick.