Lisa Black - Evidence of Murder

“Mr. Kovacic, I have absolutely nothing to do with Drew Fleming’s legal plans. I certainly didn’t advise him to do anything regarding Cara-”

The truth. Technically, and, she hoped, accurately. Even if Drew hadn’t murdered Jillian, he remained an unstable obsessive not to be aimed toward a vulnerable infant. But then you can’t toss a snowball onto a slope, even without thinking, and then deny responsibility for the avalanche.

Apparently Evan agreed. “Yeah, yeah. Get out!”

Jerry Graham moved closer to her as well, but he seemed more of a comfort than a threat. At least until he said, “Evan is very upset about even the idea of losing Cara, Mrs. MacLean. I’m sure you understand, as a mother.”

She looked at his face, smooth with calm, even the expression in his eyes nothing but gentle.

“Perhaps you should leave now,” he added.

Oddly enough, this more subtle deflection made her stubborner than Evan’s leashed violence. “When was the last time you saw Jillian, Mr. Graham?”

“The Saturday before she died,” he answered promptly.

“When you went out to dinner with Shelly and Evan and Jillian.”

“Yes.”

“No.” The color flushing Evan’s pale skin receded only slightly. “You saw her on Sunday when we were putting together the booth for the tech show.”

His partner thought, without any change of expression. “That’s right. She brought out some hot coffee.”

“And then Monday morning, when you picked me up for the downtown meeting.”

“Yeah, you said good-bye to her. But I thought Mrs. MacLean meant the last time we really spoke, and that would have been Saturday night.”

“What did she say?”

“You’re not getting this.” Evan reached her before she could turn her face from Graham. He sank both hands into her forearms, but instead of pulling her closer he pushed her back, cracking a few vertebrae against the edge of the worktable. His breath smelled of curry and beer and, she thought, hate. “We’re through answering your questions. You can hold my wife’s body hostage until she starts to smell, you ghoulish bitch, but I’m still done talking to you. Get out.”

“Evan, calm down.” Jerry Graham came to her side, one hand held out as if trying to restrain his partner by force of will, and gestured to her with motions that shepherded without touching. “Come on, Mrs. MacLean. I’ll walk you out.”

She stepped carefully to the side to remove herself from Evan’s range. His hands shuffled as if they itched to strike her and her feet shuffled as if itching to run. She did not turn her back on him. Her mind might not be convinced that Evan was a killer, but her body certainly was.

With this unsteady gait she made it to the door and reentered the snowy night, aware that Evan did not seem to fear her tête-à-tête with his partner, and aware that the controlled Jerry Graham could be an even more formidable foe, should he choose to be. But they were in an open area and the glimmer of light left in the sky reassured her. Besides, if Jerry Graham had anything to hide, he deserved an Oscar for his acting talents.

“I’m sorry if Evan seemed irate, but he’s just lost his wife.”

“The one who had blond hair and implants,” she couldn’t resist pointing out, even though she wanted Graham to talk to her.

“Evan has a lot more finesse with superconductors than he has with people, I’m afraid, but don’t take that to mean he didn’t love Jillian. He won’t talk about it, but he’s having a real hard time with the idea that she was unhappy enough to die.”

The snow made a creaking sound as it compressed beneath their feet, and flakes turned to water as they touched her flushed face. “Do you think she did this purposely? Committed suicide?”

“I can’t believe that, though I suppose people always say that after something like this happens.”

“What did she say, when you were at dinner on Saturday?”

He stopped as they reached Theresa’s car. “I hate to admit that I don’t even remember. Just small talk-Cara was starting to crawl, the locks on her car doors had frozen shut, wasn’t it great that Polizei had won the year’s top slot from Gamer magazine. That kind of stuff.”

“What kind of mood was she in?”

“Typical Jillian. Sweet, upbeat, otherwise quiet. If she harbored bad thoughts, she kept them to herself. But Jillian kept a lot to herself, so-” He shook his head, the few lines he had on his face settling into sadness. “I just can’t believe it.”

Her heartbeat slowed to nearly normal. “I’m sorry to have to ask you these questions, but as I said, I’m trying to find out what happened to Jillian. I-I didn’t have anything to do with Drew Fleming’s guardianship petition and I didn’t even know we still had Jillian’s body.”

“That’s Fleming too. He’s petitioning the court to get custody.”

“Of Jillian’s body?”

“The guy’s nuts.”

Theresa secretly agreed. Drew might have a slight legal chance with Cara’s custody, but Jillian’s body would be released to her legal next of kin-her husband, period. The idea of what Drew might want to do with Jillian’s body made Theresa shudder. Poor Cara-lost among a possibly murderous stepfather, an obsessed stalker, and grandparents who refused to acknowledge her existence. For the first time, Theresa felt a sense of urgency. This case needed to be resolved, and fast. It wasn’t just about her feeling a little guilty anymore. Cara could be in real danger.

“I’m sorry to hear that. No wonder Evan isn’t pleased to see me.” She waved her hand at the beat-up Dodge. “I didn’t even think he was here, but I’d already stopped, so I came in anyway. I assume that’s not Evan’s car.”

As she had hoped, he seemed relieved to discuss anything besides Evan and Jillian. “My girlfriend dropped me off. Evan’s car is having its bath at the SuperWash. We usually park in the garage around back anyway. It keeps us from having to scrape the windshield.”

“The joys of Cleveland in the winter,” she said, and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Graham.”

“No problem. Just-if you can help it-”

“Yes?”

“Don’t come back.”

Every item of clothing the kid at the SuperWash wore had a stripe running down the side. Shirt, pants, jacket, in an attempt to be either fashionable or too unfashionable to pilfer.

She had no idea what Evan drove, but Jerry had mentioned SuperWash, and when she reached the corner of 117th, lo and behold, there sat a SuperWash facility, WHERE YOUR CAR IS TREATED LIKE A HERO, and if one had to leave one’s car, it would certainly make sense to leave it somewhere within walking distance. She approached the kid. “Excuse me.”

His black skin shone with effort. Either he really liked waxing cars or he had to finish this one before leaving for the day, because he didn’t seem to care for the interruption. “What?”

“Do you have Evan Kovacic’s car here?”

“Yeah. That one.” He waggled the chamois in his hand toward a jet black Escalade slated to be next in line through the indoor pit of hoses and sprayers.

She studied the setup, an idea forming in her mind. Evan Kovacic had killed his wife. Theresa didn’t know how or when or precisely why, but he had, and she was going to catch the bastard. He had used Jillian and then dismissed her. He would not find Theresa so easy to get rid of.

The rest of the small building had been abandoned, the lights in the glassed-in office turned off. The work bay, however, remained bright enough to hurt the eyes. “What are you going to do to the car?”

He stood up with an irritated leap, having finished one side of a vintage Mustang and moved to start on the other. “ Wash it, lady, what you think?”