Cat Playing Cupid (13 page)

T
HAT EARLY AFTERNOON
while Charlie and Wilma examined the rare old book, their horses waiting patiently among the fallen walls, down at Molena Point PD, Joe Grey paused uncertainly in the hallway. Crouching on the cold floor, he wondered whether to follow Mike and Lindsey into the coffee room, or stick with the chief as he headed for Dallas's office carrying the plastic-wrapped letter.

The letter won. Quickly he slipped inside behind Max's heels and ducked beneath Dallas's credenza. Crouching in the shadows, he watched as the detective ended his phone conversation and looked up at the chief. “That was Oregon. You won't believe this.”

“They've ID'd the body?”

Dallas grinned. “From the dental records. It's Chappell.”

“I'll be damned,” Max said. “Had to be Greg Emerson, he's the only dentist I know who keeps records that far back. Keeps everything, that storeroom over his office is
crammed with files. Ever since that cold case where records had been destroyed and he tried to do it from memory.”

“He went right down to the office last night,” Dallas said. “Found the file—called me around midnight. I met him here and we called Oregon. Palmer, at OBI. They compared the details over the phone, got a perfect match. Emerson's overnighting them a copy of his film.”

Max shook his head. “So Lindsey Wolf was right. What kind of odds are those?

“Or what does she know?” Dallas said, frowning.

“Looks like this isn't a cold case anymore,” said the chief. “You want to take it? Here's something you'll need. Ryder Wolf brought it in. Here are the notes I made.” He laid the bagged letter and a notepad on the desk, and turned toward the door. “Have to be in court,” he said shortly.

Dallas watched him disappear up the hall. After he'd read the letter and Max's careful notations, he buzzed the coffee room, told Mike to bring Lindsey back.

As their footsteps approached along the hall, Joe sauntered out from beneath the credenza, hopped up on the couch, and stretched out full length, in plain sight. He wanted to get a better line on Lindsey Wolf. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they reacted to animals, particularly to cats. Cat lover, probably okay. Cat hater, beware.

He knew this theory was an oversimplification, he'd met a few ailurophobes who were decent, honest folk. And he'd met a number of cat lovers who'd rob a person blind, including one full-blown psychopath who was a real pushover for cute kitties.

But still, the premise had merit; one didn't have to abide by it completely, it was just one more guidepost in the feline roster of clues to the human mind. He wanted a line on Lindsey Wolf, wanted to know what made her tick.

Well, he thought, she
had
had a dog, a golden retriever. He understood she'd treated the animal well, and that was in her favor. He watched her intently as she entered, Mike walking close behind her looking very possessive.

She seemed at ease in the office, had none of the telltale signs of nervousness. She exchanged pleasantries with Dallas, then sat down on the couch near Joe and reached to stroke him as if it was the natural thing to do. She smelled good, like soap and water.

“What a beautiful cat.” She looked up at Dallas. “Is he yours? Hello, tomcat,” she said softly. “You run the shop around here?”

Dallas grinned, and Joe had to hide his own smile. Even the fact that she realized, right off, he was a tomcat was in her favor. Most people, on first meeting, didn't care or bother to check things out. Her hazel eyes were kind as she looked deep into Joe's eyes. “Are you the department mascot? What's your name, big fellow?”

Mike stood by the desk watching her, both men assessing Lindsey just as keenly as was the tomcat. Was her animal-friendly gentleness an act, to gain favor? Of course she knew she was being judged, though if that made her nervous, it didn't show.

“That's Joe Grey,” Dallas said, leaning back in his desk chair. “He has another home; he hangs around here because the dispatcher brings him fried chicken.” He glanced
at Mike, then looked back at Lindsey. “We have an ID on the body in Oregon.”

Lindsey's stroking hand went still. She searched the detective's face. “It's Carson,” she said softly.

Dallas nodded. “OBI got a match on the dental records. Your theory was a long shot, but it turned out to be right.”

Joe could feel the sudden tension in Lindsey's touch, but then she began to stroke him again. Mike sat down at the other end of the couch. “He didn't abandon me, then,” she said softly, her voice catching. “He didn't run out on me, on our wedding.”

Dallas said, “Why
were
you so sure that was Chappell? Is there more, something you haven't told us?”

“Nothing,” she said, searching his face. “I've told Mike everything I can remember, or it's in the file.” She studied Dallas. “The paper said the sheriff found bullets.” She leaned forward a little, her hand still. “
Did
someone shoot him? Did they find a gun? Can they identify who did it?” She slumped back, and started stroking again. “Why would someone shoot Carson? I didn't think he had any enemies, nothing he ever mentioned. Is there anything to lead to the killer? Or was this a random thing?” Her hand on Joe's shoulder was suddenly too tight, and he thought she was doing more talking than was needed. “Do they know what he was doing up there?”

“He said nothing to you about going to Oregon?” Dallas asked. “No last-minute change in plans?”

“Nothing. That wasn't at all what he planned…what he told me he meant to do,” she said, faltering.

At the other end of the couch, Mike sat watching her.
She looked pleadingly at him. “Why did he go there?” she said almost inaudibly. “What
was
that tree house? Was that something Carson put together for shelter? Or was it something he found or knew about? Did other people use it?”

“It was there before he died,” Dallas said. “It's old, rotting away now. A crude shelter made of log slabs—discards from the lumber mills—nailed together for a floor between the branches of a large oak, with two slab sides to cut the wind and a shed roof of the same material. It must have leaked, even then. Chappell had pitched a pup tent on the platform, under the roof.

“When the sheriff's department located him, the owner of the property said the structure had been there as long as he'd owned the land, some thirty years. He has fifty acres up there, running back from the coast, most of it overgrown forest. He told the deputies he seldom went there, seldom goes into those woods.”

“Would
he
have shot Carson?” Lindsey asked. “Because he was trespassing? But if he never went there…Or could someone…” She went very still, her body rigid, but she was still holding on to Joe.

“Did they find Carson's backpack?” she said. “I guess there was no billfold, or they could have identified him. Did it look like he was robbed?”

“The backpack had been torn into,” Dallas said, “the contents scattered, but apparently by animals.”

“The paper said a bobcat.”

Mike looked at her as if he wanted to hold and comfort her. Lindsey remained still, except for her left hand, where she was kneading Joe's shoulder too hard. He felt
her shiver but then she seemed to take herself in hand and relaxed, watchful and waiting.

“Now that we have an ID on Carson,” Dallas said, “this is no longer a cold case. Our department will be handling it in cooperation with Oregon.”

She nodded, gripping Joe harder.

“There's something else,” Dallas said. “The deputies found a second backpack.”

Again her hand clutched Joe so tightly he had to stop himself from slashing out at her.

“A backpack,” Dallas told her as gently as he could, “containing a woman's clothing and makeup kit.”

“I see,” she said softly. “Then if he was shot…did a
woman
shoot him?” She gripped Joe so hard that he wondered if a cat could record these reactions as accurately as a lie detector. There were cat therapists for the ill and lonely. Why not cat interrogation assistants?

“Can they identify the gun?” she asked hesitantly.

“They haven't found a gun,” Dallas said patiently. “They've sent the bullets to ballistics, to record the rifling, but they have no gun to match them to. Did Carson own a gun?”

“He never mentioned one. He never talked about guns, and I never saw one.”

“Would you have any idea of a gun that might have been used?”

She shook her head.

“Do you have a gun? Have you ever owned one?” Dallas asked.

“I've never…I guess I'm a little afraid of guns.”

Dallas was quiet for a long time. Mike sat, watching them, his expression unreadable.

“One other thing,” Dallas said, rising and coming around the desk. He handed her the plastic-wrapped letter. “Do you recognize this? Have you ever seen this?”

She turned the plastic over and back again, examining the letter within; it was addressed to her. As she read the handwriting through the clear plastic, so did Joe Grey.

“It's written to me, to my name, but I never received this. This is dated just after Carson disappeared. Have you had it all this time? Do you have the envelope? Why would…” She looked up angrily at Dallas. “Why didn't someone do something about this? This might have saved his life!”

Her left hand was trembling against Joe. “Who sent this? Why did no one show me this?” She studied the printing with rising anger. “Why wasn't I shown this when Carson disappeared?”

“We didn't know about it,” Dallas said. “It was brought to us today.”

She looked again at the date. “But where has it been? For nearly ten years! My God. If I'd received this and brought it to you, Carson might still be alive. If you didn't have it, where was it?” She withdrew her hand from Joe, balling it into a fist, pressing her fist to her mouth. She was silent for a very long time. Neither Mike nor Dallas showed any expression.

At last she seemed to gather herself. When she looked up again at Mike and Dallas, her voice was uncharacteristically harsh. “Ryder?” she said. “Did Ryder give you
this?” She looked from Mike to Dallas. “Ryder gave you this. But why? Why didn't she bring it to you then? Why would she keep it all these years? She knew? Ryder knew where he was? All this time?”

Dallas shook his head. “Ryder said she'd just found it. You're sure you've never seen it?”

“No,” she said, her voice catching again. “No, never.”

“This is a fresh investigation now,” Dallas said more gently. “And very likely a murder case. You'll need to expect this kind of questioning, and more, until it's resolved.”

She nodded and sat quietly.

“Would you feel like going over the file now?” he said. “Over the things we need to clarify?”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “That's fine.”

Easing back into the leather cushions and pulling Joe gently up into her lap as if for support and comfort, she glanced at Mike and reached to take his hand. Behind the desk, Dallas leaned forward.

“Carson Chappell and Ray Gibbs were equal partners in Chappell and Gibbs?” he said, taking a new and different tack.

“Yes, equal partners.”

“And you worked for them?”

“Yes, until Carson disappeared. Afterward, I couldn't stay there, it was too painful. After a few months, I left the firm. Later that year I started my own accounting business.”

“When Chappell didn't return, what happened to the firm?”

“After twelve months the court put Carson's half into a trust for Irene, his mother, in case he should reappear.
Irene Chappell became the silent partner, and Ray Gibbs ran the firm.”

The detective knew all this, as did Mike. Joe had seen it all in the file. Was Dallas giving her a breather from the more painful questions? Or did he think that even these straightforward questions might trip her up? Was he checking her story from ten years ago against what she'd choose to tell him now? This was not only Dallas's case, now, but an interdepartmental, interstate investigation.

“And Ray Gibbs seemed to manage the firm in a professional way?”

“No,” she said quietly. “After Carson disappeared, Ray didn't run the business well. That was another reason I left, I didn't like to see that. He let things go, little details that soon multiplied into problems. I heard much of that from employees with whom I stayed in touch.

“Finally,” she said, “Irene's trustees forced Ray to sell his share. Under the trust agreement, she had the right of first refusal. She bought the business and created a new trust to manage it, using the same three trustees. Her health wasn't good, she had diabetes with several complications, and her trustees hired someone new to run the firm.”

“And the trustees were?”

“George Walker, who was a local bank president; Alan Seamus, who managed one of the golf courses; and her attorney, Marvin Wells.”

Dallas nodded, scanning the notes in the file. “And the manager they hired? How did he do?”

“Apparently, only passably well. About a year later, the trustees liquidated the business. I was in L.A. by then.”

“And you had no share in the business at that time?”

“I never did, I'd been only an employee.”

“How much did Irene get for the business?” Dallas said. “And where is she now?”

“She died last year, you must know that, Detective. She was an old, sick woman. I don't know how much she got, I was in L.A.”

“The original interview says she was very fond of you. When she died, how much did she leave you?”

“She didn't leave me anything,” Lindsey said, stiffening. “Except for Carson's personal belongings, which I don't think are of any monetary value. I was fond of her, and when I lived in the village we had lunch now and then. But we didn't talk about personal business, certainly not about money. She was a very private person.”