Double Shot

much of this stuff had been John Richard’s, and how much of it had belonged to the house’s owner. This was probably the last time he’d rent to a doctor.

“You have to ask yourself,” Blackridge mused as he stared at the mess, “what were they looking for? And why didn’t they get Dr. Korman to give it to them before they killed him?”

I recited my usual, “I don’t know.” When Blackridge gave me a wide-eyed look, I said, “I truly have no idea what was going on. But I’d like to stay here in the garage for a bit, if that’s okay. I won’t touch anything.”

Ever wary, Blackridge circled the chaos. When he seemed satisfied that there was no evidence for me to tamper with, nor any valuables for me to steal, he said he was returning to the living room.

I made an effort to soften my tone. “Thanks.”

When Blackridge had clomped away, I surveyed the garage, then sat on one of the cold concrete steps that led to the floor. When I took a deep breath, the mixed-up scent of spilled motor oil, mildewed grass clippings, and old paint assaulted my nose. I wasn’t particularly enjoying being in there, especially since it inevitably brought back the memory of what I’d last seen in that space: John Richard’s bloody, shot-up body.

I shuddered and closed my eyes, then allowed my mind to travel back. I didn’t want to go to the memory of John Richard dead, I told myself. I wanted to see, or rather feel, what John Richard had been feeling, the moment before he was shot. Could a man who didn’t seem to have feelings experience emotions right before he was killed?

Gooseflesh pimpled my arms. I didn’t know if I was receiving an answer or just getting ridiculously chilled in this place. With my eyes still shut, I conjured up the garage door being opened by remote. I saw my ex-husband hasten the Audi forward. I imagined John Richard checking the car’s rearview window before hitting the button to close the garage door. And then, what?

I swallowed. Because I did feel it. John Richard hadn’t felt terror…or rage. What I was picking up in that garage was something entirely different.

Surprise.

18

I walked back into the house and down the hall. While I was making my way around the piles on the way to the living room, my mind tossed up a joke we’d told in tenth-grade English. It begins with the wife of Dr. Samuel Johnson entering the library. There, she finds the great lexicographer making enthusiastic love to the parlor maid.

“Dr. Johnson!” Mrs. Johnson exclaims. “I am surprised!”

“Madame,” replies Johnson (doing up his pants), “will you never attend to your diction? You are astonished. I am surprised!”

I amended my reaction to the garage. Someone had surprised the Jerk. And he’d been astonished.

Back in the living room, Brewster Motley and Detectives Reilly and Blackridge were talking in low tones as they headed for the front door. From their downcast expressions, it was clear that bringing Arch to the scene of the crime hadn’t yielded the clues they’d hoped for. Brewster’s cell chirped. He turned toward the hearth and began listening to the details of the next crisis. Amid this movement and chatter, Arch stood stock-still in the middle of the living-room mess.

“Honey?” I ventured.

“Yeah, Mom.”

But he didn’t move, and neither did I. Something was bothering him. At the front door, Blackridge twisted his head to see why no one was behind him. His wide, pasty face looked exhausted. Reilly cleared his throat and flipped to a new page on his clipboard.

Arch announced, “I think I know what the vandals were looking for.”

Fifteen minutes later, he’d told us the whole story, and the cops’ expressions had gone from downcast to gleeful. I, for one, was only glad that my son’s rediscovered conscience had superseded his misguided loyalty to his father. What we all learned was this: Every Tuesday and Thursday, when John Richard and Arch had ostensibly been playing golf, they’d been trekking to a bank in nearby Spruce, Colorado. There, John Richard and Arch had opened a safety-deposit-box account. They’d each had keys. Since it was rare for John Richard to trust anyone, even his own son, this part struck me as odd.

“He said he couldn’t trust a soul but me,” Arch told us. “Plus, he swore me to secrecy, even though I have no idea what he was doing with the box. He made me promise not to try to get into it unless something happened to him. Anyway, I keep the key at home in my desk.”

“How’d your dad work the bank visits?” Reilly again.

“Well, first he and Sandee and I went to the country club. Sandee went up to the golf shop while Dad and I went down to the basement. Dad would let me play pool while he went to the men’s locker room to change out of his golf clothes. Then we’d go out the back door, walk around to the parking lot, and drive over to Spruce in the TT. My job was to wait in the car. After we’d done this a couple of times, I always took a book. Anyway, Dad would take the briefcase out of the trunk, and then he’d be gone for about half an hour. And I guess he didn’t just go to the bank. Once I saw him come out of the collectors’ shop.”

“Collectors’ shop?” Reilly asked.

“It’s in the same strip mall,” Arch replied. “The place used to be a movie theater, so it’s huge. The owner buys and sells comics, dolls, key chains, silver, stamps, coins, china, stuff like that. It’s a dump, but some of the kids at my new school like to go in and look around. I went with two of them last week. Didn’t buy anything, though. And Dad wasn’t there.”

I was confused. “What in the world was Sandee doing in the golf shop while you and Dad did your bank run?”

Arch exhaled. “She was supposed to stay there and browse. If anybody asked where Dad was, her job was to say he’d gone to get his golf bag. Then when he went in to get her later, he’d be carrying the golf bag, in case anyone was asking questions.”

So that was how Marla had gotten the idea that Sandee worked in the golf shop. With all that back-and-forth to Spruce twice a week, Sandee must have known the price of every golf shirt, jacket, and plus fours in the place.

“Did Sandee know what he was doing?”

Arch chewed the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. And Dad said I shouldn’t tell Sandee where we were going. She never asked, anyway. She was always nice.” He frowned. “I don’t like keeping secrets. I guess that now that Dad’s gone, it’s okay to tell this one, though.”

“You did the right thing,” said Blackridge. Reilly nodded and snapped a rubber band around the thick wad of clipboard pages. Blackridge checked his watch. “Mrs. Schulz? The bank’s closed. May we have permission to take your son over there tomorrow morning? We need to get into that box.”

I looked at Brewster, who had closed his phone as soon as Arch made his announcement. Now he piped up: “As long as Mrs. Schulz and I are apprised of the contents of the box, then yes.”

Blackridge and Reilly exchanged a look. Blackridge said, “If the material in the box tends to exculpate your client, then we’ll tell you.”

“No good, gentlemen.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Counselor.” Blackridge’s tone was grudging as he and Reilly again headed toward the front door. “Sure. We’ll tell you what’s in there.”

Arch said, “Cool!”

Brewster’s smile was wide. Clearly, making cops do what he wanted was another thing Brewster loved best.

The cops agreed to pick up Arch at half-past eight the next morning, Friday. I stood by the van while Arch gathered the swim gear he’d stashed in the black-and-white. A breeze swished through the Alpine rosebushes