1 Twisted Perception Page 3

  “What did she say?”

  “Something like, ‘I know who the killer is…’ ”

  Dombrowski arched his eyebrows. “Anything else?”

  “After a brief pause, she said, ‘Oh, hi, I was just calling…’ And that was it.”

  “Sounds like she got caught.”

  “Yeah. Her husband’s been notified. He’s on his way to identify the body. I’ll have a talk with him afterward.”

  “Do you think he had something to do with it?”

  To the unaccustomed, such a question might seem premature in its execution, but under typical circumstances the husband is a prime suspect. Elliot shook his head. “It’s too early to tell.”

  Turning his palms over, Dombrowski sighed. “All right, Elliot. You’ve got the case. But don’t make me call you in here again.” He puffed out a cloud of smoke and changed the subject. “So how’s that restoration project coming along? What was it, some sort of old Chevy?”

  “A Studebaker, and don’t ask.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  It was a Golden Hawk, a 1957 Studebaker Elliot had purchased from a wheat farmer in Tonkawa after stopping in town to have a look around and visit a few antique shops. He felt a bit ridiculous about it, not having planned on ending up with an automobile, especially one in such dire need of restoration. “Worse. I don’t know what came over me. I know more about space travel than I do cars. I just couldn’t leave the old buggy there, rotting away in that farmer’s field.”

  Dombrowski grinned. “You’ll manage.” He stubbed out his cigar. “Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

  Elliot met Harrison Zimmerman, the victim’s husband, at the medical examiner’s office. He’d identified the body, taking a quick look, then turning away and nodding. Elliot took him by the arm and guided him outside, where they stood on the sidewalk. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Zimmerman. I know it’s unpleasant, but I need to ask you some questions.”

  Zimmerman nodded. He was a tall, gaunt fellow with neatly trimmed gray hair.

  “What do you say we get off the street?” Elliot continued. “Go someplace where we can sit down.”

  Zimmerman agreed. He suggested they drive across the river and meet at a coffee shop on Cherry Street that he knew of.

  Later, when they entered the café, which was patronized by a diverse menagerie of folk, an array of smells filled Elliot’s senses and he suddenly began to think of his mother. It was an unusual experience, for he could almost see her sitting in a chair beside one of the small round tables strewn about the floor. She had always loved fancy places. After they were seated, Elliot looked across the table at Zimmerman. “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm your wife?”

  Zimmerman averted his eyes, looking first at the floor, then around the room before answering. “No, I can’t think of anyone like that.”

  Elliot sipped his coffee then sat the cup on the table. “Did she exhibit any change of habit that you noticed?”

  “She had been acting strangely, leaving the house at night and staying out late.”

  “She left without you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea where she went on those occasions?”

  “Not really, but I have a feeling it was someplace bad.”

  Elliot thought that a strange answer. “What do you mean by bad?”

  Zimmerman frowned. “I have to be honest with you. Things hadn’t been going that well between us. In fact, she’d been talking with an attorney.”

  “Were you still living together?”

  “Yes, but we had an argument last night. She was quite angry. I’d never seen her like that before. She stormed out of the house, and…” Zimmerman paused, wiping his eyes.

  “Do you remember approximately what time that was?”

  “Around eight thirty or nine, I think.”

  Zimmerman didn’t strike Elliot as the shy type, yet he continued to avoid eye contact and he seemed to be answering the questions a little too quickly, as though he’d expected the interview and put some thought into it. “This is just a routine question, Mr. Zimmerman, not designed to upset you, but can you account for your whereabouts during the night while your wife was missing?”

  For a moment, Zimmerman seemed to control his visual aversion, looking right at Elliot while he responded with a question, “What exactly are you asking me?”

  “I need to know where you were last night, and what you were doing, especially during the hours from ten to midnight.”

  “I see. Well, my sister had come over earlier. We’re fairly close, and she knew Lagayle and I were having problems. I suppose she’d hoped to help patch things up between us. Unfortunately the situation had gotten further out of control than either of us realized. Anyway, I didn’t feel up to being alone in the house after all that, so I went home with my sister and stayed the night.”

  “Your sister was there during the argument?”

  “Yes, Mr. Elliot. She was.”

  “And you went home with her afterward?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you leave her house at any time after you got there?”

  “No. In fact, I left my car at home and rode with my sister.”

  “What time did you get back home this morning?”

  “Around nine, just before you called.”

  For a moment, Elliot sat in silence, drinking his coffee. Zimmerman’s demeanor seemed odd. Elliot didn’t trust him, and he was willing to bet he wasn’t telling him everything. “What’s your sister’s name?” he asked, “And how do I get in touch with her?”

  “Her name is Kathy. Kathy Chapman.”

  “Is that her married name?”

  Zimmerman reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pen and pad. He jotted something onto a piece of the paper and handed it to Elliot. “Yes. And you can reach her here. Her husband’s name is Joseph.”

  Elliot stuffed the paper into his pocket and pushed back from the table. “Is there anyone else I can talk to who might be able to help us determine where your wife went last night?”

  “Not that I can think of. I wish I could be of more help. She had no family, at least none that she told me about.”

  “What about friends, coworkers?”

  “She didn’t work. She didn’t have to.”

  “What did she do for entertainment?”

  Zimmerman seemed to mull over the question. “I’m afraid she didn’t get out much, except at night. There was someone whom she talked with on the phone occasionally, but I’m afraid I don’t know who it was. I assume it’s whoever she went out with. I didn’t approve, but I didn’t say anything.” After a pause, he added, “I guess I should have.”

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Zimmerman?”

  “Is that important?”

  “It could be.”

  “I’m in the petroleum industry, Mr. Elliot.”

  Elliot wiped his mouth with a napkin, then stood and took the tab from the table. “Thank you, Mr. Zimmerman. That’ll be all for now.”

  After finishing the interview, Elliot drove to Wakefield Wrecker Service where the city contracted to store their impounded vehicles. He didn’t know what to think about the victim’s husband just yet, but one thing was certain: someone out there knew Lagayle Zimmerman. People didn’t exist in vacuums. She had to have a circle of friends. And, by Zimmerman’s own admission, she’d been going out on him. Elliot entered the office building and went to the counter behind which a middle-aged lady named Rebecca Palmer appeared to be busy filing paperwork. They had met before.

  When she saw Elliot, she smiled and said, “Well, if isn’t the man of my dreams. Honey, if I was twenty years younger…”

  Elliot shook his head and returned her smile. “Becky, you know you’re too good for someone like me. I need to see that black Mercedes that was brought in earlier.”

  “You came all the way out here for that? I’m heartbroken.” She picked up the phone and spoke over
the intercom. A few seconds later, a young man in overalls appeared. He showed Elliot to the vehicle, then unlocked it and handed him the keys.

  “Thanks,” Elliot said.

  The young man nodded and returned to his duties. Elliot went to the passenger side and opened the door to begin his search. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but it wasn’t the uneasiness that again came over him. He paused for a moment. It was just a car, a bunch of metal and plastic, but being near it definitely made him uncomfortable. He leaned inside and opened the glove compartment, finding it empty. He looked under the passenger seat, and beneath the driver’s side; again, nothing. He went around to the trunk and opened it. It looked as clean as the day it had rolled off the showroom floor.

  Elliot closed and locked the car doors. He was getting nowhere. He walked back to the office and left the keys with Rebecca Palmer.

  Not knowing what else to do, Elliot decided to check out Zimmerman’s address, see where he lived, and maybe get a better idea of whom he was dealing with. It didn’t take long. Zimmerman’s neighborhood turned out to be in the Utica Square area, one of Tulsa’s gracefully aging sections. It was a part of town only a chosen few could afford unless they inherited their way in. Elliot followed one of the meandering blacktop roads that wound through a collection of park like settings until he found the one he was looking for. The city was full of modern-day castles purposely made to look old, like an insecure young man who dyes gray streaks into his hair to gain credibility. These houses didn’t fall into that category. They were the real deal, the homes of old money.

  Zimmerman’s place sat on a knoll overlooking a cul-de-sac. Elliot parked on the edge of the roadway close to the end of the circular drive. He got out of the car and walked a few paces to the nearest neighboring house where he climbed a series of stones wedged into the landscape to serve as a stairway. Upon reaching the landing, an oval shaped area made of the same stone, he paused then rang the doorbell. He began to suspect no one was home, but when he turned to leave he saw someone coming up the walk.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” the man asked.

  He had stopped at the bottom of the stairs, so Elliot descended to meet him. “I was hoping to speak with the owner of the house. Would that be you?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance.”

  Elliot showed his badge. “Detective Kenneth Elliot. Are you the owner of the house?”

  The man took a half step back, as if Elliot had told him he had a bad case of the flu. Elliot was used to the reaction.

  “Oh my,” he said. “No, I’m not. That would be Stan and Barbara Nelson. I’m their decorator, Shaun. Shaun Miller.” After a pause, he added, “They’re out of town and wanted me to work while they were away. They left me a key.”

  “All right,” Elliot said. “I understand.” He pointed to Zimmerman’s place. “Do you know who lives there?”

  Shaun Miller nodded rather timidly, like a child forced to rat on his older brother. “Harrison Zimmerman.”

  “Do you know Mr. Zimmerman?”

  “Well, not exactly. I know of him.”

  “And how is it that you know of him?”

  He shrugged with a smirk on his face that insinuated Elliot had asked a question he should’ve already known the answer to. “He’s Zimmerman of Zimmerman-Caldwell Petroleum.”

  “I see. Do you know if he was home last night?”

  “Heavens, no. Why are you asking me all these questions? Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, you’re a detective and…oh, come on, tell me what this is all about.”

  “Mr. Zimmerman’s wife,” Elliot said. “She was found dead in her car this morning.”

  “Oh, Jesus. Not Lagayle.” He glanced at Elliot and shook his head. “I don’t really know her. I just…”

  “You know of her.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Shaun Miller was timid and nervous, but that was just his nature. Elliot doubted he really knew anything about the case. He handed him one of his cards. “If you think of anything that might be of importance, give me a call.”

  Elliot went back to his car, where he sat for a moment, and through the window he could see a squirrel walking a wire high above the ground. As Elliot watched the animal move deftly along the phone line, something occurred to him, a source of information that had been right in front of his face all along, and he immediately felt silly for not having realized it earlier. He watched the squirrel jump from the wire to a tree as he called the department. Beaumont answered. Elliot said, “I need a favor.”

  “Now why does that sound dangerous?”

  “I want you to get the victim’s cell phone out of evidence and check to see if any numbers are stored in it.”

  “Sure. I can do that. By the way, Dombrowski left a book on your desk.”

  “A book?”

  “Some sort of car book. And Donald Carter from the medical examiner’s office called, looking for you. He said the autopsy turned up something rather interesting.”

  “Did he say what it was?”

  “No, he didn’t. Hey, I’ve got to go. I’ll check that phone and get back to you.”

  Later, when Beaumont called back, he had a list of four numbers. Elliot thanked him, then disconnected. As he drove out of the neighborhood, he dialed the first number. It had been listed in Lagayle’s directory under a name that he remembered seeing on the cover of a matchbook he’d found in the victim’s car. On the third ring, someone answered. “Yeah?”

  “Is this Gemini?” Elliot asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m looking for someone. Perhaps you could help?”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “Her name’s Lagayle Zimmerman,” Elliot said.

  Moments later, the voice said, “Look, darlin’, a lot of people come and go around here, if you know what I mean. If you want, I can make an announcement. Maybe your friend’s here, maybe she’s not.”

  “Why don’t you give me your address so I can come and see for myself?”

  After a pause, during which Elliot could hear talking in the background, the connection he’d made was intentionally severed.

  4

  Elliot sat at his desk, flipping through the pages of the copy of Hemming’s Motor News Dombrowski had left for him. He’d called all the numbers from Lagayle Zimmerman’s address book. She’d listed them under initials: MJ was Miss Jackson, her hairdresser; MD, Mary Ann Davenport, who knew Lagayle but hadn’t seen her in a couple of months; and another woman, RJ, who wasn’t home. Elliot left a message with RJ saying he had some important information regarding Lagayle Zimmerman, and would she please call him back.

  Donald Carter wasn’t around and with the time closing in on 1:00 p.m., Elliot decided to take a break. He’d agreed to meet Molly for lunch, so he left the office and drove to a restaurant off Yale Avenue, where he noticed her dark green SUV parked just behind the building. She saw him when he came in and waved to gain his attention. Elliot reached the booth where she was seated and slid into the seat across from her. “Hey, Molly.”

  Reaching across the table, she took his hand, a smile turning the corners of her mouth. Elliot always felt a little uneasy with Molly. She was intelligent, witty, and complicated enough to keep any man interested, and Elliot wondered why he wasn’t falling for her.

  They had met six months ago at a firearms conference in Dallas, finding one another in the crowd and immediately hitting it off. Elliot could find no fault with Molly Preston. He liked her and he liked being around her. But there was something holding them back. He suspected she felt it too. All the ingredients were there but the relationship just wasn’t going anywhere. It didn’t bother Elliot at first, but now it hung over him like a dark cloud. He figured there was just too much emotional baggage between the two of them.

  “Nightmares again?” she asked.

  Her intuition
amazed Elliot. He nodded.

  “Have you given any more thought to what we talked about?”

  It was Elliot’s time to be intuitive. “You mean about my visiting your friend, the shrink?”

  “My friend, the psychologist.”

  “Whatever.”

  “She’s good at what she does, and very well respected.”

  “Yeah, I know. And yes, I’ve given thought to it. A lot of thought, actually.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know, Molly. It’s not that I doubt her abilities, it’s just that…”

  “You’re afraid. You feel your problem is too deeply personal to be laid out on the table and analyzed.”

  “Maybe you should be a psychologist.”

  She smiled. “Maybe I should. Care to give me a try?”

  “No, thanks.”

  A hint of sadness flashed across Molly’s face, as if Elliot’s last comment meant more than it should have. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Elliot wanted to change the subject. “Detective Beaumont

  asked about you.”

  A look that Elliot couldn’t quite read crossed her face, but she said nothing. “I didn’t know you two were acquainted.”

  “We live in the same building, but of course you already knew that. We bump into one another now and then.”

  “He expressed his condolences. Said he knows what you’re going through.”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “How’s your father taking it?”

  “Not well,” she said. “He depended on Mom for everything. He’s lost without her.”

  Elliot didn’t know what to say. He had no experience in family matters, nothing to draw on, and he should’ve kept quiet as he’d intended, but he didn’t. “I never knew my father.”

  Concern filtered through Molly’s eyes. “What?”

  Elliot shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

  She squeezed Elliot’s hand. “You carry around a lot of pain, Kenny. I see it in your eyes, feel it in your touch. Why won’t you let me in, let me help?”

  “You have helped. More than you know.”

  The waiter appeared and quickly took their order, seeming to sense that they were engaged in a discussion and didn’t want to be bothered. “I’d like to think so,” Molly said, “but you know as well as I do you’re just trying to be nice.”