Forged (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (2 page)

Once Dominic was on a stretcher and in the ambulance, I turned to the man who had gotten out of the green car. Strongly built, with a big chest and a thick neck, he had wiry brown hair, brown eyes, and a somehow familiar face.

"Are you Gail McCarthy?" he asked.

"I am." Something in his tone or his stance made me bristle. "Dr. Gail McCarthy. And you are?"

"Detective Johnson of the Santa Cruz County Sheriff's Department." He didn't offer a handshake; neither did I. "You dialed nine-one-one and reported that you found this man in your barn."

"That's right."

"He was already shot when you found him?"

"That's right."

We were both silent as Detective Johnson made a note. I was pondering my reaction to the man, which was one of instant dislike. Why, I wasn't quite sure. A certain sort of forceful overconfidence in his voice, maybe, a tinge of that typical cop's distaste for a member of the general public. Whatever it was, Detective Johnson's manner antagonized me. I wasn't about to volunteer anything. Let him ask.

"Do you know this man?"

"I do. Dominic Castillo. My horseshoer."

"Do you know why he was here?"

"Presumably to shoe my horse." I gestured to Gunner, still tied to his tree.

"Tell me how you found Mr. Castillo."

I recounted my movements as accurately as I could, ending my story by pointing at the gun, which was still lying in the hay on the barn floor. Detective Johnson made notes as I spoke.

At one point he looked up. "He said he shot himself?"

"That's right."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." I shut my mouth firmly on any comments I might have made. Detective Johnson didn't need my opinion.

I watched as the man took a cell phone out of his shirt pocket. "Could you please wait here?" he asked.

Leaving me stranded in my own driveway, he walked far enough away that I couldn't hear him, and began talking on the phone.

Since I could see no reason not to, I moved the few steps to where Gunner stood tied and began to rub his neck. In five minutes or so Detective Johnson was back.

"Please wait where you were asked to do so. This is a crime scene."

"I'd like to put the horse back in his corral and feed him and the others."

"That will have to wait until we're done here."

"And when will that be?"

"I don't know."

I could feel the annoyance building up inside me. "I expect to be able to feed my horses," I said sharply. "Do you know Detective Jeri Ward?"

"I do." Something in Detective Johnson's voice said, And what of it?

"She's a friend of mine," I amended lamely, already knowing it would do no good. Detective Johnson visibly shrugged; I thought I saw a brief flash of outright hostility in his eyes. I tried again. "How long will this horse need to stay tied here?"

"Until the crime scene investigators are done."

"And how long will that be? Give me an estimate."

Detective Johnson met my eyes. "I just called them. I imagine it will take them at least a couple of hours to go over the scene."

"So you don't think this was an accident?" I asked.

Detective Johnson didn't reply to the question. Instead, he asked me another. "How well do you know Dominic Castillo?"

I pondered a minute. "Not well. But I've known him, or known of him, in the way one knows a horseshoer, for several years."

 
"For how many years has he been your horseshoer?"

"A little over a year. But I knew him before he was shoeing my horses. I'm a horse vet; he's a shoer. We both interacted in the same community of horse owners. I saw him from time to time; I knew his reputation. I can't really remember when we first met."

"You say you knew his reputation. Explain."

I started to open my mouth and stopped. What should I say here? More important, what shouldn't I say? There was a lot that could be said about Dominic, but did I want to be the one to say it?

"He has a reputation as an excellent craftsman" was what I did come up with. Detective Johnson looked at me sharply. My hesitation wasn't lost on him.

"And personally?" he asked.

"I don't know him personally," I hedged.

Our eyes met. At that moment a white van pulled into my driveway; both of us glanced in that direction. "Crime scene investigation team," he said briefly. "Could you wait here, please?" And off he went to confer.

I stayed where I was told, this time. No point in aggravating the man further. He seemed to have taken the same instant dislike to me that I had taken to him. I stood quietly in my driveway and watched the crime scene team deploy themselves over my barnyard.

There were at least half a dozen of them, all dressed in beige jumpsuits, two holding cameras. They photographed Gunner; they photographed Dominic's shoeing tools lying on the ground; they photographed his truck, the barn, and, repeatedly, the gun. Others went over the ground closely, searching for something, it seemed. Detective Johnson spoke to one or another from time to time. Occasionally he made calls on his cell phone.

I waited. Time passed. The sun dropped behind the ridge and the golden slant of late afternoon light dissolved into the cool colorlessness of dusk. Gunner nickered at me from his tree. At the sound, my two other horses, Plumber and Danny, neighed loudly in unison. "Feed us," they said.

Staring impatiently at Detective Johnson's back, I tried to bore holes in his head with my eyes. Come on, you asshole, get on with it, I thought but didn't say.

Apparently unaware of my mental daggers, Detective Johnson continued his conversation for a solid ten more minutes before he turned to me.

By this time, I'd had it. Pretending patience for over an hour had worn me out. Wisely or unwisely, I greeted Detective Johnson's approach with a curt "I need to feed my horses and get on with my evening chores. Let's see if we can arrange that."

"You can put the horse in his pen and feed him now," he said. "But I want to talk to you a little more. Can we go somewhere quiet?” This last with a pointed look up my driveway.

"All right," I said resignedly. "Just let me get all my animals fed and we'll go on up to the house."

TWO

The last thing I wanted was to invite Detective Johnson into my home. However, common sense dictated for once. After all, it was starting to get dark outside. And I clearly wasn't going to be done with this guy until he was ready.

Ushering him in the door, I waited, almost automatically, for the positive response most people gave to my house. Detective Johnson didn't smile; he didn't gaze in appreciation. He merely glanced around briefly and sat down at the table.

Chagrined despite myself, I sat down, too. I liked my house to be admired. Its design wasn't my doing, but I delighted in its compact 650 square feet of living space, and thought my main room, which did duty as living room, dining room, office, and kitchen, to be a particularly pleasant place.

Big windows overlooked my garden, rough pine planks lined the walls, a primitive wool rug from Turkey decorated the mahogany hardwood floor. With the last daylight filtering through the high clerestory window, the room seemed soothing and welcoming to me.

Not for long. Detective Johnson was opening his notebook and looked pointedly at the light above the table. I turned it on.

"I take it you don't believe this was an accident," I said.

"We need to investigate all possibilities," he answered smoothly.

"But why would Dominic lie to me?" I asked, more or less to myself.

Detective Johnson gave me a noncommittal look and said nothing. I could fill in the blank perfectly. If he said anything to you, was what the man was thinking.

For the first time it dawned on me that Detective Johnson probably considered me a suspect in Dominic's shooting, and that I hadn't helped my position any by repeating Dominic's words, improbable as they sounded.

"I had a hard time believing him myself," I said. "Why in the world would he decide to start cleaning his gun in my barn in the middle of a shoeing job? He hadn't finished, you know. The horse only had three shoes on."

Detective Johnson gave me a quick look and made a note. Judging by his expression, he hadn't noticed.

"How well do you know Dominic Castillo?" he asked.

"I told you that," I said. "Not well. He's my horseshoer. I've known him awhile."

"Are you friends?"

"No."

"Have you ever been involved with each other?"

"Involved? Oh, you mean as in dating him. No."

Detective Johnson watched me closely. "No?"

"No," I said firmly. "Why do you ask?"

"I made a few phone calls," he said. "Dominic Castillo is reported to be a man who is flirtatious with his female clients."

"That's true," I said.

"Is he flirtatious with you?"

"No more or less than with anyone else, I imagine."

"But he is flirtatious with you?"

"Yes," I said, exasperated. "Of course he is. He flirts with everyone."

"Is Dominic Castillo married?"

"Not that I know of. Last I heard, he was living with a lady named Barbara King."

"Do you know Barbara King?"

"Yes," I said. I sighed. At this rate I would be here all night answering questions about Dominic's personal life, which, unfortunately, I did know a good deal about. Perhaps the laconic approach was a mistake.

"Look," I said, "how about I tell you all I know about Dominic Castillo, and then you leave so I can make dinner."

Detective Johnson met my eyes. "I may need to question you further."

"Some other day," I said. "Tomorrow even. Not tonight. Deal?"

Detective Johnson sat up straighter in his chair. "As long as you agree to further questioning, I'll be happy to limit tonight's session," he said formally.

"Okay. Here goes. I think Dominic's been married twice, though I couldn't swear to that. His first wife, that I know of, is Lee Castillo, and she has two kids by him. Lee has horses. She's a client of ours."

"How old is Dominic Castillo?" Detective Johnson interjected.

"Somewhere between forty and fifty, I'd guess. He's ..." I paused and for the first time in this conversation, smiled. "He's well preserved, you could say."

Detective Johnson didn't smile back. "Which means?"

I shrugged. "He's a handsome man, if you like that type. Tall, slim, olive-skinned, dark eyes, unwrinkled, very manly and charming. Hard to tell his age, if you take my meaning."

Detective Johnson made a note and said nothing.

"Anyway, his second wife is Carla Castillo," I went on. "I know her because she has horses, too. No kids there, I don't think. For the last couple of years Dominic has lived with a lady named Barbara King, who also has horses and is a client of mine. And, as your informant told you, he's a big flirt; I certainly wouldn't know about his other conquests, but by all accounts, he had them.

"Now," I stood up, "I'm happy to give you more information tomorrow or whenever, but I'm tired and hungry and I need to make dinner now."

Slowly Detective Johnson stood up as well. "The crime scene team will need to finish up down at the barn," he said.

"Fine. So long as they don't let the horses out of their pens."

"I'll be by tomorrow."

"Fine," I said again. All I wanted was to get the man out of here. "I'll expect you."

Detective Johnson gave me yet another hard-edged cop stare and turned at last to go. No good-bye, no thank you forthcoming. I watched his departing back with relief.

The minute he was out the door, I turned to my cupboard and got out tequila, orange liqueur, and some lemons. In another thirty seconds, more or less, I had a much-needed cocktail in my hand and was letting my yapping Queensland heeler dog out of her pen.