Читать книгу Vendetta - Meredith Fletcher - Страница 11

Outside Laveen, Arizona

Thursday, May 16, 1968

The Past

The ringing blasted Marion Hart into wakefulness. She groaned and rolled over in bed, then reached for the phone on the nightstand. As she pulled the receiver to her ear, her brain kicked to life.

The soft green glow of the uranium-tipped hands of the alarm clock showed the time was 3:41 a.m.

She’d gotten two hours of sleep. She sat up with her back against the headboard and said, “Marion Hart.”

“Marion, did I wake you?”

She recognized District Attorney Geoffrey Turnbull’s gravelly voice immediately. Adrenaline thudded through her body. During the seven weeks she’d been with the district attorney’s office, Turnbull had never called her in the middle of the night.

They’d attended one of the mayor’s political campaign functions earlier. No, she told herself. That was yesterday.

But God help her, that didn’t feel like yesterday. It felt like minutes ago.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Sorry,” Turnbull said. He was in his fifties and had held the office of district attorney for seven years. He’d been an A.D.A. before that and was a fishing buddy of Marion’s father. According to the local gossip, that was one of the main reasons Turnbull had hired her into the D.A.’s office.

“It’s all right,” Marion said. “I was only…sleeping.”

Turnbull chuckled. “I was, too, when I got the call.”

“What call, sir?”

“Stop calling me ‘sir.’”

“Yes, sir.” Marion had tried. She didn’t automatically give a lot of men respect, and she didn’t give many offices immediate respect, either. Turnbull was a lot like her dad, though, and she gave men like that respect.

Turnbull sighed. “I hate to ask this, Marion, but I need you to handle something. I hadn’t planned on a murder taking place when I spent last night drinking. Driving over to cover this is out of the question. I’m still half in the bag.”

Marion wanted to say, Only half? But she didn’t. Turnbull was well-known for his drinking proclivity, though he’d never let it interfere with his job. A lot of deals were made over drinks and cigars. Marion knew that from waiting tables to put herself through law school.

“And I damn sure didn’t think a celebrity would go and get himself killed,” Turnbull added.

“‘Celebrity’?” Marion repeated. The part about the killing didn’t surprise her. A phone call late at night had already brought that possibility to mind. No one called the D.A.’s office at night to ask legal questions.

“An honest-to-God war hero.” Papers rustled. “His name’s— was—Tom Marker. He was a colonel in the army. Have you heard of him?”

“Yes.” It would have been hard not to have heard of the man. Marker had brought back Brian Ellis, the scion of the Ellis airline empire, only a year or so ago. The story of the father and son’s reunion after nearly eighteen months in a Vietcong war prison had been in all the papers and on television. “Who killed him?”

“A woman. The sheriff’s office caught her at the scene.”

Marion switched on the lamp next to her bed. The bright light hurt her eyes. She opened the nightstand drawer and took out a notebook and pen.

The notebook was a five-by-seven bound edition. All the pages were numbered. That had been one of the things Turnbull had insisted on when she accepted the job. Everything was written in bound notebooks and with a pen. The notebooks were part of the evidence chain the prosecutor’s office might have to provide.

Marion turned to a clean page and made a notation of the day and time. She wrote Tom Marker’s name, then Death Investigation.

“Do we know who the woman is?” Marion asked.

“Not yet, A.D.A. Hart,” Turnbull replied. She heard the grin in his words. “That’s going to be one of the first things you need to let me know. In the morning. I’m going back to bed. From what Fred Keller says, this thing should be a slam-dunk. If you need anything, try to wait till morning. I’m going to be hungover as hell and I have to be in front of Judge Ferguson at ten o’clock for an arraignment.”

“All right. But what am I supposed to—”

“Just get to the Kellogg Motel, Counselor. Talk to Fred. He’ll walk you through the crime scene. Oh, and take your camera. The sheriff’s office will have a photographer there taking pictures, but I always like to have our own photos in a murder investigation. Especially if it involves celebrities. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Turnbull hung up before Marion could say anything. She took the phone from her ear and stared at it for a moment.

Then the shock wore off and excitement flared again. A murder. And Turnbull was letting her handle it. Grinning, she cradled the phone and climbed out of bed. She grabbed a suit from the closet on her way to the apartment’s tiny bathroom.

It was her first murder case. And she’d take a slam-dunk any day. Court cases were all about the win.

Thirty-seven minutes later, freshly showered and feeling more awake, Marion pulled her 1965 Mustang Fastback off the highway and into the Kellogg Motel parking lot. The pavement glistened like black ice from a recent light rain.

The motel was laid out in a large U so that the two legs encompassed the parking area. The manager’s office was in the right leg at the front. Red neon tubing marked the office and gleamed from the front of the Pepsi machine.

A tall deputy in a yellow slicker waved her down with a flashlight.

Marion pulled up next to him and rolled down her window. She hated letting the rain into the car. Although it wasn’t new, it was new to her. The old Rambler her dad had helped her buy and repair had finally given out a week after she’d gotten the job in the D.A.’s office. The payments came dearly and she still occasionally winced over the doubt she’d seen in her dad’s eyes. Both her parents were schoolteachers. Money had never been plentiful in their household.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the grizzled deputy said. “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to move along. This here motel is closed.”

“I’m with the district attorney’s office.” Marion switched on her interior light and showed him her identification.

The man read the identification, then scrunched down and took a better look at her. “But…you’re a woman.”

I am, Marion thought fiercely. And you’d better get used to it. There’s a new world coming.

“Gee,” Marion said, “you stay sharp like that and I’ll bet you make detective someday.” The words were out of her mouth before she knew it. She regretted them at once. Creating ill will with the sheriff’s office wouldn’t endear her to anyone. A fast-talking, sarcastic woman definitely wouldn’t be appreciated.

But she hated the condescending attitude men had toward women. She’d faced it the whole time she’d put herself through law school. Most of the men there had waited for her to fail out or break down from all the pressure. Instead she’d graduated near the top of her class.

But the deputy wasn’t angry; he grinned. “Well I’ll be. A woman. And you’re young, too. This should be interesting.” He stood up and backed away. “You go on ahead, ma’am. Sheriff Keller will meet you at the room.”

“Thank you.” Marion put her identification back into her purse. “Which room?”

“I expect it’ll be the one with the dead body in it, ma’am.”

Okay, you had that one coming, Marion thought sourly. She gazed through the rain-dappled windshield at the motel rooms.

Sheriff’s cars and an ambulance sat in front of only one of them. The red and white lights cut swaths through the neon-spattered darkness. The mercury vapor lights made the blue cars look purple.

Marion eased ahead and parked well short of the traffic congestion. She didn’t want to chance any door dings. She got out of the Mustang, slung her purse over her shoulder, skidded for a moment on her pumps and crossed to the motel room.

Sheriff Fred Keller of Maricopa County was a no-nonsense kind of guy. Even though Marion knew Turnbull had told Keller she was coming, it was obvious that the sheriff didn’t approve of her presence.

She tried to ignore that, but it was a fierce struggle. He was the kind of aloof male that drew fire with just a glance.

He stood almost six feet tall and was solid and muscular. From the look of his craggy face and iron-gray hair, Marion guessed he was in his late fifties. His dark skin offered mute testimony that he spent a lot of the day under the hot Arizona sun. The pistol on his hip looked massive.

“You mind if I smoke, ma’am?” Keller asked. Before Marion even had time to reply, he reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lipped one and lit up with a Zippo lighter. The wavering flame drew his features briefly out of the shadows. He blew a plume of gray smoke out into the rainy night.

Marion knew she could be no-nonsense herself and decided to show the man. She stepped under the eave out of the rain and opened her notebook.

“What happened?” Marion asked.

Keller looked at her over the hot orange coal of his cigarette and then lowered his hand. “An unidentified woman came to this motel room—” he pointed with his cigarette to indicate the unit Marion stood next to “—that would be unit thirty-seven—and used a .357 Magnum to nearly blow off Colonel Tom Marker’s head, ma’am. That’s what happened.”

Marion took quick notes in shorthand. She’d learned that while still in high school when her parents thought she was going to be a teacher like them. At the time, she hadn’t known how helpful it would be in her job as an attorney.

“Were there any witnesses?” Marion asked.

“Yes, ma’am. The night manager’s name is Bud Overton. I’ve got a man down to his office who’s taking a statement.”

“I’ll want to talk to Mr. Overton.”

“We’re getting a statement. You can just read what he tells us. I’ll have the report right out to you.”

Marion met the man’s eyes. “Will you be putting Mr. Overton on the stand and questioning him about what he saw tonight during the murder trial, Sheriff Keller?”

Keller took a hit off his cigarette. “No, ma’am.”

“Well, I will be.” If this turns out right, Marion told herself. “I’ll need to speak to Mr. Overton tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Keller frowned in distaste and rubbed his stubbled jaw. “I think it would have been better if Turnbull had sent someone else down here.”

“If D.A. Turnbull had felt that way,” Marion said evenly, “I expect he would have done just that. Don’t you?”

Keller grimaced. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Walk me through the murder.”

Marion took notes as Keller talked. She was attentive and spoke only when she needed clarification. Evidently that impressed him because some of his surliness went away. But maybe that was because he was a total professional when it came to his job. His pride and thoroughness were evident.

According to Overton’s story, the woman had walked into the motel parking lot wearing a thigh-length jacket. Overton had noticed her because she was “a good-lookin’ woman” and he didn’t see many of those at the motel. Except for the ones who were trying to drum up a little business.

Keller said that before he thought about it. He paused, colored briefly and apologized. Marion quietly accepted the apology, not because she’d been embarrassed—because she wasn’t—but because she knew that the discomfort Keller felt gave her a slight edge over the man.

The woman had gone to the unit and—

“She came directly to this unit?” Marion interrupted. She glanced at the door. The unit was neatly marked with brass numbers on the door. It was room number 37.

“Yes, ma’am. Overton says there was no hesitation.”

Marion thought about that. “Marker could have called her here.”

Keller shrugged and nodded. “I thought of that. Don’t know how we’d prove it.”

“We could subpoena phone records,” Marion supplied. That course of action was relatively new.

“I suppose so,” Keller replied, looking a little impressed. Then he continued with his account.

The woman had paused at the door for a moment, then took her pistol out and walked into the room.

“Marker let her in?” Marion asked.

“We don’t believe so, ma’am,” Keller said. “There are fresh scratches on the lock. We found lockpicks on the woman. And Overton says there weren’t any lights on in the room. We believe Colonel Marker was asleep when she entered.”

Once inside the room, the woman had switched on a small flashlight and opened fire almost immediately.

“Overton says the muzzleflashes lit up the room just seconds after she entered,” Keller told Marion. “Says it was like a lightning storm started up in there.”

“Are flashes like that normal?” Marion hadn’t seen gunfire at night.

“Yes, ma’am. Muzzleflashes can be awfully bright in the dark.”

The sound of the shots had rolled out over the motel parking area. At that point Overton had dived behind the counter and dragged the phone down with him.

“The woman was still here when you arrived?” Marion asked when the sheriff finished his summation.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“You’d have to ask her that.”

“Are you ready to do this?” Keller asked.

Marion stood at the door’s threshold. So far she hadn’t ventured inside the room. But the thought of the corpse lying in wait hadn’t been far from her mind.

Until this moment, the only dead bodies she’d seen had been in funeral homes. She’d still felt uncomfortable around them. There was something about the emptiness of the body and knowing that the eyes would never open that scratched at her nerves.

“Yes,” Marion whispered.

Keller looked at her. “You don’t have to do this,” he said gently.

“Are you trying to protect me, Sheriff Keller?” Marion appreciated that from him at the same time that she resented it. She’d fought hard to earn the respect of the men she’d worked with and she wasn’t going to lose the foundation of that respect by allowing them to be nice to her.

Needing protection wouldn’t further the recognition that a woman could do the same job as a man.

“Yes, ma’am,” Keller answered without hesitation.

“Don’t do me any favors,” Marion told him.

“No, ma’am. If you don’t mind me asking, Counselor, have you seen a murder victim before?”

Marion hesitated. “Only in photographs.”

Keller nodded grimly. “Well this here’s a lot worse than any photographs would be. You can’t smell the blood and stuff through a picture. You might want to rethink going into that room.”

I can’t, Marion thought. If I back down now, if I don’t face this, it’s going to haunt me.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“The reason I’m telling you this,” Keller said, “is that we’ve got news reporters on the scene now.”

Looking over the sheriff’s shoulder, Marion saw a loose semi-circle of people standing out beyond the striped sawhorses the deputies had put up. As she looked, a man lifted a large camera and took her picture. The bright light from the flashbulb temporarily caused black spots to whirl in her vision.

She hadn’t noticed the presence of the reporters.

“They’re always circling,” Keller said. “Like vultures. Somebody else’s bad news is their good news.” He frowned like he’d bitten into something sour.

Marion knew from her studies and her exposure in the D.A.’s office that she would have, at best, an adversarial relationship with the press. Anything less would amount to all-out war.

“What I’m saying,” Keller went on, “is that those vultures would love to hang a picture on the morning’s paper of Phoenix’s newest A.D.A. throwing up.”

“Nice thought,” Marion said.

“I’m just saying,” Keller protested, “that you don’t want it to happen to you.”

Marion thought about that for a moment. “You’re right. But I’m still going into that room.”

Keller eyed her levelly for a moment, nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Whenever you’re ready.”

Facing the door, Marion took a deep breath and let it out.

“When you get inside,” Keller said, “try breathing through your mouth. Not your nose. It helps cut down on the smell.”

“Thank you.” Marion steeled herself and walked into the motel unit.