Cold Case (10 page)

All her dreams, her patience, her plans, her acceptance of Robert's fooling around, all of it wasted. And now what? She had no answer. A job? Doing what? She had no skills, no training, a bachelor's degree in nothing much. Not enough to get her a decent job, but enough to make a good governor's wife, or a senator's wife living in a Watergate apartment, until something better came along.

She would have to drop her season tickets to the Hult, to the Shakespeare Festival, her shopping trips to San Francisco, the country club.

She was startled and nearly fell from her chair when she heard a voice behind her.

“Why the hell haven't you answered my calls?” Nick Aaronson demanded.

She jumped up, keeping the chair between them. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“You left the door unlocked, doll. We have to talk.”

“Get out! Get out or I'll call the police!”

He laughed. “Get your ass in here so we can talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“I have plenty to say. Get in here!” He took a step toward her, and she edged back a little. “Careful, sweetheart. It's a long drop. What's the matter with you? You're afraid of me? Why?”

Warily she moved around the chair and he stepped back inside, crossed to the middle of the room, where he stopped, watching her. “You are, aren't you? Why?”

“Did you kill him? Did you?” Her voice rose and she swallowed hard.

“You're out of your fucking mind! Jesus Christ! Come in and sit down. No, I didn't shoot lover boy. Jesus.”

Still moving carefully, she went inside, to the table in the kitchen, and sat on the edge of a chair. He didn't move until she was seated, then took a chair opposite her.

“Is that what you've been thinking? Why you didn't pick up your phone or call back? Are you really crazy?” He rubbed his eyes. “Do you have anything to drink here?”

She pointed toward a cabinet and watched him go to it, take out a bottle of Jack Daniels and pour some into two glasses. He added water and returned to the table, handed a glass to her and sat down again opposite her.

He took a long drink, then said slowly, “You know Robert and I worked a few deals together. They paid off for him. Six hundred thousand.”

She shook her head. “I don't know anything about that, and he didn't have that kind of money.”

“Tellman has it,” Nick said. “Robert passed it on to him. They were building a war chest for when Robert ran for governor.”

“How can I get it?”

“You can't. Forget it. Tellman will find a new boy to back. That's seed money. But, Chloe, baby, there are a couple of pending deals that Robert would have collected on, and Tellman will never see a cent of it. That will be yours.”

She narrowed her eyes and picked up her own glass, took a sip, put it down. “What's the catch?”

“There could be a problem,” he said. “Robert hired a detective three years ago, and he ended up with some pictures that really should not be released to the public. He showed them to me. Good likenesses of you and me. Very good likenesses.”

She felt her lips go stiff and her mouth go dry. Three years ago was when she and Nick began meeting. A weekend now and then, a shorter stay in a motel somewhere, afternoons in his apartment.

Abruptly, she got up and went to the door, where she stood looking out. “Why? Why show something like that to you? Where are the pictures? Why are you telling me now?”

“You're involved,” he said coldly. “I'm building a good business, bigger all the time, and those pictures would ruin it. Four deals in the works would vanish overnight. And, Chloe, they could cause a real investigation, make people ask hard questions about a few past deals and drag Robert right to the center of it. He covered his tracks pretty well, but a real investigation would uncover them. Are you prepared to defend a possible lawsuit? You know how much it could cost you? If you didn't defend it, the estate could be nicked for everything in it. And you'd miss out on Robert's share of the pending deals. That's why I'm telling you.”

She swung around. “You don't have the pictures, do you?” Her voice was shrill. She returned to the table and took another sip of her drink, then a bigger one. “He showed you the pictures and kept them, didn't he? Where are they now?”

“That's the problem,” Nick said. “Where are they?”

She sank back down into her chair and for a few seconds they were silent, regarding each other warily. His expression was as remote and as cold as a stranger's, she realized.

He spoke first. “You have to go back and find them. They weren't in his desk. I don't think he would have left them in Salem. Too many people might have come across them. Did you open the safe-deposit box, look over the stuff in it?”

“I looked. I didn't see any pictures,” Chloe said.

“They'd be in an envelope or something, not loose,” he said impatiently. “Look again, open everything in that box. He could have put them in with other papers. If they aren't in the safe-deposit box, they're in the house, in his things.”

She moistened her lips. “Amy wanted me to leave so she could pack up his things, give them to the church.”

He cursed savagely, drained his glass, stood and went to the counter to pour another drink. “Get back there now, tonight, and start looking. If she found them, what would she be likely to do with them?”

Chloe shook her head. “God, I don't know. Hide them again probably. Burn them. I don't know.”

“You'll have to search her room, too. I'll follow your car back to town. Get your stuff together.”

She finished her own drink and got up. At the door to the bedroom she looked back and asked, “Why did he show them to you?”

“He was cutting himself a piece of the pie. It's the American way.”

Blackmail, she thought dully. Robert was blackmailing him. She felt her fear of Nick rebound. What better reason to kill someone than blackmail? If she found the pictures, she thought then, she would have the same ammunition that Robert had had, but she would be forewarned of the danger.

O
n Friday Barbara dropped in on Frank. “Nothing,” she said glumly. “Dressler was in to ask questions today. David didn't see anyone, or hear anyone following him, so we have to assume a real ambush. No e-mail threats recently. He has a filter on his e-mail, only preapproved people can send to him. So that's a wash, too.”

She was no less glum when she continued. “The doctor wants to release David on Monday or Tuesday and put him in a convalescent home for the next two weeks at least. I told him no. To the convalescent home idea, that is. No security. David's ready to make a jail break, except he's still too weak to do much more than crawl out.”

“Crawling out in a hospital gown might draw someone's attention,” Frank said. “Let's think about where to put him. Not a hotel or motel.”

“Dr. Colfax said he'll need nursing care for a week or two, and he'll start some therapy. Apparently he had significant nerve damage in his arm. He'll be sore and hurting for weeks. Broken ribs take a long time to heal, and opening his chest the way they did to repair his lung guarantees that he won't be self-sufficient for quite a while.”

Frank nodded. “I'm going to pick some beans. I wonder if the rehab clinic would take him in?” He didn't wait for an answer, but went inside to get his colander.

If they had an empty bed, she thought, why not? He would need therapy, which they could provide. They had a nursing staff, and they enforced strict rules about who could enter and when. Dr. Colfax would have to order it, get authorization from David's insurance company.

But first she should bring it up with Darren when he got back, make sure they had an empty bed. She bit her lip. Darren had called every day during the past week, and he and Todd would return on Sunday afternoon, while she was talking to Olga Maas. She had not yet told Darren that she would be tied up when he got home. He was too eager to get back. She had not been able to bring herself to put a damper on his anticipation.

Earlier that week Amy had been dismayed when Chloe returned after only two days. Those damned pictures, she kept thinking. She had to do something about those damned pictures. When it became apparent that Chloe was searching, she had mailed them to herself in Portland, to be put on hold with the rest of her mail.

That Friday she went to Portland for an office meeting, and rented a post-office box. She would check her mail every Friday when she drove up for the office meetings. And that one envelope could stay in the P.O. box.

Back in Eugene on Friday night, while she and her mother were on the deck having coffee, she said, “There's no problem having me work at home, as long as I can get to the Friday meetings.”

“Have you and Chloe had words?” Lucy asked.

“Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“I'm not sure. Her attitude, yours. You're both so watchful, so careful what you say, exactly the way people are if they have quarreled. She wanted to know if you found anything in Robert's pockets. I told her I had no idea. By the time I got here, all his clothes were gone.”

“I'll tell her,” Amy said. “I left all his personal things, the BlackBerry, his wallet, watch, keys, things like that, on his bureau. She must have found them.”

“I don't want any quarrel to erupt,” Lucy said in a low voice. “Chloe has a difficult decision to make, and I want to leave her alone to make it.”

“But she does have to make it,” Amy said. “Obviously you're not going to let her keep living here, in your room.”

“Just leave it alone,” Lucy said. “Don't you bring it up, or even hint at it.”

“Right,” Amy said. “Barbara Holloway said I can visit David tomorrow. Remember when I was sixteen and had appendicitis, you brought in
Candide
and read to me? I was too tired to hold a book, and that was so nice, just lying there listening, maybe dozing a little. I'll never forget how nice it was. I'm going to take
Candide
and read to David, if he'll let me.”

“You hardly even know him,” Lucy said, surprised.

“I feel as if I know him pretty well,” Amy said.

Later that night Amy wandered into the study to get the old copy of
Candide,
and before leaving she pulled the yearbook from the shelf. She opened it to the photos of the graduation class and studied David's picture again. He looked very young, and while not handsome, the hard lines and planes of his face were more appealing than the pretty-boy faces of any Hollywood star she could think of. She closed the book and started to replace it, then realized that the paper she had left sticking out a little was missing. She opened the book again and turned it upside down, fanning the pages. The party list was gone.

Why? she wondered, back in her room. What possible significance could that have for Chloe? She had no doubt that Chloe had gone through the books searching for the pictures. But a party list? Why that? She examined her own room. Two framed pictures of sleek horses, left over from her adolescent love for horses, were slightly askew, her underwear slightly disarrayed, the reference books not in the order she had left them.

On Saturday when Barbara went to the hospital, Lucien and Dora Etheridge were in David's room, and they both looked exhausted.

“We'll go down to the cafeteria for some lunch and leave you to talk,” Lucien Etheridge said. “We'll be back in about an hour, son.”

Barbara waited until they were gone, then sat in the chair Dora had vacated. “How's it going?” she asked.

That day David's bed was cranked up to nearly sitting position. He looked better day by day, the tubes were all gone now and the IV out of his arm. His face was no longer bandaged, and while bruises were still undergoing interesting color changes, the abrasions were healing well.

“I'm ready to fly the coop,” he said. “Good answer?”

“Pretty good. We're arranging the transfer, probably to a rehab clinic where you can get the therapy you'll need.”

“Do me a favor, Barbara,” he said. “Tell my parents that they won't be able to keep me company after I'm out of here. They should go home, give us all a little rest.”

“Good,” she said. “It's something I wanted to bring up because where you'll be going the staff wouldn't allow it anyway. They go by the rules and have good security. They'll keep you busy with therapy and out walking in gardens. No more lolling about in bed.”

“Music to my ears,” he said.

“This is going to be your call,” she said. “When you feel up to it, we have to have a long talk. You know, inquisition time. But only when you're up to it.”

“Back to the real world,” he said.

She nodded, then looked toward the door when there was a soft tap. She went to the door and was surprised to see Amy McCrutchen.

“Okay if I come in?” Amy asked, looking beyond Barbara at David.

“Come in,” he said. “Forgive me if I don't get up to greet you properly. Next time.”

“I thought, if you like, I'd read to you for a little while,” Amy said hesitantly.

“Good idea,” Barbara said. She turned to David. “I'll have a chat with your parents. See you tomorrow.”

She found his parents in the cafeteria, where Dora's salad looked untouched and she was leaning back in her chair with her eyes closed.

Barbara told them about the plan to move David to the rehab clinic. “They'll probably take him over on Monday,” she said. “But I have to tell you that you won't be able to spend much time with him there. Just regular visiting hours, about an hour a day is all.”

Lucien looked ready to protest, and she said gently, “He's concerned about you and his mother, Mr. Etheridge. He can see how hard this has been on you, and it's not good for him to have anything else to worry about at this time. It would be far better for all of you if you go back home now. He'll be safe at the clinic, and they'll keep him busy with therapy. He'll be very relieved to know you're home getting some rest.”

“It's been hard,” Lucien said after a moment. “Not doing anything but sitting around is hard, Ms. Holloway. We're working people. It's been hard.”

“David knows that,” she said. “He can see it in your faces.”

Dora looked torn between wanting to go home, and wanting to stay with her son.

“You have to consider what's best for him,” Barbara said. “He needs all his strength and willpower to continue healing, and worrying about you saps both.”

“She's right,” Lucien said after another pause. “The weeds are probably overrunning the garden, and things will want watering. We should go home. We can come back for visits and talk to him on the phone.” He looked at Barbara. “He'll have a phone, won't he?”

“Of course, and he has his cell phone. That's not a problem.” She stood and said, “Take your time with lunch, go for a walk or a drive. It's a lovely day, and the fresh air will be good for you. David has a visitor reading to him, and I imagine he'll have a nap afterward. There's no need for you to rush back.”

Mission accomplished, she thought when she left them. Dora was eating her lunch, and Lucien wanted to go home. And now, she added to herself, there was absolutely nothing she had to do until Sunday afternoon. She'd take a walk, shop for a few groceries, change the sheets on the bed. Make sure the house was straightened up a bit, no dirty dishes in the sink. Maybe polish her fingernails. She glanced at her hands and tried to remember the last time she had polished her nails. Her memory failed.

She arrived at the SweetWaters Restaurant at ten minutes before three on Sunday. It was nearly empty at that time of day, as she had suspected it would be. The brunch crowd had left, and it was too early for happy hour. She had reserved a table by a window, and, seated at it, she told the waiter that she would have an iced coffee while she waited for a friend. She had brought a book to read, but she sat gazing out the window at the flashing river instead.

Olga Maas arrived at three-twenty. She was a tall, strong-looking woman, large boned and muscular. Her hair was light brown, straight, shoulder length. Her eyes were brown and deep set, and she had the high, fine cheekbones Barbara associated with Slavic women.

“Ms. Maas?” Barbara said, rising. “I'm Barbara Holloway. Thanks for agreeing to see me. Please, sit down. Would you like to order something to drink, a sandwich? Lunch?”

Olga Maas shook her head. “Just iced tea,” she said.

Barbara had taken out her driver's license to show and Olga waved it away. “After we talked on the phone, I looked you up on the Internet. I know who you are.” The waiter reappeared and she ordered her drink. “You said you wanted to ask about Jill Storey. I still don't know why.”

“You know that Robert McCrutchen was shot dead several weeks ago?” Barbara asked.

“Yes. I read about it. What does it have to do with Jill? Or with me?”

Quickly, touching just the highlights, Barbara explained. “So the fact that he had that file, and that David was renting an apartment in the house, has turned the attention of the investigators toward David. They seem to assume that somehow it's linked to Jill Storey's murder.”

Olga looked mystified. “I don't know why. They were the best of friends.”

“Some people are hinting that he was romantically involved with her, and jealousy might have played a part.”

“For heaven's sake! That's crazy. They were good friends, period. Childhood friends. The girl-next-door, boy-next-door kind of friendship. They made mud pies together. She taught him how to dance. You don't turn that kind of friendship into romance.”

The waiter brought her iced tea and she took a long drink.

“Will you tell me about the key to his apartment?” Barbara asked.

“Sure. Jill was a brain, going after an MBA on scholarships, and she was doing just fine until that spring. She got mono. We were both working at the same restaurant, part-time, just making it, but making it, until she got sick. She couldn't keep working and fell behind in her class work. She had to keep her grades up for the scholarship and she was pretty desperate. She talked to her instructors, pleaded with them, and managed to get extra time to finish things. So she was managing that, but the money was a crisis. We weren't going to be able to pay our rent
and
buy food. We were both from poor families who couldn't really help, or wouldn't.” She sipped her drink and looked out the window, then continued.

“We were sitting at an outdoor café, sharing a Coke,” she said. “David came by and joined us, and we ended up telling him our tale of woe.” She kept her focus out the window. “Anyway, David said he would be leaving on Monday, and he said his roomie, Ted, wanted to keep the apartment for the fall term. He suggested that it might be possible for us to move in, split the rent with Ted, cut our expenses that way. He said he'd call Ted and clear it with him and get back to us later about it.” She picked up her tea and swished it around in her glass. Her voice dropped then as she said, “David called the waitress and he picked up the check. He used a twenty to pay for it and gave Jill the change.