The Drowning Pool (11 page)

“That’s none of your goddamned business,” Scofield fired back, his face turning the color of a blood sun. The man was coming toward him, his fists raised, a savage expression on his face.

“Take it easy,” Bert warned.

“We’re through with our questions,” Gardner said. The last thing he needed was for them to get into a physical confrontation in this situation. Scofield backed off, and Gardner signaled Bert that it was time to leave.

Once on the outside, Bert took long, rapid strides toward their parked car. “I would enjoy taking that bastard apart.”

He decided that although Scofield was a big man, Bert was probably capable of doing a job on him.

Bert climbed into the passenger side of the unmarked, dark blue Chevy he was driving tonight. “Scofield makes a real good suspect. And don’t tell me you can’t see him having a motive.”

“Possibly, but according to his self-espoused philosophy, if he caught his wife cheating, he would kill her as well as the man. She is still alive.”

“Just barely. He’s punishing her with a living death, or haven’t you noticed?” Bert vigorously slammed the car door.

“I definitely noticed. But is he the kind who would plunge a knife into a man’s back? Whatever he is, Scofield doesn’t strike me as being a sneak.”

“I still say anyone who comes right out and tells us he’s got a theory like that is practically confessing to murder.”

Gardner had doubts. “Would he actually be that foolish if he’d killed Bradshaw?” Gardner started the engine.

“Why not? Plenty of psychos do exactly that. He could be a typical nut case. And who ever said killers were smart?”

“We’ll have to handle him differently.”

Bert glanced at him, a deep frown creasing her forehead. “You think I came on too strong with him? I don’t think you were strong enough. I didn’t care one bit for the way he treated his wife.”

“Neither did I. The scenario reminds me a lot of
Othello
.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Exactly. Let’s say Scofield is our Othello, an abnormally jealous husband. How did those doubts enter his mind? It had to be more than mere innuendo on Bradshaw’s part. And if he’d actually caught his wife with Bradshaw, then both would be dead. No, something is missing here. Where’s our Iago? Somewhere Iago lurks, feeding our Othello’s suspicions. We have to find out who this individual is. Something tells me it’s an important missing part in our puzzle.” As he told Bert, since he’d been seeing Kim, he started reading some of the classics, hoping they’d have more in common. Shakespeare did understand human nature. Shakespeare might have been a good cop himself.

“We ought to take Scofield down to headquarters for further questioning. That’ll shake him up. I could apply some pressure.”

“What kind of pressure? You don’t need an assault charge brought against you.”

Bert frowned at him. “I didn’t say anything about getting physical. Although, people like Scofield, all they understand is force. Personal fear, that’s what they respond to. I learned a long time ago, with certain kinds of people, there’s no appealing to their conscience or better instincts because they don’t have any. With the Scofields of this world, fear and intimidation most often turn the trick.”

Gardner took Bert’s cynicism in stride. “That could be true. But we’re still going to have to use restraint. You can’t tell us from the bad guys if we start manhandling suspects.”

“Thank you for that enlightening lesson.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Know what? I think from what we’ve learned about Bradshaw, he was a miserable jerk who couldn’t keep his pants zipped. Whoever did him should probably get a reward, not a prison sentence. Why go after him? Why care? There are too many crimes that shouldn’t go unpunished. Why waste our valuable time on this one?”

Gardner was thoughtful. “Maybe because we’ve sworn to uphold the law. Murder is murder, even if we don’t personally like the vic. Doing our job right, that’s what matters. We don’t have the right to serve as judge and executioner.”

Bert’s face wore a troubled, pained expression. Gardner asked himself again: what was eating at St. Croix? He still had no answers.

EIGHT

Gardner hated to admit it, but the Bradshaw case was beginning to bother him. What should have been a simple, straightforward investigation was becoming complicated by the unpleasant nature of the victim, the fact that Bradshaw had caused disturbances in the lives of a number of people. Obviously, someone had hoped the upsets would end with Bradshaw’s death, but in reality, it was just the beginning. He knew that Bert was right about one thing. The situation between Scofield and his wife was unhealthy. He suspected, just as Bert did, that Scofield had the potential to erupt into violence and abuse his wife at any time. Certainly, their visit had intensified the tension in that situation. He told himself he shouldn’t feel any sense of responsibility but felt it just the same.

He had difficulty sleeping that night, something rare for him. As soon as he came on duty the next afternoon, he made a phone call. Bert, already at her desk, observed and listened silently.

Mrs. Scofield answered the phone as he hoped she would, and he quickly identified himself. Her voice was subdued, almost without energy.

“I wonder, would you be home later this afternoon? I’d like to drop by and talk with you again for a little while.”

“Bill won’t be here.”

“I figured that. You won’t have to mention this call or the visit to him unless you choose.”

“All right.” He thought there was a note of relief in her voice.

Bert rose from her desk and came toward him as he hung up. “We seeing Mrs. Scofield again?”

“I am, you’re not.”

She lifted her chin. “I’d like to be there.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Why not?” Bert wasn’t going to make it easy.

“I’ll say it straight out. I saw the way you looked at the woman and her husband. You’re not objective about them.”

Her face hardened, her dark eyes screwing into bullets. She smashed her fist down on Gardner’s beat-up hardwood desk with so much force that the antique groaned as if it would break in half. “What’s wrong with feeling sympathy for an abused woman and wanting to help her? Sisters have to care about each other.”

“Look, we don’t know what’s really happening between Scofield and his wife. I know what it looks like, but we can’t be certain. Before we get any further involved, don’t you think we ought to have some more facts?”

“But you don’t trust me to handle it, do you?” She pointed an accusing finger in his direction.

“No, that’s not what I think. It just seems like you’re getting emotionally involved with the Scofields. I want to talk with the woman in a cool, calm way.”

“I’ve seen vicious types like Scofield before. He looks civilized enough, but he’s not. If she doesn’t leave him, Scofield will stop being content with mental torture and start beating her up. I haven’t ruled out Scofield as a suspect in the Bradshaw murder, have you?”

“No,” Gardner admitted.

“Then let me come along.”

“Mrs. Scofield won’t talk freely in front of you, because she won’t want to say anything that might make her look bad in your eyes, which means she’ll be reluctant to answer the kind of personal questions I intend to ask.”

“Can a detached guy like you help that woman? Will you even try?”

“That’s not my primary responsibility in this case,” he reminded St. Croix, “but, yes, in my own way, I always try to help people. I consider that the most important part of police work.”

“I got Scofield pegged as a sadist.”

“If that’s so, then she could be a masochist.”

Bert’s nostrils flared.

“I know you don’t like hearing that, but you’ve got to realize there are a lot of possibilities. Still, I promise if there’s anything you or I can do for her, it’ll be done.” He dumped paperwork on Bert’s desk and left her to sort through it. He could feel her negative vibes even as he turned his back to her.

He walked across the parking lot, got into his car, and phoned Kim from his cell.

“Busy?”

“Not especially.” She sounded glad to hear his voice, definitely a positive sign.

“Want to help me out?”

“Sure. What do you have in mind?”

“Tell you all about it when I pick you up.”

“Okay, I’ll get ready.”

* * * *

It was a few minutes past five o’clock when he rang the doorbell of the Scofield apartment. Louise opened the door, looking as if she’d slept very little the night before; iridescent, lavender shadows had formed under her eyes.

“Come in, Lieutenant.”

“I brought a friend. I hope you don’t mind. She’s a police consultant.”

Louise accepted that. Kim looked very professional in her librarian’s skirt and blouse, her auburn highlighted brown hair, much darker than Louise’s, neatly pulled back in a chignon.

They sat down in the cool, air-conditioned living room opposite each other, he and Kim on a gold brocaded couch, Louise on a straight backed chair. He noticed the paintings on the wall again.

“You do beautiful work,” he said.

She smiled and seemed less tense. “Thank you. Most people don’t notice.”

“Your husband remarked that you’re a commercial artist. You must be very good at it.”

At the mention of her husband, her countenance darkened visibly, the fern green eyes losing their luster.

“What agency do you work for again?”

“Baincroft and Richardson. Why?” Her expression was wary.

“Just curious. Your husband also mentioned that you worked together in the past.”

“There’s a good light today. I thought to do a little painting.”

He was aware she was trying to change the subject. Bert was right. Mrs. Scofield did seem in need of protection.

“How long have you and your husband been married?”

“Two years.”

“Have they been happy years?”

“Basically, yes.” She didn’t look at him.

“But he’s always had a bad temper?”

“Not the way you saw him yesterday. He used to be very considerate of me. It’s all because of this terrible idea he’s gotten into his head.”

“That you had an affair with Bradshaw?”

She shot a look at Kim, whose expression remained composed and nonjudgmental; then Mrs. Scofield nodded her head miserably.

“And did you have an affair with Mr. Bradshaw?” His incision was deft and delicate.

“No,” she answered, her luminous eyes grave but steady, “I never had relations with the man.”

“Sorry, but I had to ask. Have you ever attempted to discuss the situation with your husband outright?”

“Yes, on several occasions. Each time he’d get furious and refuse to listen to me. He shut me out and threatened to do something horrible if I didn’t keep quiet. It’s like he’s already made up his mind and refuses to let me either confirm or deny anything. But the insinuations continue. He’s playing some kind of sick game with me. He hasn’t even slept in the same bed with me for weeks. If I so much as touch him, even accidentally, he pushes me away. There’s just no reaching him.”

“Is there any basis for your husband’s suspicions? Please try to think. Is it all just in his imagination?”

Louise Scofield looked to Kim as if reaching for support. “I never had anything to do with Rick. I swear it! But I’m never going to be able to prove it to Bill’s satisfaction. I love Bill, or I’d have walked out on him. Of course, I don’t know what he would have done then. He hasn’t been behaving rationally at all lately. He’s out of control.” Her eyes grew dark and anguished, filling with tears. Her long, artistic fingers trembled.

“We might be able to help you convince your husband.”

“Is that possible?” Her voice was pitched high, like a taut violin string. “How?”

“Just hold on a little longer,” he said in the tone of voice usually reserved for his daughters.

“Bill is a good person. Of the two of us, he’s always been the strong one. I leaned on him, depended on him for emotional support. He understood my weakness but he never faulted me for it.” Vulnerability and pain were etched in her eyes.

“Could be you’re stronger than you realize and your husband weaker than you know,” Kim observed.

Louise stared at Kim in disbelief. “No, he was my savior, my personal deliverer. You see, my father died when I was ten. Then it was just Mother and me. My parents were older when they married. I was the only child they were able to have. I suppose Mother fussed over me too much. She didn’t mean to smother me, but that’s how it was. I was the center of her universe, her obsession and life’s work. I wanted to please her and I needed her love. When Bill came along, I wouldn’t allow myself to become seriously involved with him at first. But he pursued me outrageously. Mother didn’t like him. I suppose they were too much alike, both strong, domineering personalities. She didn’t want me to see him.

“But two and a half years ago, Mother died suddenly of a massive stroke. The shock of losing her, of being completely alone in the world—it was just too much for me. I couldn’t handle it. I had no friends. Mother had always been my best friend. I felt so isolated. I didn’t think I could manage to keep on living without her. My depression was such that I could barely concentrate on my work. I was close to a total breakdown. That was when Bill stepped back into the picture. He made me feel loved and cared for. I came to depend on him the way I had on Mother. His moods could be unpredictable of course, but I could accept that. After all, he kept telling me how much he loved me. That was what really mattered. Three months after Mother’s death, Bill and I were married. Until recently, he’s been a rock of stability for me. Now he’s like a stranger. I want my husband back, Lieutenant. I want things to be the way they were before.”

Kim took Lou’s trembling hands in her own. “Nothing ever remains the same. Maybe your relationship will grow and get better or maybe it will disintegrate, but you must start having confidence in yourself. You are very talented. You can be independent, your own person.”

Louise nodded and put her hand to her abdomen.