One Shot Read online

  *

  Jackson Haywood seemed born for his job—tall and fit, a mulish face but a dignified, even elegant manner. He acted like coming in special just to talk to us was no big deal, like putting on a three-piece suit on Saturday morning was part of his routine. The American Firearms Association couldn’t have found a more impressive director. The office looked impressive, too: oak paneling, lots of brass, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on one wall, glass cases filled with rifles and pistols on another. It felt cozy—except maybe for the ten-foot-tall brown bear standing in a corner, jaws gaping, claws raised as if ready to attack.

  I watched as Jackson Haywood worked through the small stack of letters we’d brought. Every so often, he shook his head, but his face stayed calm—concerned, but objective. When he reached the last letter, he sighed and looked up. “These are ugly. If any of our members were unstable enough to write such things, I’d tell you. But that isn’t the case. Our members are sportsmen, marksmen, patriots. They seek only to promote firearms safety and protect our Constitutional rights, only through legal means. I can’t think of one who could produce such venom.”

  “Dead end,” Carlson said, and started to stand up.

  I stretched out an arm to block him. “But weren’t some of your members critical of Karen Dodd, sir? You had conflicts with her yourself.”

  “We had differences of opinion, certainly,” he said. “But no one respected her more than I. The lady had guts, gentlemen. Why, the day she marched in and dumped a dead rabbit on my desk—did you know about that?”

  “Yes—she found the rabbit on her doorstep on Easter morning, didn’t she?”

  “Actually, one of her little girls found it.” His face grew somber. “Terrible shock for the poor thing—she became hysterical, thinking some mishap had befallen the Easter bunny. Clearly, it was the work of some neighborhood prankster. But since the rabbit had been shot, Mrs. Dodd assumed—or said she assumed—we were responsible. She stormed in with reporters and camera crews, shoved the rabbit in my face, and demanded an apology.”

  “I saw that on television,” I said, remembering the noisy, out-of-focus little drama. It had created a lot of sympathy for Karen Dodd, probably helped clinch her re-election. “And you denied knowing anything about it. Naturally.”

  He frowned. “And truthfully. Why would I condone a stunt that reinforces negative stereotypes of gun-owners?”

  The door swung open slowly, and a slight young man backed into the office, carrying a tray, so absorbed in holding it steady that he almost tripped. He set it down with a bump, sighed, half-smiled, and stepped back.

  “Ah, coffee!” Haywood said. “Thank you, Wayne. Gentlemen, meet my administrative assistant, Wayne Spat.”

  “Spat?” Carlson echoed. “Is that really your name? Spat? Wayne Spat? Oh, man. You must’ve had a rough time in middle school.”

  Wayne Spat half-smiled again, trying to look as if he enjoyed the joke. He probably did have a rough time in middle school, I thought. Short, skinny, wide eyes behind thick glasses, rust-colored hair cut short and slicked down fiercely but still, somehow, messy—he was just the sort to bring out the bully in people like Carlson. Carlson had had a wonderful time in middle school.

  “Cream and sugar, Lieutenant?” Haywood asked. “Detective? Wayne, perhaps you’d pass those cookies.”

  Carlson grinned. “Great-looking cookies, Wayne. You bake them yourself?”

  Spat flushed instantly. “They’re store-bought. I don’t bake.”

  Haywood’s eyes darted from his assistant to Carlson. “Wayne’s quite an outdoorsman. He brought down that beauty in the corner.”

  “No! Wayne bagged a bear?” Carlson stood to get a better look at it. “How’d you do it, Wayne? Dynamite, with a real long fuse?”

  “Shut up, Carlson,” I said, sharply. “What rifle did you use, Mr. Spat?”

  “Ruger Number One. Single shot.” He pushed the hair back from his face. “It was my father’s. But he wasn’t with me. When I shot the bear, I mean. I was alone, camping, in Maine.”

  “Well, good for you, Wayne,” Carlson said, still grinning. “Good for you.”

  I glared at him. “My father has a Ruger I don’t think he’d want to face a bear with one, though. Now, about those letters, Mr. Haywood. You don’t have any ideas about who wrote them?”

  Haywood shrugged. “I suspect they’re fakes. I’m not accusing Mrs. Dodd, mind you. But some people in the extreme anti-rights groups—well. Now, I’m not suggesting they killed her to create a martyr for their cause.”

  “That’s pretty far-fetched, sir,” I said.

  “That’s why I’m not suggesting it. Still, she does make a perfect martyr—lovely young wife and mother, dedicated gun-control advocate, shot in broad daylight, in her home, on one of our safest streets. She’ll be more valuable to the anti-rights groups dead than she was alive. I’m sure they’re holding war councils today, discussing ways to capitalize on this windfall.” He stirred his coffee. “And, of course, making provisions for damage control, should that become necessary.”

  I tilted my head back. “Damage control? What do you mean?”

  “Nothing much. It’s just that they’ve always exploited the Dodd family image—loving couple, adorable children. But you know how it is, Lieutenant. During a murder investigation, questions get asked. Facts surface.”

  “You know something about problems in the Dodd family, sir?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I’m merely speculating about the sorts of troubles one may find in any family, if one scrutinizes it. As far as I know, the Dodds were exactly what they seemed—a happy, loving American family.” He tapped a finger on his desk, three times. “And my greatest regret is that Mrs. Dodd wasn’t prepared to defend herself. If she’d been armed, you’d be closing the books on some criminal right now, not investigating the murder of an innocent citizen.”

  In the parking lot, Carlson kicked the gravel. “Waste of time. That guy doesn’t know anything.”

  “I’d say he knows more than he told us,” I said. “You learn anything from the neighbors?”

  “Another waste of time. That street’s Yuppie Acres. Nobody’s home during the day. If the wives aren’t working, they’re shopping, and all the kids are in preschool.”

  “It’s a good spot for a daytime murder,” I agreed. “No laid-off workers sitting on the porch, no kids playing in the street. So nobody saw anything?”

  He took out his notebook, indulging me. “This retired guy said he saw a beat-up van parked near the Dodd house, early afternoon. Thinks it was blue or black. Pretty useless. Guy’s probably senile.”

  Looking past Carlson, I saw Wayne Spat come out of the building and get into a battered dark blue van. “Maybe not,” I said. “I’ll see him tomorrow. Right now, I’ve got another call to make.”

  I drove to Premium Realty and found my wife at her desk, eyes on her computer screen, hands on her keyboard, phone cradled between shoulder and cheek. Janet never misses a Saturday—she says it’s the best time to grab sales, when other agents are sleeping in or going to kids’ soccer games. She gestured for me to sit. Stealing a sideways glance, I was struck, again, by how beautiful she is. The same basic type as Karen Dodd, I realized—the slim, cool blonde. But Karen Dodd had settled for being merely flawless; Janet is spectacular. Even now, when I should feel nothing but anger, the old desire tugged at me, refusing to let the bond be broken.

  She finished her call and frowned. “What’s wrong? I’m dropping Amy off at 5:00—did you forget? Or are you backing out?”

  “No, 5:00 is fine.” No, I thought, I am not incompetent or irresponsible. “I just want to talk for five minutes.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Okay. How’s the apartment? I know it’s nothing fancy, but on your salary, it’s all you can afford, if you want to help with Amy.”

  “Of course I do.” I’ve been supporting Amy since the day she was born, I thought, and I’m still making the mortgage payments. “The
apartment’s fine. Thanks for finding it.”

  “Oh, it was no trouble,” she said, her eyes drawn to her computer screen. “I know the way I did it probably seemed abrupt, but honestly, Dan, why keep dragging our feet, when we’ve known for months how it had to end? I just moved things along.”

  She’d moved them along with a vengeance. Last Wednesday, I’d come home from work to find she’d packed my clothes, divided up the kitchen supplies, and prepared a list of vacant apartments. Once Janet makes up her mind, she acts.

  “And remember,” she said, “you have to cook tonight. If you take Amy out whenever she stays with you, she’ll see her times with you as too special, and that wouldn’t be fair. I don’t expect you to make anything fancy—if you did, it wouldn’t be fair. But you should be able to manage hot dogs or spaghetti. Did you look over the sample menus I gave you?”

  “I did. I’m making chili tonight.” Chili’s the one thing I make better than Janet does. She hadn’t included it in her sample menus. “I hope that’s fair.”

  She didn’t like it, but she’d have a hard time explaining why. “Fine. What did you want to talk about?”

  “The Karen Dodd murder. You’ve heard about that?”

  She sat forward. “Of course. I saw you on TV. You looked good.”

  “Thanks. I wanted to ask you about Randy Dodd. You must run into him sometimes. What do you think of him?”

  “Don’t tell me little Randy’s a suspect!” She seemed amused, not dismayed. “I really don’t think he has it in him, Dan. But let’s see.” She sat back. “He used to sell houses at Tristan, but he moved to the commercial side, at Gisbourne—more money, maybe, or more prestige.”

  “So you don’t have a distinct impression of him?”

  “No, except I don’t think he amounted to much at Tristan. I snatched some clients from him—he wasn’t pushing hard enough to sell their houses. He’s bright, but he seemed—well, not lazy, but not driven. Maybe he drifted into real estate. Some people do, and if they put in the hours, they can make a living. Not a killing, though. You’ve got be hungry, to have an instinct for it. I don’t think Randy does.”

  “Maybe he has more of an instinct for commercial,” I said. “Maybe he’s doing better at Gisbourne.”

  “Maybe. But Gisbourne itself is shaky. Jim Bixby’s the only top agent there. Now, he’s hungry. If you want, I’ll ask around about Randy.”

  “I’d appreciate that, but do it discreetly. I don’t want talk getting around.”

  “Oh, Dan.” She aimed her smile at me. “I’m always discreet. You know that.”

  I did know it, all too well. I stood up. “So, you’re going out tonight? With what’s-his-name? The guy from Cleveland?”

  “Really, Dan.” She kissed me lightly, on the cheek. “We’re separated. So I guess that’s my business now.”

  Definitely. It was her business now. I nodded and walked away from her.

  *

  On Monday, I dug up enough paperwork to keep Carlson occupied for a few hours, then headed to Gisbourne Companies. I wasn’t surprised to learn Randy Dodd hadn’t come to work. And I wasn’t surprised when the receptionist agreed to talk to me and suggested we have our conversation at lunch. She was, after all, over sixty. Ever since I was a teenager, women over sixty have found me irresistible. They’ve flirted with me, laughed at my jokes, winked at me. I don’t understand it, I’m embarrassed by it, but I’m not above exploiting it. Someday, when I’m over sixty myself, I’ll probably enjoy it.

  Helen Quinn slid into the oversized red leather booth at The Winery, a restaurant designed to look like the wine cellar at a prosperous, cheerful monastery. True, not many cellars have sunny glass domes, and not many monks are served by waitresses wearing low-scooped peasant blouses and short, full skirts. Somehow, though, the total effect works.

  “You know,” Helen Quinn said, “I’ve been thinking I should call the police, since I may have been the last person to talk to Mrs. Dodd. Except the killer, of course. If he spoke to her. Or she.”

  “You spoke to her on Friday afternoon?”

  “Yes, at 1:34—I wrote the message in Randy’s log.” The waitress came over, asking about drinks. Helen winked. “I don’t usually indulge, not at lunch. But you’d probably like me to, so I’ll talk more freely.”

  “That’s all right. If you don’t usually—”

  “I don’t mind.” She looked at the waitress. “Double Scotch. Neat. So, Mrs. Dodd asked for Randy, and I said he wasn’t back yet. She said, ‘Really? He left half an hour ago. Oh, I hope that awful little car isn’t acting up again.’ She said he didn’t need to call her back—she was pushing to finish her speech. I thought I should mention it.”

  “I’m glad you did. It’s helpful.” More than you realize, I thought. It proved Karen Dodd was alive after her husband left the house. Of course, he could’ve come back. “When did Mr. Dodd arrive at the office?”

  She hesitated. “I wasn’t there—I felt queasy, so I went home after getting the call. But he had a 2:00 meeting, and today I asked his secretary if he’d made it back in time, and she said just barely. Why do you ask?”

  “Just routine. So, Mr. Dodd is Director of Commercial Real Estate. That’s an impressive title. How many people in his division, Ms. Quinn?”

  “It’s a one-person department. But he is the director. And please, call me Helen.” She picked up her glass. “I don’t want to use your first name, though. I just love calling you Lieutenant.”

  I fought a blush. “Did the Dodds have a happy marriage?” I asked, more bluntly than I’d intended.

  She downed half her Scotch. “I didn’t know them personally—I met her only a few times. She always made a favorable impression—so friendly, so generous.” She emptied her glass and motioned to the waitress for a refill. “He told you about That Woman, didn’t he?”

  I ordered a Bourbon, just to seem companionable. “What woman?”

  “The Woman Who Calls,” she said, darkly. “I mean, I know I should be discreet, but honestly! As soon as I heard Mrs. Dodd had been killed, all I could think about was That Woman. She’s been calling Randy for months, five or six times a day. He doesn’t want to talk to her—well, at first he did, but then he had me make excuses. It’s stressful—you can’t make up that many convincing excuses, not every day. And sometimes she breaks down and cries, begging me to put her through. He didn’t mention her?”

  I pretended to check my notes. “I don’t think so. Do you know her name?”

  “I take the messages, don’t I? Jacqui Liston. She spells it the fancy way, with a ‘q.’ A ‘k’ was good enough for Mrs. Onassis, but not for her.”

  “Jacqui Liston,” I said, squinting. “That sounds familiar.”

  “It should,” Helen Quinn said. “She was Miss Ohio ten years ago. Now she works for Glenn Realty—sells houses, supposedly, and does those asinine commercials. You must have seen them.”

  The image came to me—Jacqui Liston, tall and voluptuous, auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders in loose curls, wearing a demurely businesslike blazer over a low-cut dress, dark blue eyes burning with welcome as she draped herself in the doorway of some miniature mansion, breathily enjoining buyers to check out the superior properties available through Glenn Realty. Yes, I’d seen the commercials. More than once, they’d made me think about buying a second house.

  I took a quick, hard drink. “So she was romantically involved with Randy Dodd?”

  “I wouldn’t know, I’m sure.” Suddenly prim, she peered at her glass incredulously, as if wondering how such an object had appeared in her hand. “You could ask Jim Bixby. Before she started calling Randy, she called Jim. Five or six times a day.”

  *

  Jim Bixby was about forty-five, wiry, dark, and energetic. He steered me into his private office with an air of jaunty solemnity. “This is a tragedy,” he said, seeming proud of hitting on exactly the right word. “An absolute tragedy. Karen was a special gal. If I can help in any way�
�”

  “You can start,” I said, “by telling me about Randy Dodd’s whereabouts on Friday afternoon.”

  He nodded slowly. “Randy’s not—well, a suspect, is he?”

  “No suspects yet. I’m just gathering all the facts I can.”

  “Sure,” he said, nodding again. “Well, we met with two out-of-town investors at 3:30, took them out for drinks, drove to the banquet together. So after 3:30, he wasn’t out of my sight except for bathroom breaks, like that.”

  “And before 3:30?”

  He shrugged. “He left around noon to see Karen. After that, I don’t remember noticing him until our meeting. But that’s not—well, suspicious. We all keep real busy here, pop in and out a lot.”

  “What about you, Mr. Bixby? Did you pop out of the office on Friday afternoon?”

  “Not really.” His eyes narrowed. “I took a late lunch. Why do you ask?”

  “No special reason. Now, what can you tell me about Jacqui Liston?”

  Instead of answering, Bixby walked to his window and stood silently for almost a minute. There couldn’t have been anything especially soothing or inspiring about the view of parking lots and highway and discount stores, but he seemed to find it fascinating. “I knew you’d get to that,” he said. “As soon as I heard you’d had lunch with Helen, I knew. She told you about the calls, didn’t she? You feed her some Scotch?”

  “No point discussing that, sir. Just tell me about Jacqui Liston, about her relationship with Randy Dodd—and her relationship with you.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. “I guess it had to come out sooner or later. Well, her relationship with me came first. It started six, seven months ago. She’s a damned attractive gal, we’re both divorced, so why not? At first, it was great. She’s a real passionate gal, Dan—okay if I call you Dan?—and we had some wild times. I could tell you amazing stories.”