Adverse Possession Page 22

  “That’s too bad.”

  She didn’t respond to that, just said, “In some instances, the solution is easy. A man is found clubbed to death in the parking lot outside his work, and you find out he has just accused his partner of embezzling. Chances are pretty good the partner is the killer.”

  “Did Virgil accuse anyone of embezzling?”

  “Not that I know of,” Grimaldi said. “It was an example. In Mr. Wright’s case, it’s not quite as simple. Someone killed him, likely on purpose. But we don’t know who, and we don’t know why. He hadn’t argued with anyone, he hadn’t reported anyone to the police, he hadn’t cheated on his boyfriend...”

  “Are you sure about that? At the funeral, Stacy said Virgil had told him he was tired of Kenny. And if Stacy and Virgil were together, they may have reverted to old times and decided to go for some sex.”

  “Mr. Grimes says no,” Grimaldi said.

  “Well, of course he does! If Virgil cheated, and was leaving him to go back to Stacy, Kenny is the killer!”

  “Mr. Grimes might be the killer,” Grimaldi said, “but we have only Mr. Kelleher’s word for it that Mr. Wright was tired of Mr. Grimes. And given the circumstances, it isn’t unlikely that Mr. Kelleher was lying.”

  I guess it wasn’t. Stacy could have just seen an opportunity to jab at Kenny, and taken it. With Virgil dead, there was no way to know whether he was telling the truth or lying through his teeth.

  “The reason I called Mendoza,” I said, as I turned the car onto Interstate 65 and headed for Goodlettsville, where Kylie had said that Damian worked, “is that I just discovered something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It might be nothing. It just struck me as weird.”

  I told the whole story of following Terry and finding Aislynn and how Terry had insisted on watching CSI reruns instead of nerdy Star Wars movies, and what she’d said about the fingerprinting and handwriting analysis. “I have no idea how any of this hangs together. I didn’t get the impression that she was lying when she said she wouldn’t want to scare Aislynn. But I thought it was interesting.”

  “So does she know who wrote the letters and is she worried about their handwriting? And what about the fingerprints? Is she afraid her own fingerprints are on a weapon, or someone else’s?”

  They sounded like rhetorical questions, but I answered anyway. “Terry didn’t bash Kylie over the head with the paperweight.” Much as she might have wanted to, to get Kylie out of the way and free up Aislynn for herself. “She has an alibi. She was working on Friday night.”

  “Convenient,” Grimaldi said.

  “But irrefutable. A restaurant full of people saw her. Just like Stacy on Wednesday night, when Virgil was killed. He was working too, and a restaurant full of people saw him.”

  Grimaldi didn’t say anything. I waited a minute, and then I told her, “I’m on my way to Goodlettsville. Kylie said her ex-husband works at a bank up there. I want to know whether he came to see her in the hospital on Saturday night, or whether that was someone else.”

  “You couldn’t just call and ask?”

  “I want to see his face,” I said. “To see if he’s lying.” As if I had any idea how to spot a liar. And anyway, I wanted to see whether he might have been the guy in plaid shirt I’d seen on Friday afternoon.

  “Be careful,” Grimaldi said.

  “He’s a branch manager in a bank. Even if he doesn’t like me showing up and asking questions, he isn’t going to cause a scene. Not in front of his customers. And if he doesn’t have anything to hide, why would he mind talking to me?”

  “Just don’t let him shut you in the vault,” Grimaldi said, and hung up.

  The bank was just off the Goodlettsville Town Square, which isn’t square at all, but an intersection between Dickerson Road and Long Hollow Pike. I pulled into the lot and found a parking space, and then I nodded politely to the armed security guard and went inside.

  There was a counter with a couple of tellers against the back wall, with a drive-through going past outside. A small seating area with four leather chairs and a table stood in the middle of the room, and along the other walls were offices. I dismissed the two that had women in them—Damian definitely wasn’t female—and the bearded gentleman in the third had to be close to sixty. I zeroed in on the youngish, reasonably handsome, brown-haired man in a suit in the last room on the right.

  I stopped in the doorway. “Knock, knock.”

  He looked up with a practiced smile. “Come on in. How can I help you today?”

  I walked in and closed the door behind me. A tiny wrinkle appeared between his eyes as he looked from it to me and back, but he didn’t comment.

  I took a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk and put my purse on my lap. “This won’t take long. I just have a couple of questions.”

  The name plate on the desk said ‘Damian Mitchell,’ so at least I had the right guy. There were diplomas and awards of various sorts on the walls. Apparently, Damian had graduated from the University of Tennessee Knoxville with a degree in economics a few years ago, and he had won awards for being branch manager of the year more than once since then. There was a low credenza behind his desk, and on it—in addition to file folders and a fake green plant—was a photograph of Damian and a woman with blond hair in what looked like a ski lift somewhere. It wasn’t Kylie.

  He leaned back and twirled his fountain pen between his fingers. “What can I help you with?”

  “Your whereabouts on Saturday night,” I said.

  There was a moment of silence, then his brows arched. “Could I see some identification, please?”

  “Sure.” I pulled out my driver’s license and showed it to him. Not like I had anything to hide, after all. And anyway, it didn’t have my current address on it, so it wasn’t like he’d be able to track me down that way. I had changed my address with the DMV when I moved from my apartment to Rafe’s grandmother’s house in the spring, but I hadn’t gotten a new driver’s license to go with it.

  Now that my last name had changed, I’d probably have to do something about that.

  Damian made a note of my (old) name but not my (old) address before handing it back. “Are you with the police?”

  I said I wasn’t. “I’m a friend of Kylie’s. Your ex-wife.”

  “I know who Kylie is.” He almost growled it.

  “Do you also know that she was hit over the head by a burglar this weekend, and ended up in the hospital?”

  His jaw tensed. “No. I didn’t know that. Is she all right?”

  He sounded concerned, but not overly so.

  I told him that she was back home. “She has a concussion, but otherwise she’s going to be fine.”

  “And why are you here, asking about my whereabouts? You think I hit her?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “The burglary was on Friday night. I’m more interested in Saturday.”

  “What happened on Saturday?”

  “A man came to the hospital to see her. He said his name was Damian Mitchell.”

  Damian flushed. “Someone pretended to be me? Why?”

  “I have no idea. I thought maybe it was you. That’d you’d found out what happened and wanted to see her. And if it was you, I wanted to know how you’d found out about the burglary and where she was.”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t me. I had dinner with a friend on Saturday night.”

  “New girlfriend?” My eyes strayed to the photograph behind him.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” Damian said, “but yes. Kylie and I have been divorced for almost two years. She’s found someone else. I have, too.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.” I smiled sweetly. “I just got married last month. For the second time. A lot of us have previous relationships these days.”

  There was a moment’s pause, then Damian leaned forward. “I would never hurt Kylie. We aren’t married anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want her harmed.”

&nb
sp; He sounded sincere. He looked sincere, too.

  “Any idea who would?”

  He sat back. “You said it was a burglar.”

  “Whoever did it, ransacked Kylie’s home office. When she came home, we think he hit her. Maybe to stop her from recognizing him.”

  “I wouldn’t hurt Kylie,” Damian repeated. “And if I wanted something from her office, I’d ask her for it. And expect her to give it to me. We get along.”

  They probably did. Two civilized people whose marriage had ended because one of them discovered she was gay.

  “I wasn’t accusing you,” I said. “She and Aislynn have been getting anonymous letters. We think the burglar might have been looking for them.”

  Damian looked like he suspected me of pulling his leg. “Anonymous letters?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Or only insofar as we think the poison pen is the one who broke into the house and hit Kylie.”

  “You keep saying ‘we,’” Damian said.

  “The police. I’m talking to the detective in charge of the case.”

  He nodded. “Well, you can tell him I have an alibi for Saturday night—and for Friday night, as well, if it comes to that. I didn’t hit my ex-wife over the head, and I didn’t go to the hospital on Saturday. This is the first I’ve heard of any of it.”

  “I appreciate your time,” I told him and got to my feet. “I assume you can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt or scare Aislynn or Kylie?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t seen Kylie in more than a year. I’ve never met her girlfriend. Sorry I can’t help.”

  He pushed his chair back and stood, too. And walked me to the door and out. I got the impression it was more because he wanted me out of his bank before I could decide to ask anyone else any awkward questions, but I couldn’t really blame him for that. So I just said goodbye and got in my car. As I drove away, I saw him talking to the security guard. Probably telling him to shoot first and ask questions later if I tried to come back.

  Once I was in the car, I called Grimaldi again, to give her my impressions. “I don’t think he had anything to do with it. He seemed sincere. And he has a new girlfriend. I think he’s over the fact that Kylie left him. And even if his new girlfriend is weird and possessive—which I have no idea if she is—it’s not like Kylie would worry her. Kylie’s gay.”

  “Good to know,” Grimaldi said. “I spoke to Jaime.”

  “Did you give him the information about Terry?”

  Grimaldi said she had. “And then he gave me some information. About why he didn’t answer his phone when you called earlier.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Mr. Kelleher filed a claim with his life insurance company this morning, to cash in on a million dollar policy on Mr. Wright’s life.”

  My foot slipped off the brake and the car jumped forward. So did a pedestrian in the crosswalk, giving me a dirty look when he got to the other side. I waved an apology. “I’m sorry,” I told Grimaldi, “would you say that again? I got distracted.”

  She said it again. It sounded the same this time.

  The light changed and I inched forward and onto Dickerson Pike in the direction of home. “You’re saying that Stacy had a million dollar life insurance policy on Virgil’s life? Even though they weren’t together anymore?”

  “That’s correct,” Grimaldi said.

  “Maybe it was left over from when they were together? Maybe Virgil had one on Stacy, too?”

  “Possible,” Grimaldi said. “Although if he did, it was through a different company.”

  Interesting. “And Stacy has been paying on this policy for the past six months?”

  Grimaldi said he had. “Jaime wants to talk to you.”

  “Me?” I didn’t know anything about Stacy’s insurance policies, or for that matter about insurance in general. I doubted any company in their right mind would insure Rafe. He’s much too high risk.

  “Can you stop by on your way home?”

  It wasn’t exactly on my way home, but what the hell—heck—I was curious now. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Today was a much busier day at police headquarters. Lots more people coming and going, and no Grimaldi waiting for me in the lobby. No Mendoza waiting, either. I announced myself to the cop on duty, and settled in to wait for one or the other of them to come downstairs to fetch me.

  Mendoza must have pulled the short straw, or maybe it was just his case and Grimaldi was busy with her own. At any rate, it was he, not she, who came out of the elevator and across the lobby toward me. “Mrs. Collier.”

  “Detective.” I got to my feet.

  He gestured me back toward the elevator bank. “This won’t take long. I just want to hear for myself about your conversation with Teresa Dixon and the questions she asked your friend Aislynn.”

  It would make a lot more sense for him to call Aislynn and ask her what Terry had said—my information was second-hand, after all—but since it wasn’t exactly a hardship to look at Mendoza for a few minutes, I just said “Sure,” and preceded him into the elevator.

  His office was down the hall from Grimaldi’s, and had the same compact size and configuration. Like in Grimaldi’s domain, there was paperwork everywhere, and filing cabinets along the back wall. Mendoza must clear his share of cases to have amassed so many cabinets.

  Unlike Grimaldi, who keeps nothing personal sitting around, there was a photograph in a frame on Mendoza’s desk. A small boy, maybe three years old, with big, brown eyes and a shock of black hair grinned out from behind glass.

  “Your son?” I nodded to it as I made myself comfortable in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  Mendoza nodded. “Elias. He’s three. Lives with my wife, but I spend as much time with him as I can.”

  “He’s cute. Looks like you.”

  “I’ve always thought he looks more like Lola,” Mendoza said, with a glance at the image, “but thanks.”

  He steepled his fingers and became all business. “Tamara told me you tracked down Aislynn Turner at Teresa Dixon’s apartment. That she’d been there since Saturday, not against her will.”

  I nodded.

  “Tell me about it.”

  I told him about it, in excruciating detail. Waiting in the parking lot, following Terry home, knocking on the door, and talking to Aislynn.

  “And this is the same apartment complex where Stacy Kelleher lives.”

  It didn’t sound like a question, but he was waiting for confirmation, so I said it was. “I asked Terry about that. She said she knew Stacy, but it didn’t sound like they knew one another well.” Although she’d been awfully prompt with her answers when I’d asked her about Wednesday and Friday nights.

  I added, “Grimaldi told me that Stacy tried to cash in a life insurance policy he had on Virgil.”

  Mendoza looked unhappy—maybe because Grimaldi had been discussing his case with someone else, and a civilian to boot—but he admitted it.

  “He has an alibi for the murder, though,” I said. “Doesn’t he? Terry said he was working Wednesday night.”

  “In a restaurant full of guests,” Mendoza confirmed, “at least twenty minutes from the crime scene. He might have been able to duck out for ten minutes without being missed, but not for close to an hour.”

  “So he didn’t kill Virgil. Even if he is trying to cash in on Virgil’s death.”

  Mendoza nodded. “About Terry.”

  “Just a second. How long has Stacy had that life insurance policy?”

  “Not long,” Mendoza said.

  “Well, did he buy it while they were still together, or later? The house went on the market in early December last year, so he and Virgil were already on the outs by then.”

  Virgil had probably moved out of the house and in with Kenny as soon as he notified Stacy that their relationship was over. Stacy must have been staying in the house until it sold. Or at least until he made other arrangements.

  “He p
urchased the policy in November,” Mendoza said.

  So right on the border between knowing and maybe not knowing that his boyfriend was cheating. Maybe suspecting, maybe not.

  “If he knew that Virgil had taken up with Kenny and was planning to dump him, that could mean he bought the policy because he knew he wanted to kill Virgil.”

  Mendoza nodded.

  “But it doesn’t change the fact that he has an alibi for the murder. I don’t suppose he has the money to hire a hitman?”

  I’d have to ask Rafe how much a hitman costs. He’d been posing as one for a while. He’d know.

  “Not without the payout from the insurance,” Mendoza said. “The house they sold was Virgil’s. He bought it before getting involved with Stacy. So when it was sold, all Stacy got was a small percentage. Virgil got the rest.”

  “And who inherits Virgil’s money?”

  “His next of kin,” Mendoza said. “A mother in Virginia.”

  So not Stacy. “I suppose you’ve checked Stacy’s bank account for any big withdrawals?”

  Mendoza didn’t seem to take the question personally. Grimaldi would have reminded me that she did, in fact, know how to do her job. “Nothing stuck out. He doesn’t have much.”

  So he hadn’t hired anyone to kill Virgil. Bummer.

  “And that’s why I want to talk about Terry,” Mendoza said. “You said she insisted on watching reruns of CSI on Sunday.”

  I nodded. “That’s what Aislynn told me.”

  “And this happened when she usually doesn’t like to watch crime shows.”

  “So Aislynn said.”

  “And she asked questions about fingerprinting and handwriting analysis.”

  I nodded. “Aislynn said she did. But you should probably ask her about it. Aislynn, I mean. She was there, I wasn’t.”

  “I intend to,” Mendoza said. “I just wanted to hear what you remembered first. Your friend is a bit of an airhead, and I’d like to have some idea of what happened before I try to talk to either of them.”

  That made sense. Nothing against Aislynn, but she’s on a plane all her own. One of those ‘different drummer’ people.

  So I told him, as verbatim as I could remember, exactly what Aislynn had said, while he took notes on a legal pad. I also told him about my trip to see Damian in his lair, and how I didn’t think Kylie’s ex-husband had anything to do with anything, including visiting her in the hospital. “He said he had an alibi. And he’s smart enough that, if he did break into the house and he was the one who hit her, he wouldn’t show up at the hospital without a good explanation for how he knew what had happened. Nobody contacted him to tell him. Although Doctor Ramsey saw the guy. Just show him a picture of Damian and see if Doctor Ramsey recognizes him.”