Dave Zeltserman - Bad Karma

She led him through a living room, then into a kitchen larger than Shannon’s apartment back in Boulder. The living room walls displayed more artwork and family photographs were scattered about on tables and built-in shelves. Most of the photos were either of Mrs. Gibson alone or with her husband. A few had a teenage girl that he didn’t recognize. She was blond like Linda, but had a squarer face that was shaped more like her mother’s.

The kitchen he’d been taken to was all glass and stainless steel. Mrs. Gibson directed Shannon to sit at an oval-shaped glass table and asked if he’d like anything to drink. He told her water would be fine.

“Mineral or flat?” she asked.

“Whatever comes out of the tap.”

She smiled at that, took a bottle of San Pellegrino water from the refrigerator and handed it to Shannon. “I think you’ll enjoy this a tad more,” she said as she took a chair diagonally across from his.

Shannon took out his miniature tape recorder and asked whether she’d mind if he recorded their conversation. She told him she’d prefer he didn’t. He hesitated, but turned the recorder off and put it away.

“Those ten minutes were asked for figuratively,” Shannon said. He tried smiling at her but a dull ache from his jaw ruined it. “I’d hope you’d be willing to spend more time if it meant finding the persons responsible for your daughter’s death.”

“You hoped wrong, Mr. Shannon. As far as I’m concerned, Linda’s responsible for the choices she made and any consequences that followed. I’m through beating myself up over them.” She gave Shannon a thin, condescending smile. “Oh, I can see from your expression that you’re judging me as an awful mother. That’s your choice, but I’d suggest you have a daughter like Linda and then judge me. Besides, how do I know you’re any good as a detective and that my talking to you isn’t a complete waste of my time?”

“You don’t. I can tell you I solved a fair amount of cases when I was a police detective for six years. And unfortunately, more than my share of murders.”

“You were a police officer for six years?”

“Ten. Six as detective.”

“Where was this?”

“Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

That seemed to catch her attention. “I take it then you’re a better detective than you are a fighter,” she said half under her breath.

“You should see what the other two guys look like,” Shannon said, this time keeping his smile intact. “Could you tell me about your daughter?”

“Tell you about Linda?” She gave Shannon a sad, thoughtful smile. “Where to begin. When she was young she was a sweet girl, always trying so hard to please.” Her mouth began to crumble but she caught it. After the moment passed, she added, “Things changed around puberty. The last ten years it’s been nothing but a battle with her.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“Everything was my fault.” She sniffed a couple of times but her eyes remained clear. “All her mistakes, all her bad judgment, all her problems were my fault. According to her I was responsible for everything that went wrong in her life.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Thanksgiving. She brought her boyfriend with her.”

“Taylor Carver?”

“Yes. What a horrible young man. Impolite, snide, with this ‘holier than thou’ attitude. I could’ve just scratched his eyes out. And of course Linda was in rare form.” She sniffed some more. This time a little wetness showed around her eyes. “I washed my hands of my daughter after that. The things she dared say to me!”

“Which were?”

She shook her head. “I’m not dignifying her comments by repeating them.”

“Anything that might explain what happened to her?”

“No.”

Shannon sighed. “I wish you’d tell me. There might be something in them that could help.”

“There isn’t.” She checked her watch and smiled thinly at Shannon. “You have three minutes left.”

“Was your daughter doing drugs?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me with the way she acted. But not that I know of.”

“Anything at all you can think of to explain what happened?”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

“I didn’t see any pictures of Linda in your living room.”

“You are a good detective, aren’t you? I told you, I washed my hands of her.”

“Who’s the other girl?”

“My daughter, Gloria.” Mrs. Gibson smiled bitterly. “She’s enrolled in private school in France. A twelve month program. This one, I’m not giving any excuses to blame me.”

“Could you give me her phone number-”

“No. I’m sorry. Mr. Shannon, but you’re not contacting her. She’s only sixteen.”

“Her sister was murdered.”

“And she has therapists to talk to. She doesn’t need a private eye. Sorry.” A buzzer went off on her watch, and she again showed Shannon her condescending smile. “And I am sorry, but your ten minutes are up.”

Shannon could tell there was no point in asking for more time. Nor did he think he’d get anywhere even if she gave it. He pushed himself out of his chair and ignored the throbbing in his jaw as he smiled at her. “I’d like to thank you for your ten minutes,” he told her. “I’d also like to talk to your husband. Do you have a phone number where I can reach him?”

She seemed surprised, maybe even disappointed that Shannon didn’t put up a fight for more time. “I’ll give it to you on the way out.” Walking with him, she slid her arm under his. “You probably think I’m an awful person for writing my daughter off like I did, but I’m not! As far as I’m concerned I lost her years ago. Thanksgiving was only the final straw. Mr. Shannon, believe it or not, I’ve been grieving for my daughter for a long time now. I’m so worn out from it, though.”

She stopped in the living room to find one of her husband’s business cards. According to the card, Fred Gibson ran a commodity trading firm in the heart of downtown Wichita. At the door, Shannon asked whether they had any other children.

“Trying to sneak in another question, Mr. Shannon? But no, only the two, thank God.”

“Well, thanks again for taking the time to see me.”

“For whatever good it did you. Have a safe trip back to Colorado, Mr. Shannon.”

Once back in the car, he thought about calling the husband but knew that the wife would beat him to the punch. Instead he navigated to downtown Wichita where he hit more traffic than he would’ve expected, and after a few missed turns, found Gibson’s office address.

The office was on the sixth floor and was filled with dark wood and expensive leather furnishings. The receptionist’s eyes opened with alarm as Shannon approached her and they stayed large as she shifted her view from his bruises to his bandaged hand. Shannon gave the receptionist his name and told her that Mr. Gibson was expecting him. Her expression was a mix of wariness and extreme skepticism, but it changed quickly after she got on the phone and consulted with Gibson. With a warm smile she told him that Mr. Gibson’s office was the first door on the right.

“You don’t by any chance box?” she asked Shannon.

“Excuse me?”

“So many of our clients are into extreme sports,” she said. “Rock climbing, hang gliding, skyboarding. I think people who are into that type of adrenaline rush really get off on commodity trading.” She lightly tapped a finger to her lips as her smile grew larger. “You look to me like you could be an amateur boxer.”

Shannon shook his head. “Strictly street fighting. But only if I’m ganged up on,” he said, winking at her.

Fred Gibson was waiting at the door when Shannon entered. He pumped Shannon’s hand, all the while a confused and harried look on his face. He was a big man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. With his deep tan, solid jaw and sculpted nose, he would’ve been good looking if it weren’t for large and slightly bulging round eyes that gave the impression that he was missing his eyelids.