Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012
- Автор: Макдермид Вэл, Манфредо Лу
- Год: 2012
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012». Краткое содержание книги:
“Why’d she bring an Escalade to a Honda dealership?” Kenner said to Brownlee.
“We don’t have a Cadillac dealership in town. The nearest one is forty miles away, in Atlanta.”
“What else don’t you have here in Millerton? Besides professional sports teams and good restaurants.”
“Traffic jams. Child porn. And murders. Well, not many. The last one happened three years ago when Bert Burnett killed his neighbor because the neighbor’s dog bit his kid. He killed the dog too, a young pit bull. Most people could understand that. This one will freak everybody out.”
“It’s freaking out the mayor. He’s already called me four times, but I haven’t answered.”
Brownlee flinched. “Why not?”
“Because I’m working a case. You are too.”
Brownlee pondered the fact that somebody would dare to ignore his uncle. Kenner found it remarkable the young man never changed his facial expression, no matter what the situation. With practice, he might learn to turn that look of vapidity into a stone face, a necessary tool for a cop.
Brownlee drove straight through the unmanned guard gate at Henry Plantation, made two lefts and a right, and pulled into a driveway circling in front of a stucco home of a vaguely European style. The place cost eight hundred thousand easy, Kenner thought. A light blue Jeep SUV was parked in front.
A chunky bleached blonde in business clothes opened the door and exchanged hellos with Brownlee, obviously acquainted.
“Tony’s waiting,” she said. “He knew you were coming.”
She led them across hardwood floors, quick and agile in black high heels, and turned into a bright kitchen. A man with graying blond hair sat at a country French table typing on a laptop with one hand while talking into a cell phone.
Kenner’s adrenaline kicked in. Tony Collins fit the shooter’s description, but the clothes were different: khaki shorts and a yellow polo shirt. He wore gleaming Nike athletic shoes with socks that only covered half the ankle. Not exactly confidence-inspiring footwear for a grown man. Collins turned off the phone and stood. Kenner tensed, not knowing if the guy was a distraught husband or a wife-killer, and squeezed his left arm over the Glock 9mm tucked into the shoulder holster under his coat.
“What happened to my wife?” Collins said with his arms outstretched. His diction was clear and genteel. “Who killed Kimberly?”
“We’re trying to find out,” Kenner said, and went through the sorry-for-your-loss sentences he’d repeated dozens of times in the past. Collins and the police officers sat at the table while the woman hovered in the background. Kenner took out his pocket-sized notepad and a pen and said, “I’ve got to ask: Where were you around ten o’clock this morning?”
“I was right here,” Collins said, gesturing around the room and not seeming insulted by the question. “I have a home office. I own ToCo Investments. Today I was nailing down some details on the house with Kathy.”
That’s where Kenner knew the woman from, the real-estate billboard on the bypass with her bigger-than-life mug shot. Kenner thought she must have some ego.
“I’m Kathy Minter,” she said, fanning her flushed face with her hand. “I sold them the house. The mayor called me with the news and I had the sad duty of telling Tony.”
Kenner turned back to Collins and said, “Did your wife have any enemies, receive any threats?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Everybody loved her. She was a beautiful woman with a great heart.”
Kathy Minter’s cell phone rang and she grabbed her purse off a chair and walked out, cutting her eyes at Kenner as she passed.
Collins had only been married three months but knew surprisingly little about his new wife. She was a Delta flight attendant and they met on a plane. Her maiden name was Swinton. She was thirty-nine and used to live in Atlanta, but he’d never been to her old place. She had family in Florida, but he’d never met them. Kenner thought Collins looked about fifty — an eleven-year age difference.
“You had no curiosity about her history?” Kenner said. “That’s kind of odd.”
“Neither one of us is a spring chicken,” Collins said. “We both wanted a fresh start.”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?”
Collins held his gaze on Kenner, as if deciding whether to blow up or not.
“We decided the best way was to move ahead. No secrets, but we didn’t want to get bogged down in ancient history either.”
“The guy who shot her said something about having a baby. Was your wife expecting?”
“What?” Collins said, lurching forward. “That’s impossible. We didn’t want children. That’s out of the question.”
The question had hit a nerve. Kenner knew he wouldn’t get any more good information and asked for a photo of Kim Collins. Tony Collins led him into a high-ceilinged living room with sleek furniture and a wall of windows overlooking a swimming pool and landscaped backyard. Kenner inhaled the new-house smell. Three photographs of Kim Collins were scattered around the room and an oil painting of her in younger days hung over the mantle. The husband picked up a framed photo of the couple from the top of a gleaming baby grand piano and handed it to Kenner.
“This is recent,” he said.
Kim Collins was so sexy the picture frame felt moist. She had a long and graceful jaw line, almond-shaped eyes, and a smile that relegated Tony Collins to wallpaper.
“I’ll bring it back,” Kenner said.
“Keep it as long as you need to. Just find the killer.”
Brownlee drove them back to the police station, where they shared a tiny back office crammed with two old desks.
“You should have introduced me to Kathy,” Kenner said.
“Sorry, I thought you knew her,” Brownlee said, leaning against his desk and crossing his ankles. His shiny cordovan loafers would be no good if he had to chase a bad guy.
“I’m the new kid in town. She was very helpful.”
“She’s into everybody’s business.”
“Get her down here. She wants to tell me something.”
The real-estate woman arrived in ten minutes, tapping on the doorframe and asking, “Y’all needed me?”
Kenner stood and motioned her to a straight chair next to his desk. She sat and crossed smooth, unblemished legs that belonged on a much younger, slimmer woman.
“Who’d want to kill Kim?” Kenner said.
“Oh, every woman in town. Men fell at her feet.”
“She ran around on him?”
“I don’t know about that,” she said, reaching into her purse to silence the phone. “But here’s an example. My husband is retired and handles the books in my business. One day his cell phone buzzed and I picked it up. It was a text from Kim, wondering if he could meet her for coffee. I didn’t realize he even knew how to text. I backed Jerry into a corner and he confessed everything. She started out asking him innocent questions about the real-estate market, but then it got kind of personal. He loved the attention. He actually picked up her dry cleaning one afternoon.”
“So you’re confessing to murder?”
“No,” she said with a smirk. “If I were going to kill somebody, it’d be my husband. I’m saying Kim liked the game. She liked to go behind people’s backs and she liked to lead people astray. With Jerry, she was just staying in practice.”
Kenner leaned back in his swivel chair and took in the fine down on Kathy Minter’s jaw.