Joel Goldman - Shakedown

“My name, for starters. It’s Jack Davis. I’m an FBI agent.”

“But you said you were a policeman from Kansas City, Kansas.”

“It’s a long story that will be easier to tell inside.”

She drew her lips back. “I want to see some ID.”

I knew she would. All I had was my driver’s license and a business card I handed to her.

“You can print business cards at Kinko’s. I want to see your badge or I’m calling the police.” She reached for her cell phone.

“I am an FBI agent, Mrs. Rice. When we’re finished talking, you can call my office and they’ll tell you. I’m on leave, so I don’t have my FBI credentials.”

She edged back toward the center console on the front seat of her car. “I don’t believe you. Why should I?”

I reached toward her, extending my hand. “Please, Mrs. Rice. I don’t want to make this any harder than it is.”

She cringed and?ipped open her cell phone. “I’m calling 911.”

“Let me talk to you first. I’m not going to hurt you. Inside will be better.”

She hesitated with the phone. “Not until you tell me what this is about.”

“It’s about your ex-husband.”

“What about him? I’ve already answered your questions about him.”

“There’s been a new development,” I said.

“What? Did he screw somebody else?”

“Depends on your point of view.”

“How’s that?”

“He’s dead. He hanged himself last night. I didn’t know that when I was here this morning. The prison probably won’t notify you since ex-spouses aren’t considered next of kin. I didn’t want you to find out what had happened watching TV or reading the newspaper. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Rice looked at me, looked away, held herself, and shuddered. Her cell phone fell from her hand into her lap. She didn’t speak, cry, or moan. She was as silent as if she’d been struck dumb, looking at me again, finding her voice.

“Thomas would never kill himself. There must be some mistake.”

“I wish there were. Let’s go inside. You can call the prison. Ask for the warden. He’ll tell you.”

I extended my hand again. This time she took it. Her hand was cool and limp. She walked slowly to the door, slipped the key in, turned the lock, punched in the code that turned off the alarm, and led me into the kitchen.

Copper pots hung in a rectangle above a black marble island. Hardwood?oors gleamed. The light was soft, bright, and indirect. The?owers were freshly cut.

The light on her phone was blinking, the digital readout saying she had one new message. She pushed the button to play the message. It was from the prison, a woman identifying herself as the warden’s secretary asking her to call as soon as possible. Her eyes were wide, almost wild. She fumbled for paper and pen, trying to write the number down, but the message ended before she could.

She turned to me. “I didn’t get all of it.”

I replayed the message, writing the number down. I dialed and handed her the phone.

“This is Jill Rice,” she said to the secretary. “You left me a message.”

She waited a moment and then identified herself again.

“Yes, Warden. This is Jill Rice. My husband is Thomas Rice,” she said, retaking her vows.

She listened, slumping against the counter before sliding onto a kitchen chair.

“Thank you. He was a good man. Things just got away from him at the end,” she said.

I took the phone, hanging it up for her.

She wiped the corners of her eyes. “The warden said that Thomas listed me as next of kin when he first arrived at the prison. They told him that an ex-spouse didn’t qualify. He said he didn’t care. He said that I’d always be his wife.”

Death doesn’t settle easily or quickly. I’d learned from delivering news of a loved one’s death that I couldn’t instantly turn a shattered survivor into a good witness. Some people fall apart. Others are brave in public and grieve in private. Others refuse to mourn. They accept their loss as the penalty for their sins or they assign it to God’s master plan, something beyond their understanding.

Jill Rice, sitting at her kitchen table in her designer tennis set with pinot noir on her breath, was suffering the death of her husband. Her shoulders were slumped, her chin hung toward her chest. Minutes ago, she had been harsh and unforgiving toward him. It was too soon to tell whether she felt worse for him or for herself.

I wouldn’t tell her that he’d brought this on himself. I wouldn’t tell her what someone had told me when Kevin died, that he was in a better place. I wouldn’t try to justify Thomas Rice’s death or her suffering because there was no justification for such things. No one could justify Kevin’s death to me because that would have somehow made it okay. And if we can justify the death of an innocent child, we can justify anything.

So I joined Jill Rice at her table and told her again that I was sorry for her loss. I asked her if I could get her a glass of water or anything else and didn’t push when she said no. Then I waited, though I didn’t have the time.

After a while she lifted her head in my direction. “What do you want from me?”

“Do you have any idea what could have led to your husband’s death?”

“You mean do I know why he killed himself?”

“If that’s what happened.”

She straightened, a new shock wave rippling through her face. “What are you saying?”

“Did the warden tell you whether Thomas left a note?”

“I was afraid to ask, but he said they didn’t find one.”

“Most people who commit suicide do it in private. If they’ve really made up their minds to kill themselves, they don’t want someone talking them out of it. If you’re in prison, you do it in your cell when your cellmate isn’t there, not the laundry.

“What are you saying? That Thomas didn’t kill himself? That he was murdered?”

“I don’t know. When I saw him yesterday he was frightened of something and I think it had to do with the sale of this house. He wouldn’t say what it was, only that I couldn’t help him.”

“All I know about the sale of the house is what he told me.”

“Colby Hudson claims that you called the FBI office not long ago asking if anyone would be interested in buying your husband’s car at a great price and that he just happened to take the call. When he bought the car, he said that you offered to also sell him the house for a lot less than it was worth. When he asked you why, he says you told him that you were doing it to get even with your husband. Is any of that true?”

“Not a word of it. I told you. Thomas set the whole thing up before he went to prison. Did Colby Hudson have something to do with my husband’s death?”

“Five people were killed the other night in a drug house in Kansas City, Kansas. Two nights ago, another drug dealer was shot to death in the Argentine rail yard. Colby Hudson was working on both of those cases. Last night, your husband either committed suicide or was murdered. Colby was connected to your husband. I don’t know how or why, but he is the only common link to all of the victims.”

“What does he have to say about all of this?”

“When we find him, we’ll ask him.”

“I see.”

Rice rose from the kitchen table and walked into the den. Bookcases lined one wall, although there were more crystal figurines, lacquered boxes, and other knickknacks than there were books. Photographs framed in silver were interspersed among the other decorator-inspired keepsakes. There was one of an older couple, the woman faintly resembling Jill, another of four small children who I guessed to be nieces and nephews, and others of people whose connection to her I could only speculate about.