Clay looked up at the two women and said, "Yes she has. She didn't know exactly who he was at the time, but she figured it out later."
Clarissa seemed to come out of her trance. "What are you talking about?"
"You know how Candy likes to party," Clay began. Clarissa and Gracie just nodded assent.
"Charles picked her up at some club, about eighteen months ago. She said he wasn't her type and tried to brush him off, but he insisted. He flashed a lot of cash and she figured what the hell, maybe she could get some of it. He wined and dined her, and they ended up at a fancy hotel."
"He raped her?" Gracie asked.
"No, definitely a seduction, she went along with it willingly," Clay replied. "She said he'd changed his tune by the next morning, couldn't wait to get out of there. Like he'd gotten what he wanted and she was no longer important. She said she'd expected him to offer her money, but he didn't."
"Wouldn't it have made her mad to be offered money, like a common whore?"
"I think it made her madder that he
didn't
," Clay said. "She seemed to think she'd found a Sugar Daddy, and was upset when that didn't turn out to be the case."
"How did she figure out it was Dad?" asked Gracie.
"That morning as he was getting ready to leave she thought maybe he was married. Not that that would have bothered Candy," Clay said. "But when she asked him he said something about his ex-wife Clarissa. A couple of weeks later we were talking and I said I had a date that evening. She couldn't remember your name," he gave an apologetic look to Clarissa, "and when I reminded her it connected up."
"It's not a real common name," Clarissa said, finally coming out of her daze. "So when she heard it she remembered the conversation and told you about it."
"Yeah. She seemed to think it was one of life's funny coincidences, and so did I until she told me his name. Then I knew what the bastard had done." Clay looked at Gracie and said, "Sorry."
Clarissa shook her head, as if unable to believe what she'd just heard. "He seduced your daughter just to get back at
me
?" Clarissa asked.
"'Fraid so."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because I didn't want him to hurt you any further," Clay replied. "You have to understand,
Candy
wasn't upset about it at all. It was just another guy to her, no big deal. You and I were the
real
targets of that act, and I didn't want it to come between us."
"So, what, does she think the police would believe that gave her a motive to kill him? Over a year later?" Gracie asked.
"No, she doesn't – but
I
do!" Clay said. "They'd think she just figured out who he was and why he'd done it and decided to get revenge. It's not impossible."
"No, I guess it's not, not when you put it that way," Gracie admitted. "But, Clay, it gives
you
a motive too. They'd say you just found out about it and
you
were the one who wanted revenge."
"They don't know Clay," Clarissa put in. "He'd go
talk
to Charles and call him a cad and be done with it."
"I thought about doing just that!" Clay said. "Except I thought it would only make him decide to tell you all about it, and I didn't want that. I'm not happy about it, but what
really
bothers me is that my daughter doesn't see a problem with having one-night stands. Sadly, Charles was just one of many."
"So I'll ask you again, where
were
you Tuesday afternoon?"
"I was at a construction site, like Gracie said. It was busy, but I'm not sure if anyone will remember me being there. You know how it is, they're there to get the work done, I'm just the architect. And Candy had gone shopping at lunch and lost track of time. She's got some receipts she pulled out of the trash, that should prove she was at the mall."
"Clay, you have to tell the lieutenant," Clarissa said firmly. "It'll be better to get it all out in the open, you know that."
"But I still don't understand why Lieutenant Freeman would think there's a problem," Gracie said a bit petulantly.
"Sometimes people snap, Gracie," Clay responded. "Even if something doesn't sound like a big deal to you, for some reason it might really bother
them
. A normally good person will suddenly do something
totally
out of character to exact their revenge. That's why you always hear relatives of the murderer saying 'I just can't believe he'd do a thing like that.'"
Gracie thought about it for a minute. "Yeah, I guess I can see that. But you didn't, right?"
"No, I swear to you Gracie, I didn't kill your father," Clay told her in a steady voice. "And your mom's right, I need to tell the police the truth. I know I should've earlier but…"
"You were just trying to protect your daughter," Clarissa said. "I might've done the same thing under the circumstances."
Gracie suddenly felt uncomfortably that she was in the way. Her mother and Clay would need to talk about this by themselves so she announced that she had to finish her homework and left. She could hear Clay asking for the lieutenant as she walked down the hall to her room.
Back in her room Gracie stared at her school books without seeing them. Her mind wasn't on homework right now. She kept thinking about what Clay had said about someone suddenly snapping and doing something out of character. That certainly seemed to be the case here, she thought. She couldn't imagine anyone she knew that had even the slightest motive as the kind of person who would commit murder.
Had Clay not told the whole story, and that comment was meant to be a hint? That just didn't seem likely, if he'd suddenly confessed about Candy's seduction wouldn't he have admitted if he – or Candy – had shot her father? Maybe not, she told herself. Maybe he thinks it can't be tracked back to either of them and they're safe, so he can hint that someone went nutso and think it'll be OK.
Except that it
didn't
make sense to Gracie. She'd seen Clay get angry before, but he still kept himself under control pretty well. Plus, he didn't sound angry now, only sorry he'd had to tell Mom what had happened. He seemed more sad that Candy was a slut than angry at her.
Supposedly Candy hadn't even known who Dad was until later, and even then hadn't seemed to care. That certainly sounded like the Candy she knew! Kind of like a less-successful Jennifer, Gracie thought. She liked to party and tried to get favors (including money) from any guy she could. She would be likely to make a big scene if she didn't get what she wanted,
maybe
key his car on her way out of the hotel, but not wait well over a year and then kill the guy.
Besides, just because Dad had picked Candy up didn't mean he'd been targeting her, did it? Clay and Mom seemed to think so, but maybe they were reading more into it than was there. Dad liked pretty young girls and he liked to get his way. Maybe he just saw her and wanted her, um, company. That could've been all there was to it.
She'd just have to wait and see if Lieutenant Freeman could prove their new alibis. If one of the construction workers remembered seeing Clay at the site that would be enough. She really hoped that would be the case, for her mother's sake. And he'd said Candy had some receipts that should prove she'd been at the mall that afternoon. If she'd paid cash that could be a little tricky, but it might be enough.
Depending on the times these things happened, it might still leave either of them open for the shots at the parking garage. Though that still left the problem of how they'd have gotten Dad's gun. That one was a puzzler. Supposing they
had
somehow, it might be a crime of opportunity – they found the gun and suddenly decided to get revenge. Clay might have gone downtown on some kind of business, but she couldn't imagine why Candy would be there.
And in any case they'd left the gun for someone
else
to find. She could have something there! Was it another case of someone shooting and missing (or running away without checking) and leaving the gun so they wouldn't be caught with it? No way to tell without finding the gun and checking for fingerprints, which doubtless would have been wiped away by the real killer anyway.
Aunt Jeanine's alibi was still unproven, too. Like Clay said, she could've been so angry about not getting the loan that she snapped, especially knowing she would inherit if Dad died. But she wouldn't have any reason to be downtown, either. She knew about the presentation, she'd have gone out to Bixby's. Gracie laughed a little sarcastically; it would be just like Aunt Jeanine to intend to get there at 2:00 to shoot him before the meeting, but she'd end up being late and have to wait. Except it still seemed like too much trouble for her to go to.
Which left who, Cindy? She certainly had a good motive, she'd get her girlfriend
and
her money. Surely Cindy hadn't just decided to shoot Dad without planning
some
kind of alibi for herself, she was smarter than that. She couldn't possibly have known about Justin's faked burglary – could she? Had Jennifer come home earlier and discovered it and they'd decided to use it to their advantage? Or did she have another plan and this just happened to work out? Either way, it meant that Jennifer must at least
know
Cindy had done it; after all she would have known if it was really Cindy who'd answered the phone.
Of course it could have been someone they hadn't thought about yet. Someone else who felt Dad had treated them badly, that left a pretty wide-open field Gracie thought. And what had happened to the gun? The police had searched around the mansion and come up empty-handed. No telling where it was now. The murderer could still have it or they could've even sold it. If
she
were the murderer she'd throw it away somewhere that no one would think to look – but where would that be?
It was Tuesday morning, the day before Dad's funeral. Relatives were coming in from out of town, great uncles and second cousins Gracie didn't even remember. There was so much to be done to get ready that Clarissa had taken the day off work and Gracie had stayed home from school. They'd decided to treat themselves to a breakfast out before they got started.
"They're not busy this time of morning," Gracie said as she unbuckled her seatbelt. "Why'd you park way out here?"
Clarissa climbed out of the big Escalade and turned to look at Gracie. "I don't want someone to park too close and ding up the car. You know how big this thing is!"
"Yeah, and I know how much gas it guzzles, too," Gracie grumbled as they began walking to the restaurant. "It's a pain in a bunch of ways, I wish you'd sell it."
"Well, if I
should
decide to sell it, I want it in good shape so it'll be worth more." Her mother grinned at her.
They made their way in, were seated, and spent a few minutes looking over the menu. The waitress wandered over with the coffeepot, poured some for Clarissa and promised to return with a large OJ for Gracie.
Gracie watched idly as her mother stirred cream into her coffee; she usually drank it black but was allowing herself a small indulgence this morning. "How can you drink that stuff, Mom? It tastes bitter."
"It's an acquired taste," Clarissa replied as she blew across the top of the cup to cool it. "The cream helps with the bitterness, and of course some people like their coffee sweet."
"Dad did," Gracie reminded her. "He liked those fancy Starbuck's lattes, with all the milk and sugar and flavorings. Yuck! I tried a sip once, I think I like plain ol' coffee better."
"Yes, and he wouldn't eat a plain donut or even a Danish, always insisted on having a croissant with his latte," her mother said. "He thought it make him look suave and European, or something."
Gracie's orange juice came and they ordered. Gracie stared out the window at their car at the back of the parking lot. She seemed to be thinking.
"What're you staring at?" her mother asked.
"I was just thinking about what you said about not getting the car scratched. Dad's car had a big scratch on it when the police found it the next day. A scrape like the lieutenant described couldn't be from someone banging it with their door, he'd have had to have driven too close to something sticking out to make a long scratch."
"Maybe someone got too close when they parked next to him and scraped the side of his car with their bumper or something," Clarissa said.
"Whatever it was, I bet Dad was pissed!"
"Gracie, watch your language in public, young lady," Clarissa admonished.
Gracie ducked her head and said "Sorry" in a tone that said she wasn't really. She was thinking, remembering what she'd been thinking a few days ago when she was wondering if someone had gotten mad and gone off on Dad.
"Or someone keyed his car," she said. "It happens all the time at school, someone gets mad and it's an easy way to get back at them. But it could've happened anywhere, probably isn't connected to the attempt on his life."
Breakfast came and Gracie dug into her omelet with relish, her attention on eating. They discussed what they needed to accomplish and worked out a general schedule, which would probably get changed more than once before the day was out.
The waitress took their empty plates and refilled Clarissa's cup. Gracie sat back and watched her mother stir the cream in. "The lieutenant said there was a coffee stain and crumbs on the passenger seat of Dad's car," she said thoughtfully. "It bothers me because I know he'd have cleaned it up as soon as he noticed it. But I was just wondering, what if he didn't spill it?"
"I guess he could've taken someone somewhere, maybe a favor to a client," Clarissa said. "Though I'd be surprised if he'd allowed them to bring food in his car. You're right about that, he was particular about keeping the car clean." She thought for a minute. "I suppose whoever he gave a ride to could've found the gun and taken it, then for some reason shot at your father."
Gracie drained the last of the OJ and said, "I don't know. None of this makes any sense. But it bothers me – enough that I'm gonna talk to Lieutenant Freeman about it."
"Well call him on the road, we've got to get to the funeral home and then to the airport to pick up your Uncle Frank."
* * * *
Ken Freeman hung up the phone and shook his head. Gracie Greene was a smart young lady, but she'd got a bee in her bonnet about that coffee stain. He'd assured her that he'd checked with all the people on her father's itinerary and none of them said they'd ridden in his car that morning. But she'd been so insistent about the kind of coffee and crumbs that he decided it was worth a shot to have them checked out. They hadn't gotten there all by themselves.
A couple hours later he got the lab report: black coffee and powdered sugar donut crumbs. Not at all the fancy latte and croissant the kid said her dad favored. He double-checked the report on the stain to be sure, but yes, nothing had apparently blocked the spilled coffee, a passenger hadn't spilled it. It had dripped down the side of the seat, almost as if someone had reached in the window and spilled it on purpose.
A memory was trying to surface. Ken knew better than to force it, so he continued working. A few minutes later his brain had managed to access the memory and the image played out in his mind: a man holding a coffee mug, tucking a donut against the cup so he could free up his right hand to shake. He put aside the case he'd been working on and grabbed the Greene file.
Yes, there it was. Jack Dunbar, co-worker of Greene's. Ken had noted the man seemed to dislike Greene, had accused him of stealing clients. He'd been in the office at the time of the murder, but where was he when Greene was shot at earlier? Had he been the shooter?
Ken thought about calling Dunbar, then realized there might be another way to find out. He got up and walked over to the computer lab and asked the geek to see if that downtown parking garage used electronic access cards. They did. It took a little while, but the techie got the data from the security company. Jack Dunbar's card had been used to gain access to the facility at 12:55 PM on Tuesday. He'd used it again at the exit gate at 1:01 PM.
It was always possible that the guy had just realized he'd forgotten to do something or gotten a phone call requiring him to leave immediately, but it did seem odd that he'd leave so soon after arriving. Ken had the man's cell phone records checked, no calls to or from the phone within 15 minutes of that timeframe. After the kid Justin's confession about the potshot and falsified burglary it was pretty clear Greene must've had the gun with him, but how would Dunbar have gotten it?
Ken sighed, it was a long walk to the department garage but he felt he needed to see the car again. Maybe something would come to mind if he was standing in front of it.
Greene's Jaguar was stored in a corner of the building. Ken consulted a photo and mapped out the position of the car as found against its current setting. The exit door would've been about
here
, the car approximately 20 feet to the right with its back end facing you. The door gave onto a stairway leading to the upper levels, as well as to the street. Why would Dunbar have gone into the garage at all, wouldn't he have just gone down the stairs and walked on out to head back to the office?
Well, there was a trash barrel standing beside the door to the left as you faced it from inside the garage, maybe he'd popped in to throw something away. Ken walked to the 'door' and mimed opening it, stepping through and tossing some trash. He was facing away from the car. But when he turned to open the 'door' again it would be easy to look to his right a little and catch sight of the car. He walked over to the Jag.
The long scratch down its side caught his eye. Ken pulled his keys out of his pocket and pretended to scratch the paint. Dunbar was a wimpy looking guy, he might've thought that kind of childish action would get back at Greene. Ken followed the line with his finger; it ended in the middle of the passenger door which put him in position to look inside the window. Had he seen something inside that he wanted to steal? Had he broken in and in the process spilled his coffee? Had he found the gun, lain in wait, shot at Greene and then left again?
Ken called Dunbar, asking him if he'd drop by to talk about the case. He made it sound like he just wanted some general info on Greene's character and associates at work. Dunbar showed up about thirty minutes later; Ken took him into one of the spare and uncomfortable interrogation rooms.
Ken apologized for the room, telling Dunbar it was the only place available. He started asking the kinds of general questions he'd implied, letting Dunbar get comfortable and think he was safe. The man's attitude had changed; he still made it clear he hadn't liked Greene but now it seemed to be a moot point since the man was dead. Ken slipped in a comment about Greene's car being broken into, but Dunbar only commented that he'd heard about the smashed window. He was a little nervous, but then most people were when being questioned at the station.
Out of the blue Ken asked, "May I see your keys, Mr. Dunbar?"
Jack looked startled, repeating, "My keys?"
"Yes, sir. Your keys. May I see them?"
Jack tried to look confused, but he was beginning to squirm. "Why do you need my keys? I was at the office when Charles was killed."
"You're in the auto insurance business," Ken said in an apparent change of subject. "You deal with claims of cars being broken into all the time."
Jack nodded mutely, confused for real now.
"Do you know how to break into a car Mr. Dunbar? Maybe it's a little skill you picked up so you can show your clients how easy it is and convince them to take out more coverage."
"That wouldn't be ethical, Lieutenant," Jack said. "Though I wouldn't have put it past Charles to do that, if he'd thought of the gimmick. No, sir, I don't know how to break into a car. My college roommate used a coat hanger to get into mine once, when I'd locked my keys inside. But I don't know how he did it, and anyway today you'd have to get past all the electronic security. I
sure
don't know how to do that!"
"I didn't say anything about getting past alarms. Not all cars have them, mostly expensive cars. Like Jaguars. Are you sure you didn't break into Mr. Greene's car?"
Jack tried false bravado. "Yes, I'm sure I didn't break into Charles' car! What, do you think I've got a duplicate key on my ring?"
"No, but maybe some paint in the teeth of your own car key. The one you used to scratch the side of Greene's car on Tuesday," Ken told him. "Right before you broke in, found the gun, and tried to kill him."
"I did no such thing!" Jack tried to sound confident, but his voice squeaked at the end.
"I can get a search warrant," Ken said. "If the lab boys find traces of auto paint that match Greene's car you'll be arrested for attempted murder."
Jack slumped in his chair. "Could I have a cup of coffee?"
Ken got up and poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup, handed it to Jack. He sat down and waited, knowing Dunbar was about to confess.
Jack took a drink and looked across the table at Ken. "I
swear
I didn't try to kill the man. But I did shoot at the car."
"The
car
?" Ken asked. "Why?"
"I got to the parking garage a little before 1:00 that day," Jack began. "I had some trash in the car from lunch, stuck it under my arm so I could drop it in the barrel on my way out. Didn't want to stink up the car. When I did I happened to see Charles' car parked a few feet away. It pissed me off that he'd managed to find a prime slot nearly in front of the door, and I'd had to park three floors up and walk down."
Ken just nodded for Jack to continue.