Pool Of Lies Part 22

Morgan hadn't come out of her room in two days. When Nate knocked on her door, she wouldn't answer. Or she told him to leave her alone.

They'd buried Kevin. Just a quick get-him-in-the-ground. A minimal group had shown up. The kid hadn't had any friends.

Morgan had held up, like a stone holds up, until after they'd gotten it done. Closed casket. He hadn't been that disfigured, but who'd really wanted to see the dead kid?

The question was who wanted to see the kid dead. Now, you might draw a bunch from that pool, he rationalized. Not just Morgan. Put him in a crowd, and the kid was like Raid on an ant hill.

Nate hadn't a doubt that it had been something Kevin said or did that drove away the third maid in the last five months. Maybe Kevin had just looked at her the wrong way. Those minority types could be pretty sensitive.

The one who'd left after just three days had been b.u.t.t-ugly and a lousy cook. Maybe it hadn't been her cooking, just to look at her had taken his appet.i.te. But the one before her had been a real good worker. Kind of cute, too. He'd considered calling her and saying, It's okay, you can come back now. He's dead. But he'd thought better of it. As soon as Morgan was out of her latest funk, they'd run another ad. This time he would do the hiring.

The fact that Beth came and went freely from Morgan's room a.s.sured him she was still alive and not in need of medical attention. Then he asked himself if it was prudent to depend on the judgment of a fifteen-year-old.

But the kicker was the fermenting memory of the partial conversation between Sam and Morgan. The more he replayed it, the more he came to believe that Morgan had been there in Sam's office, not on the speaker phone. That's when Nate admitted the truth: he was afraid of what he'd see in Morgan's room. If he opened that bedroom door, Morgan's spider eyes might snap him up like some fly. He knew this was totally illogical, but the longer silence hung between them, the bigger his fear grew.

Beth took Morgan food, but told him she just picked at it. When she ate even a little, her migraines made her throw up. Beth said Morgan didn't want him to see her like that. What was new to see? He'd seen her bare face, cleaned barf off it many a time during her killer migraines throughout the early years of their marriage. The only thing he couldn't do was the shots. Something about putting a needle into somebody's flesh creeped him out.

What was new was that Deidre was dead and Kevin was dead. When Morgan's mom and granddad had died she hadn't taken to her bed. The migraines had returned when Deidre died. Nate kept circling back to that point, the repet.i.tion forming a deep rut in his thought patterns.

The inertia of it all was doing a number on his head. Why hadn't that s.e.xy Detective Sanchez called him about his lead? Maybe the Esposito woman had forgotten to give her the paper...the lease application that tied JJ Camacho to Detective Reggie Navarro.

Now on the afternoon of the second day after they planted Kevin, Nate sat in the kitchen, thinking about making some tea for Morgan. The thing inside him was ballooning. He had to break the barrier of silence between them.

As he got up to find the tea bags, the phone rang. He hesitated, and in his hesitation the ringing stopped. But the red light was still on. Beth had gone somewhere with Josh. Morgan was the only other person in the house.

Nate wavered, his hand hovering over the receiver. Then he carefully picked it up, covering the mouthpiece with a potholder.

He heard Morgan's voice. Numbers. She was reading off numbers.

"We can have that for you in about an hour, Mrs. Bayfield," a man's voice said.

Mrs. Bayfield. Not Mrs. Farris. He was her husband and he was all but invisible. Jerome Bayfield was dead. Why didn't she chuck that Bayfield name?

"Thank you." Morgan's voice, even-toned, no tears in it.

Her migraine prescription. That's what the numbers were.

The inertia was suddenly gone. Something clicked in Nate's head-besides an urgent need to get out of that house.

At work, he tried to act normal in front of Sam and Fredricka.

Then he shut himself in his office-as if either of them would barge in and look over his shoulder. But what he was doing was so far from anything he'd ever planned.

Nate paused before opening his laptop. No, he had to do it. Self-preservation was a basic instinct. He stared at the open laptop for only a moment, logged on, then went on the internet.

Colorado Revised Statutes. He scrolled until he came to what he was looking for: Section 13-90-107. Who may not testify without consent.

After printing out what he considered relevant, he went to the section concerning Marital Property. More particularly, division of marital property upon divorce.

Rae listened to the rest of Freddie's message.

"What happened was I got sick on that Friday...the flu, I guess. But I had already written my paycheck that morning, like always. I forgot. I'm really sorry."

In a pig's eye! Rae pressed call return. After five rings, she got Freddie's generic voicemail. s.h.i.t!

Dueling alternatives vied for control in Rae's head. This is the key. They got to her and made her lie about it. Rae, you're being paranoid. It's a little thing. It means nothing.

When in doubt, sort it out.

Thanks, Grandma.

Rae sorted. If the check was no big deal, why did Freddie get so fl.u.s.tered in the first place? Why even bother to call? Why not just wait until Rae asked again?

What reason was there to want the check to appear to have been written on Friday? No stretch. Sam was on record as having admitted that Kevin was in the office on Friday, the 25th and that the boy picked up a check for $100,000.00.

Reason for not writing the check to Kevin on the 25th: Dead kids don't need checks. Reason for going back, after the fact, and writing the check: Oops, somebody might want to see the canceled check. But there is none. Next best thing, at least dummy one up in the check book.

On the other hand, maybe Freddie was an airhead who really didn't remember until later that she'd written her check before she took the rest of the day off. Maybe she really had been sick, feverish even. Bunch of c.r.a.p!

You don't know that. You're just trying to make it something sinister to put a feather in your own cap.

G.o.d, when had she heard that old saying? A feather in your cap? Not since Grandma. And then the loneliness dropped on her, unexpected, like a summer snow. One minute it's hot, the next you get dumped on. Everybody's gone. Parents, grandparents, kids out living their own lives. As they should.

Anthony.

Rae stood up and shook herself. Shaking off the self-pity was a constant battle.

Get a life, Rae.

I've got one, Grandma.

To prove it, Rae went to her office and pulled out the Bayfield file, all the stuff she'd acc.u.mulated and was supposed to be drawing conclusions from.

She took another look at the page from the three-ring check stub binder that she'd scanned into her computer, then printed it out.

Kevin's was the third check on the page, Fredricka's the second. She'd ignored that first check stub with Void printed diagonally across it.

Rae ran a fingernail over a couple of small specks on the void check stub, though it was a printout and not the real thing. d.a.m.n flies. Then she took a closer look, remembering the papers had been inside one of those legal file boxes.

About halfway up the check stub were two tiny black dots, maybe half an inch apart. Staple holes.

What did the bookkeepers do in the olden days before computers? She knew from watching her mother keep books for clients part-time, when Rae was growing up. They were so precise, those old-timers. When they voided a check, they carefully tore off the signature if it had been signed, folded the check in thirds, so that when stapled to the back of the stub, the check number would be visible, and the boss would know they hadn't played hanky-panky with the check-it really was void.

The key concept here being: When stapled to the back of the stub.

Rae stared at the printout of the stub as her imagination went into overdrive. Why would someone go to the trouble of stapling the void check to the stub and then remove it so carefully that there were no tears on the sheet?

Habit. Either Sam or Freddie. Both appeared to be from the generation that would have this habit. But Freddie would never take it upon herself to destroy a check. It had to have been Sam. There had to be something on that check he didn't want anyone to see. Like that check was made out to Kevin, but void because Kevin didn't need it any more. Because he was dead.

The trouble Rae found with this scenario was that Sam didn't come off as hasty. Meticulous to a fault. That's how she pegged him. Not a person to write a check, void the check, then, oops, destroy the check and write another. It had to be something inconsequential, and she, with nothing else to do at night but let her mind run wild, let it kick over the traces.

When Morgan knocked on the door of the guest room and called his name the night before, Nate had pretended to be asleep. Then he'd watched the door k.n.o.b turn futilely, glad he'd called the locksmith earlier. He'd also had the guy install a lock on the patio sliding door-a cover in case Morgan came out to see what was going on.

But the locksmith had been quiet, knowing that there was illness and bereavement in the house.

That morning, Nate had called the office and left a message for Sam: He wouldn't be in until late afternoon, maybe not at all.

He'd made breakfast for Beth. Well, he'd set out the package of Special K and the cartons of milk and orange juice. School was out. They'd made small talk. Beth appeared preoccupied. He wanted to draw her out, to ask her when she'd last seen Kevin alive. But that seemed cruel, almost as bad as mentioning Deidre.

"Have you talked to, uh, Aunt Morgan this morning?" she asked in a peculiar, tight voice.

"I knocked on her door but she didn't answer," he lied. He'd knock later.

"I think you should try again," said Beth, pushing her bowl of cereal away, half-eaten.

"What's up?" Something in his niece's manner this morning was off kilter.

"Oh, I 'm just going to meet some friends and hang out."

That wasn't what he meant, but he wasn't going to push it, not today. "You want to leave me a name and number where you'll be?"

"No."

She got up and headed toward the bathroom to get ready. Probably brush her teeth. She paused in the doorway. "If you need me, you've got my cell number."

How could she know? He hadn't discussed his decision with anyone. But Beth seemed to know something was in the air.

When Nate heard the front door close, he headed for the garage. He still wasn't one hundred percent sure he could go through with it. But then when he opened the door from the house, he saw Morgan's Jag was gone. He'd never heard a thing. Maybe she'd left when he was in the shower.

This really could give him an advantage. He retraced his steps back to the guest room closet where he now kept most of his clothes and a few pieces of luggage. There he retrieved the bag he'd packed in the early morning hours.

On a whim, he set the bag down just inside the guestroom door and made his way stealthily down the hall, across the house to Morgan's room. Why the stealth? he asked himself. Her car was gone. That meant she was out. He still felt like a thief, stealing into the room he once shared with his wife, in the house that was really half his.

He went straight to the medicine cabinet. The usual array was still there. Some of his stuff, too. Where was the packet of syringes and the small vials of liquid? If she'd just filled her prescription, why would she take the whole thing with her?

Nate picked up a small, plastic bottle of pills. Percocet? He read the remainder of the label. This was her old prescription-but it had just been refilled yesterday. Where was the stuff she injected?

He pawed through the articles in the cabinet, then went through the drawers. Nothing. He'd seen her inject herself dozens of times, a.s.suming she'd gotten the stuff by prescription. What if...

He dropped a bottle of cough syrup. c.r.a.p! Fortunately it landed on the rug and didn't break. Quickly Nate tidied up the area, trying to remember how, exactly, he'd found all the articles he'd moved. Maybe, in a few hours, it wouldn't matter.

As he stopped at the guest room to pick up his bag, he noticed it. Light-a scarce commodity in that house-reflected off metal. He stooped and looked closer. Almost buried in the carpet fibers a hypodermic needle nestled. Remembering the door handle turning in the night, he broke a sweat as he hurried toward his car.

As he parked in the Lakewood Civic Center visitors' section, Nate was overwhelmed by a wave of guilt. Could he really do this? He sat for a few moments, looking forward and backward at his life choices. The stagnant status quo was totally not an option.

Morgan had never shown much pa.s.sion toward him, but he'd been willing to accept her reserved nature. What would it be like to go to bed with a wife who wanted him? One who didn't always have a headache. Who was he kidding? Even on her good days, Morgan's desire had been practically non-existent. She'd gone through an early menopause, but, h.e.l.l, he hadn't really noticed much change.

What would happen if the whole thing backfired? What if Morgan hadn't killed Kevin? Worst case scenario, he'd get a decent settlement in a divorce.

While it wasn't an absolute slam-dunk, judges usually divided the marital property equally, and that would cover everything they'd acquired during their marriage. Including the ugly house-he'd take his half of that in cash, thank you very much.

If Morgan wasn't guilty-or wasn't convicted, he could kiss his job goodbye. If she was guilty, that conversation between her and Sam, the puzzler he'd agonized over, the catalyst that had brought him to this point, was a strong indicator of Sam's complicity in it. It wasn't just about a murder. If they were playing games with the money-Beth's money, too, now that her mother and brother were dead-that could mean the appointment of a new guardian for his niece, and a new trustee for the trusts. Guess who stood ready, willing and able?

He'd gone over this course of action and its likely consequences at least a dozen times now. But not sitting in his car in front of the Lakewood Police Department at eight in the morning.

Nate removed Veronica Sanchez's card from his pocket, lifted his cell from the car's console, and pressed in the detective's number.

The message Fredricka Halperin had left on Rae's voicemail the afternoon before had stuck in her mind like a goat head bur on a tennis shoe.

She remembered the stress she'd heard in Freddie's voice. Maybe her theory wasn't so far-fetched. Then again, the out-of-order check and the staple holes paled in comparison to the GST tax omission. There could be a logical explanation. Maybe Freddie was telling the truth. Rae would have to look her in the eye to find out for sure.

It was nine-thirty the next morning when she drove into the empty Bayfield parking lot. Could be cars in the back, she thought.

Rae glanced across the street as she walked toward the front door. A couple of cars in the Adult Books parking lot. Sc.u.m at work. In light of the p.o.r.n site visits on his laptop, Rae wondered if Nate was one of their customers.

She'd been prepared to wait, but the front door of Bayfield Enterprises was unlocked. She walked inside, noticing that the reception area was unoccupied. Fredricka's desk was not only neat, it was empty of any work in progress. No handbag on or around the work station.

"You're here early, Mrs. Esposito."

Sam's voice spun her around toward the hallway that led to his office.

"I needed to follow up on a phone message from Fredricka. Where is she?"

"On vacation." Sam walked to the empty outgoing mail basket on Fredricka's desk and deposited a small stack of mail.

"When will she be back?"

"I know about your confusion concerning the checks."

"My confusion?"

Sam offered her the bare flicker of a smile. "Fredricka's confusion. The matter is resolved. You may direct any further questions about those checks to me."

"Fredricka's not coming back?" Rae felt alarm creeping into her voice, the last thing she wanted Sam to detect.

"I didn't say that."

The sound of the front door opening drew their attention.

The woman in the doorway, a full-bodied platinum blonde, was straight out of a Turner Cla.s.sic Movie. Designer sungla.s.ses hid her eyes.

Morgan Bayfield-Farris, in the flesh.

An electric moment. Rae could feel it as she looked from the woman to Sam, and watched the elderly accountant metamorphose into an entirely different person. The man appeared to grow in stature before her eyes. No longer stoop-shouldered, he seemed to fill out like a reconst.i.tuted raisin. Even the lines in his face softened, as if airbrushed away by the broad smile that now softened the angular lines of his face. Rae saw dimples in those sunken cheeks.