Sarah Cortez - Houston Noir

“No, no, it’s not a secret. I... I just wasn’t sure you wanted to hear more. My wife was shot in the head as she was getting in her car in a hotel parking lot on Bay Area Boulevard. It happened three days ago. The police have questioned me about it every day since. This morning, the detective asked me why I killed her. I’m not a murderer and, if I was, I would never have killed Jennifer. Marrying her has been the greatest accomplishment in my life.” Curtis’s voice was pleading and his face twisted in anguish. “Can you help me?”

Donovan Ainsworth would take the job, even if the prospective client had only a few bucks, because not one other person had jingled the bell on his front door for two weeks. But Curtis Simon didn’t know how desperate he was for a client.

“I’m not cheap,” Ainsworth began, “but if you’ve got a $5,000 retainer, I’ll try to help you.”

For the first time in the conversation, Curtis showed an inkling of confidence. “No problem, Mr. Ainsworth. Will you take my check?” He reached for the inside pocket of his sports coat.

The two men spent the next hour discussing Curtis Simon’s life. Ainsworth learned that Jennifer had an affair less than a year after their marriage and that she’d engaged in several more trysts in the years since. Curtis knew the particulars of some of the conquests. In fact, he’d considered one of the men his best friend. But nothing Jennifer did had been enough to cause him to end the marriage. He loved being married to her. Curtis chose to bury himself in his work in the hope that she would eventually mature and recognize the shallowness of flirtations with other men. He told Ainsworth he believed Jennifer had recently become involved with an astronaut, Brodie Bancroft.

As Curtis walked out the door, Ainsworth glanced at his watch. Still time to get to the bank and deposit the check. He wasn’t worried about it bouncing, but about several checks he’d written in the last few days. One was for the office lease. Since he’d been kicked out of his apartment for failing to pay the rent there, losing the office would mean sleeping on the streets.

After making the deposit, Ainsworth returned to his office. Past the bathroom, at the end of the hallway, was a room just large enough for an army cot, a small table with a George Foreman Grill, and a refrigerator, on top of which a microwave perched precariously. Under the table was a cardboard box containing Ainsworth’s drinking supplies. He retrieved a relatively clean cocktail glass and a bottle of Scotch. It was Johnnie Walker Double Black, the one extravagance he allowed himself, even if it meant hot checks and no food. At nearly fifty bucks, the bottle was more than twice the cost of what he referred to as bar Scotch.

Sipping the golden liquid at his office’s dusty reception desk, Ainsworth spent a few minutes pecking on his computer keyboard and learned that Bancroft had flown on the final mission of the American Space Shuttle program, on the orbiter Atlantis in 2011. He was a throwback to the old days, when astronauts were former test pilots — raucous, hard-drinking, and living life as if it would all be gone tomorrow. But Texas Monthly magazine had published a profile on Bancroft, noting that he had settled down since his marriage to a Houston socialite.

Two days later, Ainsworth discreetly obtained copies of the reports on the ongoing murder investigation from an old friend who worked homicide cases at the Houston PD. From these, he learned Jennifer was shot with a 9mm pistol. The slug had been recovered in good enough shape to be matched to a weapon, if one were to be discovered. The reports indicated that Curtis had told the detectives everything he’d told Ainsworth, including his suspicions about astronaut Brodie Bancroft. When interviewed, Bancroft acknowledged that he knew Jennifer, but denied a relationship beyond casual acquaintance. Ainsworth concluded that Curtis Simon was the focus of the homicide investigation. There appeared to be no more than a passing interest in Brodie Bancroft as a suspect.

After reviewing the reports, Ainsworth spent a few minutes on his computer and had Bancroft’s address. He wasn’t surprised that the man whose personality was much like that of the sixties-era astronauts lived in Taylor Lake Village, a small, elite community where some of those older astronauts still resided.

The following morning, he drove to the Village and located the stately lakeside house where the astronaut lived. It was easily worth a million, maybe two or three. He could imagine why Bancroft might want to deny an affair. He had a lot to lose.

As Ainsworth circumnavigated the block to make a second pass by the home, he spotted Bancroft ahead of him, pulling out of the circular drive onto the tree-lined street. He easily identified the astronaut because Bancroft was driving a Mercedes SL 450 Roadster with the top down. His face matched the photo in the magazine article Ainsworth had looked at again just before leaving his office. He fell in line behind the Mercedes.

The driving surveillance was short-lived. Bancroft’s sleek convertible pulled into a convenience store/service station at the corner of Kirby Drive and NASA Parkway, just blocks from where he’d spotted the astronaut leaving home. Ainsworth parked beside the convertible and waited for its driver to exit the store. When he returned, the detective approached Bancroft, identified himself, and asked if they could talk. His request was immediately rejected with language that clearly expressed the astronaut’s displeasure. The diatribe ended with a threatening demand that the detective stay away from Bancroft’s neighborhood and family.

Donovan Ainsworth returned to his office, not shaken in the least by the astronaut’s aggressive behavior. He poured a half glass of Scotch and pondered the murder of Jennifer Simon. He was certain that the focus of the investigation needed to be redirected toward Brodie Bancroft. That would require another visit with his client.

“So why do you suspect that Bancroft and your wife were having an affair?” Ainsworth asked as soon as Curtis was seated.

“Two days before she was murdered, I saw them drinking coffee at the La Madeleine Café on Bay Area Boulevard, just down the street from where she was killed,” Curtis murmured.

“And... is that it?” the detective asked. “Nothing else?”

Curtis looked uncomfortable. “She has a history. I told you that. I just know her. I thought you were on my side.”

“Here’s the deal, Curtis. There’s nothing about Bancroft that has piqued the interest of the police so far. If you want me to try to get them interested in him, I’ll have to set up a surveillance on his activities. If I do that, we’ll blow through your retainer in a day or two. I’ll need another five thousand if you want a surveillance. Even then, I’m not promising you anything.” Ainsworth suspected he’d be off the case momentarily, but the retainer he’d already received would keep the rent paid and the Scotch flowing for a month or two. To his surprise, Curtis Simon reached for his checkbook.

“No problem, Mr. Ainsworth. Have you been to the scene of the crime? Would there be any reason to take a look at where it happened? I’m happy to increase the amount if you believe it will help your investigation to examine the parking lot where she was killed. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure I’m not the suspect.” Curtis paused with pen in hand, which hovered over the checkbook.

Before he responded, Donovan Ainsworth pondered just how low he’d fallen. His head ached from too much Scotch. Though he was relatively sure there was nothing in the parking lot the cops had overlooked, especially several days after the murder, Ainsworth knew the words with which he would reply. “Well, if you want an in-depth look at the crime, rather than just trying to get the focus off you as a suspect, that will require more money. Let’s say $7,500 additional. That should get us close. I’ll let you know if there’s more needed.”