Dave Zeltserman - Bad Karma

Wilson breathed in a lungful of air, let it out in a loud burst. “She was a beautiful girl,” he said. “Maybe the most beautiful I’d ever known. There was something special about her.” He hesitated, added, “And sad too.”

“What do you mean sad?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if he were stuck. Like he was trying to remember someone’s name but couldn’t quite get it. “Not sad in that she’d mope around,” he finally said. “Just sometimes you’d catch a certain look in her eyes, especially when she didn’t think you were watching.”

Wilson got very quiet. After a while Shannon asked whether he had dated her.

“Back in high school. She was a freshman then, I was a junior.”

“You two keep in touch?”

“No. We stopped after she went off to college.”

“How about her family life?”

He hesitated. Then with his jaw set, he said, “It was good. Solid. Parents first rate.”

“You two went to a public high school?”

“Yes, we did,” he said, showing a quizzical smile.

Shannon waved a hand towards the stone Tudor in front of them. “These people are wealthy. Why didn’t they send their daughter to a private school?”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

Shannon shrugged. “No, I don’t think so.”

“First off, I’d say the Gibsons are more well-off than wealthy,” Wilson said. “And no, not all wealthy parents send their children to prep schools. Believe it or not, we have excellent public schools in Wichita-better than many of the private schools you can find on either coast.” With a slight smile, he asked, “What makes you think I’m not from a wealthy family?”

“Are you?”

“My dad’s a heart surgeon. He probably does as well as Mr. Gibson.”

“And you ended up a cop. I guess it shows how fucked up rich kids can get when you let them mix with lower middle class runts like me.”

Wilson laughed at that. “Yes sir. I turned out to be a bitter disappointment to Dad. But in a way it’s your fault. I didn’t decide to be a police officer until I found out about Charlie and Herbert Winters, about them being responsible for murdering my aunt.”

A silver Jaguar convertible had pulled into the cul-de-sac and slowed down to a crawl and as it approached the police cruiser. The driver was a blond woman in her late forties with too much makeup and skin that looked like it was wrapped too tight against her skull. Wilson hopped out of Shannon’s car and waved to her. Shannon got out also.

“Hello, Mrs. Gibson,” Wilson yelled to her.

The convertible came to a stop and the driver, with a sour look on her face, peered at Wilson. Slowly recognition hit her and she showed a crack of a smile.

“Is that you, Eric?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“My, my. Eric Wilson. Look at you, a police officer now. I had no idea.” She gave Shannon a quick glance. “Eric, is there any trouble here?”

“No ma’am. This man is a private investigator from Colorado. He’s looking into Linda’s murder.”

“Is that so?” She looked back at Shannon and gave him a halfhearted smile. The way the sunlight hit her, Shannon felt almost as if he was wearing x-ray glasses and could see the skull beneath her flesh. As it was, he had no trouble making out the patchwork of thin blue veins which crisscrossed her temples. He nodded to her. “I’ve been hired to find the persons responsible for your daughter’s death. I’m hoping you can give me ten minutes of your time. If you’d feel more comfortable, I’m sure Officer Wilson would be willing to sit in with us.”

Wilson seemed surprised at being included, but said that would be fine with him.

Mrs. Gibson gave Wilson a patronizing smile and told him that wouldn’t be necessary. Turning back to Shannon, she agreed to give him ten minutes. “Although I’m not sure what good it would do,” she said. “I don’t know what I could possibly tell you that I didn’t already tell the Boulder police. But if you require ten minutes from me, fine. Meet me at the front door.”

Before pulling away, she smiled at Eric and told him to stop over at the house some afternoon, that she’d like to catch up with him. “I’m surprised you didn’t come to the funeral,” she said, her smile cracking a bit. Wilson mumbled an apology about that, saying he had to work that day. “That’s okay, dear,” Mrs. Gibson said. “I do remember receiving your flowers and note. They were very sweet. Please do stop by sometime.”

Wilson nodded. He watched stone-faced as Mrs. Gibson drove into her driveway and parked in the rightmost garage space. After the garage door closed behind her, Wilson extended his hand to Shannon.

“I need to thank you for what you did to both of those Winters cousins,” he said. “I can only hope they’re rotting in hell.”

Shannon nodded, taking his hand.

Wilson looked down at the ground a bit sheepishly, added, “Before you leave Wichita, could I maybe buy you a cup of coffee and pie somewhere? I’d like to ask you a few questions about them.”

“I’ll answer any questions I can, but I’d rather give you my cell phone number and have you think about it for a few days.” Shannon sighed, started to rub the joints around his missing fingers, caught himself and stuck his hands in his pockets. “There’re things about them you’re probably better off not knowing. My advice, try to remember that your aunt’s in peace now and there’s nothing Charlie or Herbert Winters can do anymore to change that.”

He ripped a sheet from his notepad, scribbled his cell phone number on it and handed it to Wilson, who took the paper and put a finger to his eye as if he were rubbing dirt from it.

“What time’s your flight back to Colorado?” Wilson asked.

“Five-o-eight.”

“I’ll think about what you said.” He turned his gaze away from Shannon. “I still might call you this afternoon.”

Wilson rubbed the back of his hands across his eyes, nodded in Shannon’s direction and slowly walked back to his cruiser. He honked twice at Shannon as he drove off.

Mrs. Gibson was waiting for Shannon at the front door. He had to squint hard to see a trace of her daughter in her. She was probably the same height and weight as Linda had been, but she was more bony than thin. She had on low-rise designer jeans and a tight blouse exposing her belly button. From a distance, she might’ve been able to pass for her twenties but up close she looked every bit her age. With all her facelifts, Botox and collagen injections, she hadn’t succeeded in shaving much, if anything, from her age.

“Who hired you to do this?” she demanded.

“Taylor Carver’s mother-”

“I don’t believe that woman would spend a dime hiring you!”

“I don’t believe so either. But she’s suing the owner of the condo that your daughter and Carver rented.” Shannon explained the whole story to her.

“Simply unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head. “I swear that woman must be pure white trash. And that’s the family Linda had to get involved with. Par for the course with her.” She stepped aside, letting Shannon enter past her. “I promised you ten minutes and I’ll give you exactly that.”

She led Shannon from a marble foyer into a room that could’ve been a small modern art museum. The room was large and the ceiling high enough to hold a basketball court. The walls were covered with modern abstract paintings. Shannon spotted Picasso’s signature on a watercolor of naked women done in blue and orange, but the painting that stopped him was one of a temple resting on a foundation of prayer books and pages that had been torn from them.

“My husband collects those,” Mrs. Gibson said to Shannon as she sidled up next to him. “I couldn’t tell you a thing about any of them. Follow me and we’ll talk in the kitchen. You have eight and a half minutes left of the ten I promised you.”