Snapshot Page 9

  Stanley shrugged. “I would’ve profited a lot more before the economic crash if Arroyo were out of the picture, but I like a good rival. Keeps a man on his toes. But I hope it isn’t true about Natasha. She was a gorgeous woman.”

  “Did the two of you ever have a relationship?”

  “We’ve been in the same circles for many years, but I didn’t know her personally,” Stanley said.

  Natasha had been a high-class whore with a very selective and private clientele. The detective wouldn’t know this. That information was above his pay grade, so to speak. Natasha’s role had evolved as she became Arroyo’s mistress for the past five years exclusively—well, almost exclusively. Stanley knew enough of her past to make a call now and then. But during their last encounter, he had sensed her deep affection for Arroyo and a shift in loyalty toward his adversary. Natasha wanted to bargain for her freedom, and his silence.

  She had done the unforgivable. She’d fallen in love with Arroyo.

  Stanley wasn’t sure why that had enraged him. He hadn’t loved Natasha. It was business, nothing more. She provided the services he purchased just like the other women. She’d been a willing participant in getting close to Arroyo. The consummate professional, like he was. Or so he’d believed.

  Detective Martin didn’t consult notes or write anything down. He was the lead investigator in the search for the missing businessman, and Stanley still hadn’t obtained the reason the search had begun so quickly. They should’ve had a few more days before Arroyo was officially listed as missing.

  “You aren’t married.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Divorced. Learned my lesson.” Stanley yawned.

  “Girlfriend, dating anyone?”

  “Here and there. Nothing serious. Why?”

  “Just putting pieces together.”

  Stanley looked at his watch. “I want to help. Maybe I don’t have the facts, obviously, but this is the second time I’ve been questioned today. Everyone says that Arroyo is missing. What makes you certain? And what has it got to do with me?”

  “We found blood.”

  “Whose blood? Arroyo’s blood? Natasha’s?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Stanley knew they hadn’t found any of Arroyo’s blood at his house. They’d certainly found plenty of blood residue, but that would be Natasha’s. With Arroyo’s wife visiting her sister in Greece, Natasha was staying at his estate as she always did when the wife was gone. Her blood had been cleaned up, with enough left in the cracks and grout of the tile floor to appear as if someone had hastily wiped it down. The assumption would be that Arroyo killed Natasha and then disappeared.

  Stanley pushed back from the large desk.

  “I’m sorry, but I have a meeting with my board in several minutes. Can I answer anything else before I go?”

  “Are you taking any trips in the near future, like the one you just took to Missouri, or the fishing trip out into international waters?” Detective Martin studied Stanley as he spoke.

  Stanley’s nerves immediately turned cold. He had flown his private plane to Missouri to keep his trip under the radar. The last thing he needed was to infuriate Gwen further with his unwanted visit to her campaign rally. And why the mention of his fishing trip?

  “I don’t have anything planned. Are you asking me to keep you posted or for me to stick around? Am I a suspect in something?” Stanley frowned as if disturbed, and in actuality he was disturbed that he had heat from local police this fast.

  “We have numerous persons of interest.”

  “I’m a person of interest?”

  “Not officially.”

  Stanley and Detective Martin stared at one another, the two men sizing each other up like two bulls deciding if one would charge. Stanley’s phone buzzed, breaking the stare down.

  “That’s my meeting. They’ll be looking for me.” Stanley raised the phone. “If you have more questions, arrange it with my assistant.”

  He didn’t wait for the detective to respond, but simply walked out. It was somewhat disconcerting having the man still in his office, but Stanley knew nothing could be found there.

  Inside the large conference room, only Marcus waited. He turned off the intercom that had allowed his nephew to listen in.

  “What could he know?” Marcus asked.

  “Nothing. He’s probing. Remember, too, it’s not what he knows, it’s what he can prove. But we’re fine right now. We need to watch our step with that other situation,” Stanley said.

  “The daughter is in Dallas, staying at a downtown hotel. She pulled some old files from Fort Worth PD.”

  “Interesting. It might be time to distract them,” Stanley said. He considered various scenarios.

  “I have ideas,” Marcus said.

  Stanley clenched his jaw, annoyed with his nephew’s please-be-proud-of-me tone. He studied his nephew and spoke in a tone that held just a hint of menace. “This may not be the best time, but I do admire initiative. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But are you going to explain what this FBI agent and his federal prosecutor daughter are looking into, and how it relates to that guy on death row?”

  Stanley walked to the door. “It has to do with a young man not thinking things through. Just keep the updates coming.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  You’re Waldren’s kid?” the man asked as he squeezed into the booth across from Lisa. He reminded her of a hardened rancher with his cowboy hat and flannel shirt—not a retired police department employee who’d spent years in the basement of the station.

  “Yes, I’m Lisa Waldren. You’re Walter Sweeney?” She put out her hand. His grasp was firm, and he studied her with his dark eyes. “Is this the right booth?”

  “Sure is.” Sweeney’s eyes went to the doorway and line of windows they could view from their nearly hidden location at the back corner.

  Sweeney had called within hours of her quick departure from the Fort Worth Police Department. She’d stopped back at her hotel to read through the copies Gertz had printed when the call came in. Sweeney said he could meet her right away, at this diner in Fort Worth, and then he gave directions as to where to sit.

  On her second drive to Fort Worth that day, Lisa called her father. She was running down a lead and wouldn’t be at the house until much later, she told him. Rosalyn’s voice came from the background, volunteering to make dinner for all of them.

  “Do you know my father?” Lisa asked Sweeney. She studied his movements, the way he clenched his large hands together and how he glanced toward the door and windows every few seconds.

  “Not personally. But I know every file in the basement of that police station from the late fifties through the eighties. And Waldren’s kid became a big-time federal prosecutor?”

  The waitress arrived, saving Lisa from responding. She hated off-the-cuff comments about her career as if she’d magically attained “big-time” status.

  “What can I get you, darlin’?” the waitress asked, paper tablet and pen ready for Lisa’s order.

  “They have great chili,” Sweeney said.

  “I’ll just have tea,” Lisa said. The Texas heat outside and the overbearing scent of cooking grease in the diner had sent her appetite packing. The waitress’s smile dropped to a frown. “I have dinner plans in a few hours.”

  “I’ll take coffee and the special with extra onions,” Sweeney said.

  “You got it, hon.” The waitress moved on to another table.

  Sweeney settled against the back of the cushion and stared at Lisa. “You’re looking at information about the Benjamin Gray killing?”

  “Yes. My father and I were at that civil rights parade in 1965 when Gray was shot. I was very young.”

  “You must have been. Gertz told me about you asking for old cases, but not that you were at the parade. Interesting, all this. So you and your dad are working on a memoir at the exact time when the convicted killer of Benjamin Gray is set for execution.”

/>   “Something like that.”

  The waitress returned and set a tall glass of iced tea on the table and a cup of coffee in front of Sweeney. Lisa had meant hot tea, but she didn’t correct the mistake.

  “Okay,” Sweeney said. “Less I know, the better, I suppose. You can’t be too careful nowadays.”

  “That’s true.”

  Lisa’s years of interviewing every personality type gave her good instincts for getting the information she needed. Most people were easy to read, others offered a challenge she couldn’t help but enjoy trying to decipher. She worked on a strategy to talk to Sweeney without making him suspicious. She’d drive him away if she wasn’t careful. He appeared to be the usual somewhat grudging former employee who hadn’t found the happiness in retirement he’d expected.

  “I appreciate you meeting me,” she said, folding her hands around the tall, sweating glass of tea.

  “Got me curious. Not every day that someone digs up old cases either cold or closed. There’d be a lot to discover if someone did a bit more of that.”

  “I can imagine. Gertz implied that you didn’t especially approve of everything at your station.”

  “You mean Gertz said I thought the cops were dirty?”

  “He didn’t go that far.”

  Sweeney pressed his fingers together, stretching them out. “They’re not all bad, never were. Some real good guys there, actually. But it takes just a couple to create all kinds of problems. You want me to tell you about the Gray case?”

  “If you would, yes.”

  “Benjamin Gray.” Sweeney dipped a spoon into his coffee, then opened a container of cream and dumped it in, followed by four other packets. “First I want to know something. Why’d your dad back off this thing all those years ago?”

  “What do you mean?” Lisa asked.

  “He was on this case for a while. Ticked off more than a few cops. I’m surprised you got through the door over there, but then, guess the years have changed everything. I watched it with interest, wondering what a suit might find out. Then suddenly he stopped pushing, stopped cold, it seemed.”

  “When was this?”

  Sweeney frowned in thought. “Maybe a year or two after it happened, ’66 or ’67.”

  Lisa tried recalling the events of that time. She’d started kindergarten with Mrs. Palmer, one of her favorite teachers. Lisa had loved school and her ballet classes that began when she was five. Mom was the predominant memory at that age, as if Dad had disappeared. Later Mom would give excuses for his missing performances and her school’s open house. “Dad works very hard,” she would say.

  “That’s something I don’t know,” Lisa said. “It’s not like my father at all.”

  Sweeney nodded. “Guess that makes sense. Okay then, what I know about the Benjamin Gray case …”

  The waitress set a giant bowl of chili piled with onions on the table. Lisa settled in to wait for Sweeney to continue. She took a sip of her tea and grimaced from the shock of syrupy sweetness.

  Sweeney ate while he talked, taking big bites of chili. “There were a lot of rumors about the arrest of that Dubois. They didn’t really run down the other leads.”

  “What leads?”

  “I can’t fully remember at the moment. There were witnesses, conflicting ones, and some people in the civil rights movement who didn’t like Gray’s ideas, and some rumors about a white girlfriend. Those kinds of leads.”

  “Do you think the cops were involved?”

  “In the killing?”

  Lisa didn’t answer. She wanted Sweeney to give his thoughts.

  “No, our local guys weren’t involved in the killing. They might have been involved in a cover-up, I can believe that. But the focus seemed on Dubois, not on Gray.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sweeney wiped his mouth, then took a long look along the windows before he continued. “If Dubois wasn’t the shooter, he also wasn’t just some bystander who got picked up by mistake. They were watching him. I think it was convenient timing.”

  Leonard Dubois, a target before the shooting? Based on what evidence? From what Sweeney said, it was all rumors that had trickled down to the guy in the basement. But Dad, too, had mentioned suspicions about the Fort Worth PD.

  “So who do you think killed Benjamin Gray?”

  Sweeney pursed his lips. “That, I do not know. But not someone from Gray’s camp. The authorities would’ve opened that up right away. Any chance to discredit the blacks, the PD would’ve been all over that. My guess, someone high up was involved. Someone high enough to influence a good police chief to stop questioning the actions of two dirty cops. Maybe a government hit.”

  Sweeney had her interested until he mentioned government hit.

  “And what do you think happened to JFK?” Lisa asked, throwing that out to see how he’d respond.

  “I’m sure your father told you it was Lee Harvey Oswald. But it was undoubtedly a conspiracy.”

  Lisa considered leaving right then, but there were many respectable people who believed in a JFK conspiracy. And Sweeney had brought up questions she didn’t have answers for.

  “In the Gray case, is there evidence that can prove any of this?”

  “Most is gone now.” Sweeney stared at two men who had entered the diner. The waitress waved them down to a booth far from them. Sweeney smiled and gave a slight nod to her. So he was a regular here, Lisa realized. And the waitress knew Sweeney and had either bought into his suspicions or was paid a good enough tip to follow along.

  “Where’d the evidence go?” Lisa asked as Sweeney returned to his chili bowl.

  “Mostly destroyed. There were interviews, evidence from the scene, things like that. Destroyed by a fire in 1967, but strangely many of the cover letters survived the flames.”

  “So there wasn’t a fire?”

  “There was. But I lived a quarter of my life down there. The electrical wasn’t faulty, but that’s what got the blame. And I never saw much damage. I left on Friday night, and Monday morning the place was cleaned up and reorganized with missing evidence and files.”

  “So all the evidence is gone?”

  “A lot of it. But I kept a notebook. Went over it before we met today to refresh my memory. It’s in a safe place, but not going to help you. It’s notes from a man who believes the government is after him.” Sweeney laughed and scraped the bottom of his bowl for the last bite.

  Lisa nodded and took another sip of tea. Sweeney interested her. The fact that he was self-aware made him more believable. It was the ones unaware of their neuroses who were most dangerous.

  “My dad mentioned that a Sergeant Ross was at the scene of Leonard Dubois’s arrest, but the officer always shut my father down when he tried to talk to him about it. Even today, the man won’t return Dad’s calls.”

  “I saw in my notes that Sergeant Ross was there. But I don’t have an answer for you. Ross seemed like a good one. I never questioned his cases, except for that one. He ran things by the book most of the time.”

  “I’ve known good people, cops included, who’ve done bad things. Usually there’s something behind it. Something to justify the deed.”

  Lisa remembered one of her first cases where she convicted a female DEA agent of stealing money from a drug bust. The woman had made a desperate move because of her three kids at home, one with disabilities, and a deadbeat husband who had drained their bank accounts. These were the cases Lisa didn’t cheer winning.

  “I can’t help you there. What are you and your father up to? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get Dubois off.”

  “We’re trying to get to the truth. My father was there, with me. I don’t know why he’s waited this long, but it’s important to him to answer these questions, I guess.”

  Sweeney set his elbows on the table and stared at her with his intense dark eyes.

  “You know that happens with us old-timers. We start going over it all. We try making sense of our lives, and the
mistakes haunt us. It’s a good thing you’re helping him. I never had me any kids. Good thing he’s got you.”

  Lisa couldn’t help but smile. “We haven’t been all that close over the years.”

  “You’re here now. That matters.” Sweeney pushed the empty bowl away from him. “I’d look into people high up who might benefit from Gray’s death, who might have wanted him dead. Maybe in Texas or even as high up as DC. But I’d start by talking to your father. He didn’t drop this for nothing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Instead of driving straight to her father’s house, Lisa returned to the solitude of her hotel room. The day was waning, its events coursing heavily through her body. She needed time to process before confronting her father, without Rosalyn’s incessant chatter.

  But the stagnant room didn’t bring solace. Lisa did several searches, sent off some e-mail queries—calling in favors to get information—and read through some of the papers she’d obtained from Gertz. As she processed the case, she paced the floor, and the walls closed in. She stood for a time at the window staring at the landscape of high-rises and office buildings, then listened to her voice mail, skimmed e-mail, and scanned her text messages. A text from Drew popped out.

  Need some info, call when you can.

  Lisa stared at each word, seeking for any hidden meaning. After their awkward parting, the sting of his words hadn’t been alleviated. Yet he was her favorite person to talk to. She hadn’t realized how deeply engrained their habit of sharing their current happenings was until she’d left for Dallas. Not a week had passed without their talking in the year since he’d settled in Boston. The fact was, just two days in Dallas and she missed him. How could she get things back to good with him?

  Finally, she pulled on her running shoes and headed down to the hotel lobby.

  “Can you recommend a good loop for a run?” she asked the concierge.

  “A run? Oh, of course,” he said, taking in her exercise clothes. People were more apt to be seeking restaurant and nightlife bookings at this time of day, so Lisa couldn’t blame the guy for a moment of confusion.