Black Cat Weekly #88

Chapter 5-1

by“Damn license plate.” Carla pounded her hands on the steering wheel in frustration.

The patrol car’s overhead lights flashed red and blue behind her, alternatively coloring the interior of her BMW. This would be the fourth ticket she’d gotten this year. The police gave zero-tolerance once they saw the personalized “SUE U L8R” license plate. Carla had received the car in the divorce from Charlie. He probably thought the tickets were hilarious too. The revenge of the ex. Carla reminded herself to take the time to visit the Department of Motor Vehicles. Maybe “I H8 LWRS” would help soothe the cops.

The officer slowly approached. Carla checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Hopefully, she could talk her way out of a citation. This time, Carla hadn’t noticed that she’d been speeding.

She unrolled the window as the officer arrived and looked up with her most-innocent smile. “What’s the trouble, officer?”

“Are you Mrs. Charles King?”

The cop outside her window hardly looked old enough to carry a badge and a g*n. He also looked tense. Carla frowned. “I’m Carla Lehrer. I divorced that cheating dirtbag six months ago. I just haven’t had time to get the registration updated.” She again flashed the broad smile. “That waste of an Armani suit. Probably should have let his girlfriends fight over who got to ride around in his fancy car.” She batted her eyes. “You know what Shakespeare said, ‘first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers,’ right? Carla hoped that an extra bit of vitriol might help her beat the ticket.

He collected her license and registration and returned to his vehicle. In her rearview mirror, Carla watched him talking into the handset of his radio. He glanced up at her car periodically. Then, his lips stopped moving. Listening, she decided. After a moment, he nodded.

As the officer got out of the car, Carla saw that, although he tried to project a casual demeanor, he moved more stiffly on his return walk. His right palm rested on the grip of his handgun. His eyes flitted, roaming the interior of her car before returning to her.

Carla moved her hands to the steering wheel, where she knew he could see them.

“Would you mind stepping out of the car, Mrs. King?” The officer grabbed the door handle of her car. His eyes, she saw, quickly scanned the backseat.

“It’s Lehrer, officer.”

“Please exit the vehicle, Mrs. King.” The officer unlatched the door and pulled it open.

Carla stepped out of the car. “It’s Ms. Lehrer,” she repeated.”

The officer gave a quick shake of his head. “I would like you to accompany me back to the station. Detective Bass asked to have a few words with you.”

Fat-a*s Bass, Carla knew, handled investigations for the police department. Charlie always said he wouldn’t leave his desk chair if the building caught fire. “Do I need to have my ex-husband meet me there? He’s still my lawyer even if he’s not my husband.”

“That would be difficult, ma’am. He was murdered earlier today.”

When Detective Bass turned to close the door of the police station’s interview room, Carla’s eyes immediately dipped to the seat of his pants. Not surprisingly, Charlie had been unkind. Medium-a*s better described the detective, she thought. He couldn’t bounce a quarter off those flanks, but most of her male colleagues at the high school carried more junk in the trunk.

Bass’s chair creaked when he sat. He handed her a paper cup of coffee, then paused to pour two sugar packets into his.

He had, she saw, seemingly by accident, let his file’s contents spill from the folder. A property list lay on top. The photo beneath, however, caught her eye, just like Bass intended. The picture showed a cheap motel. Charlie’s body lay at the foot of a bed. Blood soaked the carpet around his head. She noticed odd things. Discount seascapes hung from the walls. Her ex still wore boxers. Carla frowned and blinked. Perhaps she had fantasized about Charlie being dead in the throes of the divorce but seeing him face down still stabbed her heart.

“You know why you’re here?” Bass straightened the folder, pushing the picture out of sight.

“I’ve been told that my ex-husband is dead.” Carla felt her cheeks flush, livid at the detective’s cheap attempt at manipulation. She stared across the table. “I know I’m an English teacher and not a cop, but do you really think you’re the best person to investigate his murder?”

Bass frowned and drew back. The chair protested the move with another squeak.

“I remember when Charlie got the murder weapon suppressed in a case you investigated. He said he ripped you a new one on the stand. Told me you got pretty peeved. I don’t know if I like the idea of the detective having a personal grudge against the victim.”

Bass’s chair complained again as he leaned forward. Fleshy forearms rested on the table. “You know what I think?”

Carla slowly shook her head.

Bass’s chair squeaked again. “A witness placed a brown-haired woman at the motel with the deceased. According to the patrol officer, you can’t stand your ex-husband. He says you practically bragged about the murder out on the street. I think you want to provoke the PD to assign a less qualified detective to this investigation. I think I’m looking at an angry woman who got stiffed in a divorce. Do you know what Shakespeare said about Hell having no anger? Why don’t you finish up that confession? It’ll do you good.”

Carla thought about everything she’d said on the roadside to separate herself from Charlie. Damn that license plate. She pressed her fingertips against the side of her head and massaged her temples, feeling the weight of her auburn hair resting against her knuckles. “I don’t think the PD has a less qualified detective. It wasn’t Shakespeare, and it’s not anger; it’s fury. Did you study anything besides football in high school?”

Carla carried three thoughts out of the interview. First, Detective Bass had no idea who murdered Charles King. Second, in the absence of a better suspect, Bass might decide to arrest her. She’d consented to let him take her DNA and fingerprints. As her lawyer, Charlie would have advised against it if he weren’t dead. But he was, and she figured it was the easiest way to show she had nothing to hide.

And third, perhaps in retrospect, pissing off the lead detective wasn’t her best play. Impulse control had, however, sometimes been a problem for Carla. With a little more self-control, she may not have flown to Vegas with Charlie on her school’s Spring Break eight years ago.

Spilled milk and all that, Carla thought.

She let herself into Charlie’s vacant office. Returning the door key, like changing the license plate, was one of those post-divorce details she still needed to handle. She’d stopped at Fran’s Beauty Supply on the drive to the office and bought a box of plastic gloves. Since Charlie hadn’t married his next ex-wife yet, he was between next of kin. Nobody would be around to consent to the police searching his office. Bass would have to get a warrant, and he likely wouldn’t rush. That would require effort. Carla figured she had some time for her own intelligence work. But she didn’t want Bass to find her fingerprints on the office keyboard when he processed it.

She called the medical examiner’s office. “This is Sherry from police homicide.” She’d noted the secretary’s name when she had stomped from the office earlier. “I’m calling for Detective Bass. We’ve had a malware attack here at the PD.” Carla paused. “I know. Someone ought to do something about crime in this town. He was hoping you’d send the preliminary autopsy report to his personal email.” She nodded. “He knows it won’t be final until toxicology comes back. But this one doesn’t look d**g related. Email it to FatAss@gmail.com.” Carla paused again. “I know. It rhymes with Bass. All the defense lawyers call him that. He decided he could get angry or embrace it.” Carla’s voice took on a conspiratorial whisper. “Be sure to check it out the next time he’s at the ME’s Office.”

Moments later, the FatAss inbox received its first message. Carla smiled. The spoofed email had been inspired.

Opening the PDF, she carefully read the report. Carla had listened to Charlie talk about enough cases to understand most of the terminology. He had a close-range gunshot wound to the back of his head. Carla knew that usually meant inside of six inches. He had no abrasions on his body. Charlie hadn’t been beaten. Surprisingly, she felt relieved to read that he hadn’t suffered. No ligature marks near the wrists told her that his hands hadn’t been tied. There had been no sign of a life-or-death struggle. Instead, he’d let someone walk up behind him. She remembered the crime scene picture of Charlie in his underwear.

She knew what conclusion Detective Bass would draw.

She jabbed the print key.

Charlie could juggle girlfriends and a wife, remembering birthdays and anniversaries. In court, he meticulously recounted testimony given days earlier in a complex case with dozens of witnesses. But passwords, Charlie would forget immediately after changing them. At home, he kept a list on the last page of a notepad. Opening the pencil drawer of his desk, Carla found that his work habits had stayed the same since they’d separated. She took a picture of the password list.

Carla logged into the email and skimmed through Charlie’s messages. The family of Sergio Rodriguez complained about the trial fee. They expected a r****d since the case hadn’t gone the d**g dealer’s way. Carla snorted at the idea of Charlie parting with any of his money. He didn’t offer coupons and never gave guarantees.

She continued reading. Milan Piana wrote a lengthy message. Carla paused her reading to form a mental picture—shark skin suit, pinky ring, thick wad of cash—the kind of client Charlie salivated to represent. Well, Carla thought, one type of client who made Charlie drool. She shook her head to clear her mind of thoughts of her ex’s two-timings and returned to the email. Charlie needed to get the bail reduced for Piana’s jailed brother. He had been entrapped, the email said. Piana offered a veiled threat if Charlie couldn’t deliver.

Carla pulled up the photos in the client’s file. A man in a slick suit looked back at her with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. His top lip curled like a fishhook. He wore five o’clock shadow and mussed dark hair. Carla couldn’t decide if he rated higher on the swarthy or angry scale. She scrolled through the other pictures on Charlie’s computer, studying men’s and women’s faces. None of them looked familiar. No one carried a sign that said “murderer.” Charlie, she noted, had deleted all the pictures of the two of them.

She paused again and thought about the man she’d foolishly married. Charlie hadn’t feared his clients. “Nobody is crazy enough to hurt their lawyers,” he’d said whenever she expressed concern. “Not because they can’t, but it makes it damn near impossible for a defendant to hire the next one.” Charlie had been no fool. He wouldn’t let a d**g lord, or a Mafiosi walk up behind him, nor would she expect him to take a business meeting wearing only boxers. She needed to focus on his girlfriends.

Carla opened his IM app and blushed as she read a chat between Charlie and Winter. Carla assumed Winter didn’t know about the messages Charlie exchanged with Sparkle or Brittany.