Read Online Victims by Collin Wilcox - Free Book Online Page A

view. Between Alcatraz and the near shore, I saw the long, low, sinister shape of an atomic submarine slipping ominously out toward the Golden Gate.
    “So he botched it.” She spoke softly, bitterly.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “He botched it,” she repeated, still staring with dark, brooding eyes in the direction of her expensive view. She sat forward in the chair, legs crossed, elbow propped on one knee, chin propped on the palm of her hand. The hand was gracefully shaped, with long, expressive fingers. But a network of blue veins bulged across the back of the hand. And the fingernails were bitten to the quick.
    “He tried to steal John, and he got caught. And—” Incredulously, she shook her head. “And he killed a man, for God’s sake.”
    “Does that surprise you?”
    “Yes …” She said it ironically, mock-sagaciously. “Yes, Lieutenant, it surprises me. Gordon has his faults. He’s made mistakes, God knows. But I never thought—” She broke off, shaking her head. I saw her eyes leave the view and steal toward the coffee mug.
    “You never thought he’d kill anyone. Is that it?”
    She nodded: a slow, loose inclination of her handsomely shaped head. As the minutes passed, it was increasingly obvious that she was drunk. Surreptitiously, stylishly drunk.
    “Yes,” she said. “That’s it.”
    “He probably didn’t do it intentionally. We think he was frightened. Your father hired a guard. Charlie Quade was his name. We think he went after your husband. Maybe Quade even shot first. So it might not be as bad as it sounds.”
    “My ex-husband, you mean. He’s not my husband. Not any more.”
    “Yes. Sorry.”
    Still with her chin propped in the palm of her hand, she turned in her chair to face me. I watched her eyes narrow as she stared at me, thoughtfully frowning. Finally she said, “Do you think he did it? Committed murder?”
    “I think he probably fired because he thought he was in danger. As I said.” I hesitated, then decided to add, “He should be able to plead self-defense.”
    “Did he have John with him when he killed this man? Was John there? Right there?”
    “We think he was, Mrs. Kramer. That’s not what your husband says, though. He says they’d already left the house. He says they were outside on the driveway when the shooting started.” I let her think about it for a moment, then said, “John should be able to tell us something. That’s one reason I’m here. I’d like to talk to John. I’d like your permission to talk to him.”
    Instead of responding to the request, she said, “If John was there, inside the house, he must’ve been terrified.” She spoke softly, musingly, with no apparent distress or emotion. It was as if she were talking about someone else’s child, not hers. Why, I wondered, had she been so angry a few minutes before, learning that John had been taken to the Youth Guidance Center? Was it because she resented his being forced to spend the night with delinquents?
    Or was it because her brief burst of indignation had drained her of emotion, left her bereft of further feeling?
    She was sitting motionless now, staring vaguely off across the large, elegantly furnished room, her eyes unfocused. Her momentary preoccupation gave me a chance to look at her more closely. She was probably about thirty-five. But already alcohol had blotched her skin and prematurely lined her face. The closely cut slacks revealed loose, slack flesh across her stomach and over her hips. Beneath the expensive sweater, her breasts had begun to sag into premature middle age. Ten years ago she must have been a long-legged, graceful beauty. Ten years from now, her looks would be long gone.
    Finally she said, “I’m trying to imagine what happened—what could’ve happened. But—” She shook her head. “But I can’t get it straight in my mind.”
    In detail, I described where Quade’s body was found, and what the physical evidence seemed to indicate. Then I told her exactly