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GORDON EXPLAINED TO Solomon what he’d learned about Budweitz’s other deception. “Did they alert you?”
Solomon sputtered. “You’re effing kidding me. That tidbit most definitely, absolutely, positively did not get conveyed to me. I should have known better than to rely on Pittman. I got the feeling he was indulging me, not including me. County was doing much of the investigating, but since it wasn’t a Mapleton case, I didn’t go beyond what Pittman told me. Didn’t want him to think I was doing an end run.”
“No harm, no foul,” Gordon said. “Things can get overlooked, especially in multi-jurisdictional investigations, and, as you said, it’s not a Mapleton case. How are you doing on the Fowler investigation?”
“I hate to use the term trailer trash, but if the words fit, there’s no point in sugar-coating them. Place is a mess, but the kind of mess from lack of housekeeping, not vandalism. More like half a fraternity lived there, although the complex manager said Fowler didn’t have friends, no wild—or mild—parties. Just a lazy slob.”
“Did you call the lab techs?”
“Not yet. Doesn’t look at all like a crime scene. This would be far down on their to do list.”
“Then, we’re looking for yet another location where Fowler was killed.”
“Yep. I can collect basics like his mail, his tablet—no real computer—see what I can learn about who he was. I’ll get more information by knocking on doors.”
“Next of kin?” Gordon asked.
“Complex manager shared his rental agreement paperwork. Emergency contact is listed as Burt Fowler, relationship uncle. Address in Champaign, Illinois. No parents listed, but we’ll know more once we get forensics to open his tablet.”
“Sounds as though all is under control. Not pointing fingers at the way Pittman’s handled things, but I got the same vibes as you did after talking with his LT. Not sure how hard they’re looking. I’m going to knock on the girlfriend’s door. Maybe they’re hiding out there.”
“Good luck. See you at the station.”
Gordon swapped his uniform shirt for a plaid flannel overshirt from the emergency bag he kept in the back of the SUV. A bit warm for today’s weather, but if he hoped to surprise Bud—or his girlfriend—he didn’t want to look like a cop.
He rambled up the block, entered the building, and took the stairs to the third floor. Standing out of peephole range, he rapped on the door. “Delivery for Darlene Willoughby.”
Gordon inched closer to the wall, his ear pressed to the cool surface, straining to hear any sounds from inside.
Footfalls? Slow, quiet. Someone tiptoeing? He repeated his call.
“Not here,” came a muffled voice. Unidentifiable.
“Need a signature. Anyone can sign. Come on, man, I’ve got a schedule to keep, and this is perishable.”
A security chain sliding back. A deadbolt clicking. Gordon unfastened his holster, hand on the pistol grip.
The door opened a couple of inches. Gordon shoved it wider. Whoever stood behind it cursed, fell backward. Gordon stepped inside.
Bud stood there, his hair cropped short, the scruff of a new beard shadowing his jaw. He blinked into the light of the hallway. Awareness registered.
“You’re the cop. From Mapleton.”
Gordon smiled. “That I am. I think it’s time for another little chat.”
Gordon closed the door behind him, throwing the room into semi-darkness. Curtains were drawn across all the windows, but a light in the kitchen gave Gordon enough visibility. He told Bud he needed to pat him down. “Just routine.”
Bud gazed at the ceiling but didn’t fight. Gordon motioned Bud to the couch. “Have a seat. And get some light in here.”
Bud reached over, switched on a lamp.
Gordon spared a moment to take in the room. Couch, rocking chair, wing chair. Coffee and end tables. Open plan, kitchen behind them. Hallway leading to the bedrooms. Gordon stood where he could keep an eye on that potential point of entry. With Bud settled onto the couch, Gordon called the Evergreen police department, asked for backup.
“Anyone here with you?” Gordon asked Bud. “Maybe the neighbor you said you’d just met when you moved in. Except you moved into her apartment, not the one you claimed was yours.”
“She’s in Boston,” Bud said.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Hey, it’s the truth.”
Gordon turned on his recorder, reported the usual information.
“Hey, I didn’t say you could record me,” Bud protested.
“Doesn’t matter. Colorado’s a one-party state, which means as long as one person is aware of the recording, it’ll stand up in court.” He tapped his chest, getting the reassuring thump of his vest. “Consider me that one person.”
“Then I got nothing to say.” Bud folded his arms across his chest, lifted his chin.
A rapping on the door followed by “Evergreen Police” told Gordon backup had arrived. Breathing more easily, he backed to the door, verified it really was a cop—Lamar, in this case—and let him in.
“Definitely going to have a serious talk with Pittman,” Lamar grumbled. “I’m going to handle this one personally from here on. Mr. Budweitz, we have some questions for you.”
Gordon had been sure the man would have demanded a lawyer, but Lamar’s presence seemed to have deflated Bud’s defiance. “I’ll check the rest of the apartment,” Gordon said to Lamar. “Make sure nobody else is hiding.”
Lamar glared at Bud. “He going to find anyone? Remember, lying to a cop will get you into a heap of trouble.”
“No, there’s nobody here. I told him, Darlene went to Boston.”
“Right. To take care of her ailing mother. Are we going to find out her mother’s alive and well, training for the Boston marathon?” Lamar scowled. “Or that she died three years ago?”
Gordon strode to the bathroom. It was clear enough two people had been living here. Based on the quantity of female clothing and toiletries, Darlene’s departure wasn’t permanent.
He moved on to the bedroom. What he saw reversed his initial approach to likely suspects when he and Solomon had been brainstorming. A trophy case displayed numerous awards. Darlene, apparently, was a competitive weight lifter. A photo of her and Bud on the dresser showed her to be around six feet tall. She’d have had no trouble whacking Yvonne on the head hard enough to kill her.
Gordon rejoined Lamar and Bud.
“Exactly where in Boston is your lady friend?” Lamar asked.
Bud stared at the floor. “She wouldn’t tell me. Said it was better if I didn’t know.”
“Let’s get something straight,” Gordon said. “Anything your friend did, you’re an accomplice. Which means you’ll get punished the same way.” Not completely true, but there were no laws against cops lying to civilians, only the other way around.
Gordon moved away from Bud, gestured for Lamar to step closer. With a voice barely above a whisper, Gordon told Lamar what he’d discovered. “Do you have connections with a judge to get a telephonic warrant? Darlene’s flight says she’s high on the list of suspects. We could collect enough evidence to give us prints and DNA, have Centennial run them against what they collected at Yvonne Budweitz’s crime scene.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” Lamar stepped into the hall, leaving Gordon to keep an eye on Bud.
Gordon pinned Bud with his cop stare. “Sure you don’t want to tell us where Darlene is? Cooperation is always better than making it harder for us to do our jobs. Which is what we’re doing here, Bud. Our jobs. You’ve been feeding us a sack of lies, but if you give us the truth, things might go easier.”
“I didn’t kill my wife.”
Gordon gave him an indulgent smile. “I never said you did. We just want to find out who did, because, as I said before, that’s our job.”
Lamar returned, his face unreadable. However, the evidence kit he carried said the judge had agreed to the warrant.