Lies Still Told, page 17
It was weird, A.L. thought. He’d walked up the driveway, not up the sidewalk, which was what he’d have used to enter the house through the front door. Was he a visitor? Did he live there?
It was time to find out. He did a reverse lookup on his computer and identified the house’s owner as Sandra Matthews. Then it was a few more keystrokes to see if Ms. Matthews was in their database. No criminal record.
A.L. plugged the address into his phone and put on his coat. He walked out of the building and saw that the predicted snow had started falling. It would be a pretty Christmas. The snow that was already on the ground would be freshened up by the new stuff. Kids would be excited. That made him think of the three kids who had been riding bikes in the cul-de-sac next to Platt’s neighbor’s house. Did they talk about Platt? Did they worry that their next-door neighbor had been shot in his own home? Did they miss him?
That led him down the path of thinking that his father and uncle no doubt missed their friend. The two men would be together tonight. They’d have dinner, watch a little television and go to Mass. When he and Jacqui had been married, they used to bundle Traci up, and the three of them would go to Mass with his dad and uncle. They’d not been a clan like the Morgans, but for anybody looking from the outside, they’d been a nice little family unit.
After the divorce, A.L. hadn’t kept up the pretense that the church service meant much to him. Wondered at times just what it meant to his dad and Uncle Joe. Did it bring them joy? Or was it simply a ritual that they’d been observing since they were kids, and now didn’t seem like the time to start changing it up? Like many things, religion was not discussed in the McKittridge family.
He followed the GPS directions to Center Lane Street and recognized the house from the screenshots Blithe had provided. Up close and in person, he could see the wear and tear on the big two-story, white frame home. Paint was peeling off the spindles on the wraparound front porch. The windows had seen better days. If the roof didn’t leak, he’d be surprised. He knocked on the front door. It took several minutes for it to be opened.
A woman, maybe early seventies, opened the door just inches. She was a foot shorter than A.L. and thin. She was dressed in sweat pants and a sweater.
“Sandra Matthews?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“My name is Detective A.L. McKittridge,” he said. He showed his badge and then handed her a card. “I’m wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time.”
She opened the door, hugging her small frame against the cold air that he brought inside with him. “I’m not used to the police knocking on my door,” she said.
“I just need a moment,” he said as she motioned for him to take a seat in her living room. It was a big room with a high ceiling. Old houses were great for that. There were two couches and several chairs. None of them was new. He took one of the chairs by the bay window. She took the other. “I wanted to ask you if you know a man by the name of Colby Kane.”
“Yes. Are you here for his things?”
A.L. struggled to keep up. “Uh…no. So you know that’s he’s dead?”
“I get the newspaper,” she said. “Horrible thing. I didn’t know him that well, but nobody that young should be dying.”
“How is it exactly that you knew Colby Kane?”
“He rented a room from me over my garage.”
“For how long?”
“Just a few months. He was a good tenant. Always paid on time.”
“Can you tell me about any of Mr. Kane’s visitors over these past three months?”
“I don’t make it a practice of spying on my tenants.”
“I’m not suggesting that. I simply wondered if you happened to see anybody around the house or Mr. Kane’s apartment.”
She shook her head.
Damn. Well, at least they knew where Colby had been living. “Would you mind showing me his apartment?”
“I’ll need to put my boots on,” she said. “The path back and forth between the house and garage is pretty well tromped down because once I saw the news, I started clearing out the space.”
A.L. tamped down his disappointment. He’d have much preferred to see Colby’s living arrangements prior to anybody scrubbing them clean. He waited while Sandra put on her snow boots and her coat. Then they walked out the front door, across the driveway and through the side door of the garage. An expensive late-model SUV was parked inside. It surprised A.L. a little, given the shape of the house. “Does that belong to you?”
“Yes. My friend’s son has the Lexus dealership.”
She pointed to the stairs, and he stepped back so that she could go first. At the top of the narrow staircase, there was an unlocked door. Once she opened it, he realized that there was likely little here that was going to do him much good.
The bedroom, living room and kitchen were all one big area. A bed and three-drawer chest at the near end, with a television on the wall and a couple chairs in the middle. The far end was split between a stove, sink and refrigerator and an open door that led to the bathroom.
He started in the bedroom area. The bed had been stripped and the drawers in the chest emptied. There was no closet.
He walked through the living area and stood in the small kitchen. There was no table. He opened the fridge. Empty and clean. He moved onto the bath. It was small. No tub, just a shower, toilet and sink with a medicine cabinet behind the mirror. It was also empty. A.L. returned to the main living area. There were two black garbage bags in the middle of the living room floor. “Mr. Kane’s belongings?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“May I have a look?” he asked.
She shrugged. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his coat pocket, put them on and opened the first bag. It was all clothes. Sweaters and jeans and underwear. Some shoes. The second bag was towels, kitchen and bath. Some personal items, like a razor and a toothbrush. Half bottles of shampoo and body wash.
It was a depressingly small number of things. “That’s it?”
“Yes. I provided the apartment furnished. All the furniture, the kitchen utensils, even the bedroom sheets. The tenant really didn’t need anything.”
For a man like Colby Kane, it might have been a sweet deal. He closed up the second bag and took off his gloves. There was nothing here. He felt vaguely depressed about Colby Kane’s life. “May I take a few photos?” he asked, holding up his cell phone.
“I guess.”
He snapped six. “The police department has been in touch with Mr. Kane’s sister, who lives in Utah. With your permission, I’ll give her your name and suggest she contacts you about retrieving his personal possessions.” He handed her another business card. “Can you write your phone and email, if you have one, on the back of this?”
She did it. No email, just a phone. He put the card back in his jacket pocket. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Matthews,” he said.
She nodded and led him down the stairs. In the driveway, they parted ways. He checked his watch once he got back to the car. Almost nine. He opened his notebook, flipped back through his notes. Settled on the interview he’d had with Dante Sanchez, Colby’s coworker at the garbage company. Dante had talked about Colby Kane always having cash in his pocket. More than he should. And it had been further proof he was a punk, Dante had said, because Colby wasn’t shy about letting other people see it.
That didn’t jibe with Colby living in a cramped, two-room apartment over the garage. Come to think of it, Dante’s comments about Colby didn’t jibe with how most people had favorably described Colby.
Finally, before driving away, he took two photos of Sandra Matthews’s house and made a note of her phone number for the file.
He checked his watch again. If he was going to Platt’s house, now was as good a time as any. He’d pushed the conversation with his dad around in his head for long enough. Go or don’t go. Shit or get off the pot.
He drove to the end of the street, stopped at the sign and turned right. Toward Platt’s house. The look of chicken had never been a good one for him.
On the way, he stopped at the drugstore, bought a sympathy card and put fifty bucks in it. Hank could use it for whatever he needed. Death was an expensive affair. That thought reminded him that he was still waiting for information on Platt’s payments to Lincoln Life Insurance. He dialed Blithe.
“Hey, did you have a chance to follow up with the Lincoln Life Insurance people about a death benefit for Platt Waymann?” he asked.
“Just heard back from them ten minutes ago,” Blithe said. “They wouldn’t say much. Privacy and all that. Said that records are available with a subpoena. But I did get them to confirm that there is a death benefit of a hundred grand.”
“Payable to?”
“That’s what they wouldn’t tell me.”
“Do the paperwork to get that information,” A.L. said. A hundred grand, even if it was split a couple ways, would still be enough to motivate somebody to do something stupid. Normally, even when requested by a court, corporations could find a way to drag out providing a response. But in the case of a death investigation, where a benefit payment could be a motive, they’d be on the hot seat to provide a fast response.
Platt’s street was already crowded with cars. And he could see people walking up the sidewalk. Some were carrying dishes to pass. He didn’t feel bad about going in empty-handed. He wasn’t staying long enough to eat anything.
He walked past his dad’s car and saw his uncle’s farther up the block. He stepped up onto the porch, took a deep breath and opened the door. The house was full. People were gathered where Platt’s body had been lying just a week or so earlier. He saw people he recognized and nodded in their directions. Here, he would be Francis’s boy. Didn’t matter that he was forty-three years old and had a kid of his own. He saw his dad across the room and gave him a little wave.
Then he went to find Hank. On the way, he passed a table that held a basket for the cards. He slipped his in. He’d just done that when a woman stepped up to him. “Good to see you again, A.L.”
Virginia Trotter.
Chapter Fifteen
A.L. had wondered if she might be there. She was, after all, Hank and Veronica’s mother and Platt’s ex-wife. By all accounts, their post-divorce relationship had been amicable, even if Platt had thought it was expensive. “Virginia,” he said. “Good of you to be here for your kids.”
“Kid,” she corrected. “Veronica chose not to come, so Hank and I are left to represent the Waymann family.”
“You’ll do a fine job,” he said, gliding over Veronica’s absence. It was too bad that she hadn’t been able to bring herself to come. It would have given Hank and Virginia some cover from all the explanations they were now going to be forced to make when visitors asked about her. “Did you come down just for the day?”
“I got in early yesterday. Hank had a few things he wanted me to look at before deciding what to do with them. Things that, quite frankly, I’d forgotten that Platt and I had. One does gather a lot of junk over the years.”
“True.” Unless one was Colby Kane, evidently. Then a couple of garbage bags did the trick. “Where is Hank?” he asked.
“In the kitchen, I think.”
“I’ll just go say a quick hello,” A.L. said. Her hand on his arm stopped him.
“A.L., have you identified who was responsible for this terrible crime?” she asked, her voice low.
“No. But we’re making progress.” He wasn’t going to tell her that he’d knocked on her door yesterday or that he still had some questions for her. Now was not the time. But maybe he could get a quick answer to his most recent one. “Virginia, do you remember if Platt had a life insurance policy with Lincoln Life Insurance?”
“I…um…I really don’t,” she said. “You know Platt handled the money in our house.”
It had been that way in his own house. His dad had paid the bills. But his mom had known where the dollars were spent, had known how much was left over to spend on wants instead of needs. She certainly would have known if his dad had a life insurance policy. Had it been so one-sided in Platt’s house that Virginia wouldn’t have a clue? Possible, but it didn’t feel quite right. But right now, he was going to let it go. “I won’t give up, Virginia. I promise you that.”
She gave a little shiver. “It’s just that Platt deserves justice.” She blinked her eyes fast.
He didn’t see any tears. But then again, according to Veronica, Virginia knew that Platt had been guilty of adultery. That was the kind of personal wrong that was hard to forgive. “He does. Have a good day, Virginia.”
This time when he walked away, she didn’t stop him. By Virginia’s own admission, she and Platt had had very little to do with each other in the years since their divorce. But death was a sentimental time. Maybe she was able to focus on a time when they’d not been estranged. Maybe those were the stories that she and Hank shared when they were all alone in Platt’s house.
Hank was talking to someone A.L. thought he recognized. Sure enough, when Hank saw him, he motioned him close. “You remember Jesse Frank. He was in my class.”
“Sure. Nice to see you,” A.L. said, extending a hand.
“You, too. Hell of a thing,” Jesse said. “Seems like lately the times I’m most likely to catch up with old friends is when a parent dies.”
A.L. said nothing. But it made him think that someday he’d be in Hank’s spot. Shaking hands. Receiving hugs. Accepting casseroles.
“Good to see you, Hank,” Jesse said. “Next time you’re in town, we’ll have a beer under happier circumstances.” He walked away with a nod in A.L.’s direction.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Hank,” A.L. said. Really, what else was there to say?
“I appreciate you coming. And your dad looks good. Your uncle Joe, too. They’re going to be giving you a run for your money for years.”
If they were able to get past the fact that he was investigating Platt’s death. “Counting on it,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No. I’ve made good progress cleaning out the house. Mom was helpful with some things I didn’t know what to do with. After the holidays, we’ve arranged for painters to come in and spruce up the walls. Then we’ll put it on the market. Hopefully, it will sell fast.”
“Have you talked to Veronica?” A.L. asked.
“I did. She finally answered one of my calls. It was…good to talk to her but also difficult. I wanted her to come for today, but she said that she just couldn’t. That she couldn’t pretend to all the people who came that she’s sad he’s dead. I wanted to tell her that it didn’t make too much sense being angry at a dead man, but I didn’t want to make her mad. I’m hoping that she and I can build something of a relationship in the future.”
“Good luck with that,” A.L. said. He would hate it if he and Liz were at odds.
“At some point, we’ll need to connect, if only to work out the financials. I’ve got a call scheduled with Dad’s attorney, Mr. Fisker, for December 28. I haven’t been able to find a will or any other important papers, so I’m hoping he can fill in the blanks. I really don’t think Dad was expecting this.” He shook his head. “That sounds dumb. Who would be expecting this?”
“Right.”
“Well, thanks for coming. Want a cinnamon roll?” Hank asked, motioning to a tray of them on the table.
“No, thanks. Department holiday lunch today. You’ll be back in Iowa by tonight?”
“Yeah. There’s was no way I wasn’t getting back for Christmas.”
“Drive safe,” A.L. said.
“Merry Christmas,” Hank said, before turning to greet the next well-wisher. But before A.L. got four steps, he heard, “Wait, A.L.”
He turned back to Hank. The man was reaching into his pocket. “I almost forgot. You had asked me during that first call whether my dad had a storage unit. I didn’t think so. But in cleaning out the house, I came across this key a couple days ago. It’s not for any of the doors in the house or the garage. It might be nothing, but I thought I’d pass it along to you, just in case.”
A.L. took the key. Put it in his own pocket quickly. He didn’t want to make a big deal of this. “Thanks.” He wanted to ask Hank if he’d mentioned the key to Virginia and if she’d had any thoughts. But he didn’t want to give him any ideas and lose possession of the key. “If I find the door this goes to, do I have your permission to open it?” he asked easily.
“Definitely. I’m not coming back from Iowa to do that,” Hank said with a smile.
“Again, have a good trip home.” A.L. walked away. He considered sneaking out without talking to his father or Uncle Joe. But decided that was stupid.
They were circling the food table, plates in hand. No surprise there. His uncle didn’t cook much, but he loved it when others did. He fell into place behind his dad.
“Get a plate,” the man said by way of greeting.
“No, thanks,” A.L. said. “Just wanted to stop by and say hello and Merry Christmas.”
His uncle turned and looked him straight in the eye. “Merry Christmas, A.L.”
“Virginia looks good,” his dad said, easing a slice of coconut cake onto his plate.
“Yeah,” A.L. said. He supposed. It was probably nice that she wanted to be here to support her child, but he had to admit he’d been a little put off by her playing the grieving widow. It somehow seemed… Unfair wasn’t the right word, but perhaps it seemed just a little unjust to Platt. “Hank said he’s making good progress on getting the house ready for sale.”
“Yeah, that’s what he told us.”
Well, that was about all he had for small talk. “Be careful driving tonight,” A.L. said. More snow was expected, but his father and Uncle Joe wouldn’t let that keep them from going to Mass.
“Been driving a long time,” his dad said, without any real malice.
“True enough.” A.L. gave a nod in the direction of both men and left the house. His conversation with his dad didn’t bother him. But the lack of warmth coming from his uncle had been a gut blow. Where was the joke that was always at the ready? The gentle ribbing about A.L.’s love life? The invitation to blow this pop stand and find a bar on those occasions when they’d find themselves bereft of alcohol?
