"Bob."
He smiled at her, with his eyes this time as well as his mouth. "Okay. No enemies?"
"No"
"He taught at North High. Any problems there?"
"No"
"L. D. kids. That's like troubled children, right?"
"They're kids with learning problems; they're not troubled. You can talk to them. They loved him, at least most of them did. He… he… " She started to tear up again. First tears, then rage, now tears again. Get ahold of yourself she thought angrily.
"Okay. Not troubled kids-learning disabled. Got it," Butler said, writing in his notebook. Then he looked up. "And nothing noteworthy or out of the ordinary happened in the day or two leading up to the event?"
She shook her head and he made more notes.
"Okay, that's it for now. Good job."
"Have you got anything?" she asked. "Are there any, you know, clues or anything?"
"Yes, we have a few leads."
"Would it be… Is it possible for me to know what they are?"
"Sure." He leaned back and looked at her. A sleepy look crossed his face. "You weren't planning on getting a divorce or anything, were you?" he drawled, unexpectedly.
"Huh?"
"Everything okay in the marriage? No girlfriends in Chandler's life, no fights where stuff got thrown?"
"Fuck you." The rage suddenly returned. Who did this skinny jerk think he was?
"Perfect answer," Butler said, made a note, then looked up and smiled apologetically. "Gotta ask. Wouldn't be doing the job 'less we looked at everything. Even though I believe you, I'm still gonna check around. Just to make sure. Everybody's a suspect 'til I get my focus. All of this is for Chandler, just remember that. In a wrongful death, my job is to speak for the dead. I'm Chandler's last advocate. He's my guy now… my client. I gotta look at everything. If you'd killed him and I didn't check on your relationship, then I would've let my guy down."
"Give me a lie detector test." She was still smoking mad. Did he really think she was a suspect?
"Don't need to. At least not yet. For right now, 'less your friends tell me different, your anger was all I needed to see."
She sat across from this man with his rumpled suit and cracker smile and felt her anger recede. In retrospect, she knew he was right. He had to look at her. It was possible that she could have done it, or hired someone to kill Chandler. She took a deep breath to calm herself and nodded.
"So, we friends again?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Okay. Here's what we got. CSI's found some paint fragments on his body. We're analyzing it now. We've got one good tire impression. A Firestone with what looks like a factory flaw across the midline tread on the right side. The preliminary paint analysis should be able to give us the make and color of the car. Looks like it was blue?'
"That sounds like you have a lot."
"Better than nothing. We're looking for a blue car, probably with some right front fender damage and a cut center tread on one of the right-side tires. So that's something."
"That's wonderful," she said again, then asked, "How long will they let you work on this? I know that once an investigation is a few weeks old, the police will make it a cold case and stop working it. You have to stay on this until it's solved, Detective Butler. Don't let them take you off."
"Where'd you get that?"
"I read a lot of crime novels:'
"Okay, here's the headline. You wanta know how long I'll work the case? I will work it until thorns start popping up on orchids and butterflies grow fangs. I will work it until my brain turns to applesauce. In short, Mrs. Ellis, this guy who hit your husband has got a bulldog on his ass-excuse the language. I won't quit. This folder will never be off my desk. I ain't necessarily the smartest cop on the force, but I'm sure the most stubborn. If I don't solve this case and you come up here unannounced two years from now, Chandler's folder is gonna be sitting right here-right in front of me. We square on that?"
She nodded, clutching her purse in both hands. For the first time, Paige felt a glimmer of hope. "But why? You didn't know him."
"Because we didn't catch the one who ran over Althea, didn't get whoever did that. Course, I couldn't work that case. Out of policy for me to work my own wife's death. These guys around here gave it both knees, but we never cleared it. Chandler is gonna get better service. Got my promise."
She left by the side door and drove back to the house, feeling somehow better. But the memory of the white-hot anger lingered. She'd heard that anger often followed the death of a loved one, but she certainly hadn't been prepared for it to be such murderous rage.
There were ten cars parked out front when she arrived. A flower delivery van was wedged in the driveway. More flowers… just what she needed. She walked up the stairs to the front door and confronted the crowd of anxious friends. They hovered and fretted. Lots to do. Plans to make. "Do you want to rent the extra room at the mortuary for the reception after the funeral or use the rectory at the church?" "Who's going to call all these people from out of state and tell them when the funeral is?"
"I will," she said, suddenly needing something to do. She took the stack of file cards. One of her friends had gone through her Rolodex and separated out business and personal contacts, then written a name and number on each card and alphabetized the stack. She went into Chandler's office and sat by the phone. The top card read:
BEAU AND SUE AVERY, MIAMI, FL
She started dialing, telling friends when the funeral was. Ten cards down she finally hit Chick and Evelyn Best.
Chapter 14
ONCE I GOT HOME FROM CHARLOTTE, I FOUND OUT THAT our Talmudic attorney, Jube Shiver, had managed to get Melissa's bail set at twenty thousand. We had to put down 20 percent, so in my absence, Evelyn charged it on her trusty card for all occasions, the good old black Amex. Once Evelyn bailed Melissa out of juvie, our grateful daughter immediately skipped her bond, or, to put a better face on it, she disappeared, and nobody quite knew where she was. According to my wife, it was my job to try and find her. That meant I had to call Big Mac. I got him on the phone after trying at least six times. I shouldn't have wasted the effort.
"Look, man, I ain't the bitch's babysitter," was the way he addressed my question as to her current whereabouts.
"Mr. McKenna, I am not suggesting that you are. It's just that if Melissa has some crazy idea about running and not facing these charges, then things will only get worse. She needs to put herself in the hands of our attorney and fight this in court."
Before you say, "Duh, Chick"-or more to the point, "Why don't you take your own flicking advice?"-let's remember that Melissa was only facing a possession with intent to sell charge, and I was facing second-degree murder. In life, the way you choose to deal with any given problem is usually in direct relationship to its degree of jeopardy.
"If I see your bang-tail daughter, I'll tell her, but I'm fuckin' tired a gaffling with that bitch. What a dumb-ass move leaving her meth in my crib. Now I got major heat coming down on me. Fucking pisses me off."
"Yes," I said softly. "I can certainly see how it might."
Okay, okay. I know. Don't even go there. But the guy scares me. So, I couldn't find Melissa. God only knows where she was.
Evelyn and I got into a huge fight a day later. It was about Mickey D and the American Express account, which was a collective topic as well as a selective one. My no-limit Black Card had just been canceled because of the Hawaii trip. I'd failed to stay current. The less valuable Optima Card was only good for up to ten grand. Four had gone for Melissa's bail, but Evelyn spent another six-and wait till you hear what it went for. She maxed it out by prepaying a two-room, high-roller suite for her and Micky D at the Bellagio Hotel in Vegas. It was for the coming weekend, and cost twenty-five hundred a night. Apparently, Mickey D was going to compete in the Mr. USA bodybuilding show there. She spent another thousand on new clothes for the occasion. She wanted to be there to root Mickey on. Rooting, in case you forgot, is something hogs do.