“He’s damned lucky he isn’t down here too,” Zina said.
“Maybe it wasn’t luck,” Doyle said, staring up the incline toward the highway. “If he hadn’t hit the Benz, he definitely would have blown through the berm himself. And there’s not much traffic out here at night. So, either he ran that stop sign, drunk, asleep, whatever, and the Benz had the million to one bad luck to get in his way or...?”
“He wasn’t out of control at all.” Zina nodded, following Doyle’s gaze up the hillside. “You think he drilled him deliberately?”
“Tell you what, Detective, why don’t you hoof it back up the hill and check out that side road for tire tracks or exhaust stains in the snow. See if car number two was sitting up there, waiting for the Benz to show.”
“Jesus,” Joni said softly. “You mean somebody rammed this poor bastard on purpose? Then climbed down with a gas can and lit him up?”
“I don’t like it either, but it works,” Doyle agreed grimly. “Have you identified him yet?”
“The car’s registered jointly to Jared and Lauren Bannan, Valhalla address.”
“Jared Bannan?” Doyle echoed, surprised. “Damn. I know this guy. I’ve played racquetball against him.”
“A friend?”
“No, just a guy. He’s an attorney, a transplant from downstate, works mostly in real estate.”
“A yuppie lawyer?” Zina said. “Should I cancel the Crime Scene team?”
The door to the classroom was ajar. Doyle raised his fist to knock, then hesitated, surprised at the utter silence from within. Curious, he peered around the doorjamb. A tall, trim woman with boyishly short dark hair was addressing the class. Soundlessly. Her lips were moving, the fingers of both hands flickering, mediating an animated discussion with a dozen rapt teenagers, who were answering with equally adept sign language, their lips miming speech, but with no sound at all.
It was like watching an Olympic fencing match, silvery signals flashing too quickly for the eye to follow.
The woman glanced up, frowning. “Can I help you?”
“Sorry to intrude, ma’am. If you’re Dr. Bannan, we need a few minutes of your time.”
“I’m in the middle of a class.”
“This really can’t wait, ma’am.”
“My God,” Lauren said softly, “are you absolutely sure it’s Jared?”
“The identification isn’t final, but he was carrying your husband’s identification and driving his car.”
“Jared wore a U of M class ring on his right hand,” she offered. “Did the driver...?”
Doyle nodded. They were in Dr. Bannan’s office, a Spartan ten-by-ten box at Blair Center, the county magnet school for special-needs students. Floor to ceiling bookshelves on three sides, Dr. Bannan’s diplomas and teaching awards neatly displayed on the fourth wall. No photographs, Doyle noted.
“I didn’t see a wedding ring,” Zina said. “Did he normally wear one?”
“We’re separated,” Lauren said. “God. I can’t believe this.”
“Are you all right, Dr. Bannan?” Doyle asked. “Can I get you a glass of water or something?”
“No, I’m... just a bit shaken. Do you have any idea what happened?”
“Your husband was apparently sideswiped on the shore road a few miles outside of town. Hit and run. His car went over a steep embankment, probably late last night. Midnight, maybe. He was pronounced dead at the scene. We’re very sorry for your loss.”
Lauren’s mouth narrowed as she visibly brought her emotions under control. An elegant woman, Doyle thought. Slender as a willow, with dark hair, a complexion as exquisite as a porcelain doll.
But not fragile. She took the news of her husband’s death like a prizefighter rocked by a stiff punch. Drawing within herself to camouflage the damage.
After a moment, she took a deep breath, and carefully straightened her jacket.
“You said someone ran Jared off the road. What happened to the other driver?”
“We don’t know yet, ma’am. Do you know why your husband might have been on that road last night?”
“No idea. Jared and I separated last year. Except for conferences with our attorney, I rarely see him. Why?”
Zina glanced the question at Doyle, who nodded.
“Judging from the skid marks, the collision may not have been accidental,” Zina said. “Do you know why anyone would want to harm your husband?”
“Whoa, back up a moment,” Lauren said, raising her hand. “Are you saying someone deliberately rammed Jared’s car?”
“We aren’t certain yet, ma’am,” Doyle said. “But the evidence does lean that way. At this point we’re treating it as a possible homicide.”
“For the record, would you mind telling us your whereabouts last night?” Zina asked.
Lauren glanced up at her sharply. “I was at home all evening. Alone. What are you implying?”
“Nothing, ma’am,” Doyle put in. “It’s strictly routine. We’re not the enemy.”
Lauren looked away a moment. “All right then. If you have questions, let’s clear them up now.”
“You said you separated last year?” Zina asked. “Have you filed for divorce?”
“We filed right after we separated. Last spring. March, I think.”
“Do you have children?”
Lauren hesitated. “No. No children.”
“Then help me out here, Dr. Bannan. Without children involved, you can get a no-fault divorce in sixty days, and I’m speaking from experience. Was your husband contesting the divorce?”
“Only the property settlement. Jared earns more than I do, so he felt he was entitled to more. He kept coming up with new demands.”
“Michigan’s a community-property state,” Doyle put in. “A wife’s entitled to half, no matter who earns what.”
“My husband is an attorney, Sergeant, though most of his work is in real estate. Fighting him in court wouldn’t be cost-effective. We had our final meeting last Tuesday. He made an offer and I took it.”
“But you weren’t happy about it?” Zina said.
“Divorce seldom makes anyone happy.”
“You’re newcomers to the area, right?” Doyle asked. “When did you move north?”
“A little over two years ago.”
“Why was that? The move, I mean?”
“Why?” Lauren blinked, but didn’t answer.
That was a hit, Zina thought. Though she had no idea what it meant.
“I knew your husband in passing,” Doyle offered, easing the silence. “I played racquetball against him a few times.”
“And?” Lauren said, with an odd smile.
“And what? Why the smile?”
“Jared was the most competitive man I’ve ever known. Did he beat you, Sergeant?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. Twice.”
“And did he cheat?”
“He didn’t have to. He was quicker than I am. Why do you ask that?”
“Jared could be a very sore loser. I beat him at tennis once and he smashed his racquet to splinters in front of a hundred spectators. I filed for divorce a week later.”
“Over a tennis match?” Zina asked, arching an eyebrow.
“It was such a childish display that I realized Jared was never going to grow up. And I was tired of waiting. I wanted out.”
“And now you are,” Zina said. “Will the accident affect your financial settlement?”
“I have no idea. Money always mattered more to Jared than to me.”
“Money doesn’t matter?” Zina echoed.
“I was buying my freedom, Detective. How much is that worth? Can we wrap this up? I have a class in five minutes.”
“You might want to make other arrangements, Doctor,” Doyle suggested. “Give yourself a break.”
“Working with handicapped kids is a two-way street, Sergeant. It keeps your problems in perspective. The last thing I need is to sit around brooding.”