Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 09/01/12 (39 page)

“I just finished the Collins woman,” he said. “Gunshot wounds to the
chest and stomach. Died instantly. Doesn’t look like she had any drugs in her
system.”

“How pregnant was she? How many weeks?”

They talked two more
minutes and Kenner turned off the phone. He glanced backward to see Stitcher
suddenly paying attention.

“That was the medical examiner,” Kenner told him.
“Don’t know if you care, but Kim Collins wasn’t pregnant.”

Stitcher jerked
forward and said, “You’re trying to trick me. Why would she lie?”

“Dunno,”
Kenner said, turning forward.

“I just don’t believe it,” Stitcher said. With
his hands cuffed behind his back, he struggled to find a suitable position on the
seat before flopping onto his side. Kenner heard him hyperventilating.

He
motioned for Brownlee to exit the interstate and park in the corner of a bright
convenience-store parking lot. He locked his Glock in the trunk, went inside the
store, and returned with two cans of Coke. He squeezed into the backseat and
unlocked Stitcher’s cuffs. Stitcher stripped off his suit coat and gulped the Coke.
Sweat streaked his white dress shirt.

“Lying bitch. Now I’m going to prison
because of her lies.”

Kenner said, “Why’d you get the
vasectomy?”

Stitcher froze, then exhaled deeply and fell backward onto the
seat.

“How’d you know? I didn’t tell anybody but Ned, and I know he hasn’t
told you yet.”

“I’m a detective,” Kenner said. “I figure things
out.”

Stitcher flopped his head back against the car seat. “We made a great
couple. We turned heads whenever we walked into a room together. My wife turned into
such a frump after we got married, but Kim was just sexy all the time.” He shook his
head in disgust. “She led me around by my pecker. As soon as I got snipped, she
started moving away from me, like she’d done all she needed to do.”

“I agree
Kim was a looker. Why didn’t you tell her to get her tubes tied?”

“She just
wouldn’t discuss it.” He sighed.

Kenner handed the other Coke can to the
lawyer.

“I’m confused. She wasn’t really pregnant, so why did you think she
was?”

“She told me,” Stitcher said, his voice cracking. “By e-mail. She
wouldn’t take my phone calls—and believe me, I called a thousand times—but a month
ago she sent an e-mail. Just wanted to say hello.”

He started quivering.
Kenner handed him a napkin to dry his eyes and wondered if Brenda had taken the
chicken thighs out of the freezer.

“And I answered,” Stitcher croaked,
“because I was desperate to talk with this woman. I still cared about her. She told
me this stuff about her new husband, how much money he made, the Jaguar he bought
her, their great house, how they met at church in San Francisco. And finally she
told me she was pregnant and had never been happier. Can you believe that? She talks
me into a vasectomy, then gets pregnant by another guy!”

Stitcher slammed the
Coke can against the car-door window.

“Hey, calm down!” Kenner said. “Keep it
under control.”

“Calm down, right,” Stitcher snarled, punching his leg with
his right fist. “I’m going to prison because of that bitch.”

Kenner put the
cuffs on again. They drove to Millerton and took him to the police-station interview
room. Stitcher signed a waiver and confessed into a tape recorder.

“Ned will
be furious with me,” he said, “but it would come to this anyway. Let’s get it over
with.”

“We’ll mention your cooperation,” Kenner said. “How’d you know she was
going to be at the Honda dealership? Did you tail her? Hire a private
detective?”

“No, I thought I was getting over her. Yesterday the mechanic had
a question about part of the repair but couldn’t reach Kim on the phone. He looked
in the glove box and found old receipts with my name and phone number. He called and
said it would be ready the next day at ten o’clock. I mean, she dumps me and I still
get calls about the damn car.”

Stitcher turned to Kenner, his tanned face
growing red with fury.

“I bought her that Escalade, a one hundred thousand
dollar car. Now I’m driving the damn Lexus she left behind. Think about how I felt
every time I turned on the car. I mean, wouldn’t you kill a woman who did something
like that? Put yourself in my shoes.”

“I like your shoes,” Kenner said, “but I
don’t approve of killing women.”

Kenner checked him into the jail. Brownlee
helped fill out the paperwork and observed the booking process. Around midnight they
finished and walked out the back door of the police station onto the cooling asphalt
of the parking lot.

“Man, Kim Collins was some kind of woman,” Brownlee said.
“These men went crazy for her.”

“She went through guys like I go through Big
Macs.”

“Why didn’t Stitcher just buy another car if it bothered him so
much?”

“He was still emotionally involved with Kim. That was his connection.
He loved hating her.”

Brownlee thought about that, but Kenner wasn’t sure he’d
understand. The kid lived his life in low gear. He had such a sheltered existence
that love and hate were almost abstract principles. Finally, the younger man said,
“Well, I guess you figured it out.”

“Hardly. I still don’t know why Kim told
Stitcher she was pregnant if it wasn’t true. And I can’t explain the last
e-mail.”

The detectives knocked on Tony Collins’ front door at eight-thirty
the next morning. The widower was up and dressed in creased slacks, a knit shirt,
and brown Italian loafers. Kenner realized he had a philosophical opposition to
shoes without laces, except for bedroom slippers.

“You should have
called.”

“We made an arrest,” Kenner said. Collins motioned for them to come
inside. They sat down again at the kitchen table and Kenner laid the photo of Kim
and Tony Collins right in front of him.

“Your wife was killed by a man named
Jon Stitcher, a lawyer who lives in Atlanta,” Kenner said. “Heard of
him?”

“Never.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, Kim might have mentioned his
name.”

“Stitcher said your wife sent e-mails saying she was pregnant. That
upset him for two reasons. He still loved her. And he’d gotten a vasectomy at her
insistence.”

“A vasectomy. Holy crap,” Collins said. He walked to the sink,
drew a glass of water, and took a small swallow. He cleared his throat and said,
“She wasn’t pregnant. I’m absolutely sure of that.”

“She said some real mean
things,” Kenner said. He unfolded a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Here’s one
e-mail that was sent last week. ‘Dear Jon, blah blah blah, we just saw the sonogram.
It’s a boy! We’re going to name him Anthony. I’m ecstatic. I hope you find this kind
of happiness someday. Blah blah blah. Regards, Kim.’ ”

Kenner laid the paper
on the picture frame.

“Wow. This is a kick in the gut,” Collins said. “Now I
feel like I didn’t know my wife at all. I feel kind of sick.” He put his hand over
his mouth, burbling, “Excuse me.”

Kenner grabbed his arm and stood, holding
him in place.

“Mr. Stitcher allowed us to look at his e-mails after his
arrest. He received one from your wife at ten-oh-five yesterday morning. That’s hard
to explain, since she was shot to death five minutes earlier.”

Collins moved
his lips, as if to speak, and sat down again.

“Oh shit,” he said.

“We
know your wife didn’t send those e-mails,” Kenner said. “You did.”

Collins
pressed his hands against his temples, as if to squeeze something out of his brain.
He slapped his palms on the table and said, “I didn’t know about his vasectomy. I
really didn’t know. Do you really think the e-mails made him do it?”

“He loved
Kim. Yes, the e-mails made him do it.”

Collins scrunched his face and wailed,
“No, no, no, no. Kim, Kim, Kim.”

Kenner grabbed the photo and held it up to
Collins’ face. “This beautiful woman is dead because of you.”

Collins knocked
the photo to the floor with both hands, causing the glass in the frame to break. He
jerked to his feet, knocking his chair backwards.

“Stop it!” he yelled. “I
didn’t want her killed. I just wanted to hurt Jon Stitcher. I got sick of hearing
about him and his car and their social life and the way he treated her like a
princess. Screw him! So I got his e-mail address and I sent the messages. And I told
that lie about her being pregnant. And you know something? It made me feel
better.”

Collins stood in the middle of the kitchen with his fists balled,
panting like he’d just run a mile. “Screw! Jon! Stitcher!”

Kenner stepped into
Collins’ face and said, “You did it because your wife conned you into getting a
vasectomy too.”

Collins recoiled and deflated, like a rowdy child slapped by a
parent. Shame seeped into his face.

“I gave her everything—a new house, a new
car,” Collins whispered. “I uprooted my life, left my friends behind. But it was
never enough for Kim. I thought one more thing would make her happy.”

He
staggered out of the kitchen, still shaking his head as he crossed the living room.
At the other end of the house, a door slammed.

The detectives drove in silence
until they reached the police station and pulled into the parking spot designated
for the detective’s car. Brownlee left the car running for the air
conditioning.

“I didn’t see that coming,” he said. “How’d you know Collins had
a vasectomy? Stitcher too.”

“Guesswork mostly, based on Kim’s patterns. She
was a very consistent woman. She’d find a man, take their money, get a new car,
bully them into a vasectomy, and move on. She sure liked blond guys.”

Kenner
smiled, but the younger man maintained a stone face.

“Will the DA prosecute
Tony Collins?”

“For what? Being an asshole? It’s not like he pulled the
trigger. A decent lawyer would stop that idea in a second. On the bright side, he’ll
feel like crap for the rest of his life. I’ll call Kathy Minter. Maybe she can help
us keep tabs on Mr. Collins so we can torment him when he moves.”

“I’d like to
go back and slap him around right now,” Brownlee said. “I’d like to pistol-whip the
bastard. He’s awful.”

Kenner looked across the seat at Brownlee, surprised to
hear such anger in the young man’s voice. Overnight, Brownlee had grown bags under
his eyes. Small spots of coffee dotted his white shirt. This was his first murder
case.

“His wife was awful too,” Kenner said. “There’s something I didn’t share
with you, Tim, because I thought you might show sympathy for Stitcher or Collins
during the interviews. The medical examiner told me Kim had her tubes tied years
ago. She wasn’t pregnant and couldn’t have had children if she wanted
to.”

Brownlee blinked hard. “What? So the vasectomies were useless? Why would
she do that?”

Kenner shrugged. “Maybe it was her idea of fun. It doesn’t
change the fact that Jon Stitcher is the killer. It does make me feel kind of sorry
for the guy. I’ll make sure Jennings finds out.”

Brownlee dropped his head
onto the steering wheel in exhaustion and breathed heavily. Kenner let him sit like
that and thought about some of his old cases, the day he met Brenda, and what kind
of sandwich he wanted for lunch. Brownlee finally lifted his head and said, “I
thought I knew who the bad guys were, but now I’m not sure.”

“Tell me when you
figure it out,” Kenner said and opened his door. “Let’s finish the paperwork.
Tonight I’m having dinner with my wife.”

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph
Ellis