Fine Art of Murder Page 22

  “You got anything on Travis Mallard yet, Rosie?” I unwrapped a piece of gum and popped it in my mouth. Then a second piece. Apparently I cracked my gum. Something else my ex didn't like and I couldn't change.

  “Yep. The car we followed is one of five registered in his name.” Sounded like she had a clothespin on her nose. She rattled off a list of the five vehicles.

  “Tell me about him.” I wondered what anyone would do with five cars.

  “CEO of Crossman Oil. Owner of Parkway Airlines and Freedom Avenue Bank. Sits on the board of several big companies.” A pause, a loud sneeze, a phlegmy cough. I felt like wiping my cell off. “You gonna go see him?” She cleared her throat with a loud rasp.

  “Yeah, but not at home. I'll catch him at work. Gimme the address for Crossman Oil.” I scribbled it on the palm of my hand. Another habit my ex hated.

  I ditched the gum before approaching Mallard.

  He was a big man. Had me by a couple inches and more than twenty pounds. Wore a three-piece suit. Vest pulled taut. Not fat at all. Just big boned and muscular. Looked like a brick wall. But he was gracious. Had his girl bring me coffee. Good coffee. Answered my questions pleasantly.

  “How do you know Janelle Lamb?”

  “She's my attorney.”

  “You always have dinner at expensive restaurants with your attorneys?”

  “Nope. Just Janie. ’Cause she's my only attorney.” He gave a jovial laugh. “Sometimes I prefer having a business meeting in nicer surroundings than a boardroom or an office. I can afford it. We relax, discuss things in comfort. How do you know where I go for dinner?”

  “And her husband? How'd he feel about these little trysts?” I asked, ignoring his question.

  “Trysts? C'mon, Detective. Business meetings. As for how her husband took it—he never came after me with a shotgun.” Another jovial laugh. “Besides, it was only a couple times.”

  “Actually, six for sure. Three here in town at the Manchester Hotel and three at the bed and breakfast on the way to Tradford.”

  “Nothing suspicious about the Manchester. Have you ever eaten at the restaurant there? Trivoli's? Best Italian food in the city. And Harvey's, the little dining room off the lounge, has wonderful food. Then we met for business at the bed and breakfast for brunch once or twice. They make superb muffins and omelets the size of Texas. I don't know where you get three times though.” He frowned. “Refresh my memory.”

  I gave him dates and times. He checked his calendar. Said the second date was impossible. He was out of state then. Must have him mixed up with someone else. Laughter. Jovial. I asked where he was the night Weston Lamb was killed. Said he was with a woman. He'd prefer to keep her name out of this. She was married. I insisted on the name to confirm his information even though it would be worthless. Obviously she'd be a hooker he paid to be his alibi. We already knew where he was that night. Before Rosie got sick, she and I were shadowing Mrs. Lamb. You know the saying—the spouse is the first suspect. Then Rosie pointed him out.

  “Look who she's talking to. Watch. See how he brushed her hair off her face? And look how he touched her cheek, real gentle like?”

  “So? That's Mallard. She's his attorney. Why wouldn't they be talking?” I frowned.

  “I mean how he treats her. The hair. The cheek. Those are pretty personal gestures.”

  I studied them and began to nod. “I see. So there might be a little hanky-panky going on.”

  Lamb entered the building, and Mallard walked to a shiny red Ferrari parked at the curb. We were across the street. I eased into traffic, turned around in the alley and followed Mallard to his condo. That's when we spotted the gumshoe. He made me laugh. He pulled to the curb, snapped a picture of Mallard, and then propped a newspaper in front of his face. Talk about stereotype. While Rosie stayed with the car watching the condo, I walked to the PI's car, opened the passenger door, and climbed in.

  “What the hell?” He turned toward me and dropped his camera on the floor, then bent over and retrieved it. I flashed my shield. He explained that Mallard's wife hired him to follow her husband.

  “I'll need your notes and photos.”

  “No way, mister. I've got a license.”

  “And I'll pull it if you don't cooperate,” I told him gruffly.

  “Shit. This is the first decent paying gig I've had for ages. Why you wanna get in my face?”

  “Tell you what. You give me copies of all your notes and duplicate photos, and you can stay on the job. Just keep that info flowing my direction. You don't? You'll be charged with interfering with a police investigation.” I handed him my card and got out of the car. Walked back, got in with Rosie and pulled into traffic.

  “What's up, Mason?” she asked.

  “We've got a bulldog on the job for us. We'll go watch the widow.” I explained things to her, and we had a good laugh. The setup worked out well for us. All kinds of surveillance done on someone else's time and dime. It's how we found out about the Manchester and the bed and breakfast. And how we found out where he was the night in question. It sure wasn't with some married woman.

  When his body was found, Weston Lamb's wallet was empty. Possible robbery. A baggie in his pocket tested positive for residue of oxycodone. I talked with his doctor. He confirmed the arthritis and showed me Lamb's file. He was prescribing enough medication to treat an elephant. Lamb had no reason to be looking for more on the street.

  I worked the case steady, checking my suspicions against times and possibilities. Running down the irate student, Corrina Belle. Having California police interview her. Studying her alibi. Comparing my notes with those of the PI. I worked some late nights. Hated doing that to Rosie, but she understood my work better'n the ex ever did. The test results I was waiting for came back just before suppertime. So did my partner. She called for me to pick her up. The cough was gone. No more sneezing. Just a sniffle now and then. Still, I was concerned because it was raining pretty hard. I didn't want her having a relapse. She said not to worry, she was pumped full of antibiotics. I was glad to have her back.

  “Wanna grab something to eat? You can fill me in on the case,” she said.

  “Yeah. Mexi-Grill okay?” I asked.

  She nodded. We got a booth and dug into our chili. “So, where are we on the case?” she asked.

  “It's ready to close. I know who killed Weston Lamb. I know where, why, and how. And I've got proof.”

  “What's up with that? You workin’ the case alone? I thought we were partners.” She frowned.

  “You helped work it. You got the dope on Mallard.”

  “Big deal. The private guy did all the work. I simply checked his notes.”

  “What'd you want me to do? Sit in a corner waiting for you to get over the flu?”

  “Walking pneumonia, not flu.” She jabbed at the crackers in her chili.

  “Okay, okay. Doesn't matter. You were sick. I wasn't gonna sit around doing nothing until you were back on the job. C'mon, Rosie, don't be mad. Let's close our case and get on to the next one.”

  “Next one?”

  “College kid found at the reservoir right before the rain today. Broken neck. Don't have much more on it yet, but we'll hit the crime scene later this evening. So you see, there's plenty of work for you to do.”

  “Okay. So, who killed Weston Lamb?”

  “We're meeting with his widow. Loverboy will be there too. I'll explain it all then.”

  “If you say so.” She shrugged. Rosie was a good sport. “Where's the meeting?”

  “The widow's house.”

  “So, we headin’ there now?”

  “We can finish eating. Maybe have some pie.” I motioned to the waitress for more coffee.

  “You sure the widow and Mallard are lovers?” She looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup, the hot vapors making her face look wavy.

  “Don't know about love, but they're doing it. The shamus has photos. R rated.”

  “I thought I had all his files. I don't recal
l any racy photos. Just outdoor pics of Mallard and Lamb going into a restaurant.” She blew on her coffee and took a sip.

  “I leaned on our bulldog a bit more. Got him to give me the good stuff. He was holding some back. Probably thinking about blackmail. I told him I'd press charges if he didn't turn ’em over to me.” I reached in my briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope. “Here.” I tossed it across the table. “Don't blush too much when you look at ’em.”

  * * *

  Janelle Lamb answered the door. She looked surprised. Normal reaction. I didn't call first.

  “Detective, what are you doing here?”

  “Evening, Mrs. Lamb. This is my partner, Detective Rosina Gage. We have a few questions. Mr. Mallard arrive yet?”

  “What? Why?”

  “Can we step in outta the rain?”

  “Oh. Yes.” She opened the door all the way. Rosie and I stepped inside. I dropped my catalog case while I hung up my coat. Rosie leaned her umbrella against the coat rack.

  “It seems Mr. Mallard did arrive. He's there in the living room.” I grabbed my case. “Mind if we meet in your husband's office? I want my partner to see the painting I like so much.”

  “Of course. I'll get him, but how did you know Travis… Mr. Mallard would be here?”

  “Simple. I sent the message for him to come.”

  “You did what?” She looked at me, incensed. “What's going on here?”

  “Let's talk, Mrs. Lamb. Ask Mr. Mallard to join us.” I walked to the office. Rosie followed. I pulled the chair from behind the desk and placed it beside the one near the painting. Rosie and I stood, my case at her feet. Mrs. Lamb walked in with Travis Mallard.

  “What's going on, Detective? Janie tells me you sent the text for me to come here. Why? And to use her name….” His voice was strident. His face flushed.

  “Would you've come if you knew the police were asking for your presence? I thought it best to get you here any way I could. Figured you'd want to be here while we discuss Weston Lamb's murder.”

  He paused then nodded. “Good thinking. I can give Janie moral support at this difficult time.”

  “Moral support? If that's what you wanna call it. Why don't you both sit? You take the upholstered chair, Mrs. Lamb. Mallard, you can have this one. We'll stand.” I turned to my partner. “So, what do ya think of the painting?”

  “It's like the weather outside. I like the dancers better.”

  “Well, you haven't had time to study it. Okay, we need to get down to business.” Mrs. Lamb was perched on the edge of her chair, ramrod straight, like the last time we met here.

  “So, what's the deal?” Mallard asked.

  “I have some questions tickling my brain about this murder.” I paced in front of them. “Like this assumption that Mr. Lamb was killed for the oxycodone he was carrying and the cash he had for buying more.”

  “What do you mean assumption?” The widow's voice was indignant. “Somebody jumped him for the drugs and cash, killed him and tossed his body in a dumpster like a piece of trash.” She dropped her head, dug in her pocket for a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “Like a piece of trash. He was such a frail little man. Crippled and bent. Maybe ninety pounds. He didn't deserve to be treated so heartlessly.”

  “You're right, Mrs. Lamb, he didn't. But we don't think that's exactly the way it happened, do we Rosie?” She shook her head and turned toward the widow. I knew she was in the dark but also knew she'd follow my lead and back me up. I paced in front of the chairs. Mrs. Lamb watched me closely. “In fact, we doubt Mr. Lamb ever bought drugs on the street.”

  “What? You said somebody killed him for his drugs and money and dumped him. Why are you changing your mind now? Oh, I get it. It was Corrina Belle.”

  “Don't think so.” I shook my head.

  “Then why aren't you out there looking for the murderer? It's been weeks, and you haven't done squat.” She glared at me. Man, if looks could kill.

  “Remember me saying some things were tickling my brain? One's the wallet.” I stopped directly in front of her. “Why'd the murderer take the money and not the wallet? Why not take everything? ID's and credit cards are pretty valuable.”

  “Maybe somebody came along, so he grabbed the money and ran.” She frowned and glanced at Mallard. He sat, hands clasped beneath his chin, not moving.

  “Also, there's the baggie found in his pocket.” I resumed pacing, hands clasped behind my back. “The question scratching at my brain this time is why the guy didn't take the baggie with him. You know, grab the bag of pills. Why dump them in his pocket or another container? And why return the baggie to Mr. Lamb's pocket? Why not toss it in the dumpster if he didn't want it?”

  “Hmmm. Those are good questions.” Mallard nodded, his chin bumping into his steepled hands. “Probably some young punk. Maybe his first robbery.”

  “Really?” I stopped pacing and raised my eyebrows, looking directly at him. “It doesn't look like a setup to you? Huh, I thought you'd see it right away. How someone wanted it to look like a robbery. Someone who doesn't know much about such things so just took the money. But the baggie adds to it. Looks like someone wants us to think this is drug related.”

  “Are you saying this whole thing was staged?” Mallard lowered his hands and tilted his head.

  “It would seem so.”

  “That's clever. Corrina's certainly devious enough to have thought that up.” Lamb nodded sagely.

  “Again, I don't think so.” I shook my head and paced.

  “I don't understand.” Mrs. Lamb stood abruptly, her voice angry. “You're just toying with us. I want you to leave. Don't come back until you can tell me who killed my sweet Weston. And why.”

  “But I can tell you that right now. Where he was killed. How. Why. I can even tell you by whom. Should I start with why?” I stood directly in front of her and engaged in a staring war. There was a definite tremor in her clenched jaw. She sat.

  “Have you arrested him?” Mallard asked.

  “No. Thought perhaps the widow would want to know how we solved this case first. Then we'll get right on it and make our arrest.”

  “Okay, I'll bite. Start with why.” Mallard steepled his hands again.

  “The envelope please.” I looked at Rosie. She reached in my briefcase, removed the manila envelope and handed it to me. I looked from the widow to Mallard. “Who wants to take a peek?”

  Mallard reached up, took the envelope, and opened it. He pulled the glossy prints out far enough to get the idea and dropped them back in. He looked at Janelle Lamb.

  “Photos.” He held her glance. Her eyes widened.

  “You don't mean….”

  “Yes, he does mean, Mrs. Lamb. The two of you at the bed and breakfast where they serve omelets the size of Texas. But you weren't interested in the breakfasts there. Only the beds.” It looked like Rosie was having trouble keeping a smile off her face.

  “That's an invasion of our privacy. How dare you.” She stood indignantly and reached for the envelope. “These will be destroyed and any other copies you have. Do you understand, Detective?”

  “Fine by me. They're not my photos.”

  “Whose are they?”

  “The gumshoe tailing Mr. Mallard. Hired by his wife. He got these interesting pics of you two. They seem to point to a motive for the murder of your husband.”

  “Motive? What are you talking about?” Mallard also stood.

  “If Mrs. Lamb got a divorce, she'd get nothing. On the other hand, she'd get everything if her husband died.”

  “Ridiculous.” Mallard shook his head. “Janie could divorce him easily. She doesn't need his money. I have more money than we can ever use. You have no motive for either of us, if that's what you're getting at.” He reached for her hand. She hesitated then entwined her fingers with his.

  “I think you're trying to muddy the waters, Detective.” The widow's voice was icy. “What have you found out about Corrina Belle? Or have you even bothered to investigate her
?”

  “Sure did. She's clean. Solid alibi for the night of your husband's death. For the week before it to the present, in fact. She's been in London. Scotland Yard confirmed. Besides, I think her allegations carry some weight. Why don't you both sit down? We can move past why to where and how.”

  “Actually, I think I'd like to have my attorney present.” Mrs. Lamb lifted her chin.

  “Fine by me, but it's really not necessary. I'm not going to ask you any questions. Just sit and listen. You can't incriminate yourself by listening. You know that.” I shrugged.

  She looked at Mallard. He nodded and helped her sit, then resumed his place and held the envelope on his lap.

  “We examined the baggies from the bathroom trash can and the residue was oxycodone.” I nodded at Mrs. Lamb. “Funny, though, the only fingerprints on them were yours. Maybe you put pills in them and dumped them out, leaving the residue.”

  “And why would I do such a thing?” Lamb's face flushed.

  “I guess to make it look like he bought drugs off the street.” I held up my hand as she started to speak. “Now for the next interesting fact in this case—the toxicology report. There was no oxycodone in Mr. Lamb's system.”

  “So? He bought it but got killed before he could take any.” Mrs. Lamb straightened her already erect body.

  “Conceivably.” I nodded and paced a bit more. “More interesting was the high level of diphenhydramine in his blood.”

  “Whatever that is.” There was irritation in her voice and, I thought, fear in her eyes.

  “It's the principal ingredient in over-the-counter sleep medications. One of the most commonly used ones is Nitey Nite. I'm guessing there's an opened bottle in your medicine cabinet. The question is, why would Weston Lamb take a big dose of a sleeping solution before going out to buy drugs? I'd be scared to try to walk, much less drive a car if I'd taken as much as he had in his system.”

  “I don't get where this is going, Detective.” Mallard sounded irritated. “Why don't you tell us the damn facts and get this over with. Who killed him? And why hasn't he been arrested?”