Double Shot

“Yes,” I admitted. “His lawyer arranged for the sale of the Jer—uh, John Richard’s house, and supposedly the child support came out of that.”

“What do you mean, supposedly? Did you ask Korman’s lawyer where the money came from?”

“You bet I did. And he rudely informed me that as long as I got the money, where it came from was none of my beeswax. He also told me that Marla’s snooping wasn’t going to get her anywhere.”

There was a knock on the door. Brewster Motley jumped from his chair to answer it. He spoke in a low but confident voice.

“No,” he said finally, “my client and I will tell you when we’re ready.” Without waiting for a reply, he shut the door.

“Maybe we should move along to today,” Brewster said lightly once he was seated again. “Tell me everything you think is pertinent.”

I described showing up to prep a funeral lunch, being shoved aside by an unknown assailant and then chopped in the neck. No, I didn’t know who the guy in the mask was. Yes, I suspected the Jerk. That was what Marla and I had begun calling John Richard at least ten years ago. It was based on his initials, I explained, and it suited his personality, too. Brewster shook his head, a grim smile on his face.

I summarized the rest of it—Marla coming, our discovery of the break-in, the mice, my firing the thirty-eight. Brewster wrinkled his tanned face.

“Where’d you get the gun?”

“I’ve been keeping the thirty-eight in my glove compartment ever since John Richard had his sentence commuted.”

Brewster’s blond curlicues of hair trembled. My heart plummeted.

“Why was his sentence commuted?”

I sighed. “A prison guard was having a heart attack. John Richard gave him CPR and saved his life. There were witnesses. The guard, his cardiologist, and everyone in the guard’s family wrote to the governor begging him to let John Richard out.”

Brewster frowned. “And nobody’s tried to hit or ambush you until today?”

“No.”

“And you fired the gun today.”

“Right. You should know that my husband of the past two years is Tom Schulz, a sheriff’s-department investigator,” I added quickly. “He thought my having the thirty-eight was a good idea, as long as I kept the glove compartment locked, which I’m sorry to say I appear not to have done, um, after I accidentally fired at the mice.” Brewster stopped writing and gave me a confused look. “A cop came and took a report. I showed him the gun, then put it back into the glove compartment. But I forgot to lock it.”

“How do you know you forgot to lock it, Mrs. Schulz?”

“Because somebody stole my gun.”

His expression was studiously flat. “Keep giving me an exact summary of events, please.”

“My assistants and I were able to put together another meal, a cold plate. But after the lunch, John Richard started screaming at me, outside the Roundhouse. He wanted me to bring Arch over to his house at four so they could play golf. It wasn’t a pretty exchange. Even worse, lots of the guests still at the lunch—”

Wait a minute. By the time John Richard and I were arguing, people had begun to leave. There’d been folks milling around in the parking lot, getting into their cars and taking off. One of them had gone into my van and stolen my gun. But why? And who? Usually people sneaked into my van to steal food. So the culprit hadn’t found any food, had stolen my gun, and then had killed John Richard with it, just for good measure?

“Lots of the guests still at lunch,” Brewster prompted me.

“And folks in the parking lot, too. They all witnessed this argument. Anyway, I rustled up Arch, who was with a pal at an ice rink down in Lakewood. I brought them to our house, got Arch cleaned up, delivered some brownies to a bake sale, dropped Arch’s friend at his house and arrived at John Richard’s just before four.”

“Please give me the times, exactly.”

I did. I also repeated the scenario of the fellow asking for money, then driving off, and how I’d discovered the body—by myself. Brewster nodded and kept writing.

“But you haven’t heard the worst part, Mr. Mot—Brewster.”

“He was shot with your gun?”

“My gun was at the scene. How’d you know?”

“More important, how do you know, Mrs. Schulz?”

I let out a breath. How could I say this without it sounding as if I was somehow collaborating with my cop husband? “Even though he’s not on the case, my husband had been up at the garage with the team. When he came out, he spotted my thirty-eight lying beside the driveway. He came back to my van and opened the glove compartment. When there was nothing there, I knew my gun had to be up near John Richard.”

There was another rap at the door. Brewster put the notepad back in his leather briefcase and stood up.

He said, “Every time they ask you a question, look at me before you say a single word.” He hesitated, then gave me his beach-boy grin, as if he were actually looking forward to the interrogation. Still smiling, he said, “Let’s boogie.”

I followed Brewster down the hall until the cop who’d knocked on the door ushered us into an interrogation room. Two more cops were there, along with Blackridge and Reilly. The cops shocked me when they stepped forward and placed brown paper bags over my hands, then taped the bags closed. Meanwhile, Blackridge was talking.

“Mrs. Schulz, you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney…”

Aw jeez, Miranda? And they were checking for gunshot residue already? There was no way they could have run the serial numbers on my thirty-eight that quickly.

“I strongly object to the placement of bags on my client’s hands.” Brewster’s voice was suddenly authoritative, cold with rage. “She is here as a witness, not a suspect. Either arrest her or take the bags off.”

“Sit down, Counselor,” ordered Blackridge. “She’s a suspect.” He motioned me to a chair, too. I stared up at the blank mirrored wall, behind which, I knew, a video camera was rolling. Probably the chief of detectives was back there, too, observing this little drama along with a prosecutor. Oh, joy. “While the two of you were having your conference,” Blackridge went on, “we had a chance to check our files. There are quite a few reports in there from you, Mrs. Schulz.” He raised those same questioning dark eyes and black eyebrows at me. “Your ex-husband perpetrated violence on you? Did you finally see your chance to get even?”

“We resent the question,” Brewster quickly announced. “My client will not answer. And if you checked those files thoroughly, you saw that Mrs. Schulz has helped your department with several homicide investigations.”

Reilly snorted.

Unmoved, Blackridge went on, “We also had the chance to talk to a few guests at the lunch you catered today. They said that when folks were beginning to leave, you and your ex-husband had a screaming match outside.”

Brewster piped up, “Dr. Korman yelled at my client. He demanded she bring their son over at four o’clock today, which was not a prearranged visitation. As you saw from your files, he was a violent, dangerous man, given to fits of temper. His demand was extremely inconvenient for my client, and she said so. If you check your witnesses, you’ll see it was Dr. Korman raising his voice. Not my client.”

I sighed and put my bagged hands up on the table. This was a mistake.

“How’d you get those marks on your arms?” Blackridge demanded.

Puzzled, I looked down. The places my arms had hit when I’d landed on the ground this morning had had time to swell and turn red. In some places, they were already shading to purple.

“My client refuses to answer questions on her appearance,” Brewster said, indignant.

Blackridge ignored him. “Can you account for your movements, Mrs. Schulz, between the time of your argument with Dr. Korman and your finding his body?”