Slow Kill - Michael Mcgarrity [80]
“What do you need to talk to me about?” he demanded abruptly.
“Coe Evans?” Price asked, looking the man over. He was a pretty-boy, with cropped curly hair, symmetrical features, and a solid six-foot frame.
“Yeah, that’s right. What do you want?”
“You sound worried,” Price replied pleasantly. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Evans said, glancing up at the big house. “You tell me.”
“As far as I know, you’re not in any trouble,” Price said. “What can you tell me about Claudia Spalding?”
Evans looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Not much. I barely know the woman.”
“How did you come to meet her?”
“At the tracks where I used to work. She likes the ponies—owns a few and races them. I’d see her around and sometimes we would chat. Small talk stuff.”
“Just casual conversation about horses and racing,” Price rephrased.
“Horses and racing,” Evans said. “Exactly.”
“That’s it?” Price asked. “You had no social interaction with her outside of work?”
Evans smirked and laughed. “Are you kidding, outside of work? She didn’t hang out with my crowd.”
“So you only saw her at the track.”
“I just said that.”
Evans was repeating Price’s words, averting his eyes, omitting information—all signs of a liar.
Price decided to stop acting so amicable and ask a slightly tougher question. “You never slept with her?”
Evans tilted his head and closed his eyes. “That’s bullshit. Who have you been talking to? Who would say something like that?”
Pleased with the response and convinced he was reading Evans correctly, Price backed off. “When was the last time you talked with Mrs. Spalding?”
“I can’t recall,” Evans replied. “It wasn’t like I kept track of her. She was just another rich bitch who hung around during racing season.”
“Try to remember,” Price encouraged.
Evans gave a slight, cooperative nod of his head. “Probably it was just before she built a house somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Four, maybe five years ago.”
“What would you say if I told you we think Claudia Spalding arranged to have her husband murdered?”
“I heard he died in his sleep.”
“What type of woman would do something like that?”
“Man, who knows why women do anything?”
Price glanced at the gold band Evans wore on his left hand. “You’re married, I take it. Is it the same woman you were living with back when you knew Claudia Spalding?”
Evans stiffened. “Have you been checking up on me?”
Price smiled. “A little bit. Is she?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Perhaps I should speak with her. Is she here?”
Evans waved off the notion with a wagging finger. “You have no cause to do that.”
“Maybe she’d be interested in learning what your old buddy in Santa Fe, Mitch Griffin, has to say about your relationship with Claudia Spalding, and what you told him about the murder plot she had in mind for her husband.”
The cockiness in Evans washed away, replaced by hot-wired apprehension. “Shit. That crazy bitch. I cut it off with her then and there. I swear, I did nothing. My wife would kill me if she ever found out about Claudia.”
“I believe you,” Price said consolingly as he opened the passenger door to his unit. “Let’s take a ride to my office. We’ll start all over again, and this time you can tell me the truth.”
In a laboratory at the university, Kerney watched Grant assemble the bones into a recognizable partial skeleton, studying each one carefully before he laid it out. After he took measurements, he picked up the breastbone and shattered rib for a closer examination.
“Definitely shot,” he said.
“Not shrapnel wounds?” Kerney asked.
Grant shook his head and put the bones back in place. “No way. It’s a male. Based on my measurement I make him to be between five-foot-eleven and six feet tall. I’m thinking he was probably in his thirties when he died, but it will take some time to confirm it. Since we’re missing the skull, I was hoping I might find an old break that could be compared to medical records, but there are none that I can see. I’ll do X-rays.