Cat's Claw (27 page)

The bottom drawer was deeper, a file drawer. In it, she found several manila folders, fat ones, filled with Kirk’s bank statements, credit card bills, and other bills, including paid semi-annual premium notices on the $250,000 life insurance policy that his wife had mentioned. According to his latest bank statement, his checking account had just over $1100 in it. In the previous month, two checks had bounced, costing him a total of fifty dollars in service fees. There were two credit card statements, a Mastercard and a Visa, both cards nearly maxed out. He’d been making minimum payments.

Finally, the garbage company employee was back on the line with the information Sheila had requested. Yes, the truck was supposed to be on that particular street on Monday afternoons. Yes, the pickup time should be about two p.m., although of course this could not be guaranteed. The woman rattled off the names and phone numbers of the two men—a driver and a loader—who had been on the truck yesterday. Sheila hung up and phoned Bartlett, catching him just as he was arriving at Martin’s place. She relayed the information about the garbage pickup, and he said he’d get Matheson to try to interview the men right away.

Sheila went back to the bottom drawer, pulling out two more file folders. One was labeled
Taxes
in Kirk’s backward slanting hand. In it were paper-clipped copies of his IRS filings for the three previous years. She glanced through them and put the file folder back in the drawer. Probably nothing significant there, but she knew where to look if the information was needed.

The other folder had no label. Sheila opened the file and leafed through it. In it were three photocopied invoices from the American Eagle Life Insurance Company—quarterly notices, it appeared, for premiums on a policy in the amount of one million dollars on the life of Lawrence Kirk. She raised an eyebrow. A million dollars? The invoices were addressed to Harmon Insurance in Pecan Springs and were both stamped PAID. Clipped to them was a handwritten note on lined yellow paper, dated October 15.

Hey, Larry—

Here are the papers I told you about—I found them in your old file, which was way at the back of the cabinet behind all the employee folders. I’ve looked in all the usual places, like I said I would, but I haven’t been able to find the policy or any other invoices on it. I think maybe Ms. Harmon is keeping all that stuff separate and just overlooked these or forgot about them or something. If you want me to try to dig up any more information, just let me know. My home phone (please don’t call me at work): 512-2496

Your friend
,
Tina Simpson

P.S. I happened to mention this to my sister, who gave me an article she found in a magazine. It says that in Texas, this kind of insurance wasn’t legal until 1999, when the legislature put through a bill saying that an employer could do it if the employee signed a form. I guess you did that, huh, maybe? Anyway, I have the article, if you want to read it
.

Larry Kirk must not have wanted to read the article, Sheila thought, because it wasn’t in the file. Or maybe he had read it and put it somewhere else.

She looked back at the premium notices, then opened her notebook and flipped a couple of pages until she found what she thought she remembered. Yes, Harmon Insurance was the place where Dana Kirk had been working when she and her husband first met. She looked again at the signature on the note. Tina Simpson. The same Tina who had called to make a Dutch treat date for the weekend? None of this seemed related to Kirk’s death, but Sheila had learned to be thorough. She liked to tie up the loose ends as she went along.

She opened the telephone directory again. There was a T. Simpson whose phone number matched the number in the message. She copied the address into her notebook, thinking that she wanted to find out more about the insurance policy. While she was at it, she copied the address for Harmon Insurance from the premium notices, and looked up that phone number as well. Then she filled out two evidence cards with the case number, date, and time, attaching one to the unlabeled file and the other to the email from Jackie that she had printed out. She bagged both, separately, and put them into her briefcase.

She glanced at her watch. If she was going to make Bartlett’s nine a.m. briefing, she’d need to get moving. She made a careful tour of the living room, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. In the downstairs bedroom, the bed was unmade and there was a litter of dirty jeans, shirts, and briefs on the floor, under a large poster of a rock climber spidered on a cliff.

The adjacent bathroom was even more messy than the bedroom, with damp towels and washcloths on the floor and a clutter of toothpaste and shaving gear on the counter. Amid the general disorder on the floor, she
spotted a woman’s lipstick tube. Dana Kirk’s, left behind in the rubble of her departure? But the lipstick was labeled “Firehouse Red,” and through the transparent cap, she could see that the color was fiery—nothing like the softly muted lipstick the wife had been wearing when Sheila interviewed her the day before. “Firehouse Red” didn’t seem to fit Dana’s personality, either. On a hunch, she bagged and tagged the lipstick and put it into her briefcase.

Upstairs, she found two empty bedrooms and another bath, as well as a linen closet full of stacked sheets and towels and nothing else of interest. She came back downstairs and went out to the detached garage, which housed a five-year-old green Ford with one battered fender, the usual lawnmower and yard equipment, and miscellaneous rock-climbing equipment hanging on the garage walls. There was one large coil of new rope.

She went back through the house, locked the kitchen door, then picked up her briefcase and went out the front. She was inserting the key into the Impala’s ignition when her cell phone chirped. She flipped it open. It was China. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 8:35.

“I’m here at Timms’ place on Paint Horse Creek,” China said, in a taut, strained voice. “I’ve just phoned in a nine-one-one to the sheriff’s office, Sheila. It’s Timms. He’s dead.”

Sheila suppressed a gasp. George Timms was
dead
? She said the first thing that came into her mind. “Suicide?”

“Not suicide, no,” China replied. “I found his body down by the creek. Looks like a mountain lion kill. There’s no weapon anywhere. And no sign that anyone else has been here in the past couple of days.”

“Where’s
here
?” Sheila demanded irately. She turned the key in the ignition. “And what the hell are you doing there?”

“It’s the party place George Timms built last year, a few miles to the
west of our house, off Limekiln Road. McQuaid told me about it last night. On my way to town this morning, I decided—on an impulse, I confess—to check it out.” China took a deep breath, speaking cautiously now. “I’ve had a quick look around, Sheila. I think you ought to get a search warrant for this place. There are some items here that might be relevant to your investigation into the computer shop break-in—the blackmail end of things.”

“I see,” Sheila said, pulling out her notebook. “What, specifically?” The search warrant request required the police to state what evidentiary items they would be looking for.

China paused, then gave a succinct description as Sheila, only half-believing what she heard, took notes. “I’m guessing that some of this stuff is on Timms’ computer as well,” China added, “which might be the reason he was so anxious to retrieve it. Now that he’s dead, you won’t be making a case against him. But there’s a distinct possibility that another person or persons might be involved, and if so—”

“I understand,” Sheila said. Who could’ve guessed that the case might go in this direction? “I’ll ask Bartlett to get the warrant. We’ll have to coordinate with the sheriff’s office, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Great,” China replied, sounding relieved. “You headed out here?”

“As quick as I can get there,” Sheila said. “Where’s here?”

“West on Limekiln about fourteen miles, two miles past the turnoff to our place. Turn right on Paint Horse Road, go approximately two miles, left on gravel at a pair of mailboxes, to the end of the road. You’ll see my car and Timms’ Corvette—and by that time, the county mounties will no doubt be here.”

“Thanks,” Sheila said. “Look for me in twenty minutes or less.” She clicked off, then reached down and grabbed the light and slapped it on the dash. She swung away from the curb, keying in Bartlett’s cell phone
as she drove. She caught him as he was heading for the station and relayed the news.

“Jeez.” He whistled incredulously. “A
cat
? I can’t think of a worse way to go.”

Sheila shuddered, agreeing. “I got a tip that there are some items out there that might be relevant to the blackmail case. I need you to draw up a warrant and get Judge Porterfield to sign off on it. Here’s what we’re looking for.” She picked up her notebook and detailed the items on the list China had given her. “Oh, and coordinate with the sheriff’s office. They’ll be investigating the death, and they’ll need to know that we’ve got a related case.”

“Gotcha,” Bartlett said briskly. “I’ll bring the warrant out myself.” He paused. “Guess I need to cancel the morning’s briefing.”

“Roger that,” Sheila said. “It might be a good idea to put the team on standby. It’s possible that we’ll need them at Timms’ place. Oh, and bring your camera when you come, Jack. I want to get on-the-spot photos of whatever we find, and the sheriff’s guys will be busy with the body.”

She closed her phone, hit the siren, and pushed down hard on the accelerator.

Chapter Thirteen

Sheila stood beside the deputy, looking down at the twig-covered body of George Timms.

“Mountain lion,” the deputy said. His face was grim. “Looks like a big one.”

The other deputy unhooked his radio from his belt. “We need Parks and Wildlife out here. Ask them to bring a team and get a hunt under way.” He looked back at the drag marks in the leaf litter. “Dogs, too.”

“You need to talk to the volunteer who coordinates our Search and Rescue Unit,” Sheila said. “Martha Meacham. She’ll know whose hounds are available for deployment. She could probably have some dogs out here in a couple of hours, with backup, if you need it.”

“The sooner the better,” the first deputy said, and took out his clipboard and tape measure to sketch the scene. “But this happened nearly twenty-four hours ago. The chances of tracking the animal are slim to none. Still, we can’t have a killer on the loose. The ranchers around here will want to see this one dead in a hurry.” He looked down at the body again. “A first for Texas, far as I know. Don’t think we’ve ever had a mountain lion kill a human before. They mostly go for deer, goats, sheep.”

China Bayles stepped forward. “It might be easier than you think,
deputy. Our neighbor shot a mountain lion last night. It was after his sheep. He said that the animal had a four-inch gash on its head. I’m thinking about that rock I showed you, the one with the blood and the fur on it. If Timms was able to pick it up and get in a good blow, he could have made that wound. If that’s the case, the cat that killed Timms is already dead.”

“That would be one colossal lucky break,” the deputy said, sounding relieved. He turned to the second deputy. “Bag that rock with the blood and the fur on it, Mitch.” He pulled out his notebook. “Neighbor’s name, Ms. Bayles?”

“Tom Banner,” China said. “Lives just off Limekiln Road, a couple of miles east of here. He probably hasn’t disposed of the carcass yet. Maybe a stomach analysis will show—” She made a retching noise and turned away into the bushes.

Sheila glanced down again at Timms and shuddered. She had seen enough killings to be used to the sight of dead bodies, of accident and—yes—murder victims mutilated in sometimes unimaginable ways. But most of the dead had faces. George Timms didn’t. He didn’t have a scalp or much of a belly left, either. The animal had ripped him open, satisfied its hunger with the soft parts, and then scraped a neat, tidy mound of sticks over the meal so it could come back for a second helping. No part of the kill was scattered, except for the inedible hat and Rolex and the Nike-clad foot that had been left on the trail. In fact, it seemed to Sheila that there was a kind of ritual fastidiousness about this burial, a scrupulous care, one animal preserving and honoring another in death. And while any taking of human life was terrible, this taking was somehow less ugly and more explicable than many. This wild animal had not killed out of anger or hatred or passion, as so-called civilized humans did. It
killed and consumed as part of a natural process, to preserve its physical life.