Cat's Claw (35 page)

Standing a few steps behind Sheila, Bartlett took out his notebook and began to write, not making any effort to conceal what he was doing. Harmon’s eyes went to him, then back to Sheila.

“Please don’t pay any attention to Detective Bartlett,” Sheila said smoothly. “We’re just trying to pin down a few facts. The Lawrence Kirk we’re asking about was employed here several years ago. I understand that you’re the owner of an insurance policy on his life.”

“Oh, you mean
Larry
Kirk.” Harmon tried to smile. “Yes, of course. How silly of me. Yes, Mr. Kirk was employed here, but it was quite some time ago. I haven’t seen him for years—since he married, I believe.” She pulled her dark brows together. “You’re saying that he was… murdered?”

“Yes,” Sheila said, and offered no details.

Harmon studied her as if she were measuring an adversary. She opted to become dismissive. “I don’t think I can help you. Our employee insurance package is a personnel matter. I’m not at liberty to discuss it.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m afraid this isn’t a convenient time for this discussion. I’m expecting a client at any—”

“I don’t think you understand, Ms. Harmon,” Sheila interrupted firmly. “We’re investigating a homicide, and you are a person of interest. We hope you’ll agree to cooperate, so we can get this wrapped up quickly.”

Harmon’s dismissive facade cracked slightly. “A… person of interest?” she faltered.

The term, of course, had no legal meaning, but used wisely, it sometimes encouraged subjects to talk without lawyering up. And suspects who talked were often compelled to lie. Their lies could be used to confront them later, when they were formally detained and questioned. Defense attorneys and civil libertarians might condemn the strategy, but Sheila knew how useful it was.

“That’s right,” Sheila said conversationally. “We would like you to clarify your relationship to Mr. Kirk and tell us about any recent meetings you’ve had with him. We can talk here or at the police station, whichever you prefer.”

Harmon grasped for control. “But I don’t
have
a relationship with him,” she replied thinly. She lifted her chin. “I haven’t seen Larry—Mr. Kirk—for years.”

“I see.” Sheila paused, frowning, as if she were slightly puzzled. “Then you haven’t corresponded with him, or visited his home?”

Harmon stepped right into the trap. “His home? No, of course not! I haven’t written to him, either. So I really can’t be of any help to you.” She frowned doubtfully. “You said he was
murdered
?”

“Yes,” Sheila said. “The killer tried to make it look as if Mr. Kirk had killed himself, but the attempt was unsuccessful.”

Harmon was becoming more nervous by the moment. “I still don’t understand what you want with
me
. I don’t know anything at all about Mr. Kirk.” She cleared her throat and looked pointedly at her watch. “As I said, I’m expecting a client any minute now. So if we could—”

“Since that’s the case,” Sheila interrupted, “it would be better if you came down to the station with us. We’ll give you a lift back when we’re finished. You can leave a note on the door, postponing your appointment.”

“Go down to the station?” Harmon said, barely managing to control
the tremor in her voice. She was clearly coming unstrung. “But there’s no point. I don’t have any information that would—”

“I’m sure we won’t take much of your time.” Sheila said reassuringly. “We only want to obtain your fingerprints. Oh, and we’d like you to tell us why we found your lipstick in Mr. Kirk’s bathroom.”

Harmon’s eyes widened. “My… lipstick?” she choked.

“Yes. Yves St. Laurent. Firehouse Red.” Sheila smiled. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same lipstick you’re wearing now.”

Harmon’s hand, shaking, went to her mouth. She stood there for a moment, obviously trying to decide what to do. Then blind panic set in and she made a very stupid mistake.

“I’m not going to jail!” she cried, and whirled and darted for the file room.

Harmon was quick. But Bartlett was even quicker, and her tight red skirt and three-inch heels slowed her up. He caught up with her before she managed to escape through the door into the backyard.

Chapter Seventeen

By the time they got to the station, Harmon had gathered her wits, composed herself, and asked to call her lawyer, whose office was in San Antonio. He would get there as soon as he could, but he had a couple of clients and wasn’t sure how long that would be. After she was fingerprinted, Sheila escorted her to one of the department’s two interrogation rooms, a narrow, windowless space with only a table, several chairs, and a one-way window. The duty officer turned on the tape-recording equipment, read her the Miranda warning, and asked if she wanted a cup of coffee.

“I’m waiting for my attorney,” she said, and sat, arms folded, sullenly staring at the wall.

While Bartlett was out with Sheila, Dr. Morse had called to say that she had moved up the time of the autopsy and was ready to begin. When they got back to the station, Bartlett left immediately for the Adams County hospital. Sheila went toward her office. Connie’s desk was in the small anteroom, and she stopped there.

“Been wondering where you were,” Connie said, reaching for a stack of pink phone messages. “Busy morning, huh?”

Connie Page had been Sheila’s assistant for the past couple of years.
A competent, alert woman, not quite middle-aged, she was perfectly capable of handling a lot of the paperwork herself—and she did, with Sheila’s signature stamp. She had a good eye for what the boss needed to see and what she didn’t, and Sheila was grateful.

“Busy doesn’t begin to describe it.” Sheila took the sheaf of messages and glanced up at the clock, startled to see that it was just twelve thirty. It felt as if she’d been out of the office for a week.

“We need to get some food down you,” Connie said, reaching for a sweater. “How about if I run over to the diner and get a hamburger to go?”

“That would be terrific,” Sheila said, suddenly aware of how hungry she was. Breakfast seemed like a century ago. “Fries, too.” The diner’s fries were crisp and delicious. “Double up on the catsup. Okay?”

She went into her office, sat down at her desk, and reached for the phone. By the time Connie got back with the food, she had finished returning the most crucial calls and had begun to attack the stack of paperwork. She’d been working for a half hour, reading and signing documents while she devoured her hamburger and fries, when Detective Matheson called. Since Bartlett was still at the hospital, Sheila took it.

“Hey, Chief, we got something good from one of those garbage guys,” Matheson said enthusiastically. He was a big, burly man with a voice to match, so deep a bass that it rumbled. One of Bubba Harris’ team of good old boys, he had been with the department for twenty-some years. “The driver didn’t see anything. But the guy who picks up the cans—Carlos Gutierrez—remembers seeing a woman in the neighborhood yesterday, when they were picking up. Some babe in a blue suit, real short skirt.” There was a smile in his voice. “Says he whistled at her, but under his breath. Didn’t want to get into trouble.”

“Description?” Sheila asked, taking notes. “How far away was she when he saw her? What were the circumstances?”

“She was coming down a driveway between two houses. Gutierrez was at the curb, replacing an empty can. He saw her straight on at about ten, twelve yards, so he got a pretty good look. He said she was plenty startled to see him. Anglo, blue suit, black hair, red lipstick, good legs, nice round little—” Matheson stopped and cleared his throat. “I hear we’ve got somebody in custody. Want me to bring this guy down for a show-up? Maybe he can give us a positive ID on this chick you’re holding.”

“We’re doing this by the book, Mattie,” Sheila said. “Gutierrez could be our case. We don’t want to risk tainting his identification.”

Driven by too many flawed convictions, the state of Texas was considering legislation to improve police lineups. Too often, the eyewitness was asked to identify the suspect in what was called a “show-up,” where the police show a single suspect, often handcuffed or sitting in the back of a police car, to the witness or the victim, and simply ask, “Is this the guy that did it?” Even though the witness might not be sure of the identification, the fact that the cops had the suspect in custody could tip the balance.

The Dallas Police Department hadn’t waited for legislation to force a change. They had rewritten their lineup policy a couple of years before, and Sheila had adapted it for PSPD. The new policy put a stop to show-ups altogether. It required eyewitnesses and victims to look at an array of at least six photographs, administered by an officer who had no idea which picture was the suspect’s. The lineup procedure was videotaped, so if necessary it could be introduced into evidence when the case went to court.

“No problemo, Chief,” Matheson said comfortably, without any
indication that he felt he’d been slapped on the wrist. “Let me know when you’re ready for Gutierrez, and I’ll see that he gets there.”

“Good work, Mattie,” Sheila said warmly. “We’ll need him as quick as we have the autopsy report and a ruling from Judge Porterfield and get some photos set up.”

Sheila was putting the phone down when Bartlett returned from the autopsy and came into Sheila’s office, grinning broadly and waving a piece of paper.

“Confirmed everything we figured,” he said to Sheila. “No powder tattooing around the entrance wound, so the gun was fired from at least two feet, probably or more. Angle of the shot, slightly downward—the killer was standing while Kirk was seated. And no powder residue on Kirk’s hands. Morse phoned a preliminary to Judge Porterfield before I left the hospital. The judge just faxed her report to the duty desk. Officially, we’ve got a homicide.”

“Glad that’s settled,” Sheila said, and added, with a crooked smile, “I’d hate to see it come out the other way.”

He nodded. “Oh, and while I was at the hospital, I went upstairs to check on Palmer. He’s still out of it, but he’s stable. The doc said he’d call us as soon as he can be questioned.” He put an evidence envelope on Sheila’s desk. It was the bullet, the tip slightly deformed. “And this is the slug Morse took out of Kirk’s brain.”

Sheila looked down at the spent, misshapen bullet, thinking how small it was, how dangerous, how lethal. She shivered and looked up quickly.

“Things are moving pretty fast, Jack. That was Matheson on the phone. He’s got one of the garbage crew, a guy—” She looked down at her notes. “A guy named Carlos Gutierrez. Gutierrez saw a woman in the alley yesterday, when they were picking up on Pecan Street. Sounds like
our suspect, down to the good legs. I told Mattie we’d set up a photo lineup here at the station.”

Bartlett grinned. “Mattie belongs to the old school. Bet he was rarin’ to do a show-up.”

Sheila answered his smile. “He’s a good man. He’ll get the hang of it.”

“Yeah. Well, okay.” Bartlett sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “I’ll put Blount on getting some photos together. She can let Mattie know when she’s ready, and he can bring Gutierrez in.”

“The sooner the better,” Sheila said. “Let’s try to get the lineup done before that lawyer arrives. Assuming, of course, that Gutierrez can identify her. If he can’t…” She shook her head. “This thing is too circumstantial. I’d sure like to have a few more pieces. Anything on the gun?”

“Afraid not,” Bartlett said regretfully. “There are probably thousands of those old Llamas floating around, with dozens changing hands at every gun show.” He was about to say something else when Connie opened the door and came in, a manila envelope in her hand.

“The sheriff’s office just sent over these forensic reports on the Kirk case,” she said. “I asked the deputy why they just didn’t email them.” She grinned. “He said their email is down.”

Bartlett suppressed a laugh. “High-tech. The county is down more than it’s up.”

“Could be us,” Sheila said, and opened the envelope. She spread the three pages out on the desk and she and Bartlett looked through them.

“Hey!” Bartlett said excitedly, and pushed one of the papers at her. “Look at this, Sheila. It’s a partial on that shell casing!”