Sarah Armstrong: Blood Lines Part 10

"Thank you," I said. "This will help."

After putting on shoe protectors, a cotton mask, and latex gloves, Adkins went in, while we waited in the hallway. She had the video camera, and she made her way around the room slowly, recording everything as she found it, zeroing in on anything that on first blush smacked of being potential evidence. The floor was a dark oak with Persian rugs scattered about, so there was no thick pile and nothing visible that resembled a footprint. Still, she videotaped the floor, using oblique lighting, a flashlight held at an angle. She found no footprints.

That done, Adkins videotaped the dressers and an antique ar-moire, with a big-screen television hidden inside, even the tissue box next to Billies bed. When shed finished videotaping, she shot digital stills of the room. Lastly, she focused on the bed, still covered by the tapestry bedspread, speckled with blood. Facing the bed, the headboard to the right bore a fanlike pattern of high-velocity blood spatter and brain matter, caused by pressure from the guns explosion forcing gas through the wound track. After sitting for a week, the spatter had aged brown, barely visible on the dark wood. When Adkins finished, she searched the perimeter of the bed. After a few moments, she motioned toward me.

"Take a look at this, Lieutenant," she said.

Similarly suited up, I walked in. Adkins had sprayed the floor a foot from the left side of the bed, about three feet from where the body lay, with a colorless liquid, Fluorescein, a chemical that detects latent bloodstains. We put on orange goggles, and Adkins set up the ALS, the alternative light source, a device in a square aluminum box, the size of a DVD player, with a 400-watt, high-intensity bulb at the end of a long flexible wand. She then set the meter on the ALS, turned on the light, and pointed the ALS at a small Oriental rug, all in shades of beige.

"Notice anything?" she asked.

With the goggles on, it didnt take long before I saw a bright yellowish-orange glow on the rug. But not on all of it. One section appeared clean. "You found a void?"

"Yup. Nothing in this section right here. Someone was standing there, I bet," she said, aiming the flashlight at the point closest to the bed frame.

"Make sure you photograph that before we move anything," I said. Thinking about c.o.xs body at the morgue, I added. "The entry wound was on the victims right side. Thats the angle."

Adkins nodded, and I walked back out to the hallway, careful where I stepped. Fifteen minutes later, shed bagged the rug and marked off a section of floorboards without spatter. Later, wed send someone in to cut that area out of the floor. "Okay, you can come in now," she called out.

I entered c.o.xs bedroom again, this time with Torres beside me, and all three of us began searching for evidence. The first thing Torres did was bag the bloodstained bedspread. When I saw Faith about to walk in, I stopped her.

"Have you been in here since Billies death?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I locked it from the outside and left. Except for the police and paramedics, the only one who has been in the room since Billies death is Lena, the housekeeper. She found the body, but hasnt been in the room since she called police."

"Is she here now?" I asked.

"In her quarters over the garage," Faith said, offering, "I can go with you, introduce you."

"No," I said. "Id really prefer that you waited outside, on the front porch. I dont want you to leave, in case we have questions. But its better to keep a distance, and please dont touch anything."

"Of course," she said. "Anything you say."

Lena Suarez was a tall woman, heavy-boned with a long nose and graying hair pulled into a bun. Her apartment over the four-car garage had its own kitchen and a small sitting area, and she invited me in, although rather reluctantly.

"I only went looking for Miss Billie because she asked me to wake her," Suarez said. "When she get home, she said, 'Lena, wake me at six-thirty. I have dinner at home tonight. And I said, 'Yes, Miss Billie. I was disappointed. Friday nights are my time off, so after work, I came here to my room, but then I remember that I need a gift for my nephews birthday. So I leave my room and drive to the store. I buy a game for his computer, so expensive those games are, and go right home to fix Miss Billies dinner. When I get back, I hurry and put a plate in the microwave for Miss Billie, tamales I made on Wednesday. They are her favorites. Then I go to wake her for dinner."

"Had she said what her plans were for that night?" I asked.

"She tell me that she will have dinner at home and stay in," the woman said. "Miss Billie young and very pretty, and she went out a lot the last few months. Before that not so much, but lately, all the time. Until the last few weeks, then she stay home again."

"When she went out, do you know where she went?" I asked.

"No," the woman said, shaking her head. "She never tell me where she go or who she go with."

"So what happened after you put the plate in the oven?"

"Six-thirty, like she say, I go upstairs to wake Miss Billie," Suarez said. "I knock on the door. No one answer. I knock again, two more, maybe three more times. No one answer. I think shes sleeping, but I am afraid to go in. Maybe she not want me to. So I wait in the hall and try to think what to do. Then I say to myself, 'Lena, Miss Billie say to wake her, so you should do as she tell you. I open the door."

"Did you notice anything odd in the hallway, anywhere in the house, before you went into the bedroom?" I asked.

"No," she said. "Nothing."

"Did you see anyone? Anyone at all?"

"No, no one," she said.

"Go on," I said. "What happened next?"

With this, the woman lowered her face and rubbed her eyes. Her voice grew weary. "Like I say, I open the door," she recounted. "The shutters are closed. It is dark in the room. No lights on. So, I turn on the light switch. I say, 'Miss Billie, it is the time you say . . . But I dont finish, because I see Miss Billie. I see the blood, so much blood, and her face, her beautiful face. What that bullet did to her. Dios mio. I look hard to make sure its her. It is Miss Billie."

Lena Suarez stopped talking and wrapped her arms around herself, appearing troubled. I felt sorry for her, but I needed the woman to talk. "What did you do next?" I asked. "Did you call the police?"

"No," she said. "I stand there for a while, and I just look, wondering if maybe my eyes not tell me the truth. Then, I think, I must get help. So I call for ambulance on nine-one-one, on the telephone down the hall, on Miss Billies desk. They ask me to help her, to do CPR. I tell them, it is too late."

"Did you wait for them in the office?"

"No," she said. "I go downstairs to the front porch. I sit on the steps and try not to think about what I see. And soon they come in the ambulance with the siren. I point to the room, and the ambulance people go inside. But they come back in a hurry and say there is nothing they can do. Miss Billie is dead, and the medical men, they called police."

From that point on, Lena Suarez told me of waiting for the police to arrive, without going back in the house. Shed never entered the front door, not since that afternoon. Instead, she stood on the porch and watched as the officers and a coroners a.s.sistant made their way upstairs. They lingered, undoubtedly sizing up the scene, and then filed slowly down. Late that night when the police were finished, a detective, probably Brad Walker, told her that the medical examiner was removing the body.

"That detective say Miss Billie kill herself, but I couldnt understand why she do that," Lena said. "She seem happy, not upset. And shes so proud of the way she looks. Why would she do that to her face?"

"I dont think she did," I said.

The housekeeper looked just momentarily surprised, then nodded, as if shed suspected.

"Have you seen any men here, anyone at all that Miss Billie appeared to have a relationship with? Anyone she was dating?"

"No," Suarez said. "The only ones who visit Miss Billie are Miss Faith and Mr. Grant. Miss Billie very busy at work. She work all the time."

"But you said shed been out more lately," I pointed out. "You said shed been going out over the past few months."

That made her pause, and she thought. Then she said, "Yes, I dont know where she go, but she go out more. Maybe with a man."

"Miss Suarez, what was Miss c.o.xs relationship like with her brother-in-law, with Mr. Grant?" I asked.

Her eyes grew round and she stared at me, and then cautiously said, "They seem to like each other very much."

"How much?" I asked.

The housekeeper lowered her eyes.

"I need to know," I said. "Its important."

"I dont think they do anything wrong," she whispered. "But sometimes, I think maybe they like each other too much."

"Did you ever see them together?" I asked. "Without Miss Faith?"

"Only once," she said. "That time, he bring Miss Billie home. She said her car broke, and she called him for a ride."

"What did you see?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said. "Only I think, maybe Mr. Grant like Miss Billie more than he should. He kissed her on lips, a little kiss, and she look happy. I worry that Miss Faith will get hurt."

By the time I made my way back to the main house, Torres and Adkins were carrying evidence out to the crime-scene-units van. Adkins had collected the bedding, everything she could out of the bedroom, while Torres gathered up c.o.xs home computer, a laptop.

"I found these in her home office," she said, handing me a pile of credit-card statements and receipts. "Maybe theyll help."

"Maybe they will," I said.

As we got ready to leave, Faith stood on the porch.

"I need your sisters keys," I said. "This is a crime scene now, and we need to make sure its secure."

"Of course," she said.

She watched as we strung yellow tape over the front and back doors, and then drove out the driveway and onto the street right before us in her Subaru SUV. I thought again about Grant Roberts and wondered if Faith had any idea of the pain that might wait ahead.

Eighteen.

After I left Billie c.o.xs place, I called Janet from the car and asked her to subpoena Grant Robertss credit card and cell phone records. I also asked her to track down an address for Carlton Wagner, Billies boss and one of the two identifiable men in the Stanhope photo. It turned out that Wagner lived nearby, so I tabled Roberts for the time being and made a U-turn, drove less than a mile east, and parked in front of the biggest mansion Id ever seen. The darn thing took up half a block, all gray granite with ornate black-iron balconies. I parked the car, walked up to the ma.s.sive oak doors, and knocked. I expected a butler or a maid, but a rickety white-haired man with a back humped by age and a full white beard answered. Carlton Wagner.

"Im glad you finally decided to introduce yourself," Wagner mumbled, glaring at me, when we sat in his parlor. He had a thick East Texas drawl and a frown as crooked as his posture. "I heard about your tomfoolery at the Century Oil offices this morning. I was surprised. Since its my company, I thought youd have the courtesy to contact me first. Getting my employees all upset hurts productivity. They end up spending all their time at the water cooler, gossiping. Is this your usual overbearing way of looking into a suicide?"

A feisty old guy, Wagners faded denim-blue eyes bristled with contempt. He may have invited me into his home, but he put on no masquerade. The old man was blatantly angry about the intrusion. His entire manner suggested annoyance at my very presence.

"No. Its the way we investigate a murder. The medical examiner has changed his ruling, Mr. Wagner," I said. "Elizabeth c.o.xs death is now a homicide."

"Thats about as likely as a hurricane in Detroit," he snarled. "d.a.m.n Yankee-towns too far away from the ocean for that to ever happen."

"How can you be so sure Billie wasnt murdered?" I asked.

"Whod kill Billie?" he scoffed. His beard flapped when he talked, and he toyed with the edge of the lace cloth on the small table between us, rolling it between his thumb and index finger. Id never met Wagner before, but my bet was that the old geezer had a stomach full of nerves as he rattled on. "Everybody, including me, loved that woman. Why she was beautiful and smart, and had the best business sense of any oil company exec Ive ever had on my payroll. Plus, she wasnt old enough to make an enemy, not one that hated her enough to commit murder."

With that the old guy exhaled a short laugh. "Now take me, for instance," he bragged. "Ive been around long enough to step on toes, some mighty big toes at that. Stirring folks up to get my way, for me, thats a big part of the fun. But not Billie. She was a good sort of person. And even if she had teed somebody off, that woman couldve charmed him into figuring that he was the one who was wrong. She had it all, beauty, money, brains, a darn good personality, everything but happiness."

The old guy shook his head, as if in disbelief. Something about his act, however, I wasnt buying, princ.i.p.ally that I would have used that exact word to describe it, an act. If Wagner hadnt cashed in working the oil fields, he could have made a living playing Gabby Hayes parts in Westerns. The old wildcatter was a natural performer.

"Why would she be unhappy? Why would any woman with so much chuck it all?" I asked.

Wagner sucked in his thin upper lip in disdain. "I dont like to spread gossip," he said. "Aint in my character."

"This isnt gossip," I a.s.sured him. "This is cooperating in a police investigation into a murder."

He paused, studied my face, and appeared to consider that for a moment, before going on. "Well, I still disagree about the murder part. But I guess either way its an investigation," he said. "Billie was smart every way but in matters of the heart. When it came to love, that woman was an utter fool. She threw herself at men. It wasnt a pretty sight. And when they were done with her, she fell to pieces. I feared one day shed take a dead-end romance too hard. I figure thats what happened here."

"You do, do you?" I asked. "Thats interesting."

"Thought you should know the truth, if youre doing a real investigation," he said, looking up at me from under eyelids that hung as loose as wrinkled curtains. "I figure I knew Billie as well as anybody. I dont care what that third-rate doc down in the morgue says. Ive got no question that she killed herself."

"Who was this man, the one who broke her heart so badly that you believe she shot a bullet through her skull?" I asked.

Wagner sucked in again and let out a long breath. "Well, dont really know," he said. "I hear he was married. Some man she hooked up with she shouldnt have."

"How about a name?" I asked. "How about anything that would narrow the field down from every married man in Texas?"

The old man scowled, and then said, "Listen, I knew Billie well, thats for sure. But Im not in the habit of asking about my employees personal lives. Youre the detective. The way I see it, you need to figure that out."

Some might have found Carlton Wagners performance amusing, but I had a case to solve. "What I have figured out is that Elizabeth c.o.x didnt kill herself. This case is, as I said, a murder investigation."

Looking increasingly uncomfortable, Wagner fidgeted in his chair. The old man was a bundle of unspent energy. "Youre sure of that?" he asked, still sizing me up with a skeptical stare.

"As sure as I am that Im sitting here in this fine mansion with you," I said. "No doubt about it."

"Hmmm," he said. "Well, Im sure youll understand if I continue to disagree, but what do you want from me? You should be busy finding out who that man Billie dated was. My guess is that hes the only one with a motive."

"I appreciate the advice," I said, thinking that Billie c.o.x picked one squirrelly old geezer to work for. "The reason Im here is that Id like you to tell me about the Stanhope Field acquisition."

Looking unconcerned, he said with a shrug, "I cant tell you a thing about it. That was Billies deal. I wasnt involved."

"Not at all?" I asked.

"Lieutenant Armstrong, Ive closed multimillion-dollar deals on a handshake. When I tell you something I mean it. I wasnt involved in any of Century Oils business for the past two years. When I turned the company over to Billie, I told her to charge ahead and not worry about waiting for this old man to limp along behind her," he said. "I know Im over the hill, and it was time for me to get out of the business."

"So you had nothing to do with the planned acquisition? You werent involved in any way?"

Wary-eyed, Wagner responded as if Id just suggested he donate all his money to Greenpeaces global-warming, anti-oil campaign. "Isnt that what I just told you?" he said, at the end of his patience. "You need an interpreter for English?"

"Whens the last time you were at the Stanhope Field?" I asked.

Again, Wagner paused, sucking in a deep breath that fanned out his brittle, old chest, as if reining in great frustration. "I dont know that Ive ever been there," he said. "But if I was at Stanhope, it must of been close to a decade ago."

"You feel pretty certain about that, Mr. Wagner?"

"I wouldnt have said it if I werent certain," he said, arms folded tight across his chest.

With that, I unzipped the black cloth folder Id brought and took out the photo from Billies computer. "Please, tell me about this then. When was it taken?" I asked.

Again the churlish frown. I had no doubt that Wagner had been candid about at least one thing, that hed stepped on plenty of toes during his career and managed to make more than one enemy.