Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012

Never Enough by Ralph Ellis

Crime fiction, Ralph Ellis told EQMM, hooked him when he was a college student and accidentally picked up The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett. He went on to work for newspapers across the Southeast, often reporting on crime, and now lives in Atlanta, where he is the editor for an online news organization. This is his first published work of fiction, but he has already completed a mystery novel about a police reporter and is at work on another.

Joe Kenner leaned down and examined the dead woman’s feet, being of the belief that shoes reveal a person’s character. One tan sandal had slipped off to reveal the brand name. Chanel. A thin gold bracelet encircled the narrow ankle of the same shapely foot, which looked so soft and supple Kenner had the urge to squeeze it. Brenda, his wife of thirty-seven years, had feet hard as hoofs.

The woman had been shot in the waiting room at the Honda dealership on the Millerton bypass. Kenner hoisted himself upright with a groan and walked in a semicircle around the body. He registered tan slacks and pressed white blouse, unlined olive complexion, and slender but curvy figure. Somehow, he knew, her good looks got her killed.

“Tell me what you know,” he said to Tim Brownlee, his protégé. Brownlee was the mayor’s nephew, a smooth-faced twenty-five-year-old with no discernible skills other than knowing how to get along.

“She brought her Escalade in two days ago for valve work and came to pick up the car,” Brownlee said. “But when they gave her the car she complained they didn’t wash and wax it. So they went to work and she sat down in the waiting room.”

“I don’t need to know that unless she died of boredom.”

“A man walked into the waiting room and said something about having a baby and then he shot her. He walked out and drove away. Nobody stopped him because they were freaking out. I mean, things like this just don’t happen around here.”

Kenner glanced at the body. “She doesn’t look pregnant. What’s the description of the shooter?”

“Slim, blond, about forty, wearing khaki pants and a blue polo shirt. And a baseball cap.”

“Great,” Kenner said. “He looks like all the white guys in town. Let’s go down to the country club and find some suspects.”

The manager of the dealership walked up shaking his head and said the video cameras had been malfunctioning for a few days. Kenner gave him a disapproving look and the manager handed over the woman’s work order without being asked. Her name was Kimberly Collins and she lived in Henry Plantation, a new, high-dollar subdivision. Kenner guessed she was in her mid thirties.

“What’s her husband’s name?”

“She didn’t say she was married,” the manager said. He was a tubby guy in a short-sleeved white shirt and a black tie. The nametag said Nick Glass.

“She’s wearing a big rock. How could you miss it?”

“We just talked about the car.”

“So you hit on her,” Kenner said. “You asked her out, didn’t you?”

“No, no. I just picked her up at her house and brought her to the dealership. It’s a service we offer to some customers.”

Kenner put on his Mount Rushmore face. Glass went pink, then red, then bright red. A tiny trickle of sweat slid down his round cheek.

“Talk to your people,” Kenner commanded. “Help them remember something else, understand? Call me today at three o’clock with an update.” Kenner turned to Brownlee and said, “Let’s go find the loving spouse.”

Brownlee drove the unmarked Crown Victoria while Kenner watched the fast-food joints and tire stores of Millerton slip by. He called it Mullet Town, because of the prevalent male hairstyle. Nine months ago, shortly after his fifty-eighth birthday, Kenner retired from the Atlanta Police Department, where he’d spent quality time with his share of dead bodies. He followed Brenda to her hometown of Millerton, where she had a sick mother to look after. Kenner went stir crazy from boredom before the movers left. Then strange old ladies knocked on the front door with baked goods and expected him to make conversation. Desperate to get out of the house, he jumped when Mayor Cecil Wood created a detective’s job for him, making it clear Kenner’s primary duty was turning Brownlee into a reasonable facsimile of a police investigator.

“Why’d she bring an Escalade to a Honda dealership?” Kenner said to Brownlee.

“We don’t have a Cadillac dealership in town. The nearest one is forty miles away, in Atlanta.”

“What else don’t you have here in Millerton? Besides professional sports teams and good restaurants.”

“Traffic jams. Child porn. And murders. Well, not many. The last one happened three years ago when Bert Burnett killed his neighbor because the neighbor’s dog bit his kid. He killed the dog too, a young pit bull. Most people could understand that. This one will freak everybody out.”

“It’s freaking out the mayor. He’s already called me four times, but I haven’t answered.”

Brownlee flinched. “Why not?”

“Because I’m working a case. You are too.”

Brownlee pondered the fact that somebody would dare to ignore his uncle. Kenner found it remarkable the young man never changed his facial expression, no matter what the situation. With practice, he might learn to turn that look of vapidity into a stone face, a necessary tool for a cop.

Brownlee drove straight through the unmanned guard gate at Henry Plantation, made two lefts and a right, and pulled into a driveway circling in front of a stucco home of a vaguely European style. The place cost eight hundred thousand easy, Kenner thought. A light blue Jeep SUV was parked in front.

A chunky bleached blonde in business clothes opened the door and exchanged hellos with Brownlee, obviously acquainted.

“Tony’s waiting,” she said. “He knew you were coming.”

She led them across hardwood floors, quick and agile in black high heels, and turned into a bright kitchen. A man with graying blond hair sat at a country French table typing on a laptop with one hand while talking into a cell phone.

Kenner’s adrenaline kicked in. Tony Collins fit the shooter’s description, but the clothes were different: khaki shorts and a yellow polo shirt. He wore gleaming Nike athletic shoes with socks that only covered half the ankle. Not exactly confidence-inspiring footwear for a grown man. Collins turned off the phone and stood. Kenner tensed, not knowing if the guy was a distraught husband or a wife-killer, and squeezed his left arm over the Glock 9mm tucked into the shoulder holster under his coat.

“What happened to my wife?” Collins said with his arms outstretched. His diction was clear and genteel. “Who killed Kimberly?”

“We’re trying to find out,” Kenner said, and went through the sorry-for-your-loss sentences he’d repeated dozens of times in the past. Collins and the police officers sat at the table while the woman hovered in the background. Kenner took out his pocket-sized notepad and a pen and said, “I’ve got to ask: Where were you around ten o’clock this morning?”

“I was right here,” Collins said, gesturing around the room and not seeming insulted by the question. “I have a home office. I own ToCo Investments. Today I was nailing down some details on the house with Kathy.”

That’s where Kenner knew the woman from, the real-estate billboard on the bypass with her bigger-than-life mug shot. Kenner thought she must have some ego.

“I’m Kathy Minter,” she said, fanning her flushed face with her hand. “I sold them the house. The mayor called me with the news and I had the sad duty of telling Tony.”

Kenner turned back to Collins and said, “Did your wife have any enemies, receive any threats?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Everybody loved her. She was a beautiful woman with a great heart.”

Kathy Minter’s cell phone rang and she grabbed her purse off a chair and walked out, cutting her eyes at Kenner as she passed.

Collins had only been married three months but knew surprisingly little about his new wife. She was a Delta flight attendant and they met on a plane. Her maiden name was Swinton. She was thirty-nine and used to live in Atlanta, but he’d never been to her old place. She had family in Florida, but he’d never met them. Kenner thought Collins looked about fifty — an eleven-year age difference.

“You had no curiosity about her history?” Kenner said. “That’s kind of odd.”

“Neither one of us is a spring chicken,” Collins said. “We both wanted a fresh start.”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?”

Collins held his gaze on Kenner, as if deciding whether to blow up or not.

“We decided the best way was to move ahead. No secrets, but we didn’t want to get bogged down in ancient history either.”

“The guy who shot her said something about having a baby. Was your wife expecting?”

“What?” Collins said, lurching forward. “That’s impossible. We didn’t want children. That’s out of the question.”

The question had hit a nerve. Kenner knew he wouldn’t get any more good information and asked for a photo of Kim Collins. Tony Collins led him into a high-ceilinged living room with sleek furniture and a wall of windows overlooking a swimming pool and landscaped backyard. Kenner inhaled the new-house smell. Three photographs of Kim Collins were scattered around the room and an oil painting of her in younger days hung over the mantle. The husband picked up a framed photo of the couple from the top of a gleaming baby grand piano and handed it to Kenner.

“This is recent,” he said.

Kim Collins was so sexy the picture frame felt moist. She had a long and graceful jaw line, almond-shaped eyes, and a smile that relegated Tony Collins to wallpaper.

“I’ll bring it back,” Kenner said.

“Keep it as long as you need to. Just find the killer.”

Brownlee drove them back to the police station, where they shared a tiny back office crammed with two old desks.

“You should have introduced me to Kathy,” Kenner said.

“Sorry, I thought you knew her,” Brownlee said, leaning against his desk and crossing his ankles. His shiny cordovan loafers would be no good if he had to chase a bad guy.

“I’m the new kid in town. She was very helpful.”

“She’s into everybody’s business.”

“Get her down here. She wants to tell me something.”

The real-estate woman arrived in ten minutes, tapping on the doorframe and asking, “Y’all needed me?”

Kenner stood and motioned her to a straight chair next to his desk. She sat and crossed smooth, unblemished legs that belonged on a much younger, slimmer woman.

“Who’d want to kill Kim?” Kenner said.

“Oh, every woman in town. Men fell at her feet.”

“She ran around on him?”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, reaching into her purse to silence the phone. “But here’s an example. My husband is retired and handles the books in my business. One day his cell phone buzzed and I picked it up. It was a text from Kim, wondering if he could meet her for coffee. I didn’t realize he even knew how to text. I backed Jerry into a corner and he confessed everything. She started out asking him innocent questions about the real-estate market, but then it got kind of personal. He loved the attention. He actually picked up her dry cleaning one afternoon.”

“So you’re confessing to murder?”

“No,” she said with a smirk. “If I were going to kill somebody, it’d be my husband. I’m saying Kim liked the game. She liked to go behind people’s backs and she liked to lead people astray. With Jerry, she was just staying in practice.”

Kenner leaned back in his swivel chair and took in the fine down on Kathy Minter’s jaw.

“That’s a very nice house you sold them. Mr. Collins must be doing okay.”

“Well, not as well as he hoped,” she said, lowering her voice. “When he moved, he lost some clients. In fact, they just took out a second mortgage. That didn’t stop him from buying a brand-new Jaguar convertible for Kim. But no matter how much money he spent, she wouldn’t quit working.”

“She was still a flight attendant? Why? He’s loaded.”

“She liked having her own money. And she did what she wanted to do.”

“Always?”

Kathy Minter nodded, more with her eyes than her head, and Kenner saw the beauty queen who still lived inside her. He told her what the shooter had said about babies.

“Wow,” she said. “Kim did not want kids. She mentioned that several times. I think it was a sore point with Tony.”

They exchanged business cards and cell-phone numbers. After she left, Kenner told Brownlee to run background checks on both the Collinses and to get their cell-phone and landline records through the district attorney. His desk phone rang.

“I was at the Honder place,” a voice full of gravel said. “I saw that guy drive away and got part of the tag number.”

“Great, what’s your name, sir?”

“I ain’t telling. I don’t want to go to court as a witness.”

Kenner wrote down three letters and a number for the tag on a late-model black Lexus convertible. Kenner hung up and Brownlee announced the computer system was down.

“I’ll go home and get my laptop,” Brownlee said. “That’ll be better than nothing, but we won’t be hooked up directly to the state system to check out that tag number.”

“On your way, call the IT guy and tell him the problem. I’ll improvise here, like the old days.”

Kenner called Todd Ramsey, a friend at the Atlanta police. It was his first contact with his old department since retiring. “I need a favor,” Kenner said. “Run this partial tag number for me. It’s a black Lexus.”

“This is not a free service, you know,” Ramsey said, but Kenner heard the keyboard clicking. “That information matches up to one car in Georgia, registered at an address on Lenox Road in Atlanta to a Kimberly Swinton.”

“The bad guy drove off in the victim’s car,” Kenner said. “But she didn’t drive that car to the dealership. Somebody gave her a lift. Had the Lexus been reported stolen?”

It hadn’t. The Escalade was registered in Kim Collins’ name at an address off North Paces Ferry Road in Atlanta, the new Jaguar in Millerton. One woman, three cars.

Brownlee walked in with his laptop tucked under his arm and a cup of coffee in each hand. “You take it black, right?” he said.

“You remembered something! Plug in and find out who lives at this address on Lenox Road. I’ll put out a statewide alert for the getaway car. We’re going to Atlanta.”

They got in the car and Kenner called his old boss in Atlanta and gave him the details. He next telephoned the state crime lab in Atlanta, where Kim Collins’ body had been taken for an autopsy. Kenner wasn’t sure whom to talk with, since the Atlanta PD gave their body business to a different place, the Fulton County medical examiner’s office. His call bounced around before he got the right person.

“We’ll do the autopsy tomorrow morning or this afternoon,” Dr. Andrew Dover said. “We’re backed up with bodies from a trailer fire in Gainesville. Four dead.”

“I have no leads. Can you tell me anything?”

“The body hasn’t even come in the door, Detective. I can’t perform miracles.”

“Keep me in mind when you find out something,” Kenner said.

Kenner watched the suburban yards and cow pastures of Millerton disappear and dense and dirty Atlanta come into view. He hadn’t been back since retirement, thinking he needed a clean break, yet he felt euphoric as the car entered the city.

As Kenner’s old boss promised, they found an Atlanta patrol car waiting in a Chick-fil-A parking lot on Peachtree Street in Buckhead. Brownlee pulled parallel and the drivers’ windows slid down simultaneously. Kenner knew the uniform cop’s round, red face, but not his name. The cop said, “Hear you had a murder down there. Somebody trampled by livestock?”

“Wiseass,” Kenner said. “Follow us.”

He gave Brownlee directions to the Lenox Road address the Lexus was registered to. It was a blocky, five-story condo building with jutting balconies about a mile from Lenox Mall. The police officers parked their cars near the front door and one of the residents let them inside. They took the elevator to the third floor and a lean blond man in a pressed Oxford shirt and rep tie opened the door to unit 312. His blue eyes shot open when he saw the uniformed Atlanta cop. He glanced up and down the hallway before motioning the three officers into his foyer and shutting the door.

“What the heck is going on?” he said.

“Alex Zack? I’m Detective Joe Kenner of the Millerton Police Department. Kim Collins is dead.”

The man’s face crumpled in what Kenner recognized as genuine grief. He put his palm on his forehead and walked into a living room lit by floor-to-ceiling windows. He dropped into a stuffed chair and Kenner sat on the end of a white leather sofa. Zack wore brown tassel loafers, worn but well maintained, indicating a traditionalist personality.

“Good God,” Zack said after Kenner described the shooting. “Kim was headstrong and made people mad, but to shoot her? Why did you come here?”

“The killer drove away in a car registered at this address.”

“A black Lexus convertible? I bought that car for Kim right before she, uh, moved away.”

“Can you account for your whereabouts when the shooting happened?”

“I was with customers at my store,” Zack said. “You don’t think I had anything to do with Kim’s death, do you? Call the store and check. Lighting Designs, near the mall.”

Kenner looked at Brownlee, who nodded and walked out of the condo.

Zack dropped his head into his hands and stayed in that position a full minute. Kenner looked around. He recognized the furniture style — contemporary — because he read Brenda’s design magazines while sitting on the toilet. The room was neat but dusty, and he got the feeing nobody else lived there, certainly no woman. Zack lifted his head with tears leaking from his eyes.

“I used to think I’d be happy to hear about Kim’s death,” he said. “I hated her when she dumped me for that lawyer. Now I hate myself for feeling that way.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to break the news.”

“I still miss her,” Zack said. “I’d had girlfriends before and almost got married once, but nothing like Kim. She was something, so stylish and confident.” He wiped his right eye with the heel of his hand. “She was always together, always making sure her toenail polish matched her fingernails, even if she was wearing cowboy boots. She had ten thousand bottles of polish.”

Kenner smiled and said, “How’d you meet?”

“On a flight. I ordered a Coke and she made a joke about Atlanta being the home of Coke. Then a teenager had an anxiety attack after we took off and Kim calmed her down in a very expert way. Her voice was so calming.” His own voice slipped into a lower register and he gazed out the window. “I saw her in the terminal and complimented her and asked her out, which is the kind of impulsive thing I never do. I couldn’t believe it when she said yes. We got serious pretty fast. She wanted to ‘start fresh’ with me, so I bought this condo and we decorated it together. Actually, she did most of the decorating and I just paid for it.”

“Sounds beautiful. What went wrong?”

“I proposed marriage,” he said. “She said yes, with two conditions. She wanted to redecorate the place all over again with a whole new color scheme. I told her I couldn’t afford that.”

“And?”

Zack blushed and said, “She wanted me to have a vasectomy.”

“A vasectomy?” Kenner said. “That’s not asking for much.”

“Now it seems incredible, but at the time I considered doing it. I’ve always wanted children and I thought she might change her mind. I’m forty-five, that’s not too late to become a father. But she was firm. She wanted to be absolutely sure she didn’t get pregnant. We argued for weeks and she said she wanted to think about it. What I didn’t know is, she started looking around.”

Kenner arched his eyebrows, though he wasn’t surprised.

“His name is Jon Stitcher. He’s a lawyer. He lives on North Paces Ferry Road. His office is on Peachtree, a half-mile from Piedmont Hospital. I’ve driven by that office many times and I always looked, hoping Kim would walk out the door so I could see her one more time. Once she left, she never returned my calls or e-mails. She cut me off, like I didn’t exist.”

A knock broke the interview. The Atlanta cop opened the door and Brownlee walked in.

“His alibi checked out,” he said.

In the car, Brownlee used his cell phone to look up the business address for Jon Stitcher, also discovering his home address matched the registration for Kim Collins’ Escalade. They drove down Peachtree Street again and stopped at a squat brick building with an English script sign out front. It said, “The Law Complex.”

“The law is complex,” Kenner said to Brownlee and got out of the car.

The receptionist was a skinny black woman who didn’t blink when the three cops walked in and asked for Stitcher. Two minutes later a door opened and he strode into the room — yet another slender blond man. This one slicked his hair straight back and wore a dark blue double-breasted suit with a thin chalk stripe and shoulder padding. He spread his legs into a commanding stance and positioned his fists on his hips. Kenner thought he looked like an extra from a 1940s gangster movie.

“You wanted to see me?” Stitcher said.

“Kim Collins is dead. She was shot to death this morning.”

“That’s terrible news.” His voice was dry as Death Valley but his upper lip glistened with perspiration. “I know you’re here because of my relationship with Kim. I’ll be glad to answer questions. Let me call my lawyer.”

While Kenner waited, he stepped outside the building and telephoned the Honda dealership.

“It’s three-fifteen,” Kenner said.

“I was about to call you,” Nick Glass said. “I’m sitting in my office with the service rep from the security company. One camera outside was working off and on. We have a few frames you’ll want to see.”

“I need those images right away. I mean now.”

“Give me an e-mail address.”

Kenner sat down at a conference table in a back room with Stitcher and Ned Jennings. He was a lawyer Kenner had seen in Atlanta courtrooms when upper-class people committed lower-class crimes like beating up their girlfriends or buying street drugs. He was a dark-haired version of Stitcher, but ten years older. Both lawyers wore black cap-toe oxfords, a serious shoe. Kenner approved.

“My client broke up with that woman months ago,” Jennings said. “She’s ancient history. Do you think Jon Stitcher is a killer? Do you know who he is? He’s one of the top asbestos lawyers in the country.”

Stitcher’s tanning-bed glow increased ten megawatts.

“We’ve got information that says otherwise,” Brownlee said.

Kenner held up his hand and shot Brownlee a shut-up look. “He fits the description of the shooter,” Kenner said. “We think witnesses will pick him out of a lineup. He used to live with the victim. We’re going to search his home and find other evidence.”

“That’s not much. You’re wasting his valuable time. He canceled an appointment for this.”

Kenner said to Stitcher, “When did you last talk to Kim?”

He tightened his already crossed legs. “About three months ago.”

“Bad breakup?”

“It was for the best.”

“When you met Kim on the flight, what city were you going to?”

“To Atlanta. From Dallas,” he said with a cough.

“At what point did you leave your wife?”

Jennings said, “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“The Escalade, how much did that cost?”

“Wait a minute,” Jennings said. “What Escalade are we talking about?”

“The Escalade registered in Kim Collins’ name at Mister Stitcher’s home address on North Paces Ferry Road. The one Kim Collins tried to pick up at the dealership this morning before she was killed.”

“I’ve never been to Millerton,” Stitcher said.

“Stop talking,” Jennings said.

Jennings and Stitcher stood and walked to a back corner of the conference room and started whispering, their voices sounding like shoes sliding across a concrete floor. Kenner looked around. Why did city lawyers always decorate their offices with fox-hunting prints?

“Counselors,” he called, “we’re feeling left out.”

Jennings walked back to the table and said, “This is bullshit.”

Brownlee opened his laptop and clicked an e-mail attachment. A grainy black-and-white photo opened showing a man in a dark shirt, light-colored pants, and baseball cap walking across the parking lot of the dealership. Brownlee clicked open a second attachment that caught the man’s profile from a distance. It looked a little like Stitcher. Kenner tapped the screen with a pencil and said, “That’s your client.”

“No more questions,” Jennings said, slicing the air with his palm.

“You mean no more answers,” Kenner said. “We’ll be asking lots of questions.”

Brownlee recited the Miranda warning. Stitcher tried to set his face into a mask of impassivity while the Atlanta cop cuffed his hands behind his back, but Kenner saw his eyes flick around the room, focusing on nothing and nobody.

“Don’t say anything, Jon,” Jennings said. “I’ll visit you tomorrow and get you out on bail. I’ll call your father.”

Brownlee drove again. It was seven at night and the rush-hour traffic had thinned. The lawyer sat like a statue in the backseat. Just south of the airport Kenner’s cell buzzed. It was Dover, from the medical examiner’s office.

“I just finished the Collins woman,” he said. “Gunshot wounds to the chest and stomach. Died instantly. Doesn’t look like she had any drugs in her system.”

“How pregnant was she? How many weeks?”

They talked two more minutes and Kenner turned off the phone. He glanced backward to see Stitcher suddenly paying attention.

“That was the medical examiner,” Kenner told him. “Don’t know if you care, but Kim Collins wasn’t pregnant.”

Stitcher jerked forward and said, “You’re trying to trick me. Why would she lie?”

“Dunno,” Kenner said, turning forward.

“I just don’t believe it,” Stitcher said. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he struggled to find a suitable position on the seat before flopping onto his side. Kenner heard him hyperventilating.

He motioned for Brownlee to exit the interstate and park in the corner of a bright convenience-store parking lot. He locked his Glock in the trunk, went inside the store, and returned with two cans of Coke. He squeezed into the backseat and unlocked Stitcher’s cuffs. Stitcher stripped off his suit coat and gulped the Coke. Sweat streaked his white dress shirt.

“Lying bitch. Now I’m going to prison because of her lies.”

Kenner said, “Why’d you get the vasectomy?”

Stitcher froze, then exhaled deeply and fell backward onto the seat.

“How’d you know? I didn’t tell anybody but Ned, and I know he hasn’t told you yet.”

“I’m a detective,” Kenner said. “I figure things out.”

Stitcher flopped his head back against the car seat. “We made a great couple. We turned heads whenever we walked into a room together. My wife turned into such a frump after we got married, but Kim was just sexy all the time.” He shook his head in disgust. “She led me around by my pecker. As soon as I got snipped, she started moving away from me, like she’d done all she needed to do.”

“I agree Kim was a looker. Why didn’t you tell her to get her tubes tied?”

“She just wouldn’t discuss it.” He sighed.

Kenner handed the other Coke can to the lawyer.

“I’m confused. She wasn’t really pregnant, so why did you think she was?”

“She told me,” Stitcher said, his voice cracking. “By e-mail. She wouldn’t take my phone calls — and believe me, I called a thousand times — but a month ago she sent an e-mail. Just wanted to say hello.”

He started quivering. Kenner handed him a napkin to dry his eyes and wondered if Brenda had taken the chicken thighs out of the freezer.

“And I answered,” Stitcher croaked, “because I was desperate to talk with this woman. I still cared about her. She told me this stuff about her new husband, how much money he made, the Jaguar he bought her, their great house, how they met at church in San Francisco. And finally she told me she was pregnant and had never been happier. Can you believe that? She talks me into a vasectomy, then gets pregnant by another guy!”

Stitcher slammed the Coke can against the car-door window.

“Hey, calm down!” Kenner said. “Keep it under control.”

“Calm down, right,” Stitcher snarled, punching his leg with his right fist. “I’m going to prison because of that bitch.”

Kenner put the cuffs on again. They drove to Millerton and took him to the police-station interview room. Stitcher signed a waiver and confessed into a tape recorder.

“Ned will be furious with me,” he said, “but it would come to this anyway. Let’s get it over with.”

“We’ll mention your cooperation,” Kenner said. “How’d you know she was going to be at the Honda dealership? Did you tail her? Hire a private detective?”

“No, I thought I was getting over her. Yesterday the mechanic had a question about part of the repair but couldn’t reach Kim on the phone. He looked in the glove box and found old receipts with my name and phone number. He called and said it would be ready the next day at ten o’clock. I mean, she dumps me and I still get calls about the damn car.”

Stitcher turned to Kenner, his tanned face growing red with fury.

“I bought her that Escalade, a one hundred thousand dollar car. Now I’m driving the damn Lexus she left behind. Think about how I felt every time I turned on the car. I mean, wouldn’t you kill a woman who did something like that? Put yourself in my shoes.”

“I like your shoes,” Kenner said, “but I don’t approve of killing women.”

Kenner checked him into the jail. Brownlee helped fill out the paperwork and observed the booking process. Around midnight they finished and walked out the back door of the police station onto the cooling asphalt of the parking lot.

“Man, Kim Collins was some kind of woman,” Brownlee said. “These men went crazy for her.”

“She went through guys like I go through Big Macs.”

“Why didn’t Stitcher just buy another car if it bothered him so much?”

“He was still emotionally involved with Kim. That was his connection. He loved hating her.”

Brownlee thought about that, but Kenner wasn’t sure he’d understand. The kid lived his life in low gear. He had such a sheltered existence that love and hate were almost abstract principles. Finally, the younger man said, “Well, I guess you figured it out.”

“Hardly. I still don’t know why Kim told Stitcher she was pregnant if it wasn’t true. And I can’t explain the last e-mail.”

The detectives knocked on Tony Collins’ front door at eight-thirty the next morning. The widower was up and dressed in creased slacks, a knit shirt, and brown Italian loafers. Kenner realized he had a philosophical opposition to shoes without laces, except for bedroom slippers.

“You should have called.”

“We made an arrest,” Kenner said. Collins motioned for them to come inside. They sat down again at the kitchen table and Kenner laid the photo of Kim and Tony Collins right in front of him.

“Your wife was killed by a man named Jon Stitcher, a lawyer who lives in Atlanta,” Kenner said. “Heard of him?”

“Never.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, Kim might have mentioned his name.”

“Stitcher said your wife sent e-mails saying she was pregnant. That upset him for two reasons. He still loved her. And he’d gotten a vasectomy at her insistence.”

“A vasectomy. Holy crap,” Collins said. He walked to the sink, drew a glass of water, and took a small swallow. He cleared his throat and said, “She wasn’t pregnant. I’m absolutely sure of that.”

“She said some real mean things,” Kenner said. He unfolded a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Here’s one e-mail that was sent last week. ‘Dear Jon, blah blah blah, we just saw the sonogram. It’s a boy! We’re going to name him Anthony. I’m ecstatic. I hope you find this kind of happiness someday. Blah blah blah. Regards, Kim.’ ”

Kenner laid the paper on the picture frame.

“Wow. This is a kick in the gut,” Collins said. “Now I feel like I didn’t know my wife at all. I feel kind of sick.” He put his hand over his mouth, burbling, “Excuse me.”

Kenner grabbed his arm and stood, holding him in place.

“Mr. Stitcher allowed us to look at his e-mails after his arrest. He received one from your wife at ten-oh-five yesterday morning. That’s hard to explain, since she was shot to death five minutes earlier.”

Collins moved his lips, as if to speak, and sat down again.

“Oh shit,” he said.

“We know your wife didn’t send those e-mails,” Kenner said. “You did.”

Collins pressed his hands against his temples, as if to squeeze something out of his brain. He slapped his palms on the table and said, “I didn’t know about his vasectomy. I really didn’t know. Do you really think the e-mails made him do it?”

“He loved Kim. Yes, the e-mails made him do it.”

Collins scrunched his face and wailed, “No, no, no, no. Kim, Kim, Kim.”

Kenner grabbed the photo and held it up to Collins’ face. “This beautiful woman is dead because of you.”

Collins knocked the photo to the floor with both hands, causing the glass in the frame to break. He jerked to his feet, knocking his chair backwards.

“Stop it!” he yelled. “I didn’t want her killed. I just wanted to hurt Jon Stitcher. I got sick of hearing about him and his car and their social life and the way he treated her like a princess. Screw him! So I got his e-mail address and I sent the messages. And I told that lie about her being pregnant. And you know something? It made me feel better.”

Collins stood in the middle of the kitchen with his fists balled, panting like he’d just run a mile. “Screw! Jon! Stitcher!”

Kenner stepped into Collins’ face and said, “You did it because your wife conned you into getting a vasectomy too.”

Collins recoiled and deflated, like a rowdy child slapped by a parent. Shame seeped into his face.

“I gave her everything — a new house, a new car,” Collins whispered. “I uprooted my life, left my friends behind. But it was never enough for Kim. I thought one more thing would make her happy.”

He staggered out of the kitchen, still shaking his head as he crossed the living room. At the other end of the house, a door slammed.

The detectives drove in silence until they reached the police station and pulled into the parking spot designated for the detective’s car. Brownlee left the car running for the air conditioning.

“I didn’t see that coming,” he said. “How’d you know Collins had a vasectomy? Stitcher too.”

“Guesswork mostly, based on Kim’s patterns. She was a very consistent woman. She’d find a man, take their money, get a new car, bully them into a vasectomy, and move on. She sure liked blond guys.”

Kenner smiled, but the younger man maintained a stone face.

“Will the DA prosecute Tony Collins?”

“For what? Being an asshole? It’s not like he pulled the trigger. A decent lawyer would stop that idea in a second. On the bright side, he’ll feel like crap for the rest of his life. I’ll call Kathy Minter. Maybe she can help us keep tabs on Mr. Collins so we can torment him when he moves.”

“I’d like to go back and slap him around right now,” Brownlee said. “I’d like to pistol-whip the bastard. He’s awful.”

Kenner looked across the seat at Brownlee, surprised to hear such anger in the young man’s voice. Overnight, Brownlee had grown bags under his eyes. Small spots of coffee dotted his white shirt. This was his first murder case.

“His wife was awful too,” Kenner said. “There’s something I didn’t share with you, Tim, because I thought you might show sympathy for Stitcher or Collins during the interviews. The medical examiner told me Kim had her tubes tied years ago. She wasn’t pregnant and couldn’t have had children if she wanted to.”

Brownlee blinked hard. “What? So the vasectomies were useless? Why would she do that?”

Kenner shrugged. “Maybe it was her idea of fun. It doesn’t change the fact that Jon Stitcher is the killer. It does make me feel kind of sorry for the guy. I’ll make sure Jennings finds out.”

Brownlee dropped his head onto the steering wheel in exhaustion and breathed heavily. Kenner let him sit like that and thought about some of his old cases, the day he met Brenda, and what kind of sandwich he wanted for lunch. Brownlee finally lifted his head and said, “I thought I knew who the bad guys were, but now I’m not sure.”

“Tell me when you figure it out,” Kenner said and opened his door. “Let’s finish the paperwork. Tonight I’m having dinner with my wife.”

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Ellis