Gnosis (14 page)

“I feel like a criminal just entering this mansion,” Laurie said.

She followed Angie up the walkway and around to the side of the house. Angie walked quickly, almost aggressively, as if she was striding toward a neighborhood donnybrook and wanted to be among the first to arrive. There was real purpose in every step she took. She moved with great intent, and with the grace of a superb athlete.

Laurie was struck by the fact that in no way did this Angie resemble the Angie portrayed by her mother. This Angie was a strikingly beautiful woman, tall, with a trim figure and a confident demeanor. There was nothing about her that said victim. No outward signs of a shattered or tormented psyche. Of course, Laurie knew, the exterior oftentimes lies in order to protect an individual by hiding the pain and hurt within. She wouldn’t know that until she spoke with Angie. But simply based on a first impression, Angie was a far cry from the pathetic woman described by her mother.

The sliding glass door opened to the kitchen, which was bare except for the antique oak table and six chairs. A stack of papers and several of Angie’s business cards lay scattered on the table. Angie gathered them up, paper-clipped them together, and put them on the counter.

“Have a seat,” Angie said, pulling a chair away from the table. “Make yourself at home. At the very least, pretend this is your kitchen.”

“This kitchen is half as big as my entire apartment. I’m not sure I would want a kitchen this big. Too much cleaning involved.”

“I can assure you the people who purchase this house will never pick up a dust rag. They’ll pay someone to do the cleaning.”

Laurie laughed. “Well, there’s one thing I have in common with the rich. I would hire someone to do my cleaning if I could afford it. But I can’t, so—”

“The cleaning doesn’t get done, right?”

“Right.” Laurie looked out at the swimming pool, then back at Angie. “You’re not at all like how I had you pictured.”

“How
did
you have me pictured?”

“I don’t know. More fragile, maybe. Less confident.”

Angie seemed puzzled for a few seconds, then her eyes widened. “Ah, now I get it,” she said, shaking her head. “You met my mother. That’s how you got my home number.”

“We didn’t meet, but I did speak with her on the phone.”

“And she told you I was a wreck of a human being because of what I saw that night. That I had to see a shrink and had nightmares and cost the family a small fortune and blah, blah, blah. She’s been telling that story for so long I’m sure she actually believes it.”

“It isn’t true?”

“Please! Do I look like someone who is a wreck of a human being? I’m very successful at my job, I’ve raised a wonderful daughter, and I live a happy, contented life. Do I wish I made more money and was in involved in a steady relationship with Mr. Right? Sure, I do. But all in all, my life is pretty darn good. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother dearly, and I have tremendous respect for her, but the truth is, she’s a first-class drama queen.”

“No shrink, no nightmares?”

“I had a couple of bad dreams after the incident. So what? I’d had bad dreams before, so to me it was no big deal. Besides, I didn’t necessarily connect those dreams with what I saw that night. As for seeing a shrink, it’s simply not true. My father, God rest his soul, had a close friend who was a counselor at the VA hospital. I’m not sure what credentials he had, if he had any at all, but that’s who I spoke with. He was one of those guys who worked with veterans, especially the ones who had been in combat and had trouble adjusting when they returned home. Anyway, I met with him maybe two times. We talked about that night, what I saw, and how I felt about it. He could tell I wasn’t all that shook up or in need of serious counseling. And that’s what he told my father. The matter was dropped by everyone except my mother, who continues to tell anyone who will listen that I’m damaged goods.”

“She was also pretty tough on Greg Spurlock.”

“I know. He’s a bum, a loser, a druggie, treated me like crap. Again with the drama.”

“You got along with him okay?”

“Sure. He was a guy I went out with a few times in high school. Nothing serious, by any stretch.”

“What was he like?”

“Very cocky, very sure of himself, a daredevil kind of personality. Not all that unusual, I suppose, for someone who came from money.”

“His family was rich?”

“Not rich, rich. But very well off. I think his mother’s family had money.”

“Your mother mentioned drinking and drugs. Any truth to that?”

Angie rolled her eyes upward. “Beer and pot, maybe. But I couldn’t swear to it, because he never did any of that stuff around me. He was not a serious substance abuser, regardless of what my mother says.”

“Tell me about that night,” Laurie said. “From the beginning.”

“Greg and I went to a movie. We saw
On Golden Pond
, with Katharine Hepburn and Henry Fonda, which I thought was terrific. Jane Fonda was also in it. After the movie, we went to Pizza Hut to get something to eat. Then we drove around for a while, eventually ending up somewhere in the boondocks. We had been parked maybe twenty minutes when we saw the smoke. I remember telling Greg that it looked pretty serious, that maybe we should check it out.”

“What time of night was it?”

“I’d say close to eleven. Maybe a little after.”

“What happened next?”

“We drove to the barn.”

“How long did it take you to get there?”

“Ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Was it raining when you arrived at the barn?” Laurie asked, scribbling in her notepad.

“No. But it had been raining cats and dogs an hour earlier. I remember being worried that Greg’s car might get stuck in the mud and we’d have to call someone to come pull us out. That would have been beyond embarrassing.”

“Describe the barn when you guys got there.”

“One end was badly damaged, but the other end, the one closest to where Greg parked the car, wasn’t damaged at all. I guess the rain put out the fire before it spread to that part of the barn. It was in the undamaged section that we saw the bodies.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Greg told me to stay in the car, but I said no way I’m staying in the car, not in this darkness. It was really creepy. The dampness, the flickering flames, the smoke. Oh, the smoke was so thick you could slice it with a knife. Just a real boogie-man, Stephen King kind of night.”

“So you and Greg went into the barn?”

“Yeah, unfortunately we did. That’s when . . . I took one look, turned around, and got the hell out of there.”

“Back to the car?”

“You bet. And locked all the doors.”

“How long were you in the barn?”

“Ten seconds.”

“What do you remember about the victims?”

“Not much, really. Only that their hands and feet were tied, and their eyes were open.”

“Was there much blood?”

“If there was I didn’t notice it,” Angie answered.

“Did you see a gun?”

“No.”

“Anything else about the victims—or the scene—that caught your attention?”

“No. But like I said, Detective, I didn’t stick around long enough to take notes.”

“Greg said he remained in the barn for maybe a minute before he returned to the car.”

“That’s not accurate. Greg was in that barn for a good ten minutes before he came out.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. I was petrified sitting in the car alone. In the darkness, with two dead guys thirty feet away? Are you kidding me? Those ten minutes felt like three hours. I let him have it good when he did get in the car. For making me sit out there alone for so long.”

“Did he say anything?” Laurie asked. “Give a reason why he stayed in the barn that long?”

“Not that I recall. He was just hell-bent on getting to a phone and calling the police.”

“Did you see any blood on him?”

“On Greg? No. Why do you ask?”

“I’m wondering if he touched or moved the bodies.”

Angie shook her head. “I doubt if he did that. That would be stupid on his part, and Greg wasn’t stupid.”

Maybe not but he is a liar
. Laurie thought for a while, and then said, “Did you mention to the detectives who interviewed you that Greg spent that much time in the barn?”

“I never spoke to a detective.”

“You never spoke with a Detective Bolton or Detective Matthews?”

“The only person I spoke to had on a uniform. The detectives talked with Greg.”

 Laurie started to ask Angie if she remembered the officer’s name, but didn’t. That information would be in the file. She tapped her pen on the tabletop, thinking about what she had just learned from Angie. She didn’t like what she was hearing, that was for sure. Angie should have been interviewed by one of the detectives, and it was almost impossible for Laurie to believe that neither Charlie nor Dan had seen fit to do so. Those guys didn’t screw up like that.

Maybe Angie was remembering it incorrectly, Laurie reasoned. Maybe Charlie or Dan did interview Angie and she had forgotten it. That was a definite possibility. After all, twenty-nine years is a long time. Memories fade, details can get shuffled around, lost, or re-imagined entirely. This was especially true during stressful, emotional, and chaotic moments in a person’s life. To be sure, finding two dead bodies and being interrogated by the police was more than enough to cause stress and emotional chaos. Angie could be forgiven for not remembering events in perfect order.

Despite her concerns, Laurie decided to reserve judgment until she spoke with Charlie. At the very least, Charlie and Dan deserved to be accorded the benefit of the doubt. Both were decorated, celebrated cops. They had earned that much.

“Sam Spade—you have the look of a very troubled woman,” Angie said, softly, breaking nearly a minute of silence.

Laurie nodded. “As the prison warden said to Cool Hand Luke, ‘what we’ve got here is failure to communicate.’”

*****

Sitting alone in O’Charley’s, her thoughts racing a hundred miles an hour and in fifty different directions at the same time, Laurie felt like she was being beaten up by some invisible force inside her. An inner tornado had been unleashed, resulting in a war among competing options, possibilities, and scenarios, none of which were positive or pleasant to contemplate. ‘What should be her next move?’ she silently asked herself. Her instincts said she should call Charlie and have him verify Angie’s recollection of what happened that night. She should also ask him to explain why neither he nor Dan had spoken to Angie at the crime scene. Her curiosity screamed the same thing. That those two excellent detectives had not done so was more than puzzling; it went against everything she knew about both men. Until that puzzle was pieced together to her satisfaction, she could not—would not—allow herself to believe that Charlie Bolton and Dan Matthews committed such a bonehead rookie mistake.

She speared a piece of lettuce from her Caesar salad, held the fork suspended above the plate for several seconds, and put it down. Her appetite had vanished, a victim of the swirling mass of thoughts and emotions ripping through her. She drank some water, took out her cell phone, and began to punch in Charlie’s number. Halfway through, she closed the phone and dropped it back into her purse. The voice in her head told her that calling him now would be making that rush to judgment she wanted to avoid.