Louise Watkins, Hal’s mother?” I asked.
Donald lit another cigarette, but was careful not to blow any smoke at me. “She lives in some kind of retirement setup in downtown Denver called The Lincoln Suites. I tried calling her again last week and she hung up on me.”
“Shit. Louise is probably the only person alive who saw Emily’s black eyes and bruises. Not that she ever asked about them of course. And she knew about Emily’s broken jaw as well.”
Donald flicked his ashes in the general direction of the ashtray. “I’ll find the doc who treated her for the jaw,” he promised. “He just moved to Utah, but I’ll find him.”
“Thanks,” I said and meant it. I drummed my fingers on the conference table and glanced around me. The room was lined with shelves of forest-colored law books: Colorado statutes, treatises on search and seizure, books about forensic medicine, legal encyclopedias, tomes on blood splatter analysis, ballistics, eyewitness identification and various journals devoted to the so-called science of criminology. There was one cheap print on the wall that our secretary had brought in to liven up the place, a French café scene in which everyone appeared drunk and uproariously happy. The picture always made me feel sad.
“Hey,” I said, “why don’t we just drop in on Louise and see if she’ll talk to us?”
Donald picked something out of his teeth. “That’s not a bad idea. It’s harder for people to tell you to get lost to your face. Could you go now?”
I nodded. “Let’s take my Toyota.” I’d once looked inside Donald’s van, a horrifying experience I never wanted to repeat. “My car’s faster.”
The ground floor of The Lincoln Suites looked like a classy hotel with exposed brick walls, oak floors and expensive looking southwestern-style furniture. At first, Donald and I thought we’d come to the wrong place, but a woman dressed in a stylish mauve pantsuit whose nametag identified her as “Barbara” assured us we hadn’t. I told her we’d come to visit Louise Watkins.
“Oh yes,” Barbara said. “Unfortunately, we’re in the middle of switching to a new phone system, so I can’t call and announce you beforehand. You’ll have to take the elevator to the third floor and knock on three-twelve.”
“No problem,” Donald said, and then we hurried to the elevator before anyone could stop us. “Pretty ritzy,” he mumbled on the ride up.
Any vague hopes I might have had that Mrs. Watkins was a timid old lady were immediately dashed.
“Who are you?” she demanded, peering at us through a peephole in her door.
I pushed Donald to the side. “My name is Rachel Stein. The court appointed me to represent Emily Watkins. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your son, to find out what kind of man he was.”
“He was a good man,” she said through the door, “and that bitch he married deserves the death penalty.”
“Would you be willing to let me in and tell me why you think that?”
“Why should I?” she asked.
I looked at Donald, who shrugged. “Well,” I improvised, “how else can I find out what a good man he was? So far, nobody’s willing to come forward and talk to me about him.”
This was all true. None of Hal’s acquaintances (mostly ex-cops) were willing to be interviewed. It had been five months since her son was killed. I was hoping she wanted to talk about him, even to us. I was right.
We heard the door unlock, and then we were face-to-face with a thin, elegant-looking woman in her late seventies. Her hair was stark white and recently permed, not a strand out of place. I’d have bet that none of the lines in her face were from laughing. In fact, she looked like someone who’d been dissatisfied for a very long time, maybe her entire life. I couldn’t imagine Emily cooking dinner for this woman and her son every Sunday afternoon. How could she have survived it? Dissociation, I decided, cheaper than booze, easier on the body.
The
Donald lit another cigarette, but was careful not to blow any smoke at me. “She lives in some kind of retirement setup in downtown Denver called The Lincoln Suites. I tried calling her again last week and she hung up on me.”
“Shit. Louise is probably the only person alive who saw Emily’s black eyes and bruises. Not that she ever asked about them of course. And she knew about Emily’s broken jaw as well.”
Donald flicked his ashes in the general direction of the ashtray. “I’ll find the doc who treated her for the jaw,” he promised. “He just moved to Utah, but I’ll find him.”
“Thanks,” I said and meant it. I drummed my fingers on the conference table and glanced around me. The room was lined with shelves of forest-colored law books: Colorado statutes, treatises on search and seizure, books about forensic medicine, legal encyclopedias, tomes on blood splatter analysis, ballistics, eyewitness identification and various journals devoted to the so-called science of criminology. There was one cheap print on the wall that our secretary had brought in to liven up the place, a French café scene in which everyone appeared drunk and uproariously happy. The picture always made me feel sad.
“Hey,” I said, “why don’t we just drop in on Louise and see if she’ll talk to us?”
Donald picked something out of his teeth. “That’s not a bad idea. It’s harder for people to tell you to get lost to your face. Could you go now?”
I nodded. “Let’s take my Toyota.” I’d once looked inside Donald’s van, a horrifying experience I never wanted to repeat. “My car’s faster.”
The ground floor of The Lincoln Suites looked like a classy hotel with exposed brick walls, oak floors and expensive looking southwestern-style furniture. At first, Donald and I thought we’d come to the wrong place, but a woman dressed in a stylish mauve pantsuit whose nametag identified her as “Barbara” assured us we hadn’t. I told her we’d come to visit Louise Watkins.
“Oh yes,” Barbara said. “Unfortunately, we’re in the middle of switching to a new phone system, so I can’t call and announce you beforehand. You’ll have to take the elevator to the third floor and knock on three-twelve.”
“No problem,” Donald said, and then we hurried to the elevator before anyone could stop us. “Pretty ritzy,” he mumbled on the ride up.
Any vague hopes I might have had that Mrs. Watkins was a timid old lady were immediately dashed.
“Who are you?” she demanded, peering at us through a peephole in her door.
I pushed Donald to the side. “My name is Rachel Stein. The court appointed me to represent Emily Watkins. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your son, to find out what kind of man he was.”
“He was a good man,” she said through the door, “and that bitch he married deserves the death penalty.”
“Would you be willing to let me in and tell me why you think that?”
“Why should I?” she asked.
I looked at Donald, who shrugged. “Well,” I improvised, “how else can I find out what a good man he was? So far, nobody’s willing to come forward and talk to me about him.”
This was all true. None of Hal’s acquaintances (mostly ex-cops) were willing to be interviewed. It had been five months since her son was killed. I was hoping she wanted to talk about him, even to us. I was right.
We heard the door unlock, and then we were face-to-face with a thin, elegant-looking woman in her late seventies. Her hair was stark white and recently permed, not a strand out of place. I’d have bet that none of the lines in her face were from laughing. In fact, she looked like someone who’d been dissatisfied for a very long time, maybe her entire life. I couldn’t imagine Emily cooking dinner for this woman and her son every Sunday afternoon. How could she have survived it? Dissociation, I decided, cheaper than booze, easier on the body.
The
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