Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

Next up was the housekeeper, a woman with a broad Nordic face and pale blue eyes named Cora Sluka. Under questioning, she was uncooperative and evasive at first, but opened up a bit when the detectives pointed out that Clifford Spalding was dead, his wife was in jail charged with murder, and Sluka might have a hard time getting another job if they had to arrest her.

She talked about a male who’d appeared unannounced within the past year to visit Mrs. Spalding, and recalled serving them drinks on the patio. She couldn’t describe the man, but when shown Dean’s booking photograph from the Santa Fe County Jail, she identified him as the visitor.

The information pleased Macy. Claudia Spalding had told Sergeant Lowrey that Dean had never been to the Montecito estate. He wondered what else Claudia had lied about.

Macy motioned the detectives to back off and took over the interview. “Were you present at the house the entire time Dean was here?” he asked Sluka.

“No, Mrs. Spalding asked me to take some clothes to the dry cleaners and then gave me the afternoon off.”

“Was that an unusual thing for her to do?”

“Yes, it was. She liked to keep us busy.”

“Were other employees around at the time?”

“No, just me.”

“Did you mention Dean’s visit to Mr. Spalding?”

“No.”

“Could he have learned about it some other way?”

“Mrs. Spalding might have told him.”

“Does Mrs. Spalding treat the staff fairly, without favoritism?”

Sluka lowered her head. “She treats us all pretty much the same, I think.”

Macy read the dodge. “She doesn’t play favorites?”

“We all try to get along and work together,” Sluka hedged.

“No one gets special treatment?” Macy asked.

Sluka’s cheeks turned red. “That’s not for me to say.”

“Okay, Cora, that’s all for now. But I may have to speak to you again.”

Sluka hurried out, and Glenn Davitt, the estate manager, replaced her at the kitchen table. A man in his thirties, he had jet black hair, dark, deep-set eyes, and a lean, angular face. He looked at Macy with feigned boredom, which raised Macy’s curiosity.

“How long is this going to take?” Davitt asked as he slouched in his chair and glanced at the three cops.

Macy countered the question. “Tells us what you know about Mrs. Spalding’s lovers.”

“I know nothing about any of that,” Davitt said, peering over his shoulder as the two detectives moved behind him.

“Please pay attention to me, Mr. Davitt,” Macy said softly as he approached. “Would you say Claudia Spalding is a beautiful woman?”

Davitt shrugged. “Sure, for someone her age.”

“Hard to resist?” Macy asked.

Davitt crossed his arms. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Macy chuckled. “Come on, don’t give me that. She’s a very sexy lady.”

“If you say so. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think of her that way. She’s my employer, that’s all.”

Macy gave Davitt a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Relax. Talking to me can only help you.”

“Help me how? This is a waste of time.”

“Let’s forget about Mrs. Spalding for a minute. Think about yourself, your future.”

Davitt laughed. “Maybe I’ll write one of those tell-all books and make a pile of money.”

“That’s a great idea,” Macy said approvingly. “But if you don’t tell us the truth, you’ll have to write that book in jail.”

“In jail for what?”

“Making false statements to the police,” Macy said. “Obstructing justice.”

Davitt raised a hand. “May lightning strike me if I’m telling a lie.”

Macy pulled a chair over and sat close to Davitt. “I don’t think you’ve lied, yet. But if you don’t tell us about your relationship with Claudia, you’ll be in a world of trouble. We know you’ve been sleeping with her.”

“Who says?”

Macy glanced at the closed door to the dining room where Cora Sluka waited. “Who changes and washes the bedsheets?” he asked.

Davitt bought into Macy’s trickery and started talking. He copped to having sex with Spalding, and cast himself in the role of a pursued, put-upon employee who only wanted to keep his job.

When Davitt finished, Macy stood. “Did she ever ask you to help her kill her husband?”

“No way,” Davitt said, making good eye contact.

“I believe you,” Macy said, “and I can’t wait to read your book, if you ever get it published.”

Late afternoon turned golden, the clear sky so bright that the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains were washed in a flood of light. On such days, Ramona Pino could still believe in the enchantment of Santa Fe.

Good news from California earlier in the day had put her in an excellent mood. She hummed a song, off-key as always, on the drive to Claudia Spalding’s Santa Fe house, search warrant in hand.

In the two units behind her were Matt Chacon and Chief Kerney, who’d invited himself along without explanation. The chief occasionally went out in the field with the troops, but this was the first time for Ramona. Cheerily, she decided not read anything more into it than that, and turned her thoughts to the work at hand.

The arrest of Claudia Spalding, Dean’s confession, and the statements given by Coe Evans and Glenn Davitt were important milestones, but the investigation was far from over. Without an admission of guilt from Spalding, which Ellie Lowrey said was highly unlikely, nailing down motive remained a crucial issue.

Without it, Ramona could visualize Spalding’s defense attorney in court, convincing a jury that the grieving widow had no reason to murder her husband, that she was a victim of lies and false accusations by Kim Dean and other men of questionable character.

Ramona pulled into the driveway of Claudia’s Santa Fe house. It certainly wasn’t the Montecito mansion Ellie had described to her, but it was no adobe shack either. It was a long, rectangular, two-story double adobe under a high, forest-green pitched roof, with deeply recessed doors and windows. A horse stable, corral, and hay shed stood nearby under a stand of trees. Given its Arroyo Hondo location with sweeping views of the distant Sandia Mountains and the tip of Mount Taylor, it had to be a million-dollar property.

She waited at the front door for Matt and the chief to join her, wondering why a woman who had so much would risk so much. Perhaps they’d find the answer inside.

She smiled as the two men approached. “Ready to go hunting for secrets?” she asked.

“Lead on,” Kerney said.

She searched for a spare house key and found it under a rock at the base of a large bronze and stone garden sculpture of a life-size raven perched on a boulder. Inside, a great room consisting of living, dining, and kitchen areas ran the length of the first floor. It rose to a high vaulted ceiling bracketed on both ends by two second-story lofts accessed by staircases.

Ramona went over the scope of the search warrant with Kerney and Chacon. All written or electronically stored materials pertaining to or mentioning Clifford Spalding, Kim Dean, Mitch Griffin, Coe Evans, and Glenn Davitt, including financial and legal documents, letters, journals, diaries, business correspondence, handwritten notes, lists, address books, calendars, computers, electronic organizers, and recorded telephone messages, were fair game.

She made Matt Chacon the inventory officer, responsible for logging and tagging what was found, where, when, and by whom. Prepared for the role that always fell to junior detectives, Chacon opened his briefcase, took out a clipboard, and started organizing the forms he needed.

“I’d better get started,” Ramona said, glancing at Kerney.