The Thunder Keeper(42)
“And why would I do that? I called off the private investigator when I had enough to file the divorce. Besides it’s not police business. The last thing I need is for the newspapers to hear about it.” She threw back her head and gave another forced laugh. “Oh, I can see the headlines. ‘Denver Socialite Hired PI to Watch Bastard Husband.’ ” Shifting sideways a little, she took another drink. “Daddy’s upset enough over the publicity about Vince’s death. Not exactly a respectable way to go—run down like a dog. Daddy would have much preferred a more appropriate hunting accident. But, I say, what the hell, he’s gone.”
Vicky leaned toward her. “Mrs. Lewis,” she said, “I believe your husband was murdered.”
The woman’s head snapped around, as if she’d caught an unexpected blow. The liqueur dribbled over her fingers. She was staring wide-eyed, a fixed expression of disbelief and outrage in the pale face. “That’s ridiculous! Vince’s death was an accident.”
She looked away and started to get up—a shaky commandeering of the floor. She gripped a corner of the table to steady herself. The goblet tipped sideways, spilling liqueur down the front of the blue robe. “Please go,” she said.
Vicky got to her feet and faced the woman. “Mrs. Lewis, if your husband had located a diamond deposit on the reservation, for your own safety, please tell me.”
Jana Lewis gave a shout of laughter. “My safety? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“If you don’t want to talk to me,” Vicky went on, “then talk to Detective Clark.”
“Detective Clark”—an expulsion of breath—“is looking for the drunk that ran Vince down. If he’s wasting time chasing some crazy murder theory, my father will see that he’s removed from the investigation. We are not without influence in this town, Ms. Holden. Daddy’ll have Detective Clark’s job.” She pushed away from the table, reclaiming her footing. “Get out,” she said.
Vicky got to her feet and started for the door. She turned back. “Be careful,” she said. “Your husband was murdered, and your life may also be in danger.” She left Jana Lewis pouring another drink.
The Bronco’s engine burst into life at the turn of the ignition. It had started to rain—a light misting that sparkled like diamonds in the headlights and pecked at the windshield as Vicky turned west onto Speer and worked her way into the fastest lane, making the lights as yellow switched to red, wondering if a wealthy woman with a powerful father would hire someone to kill her husband, even for a three-million-dollar insurance policy. It was possible. Except that Jana Lewis had seemed shocked at the mention of murder.
And yet, the woman knew more than she’d admitted, Vicky was sure. Another picture was starting to emerge, like an image gradually taking shape in a developing tray: Nathan Baider following Jana Lewis down the hospital corridor.
Nathan Baider and Jana Lewis.
It would explain why the company’s law firm would represent Jana in the divorce. Why Vince Lewis had wanted to dig up dirt on a wife who intended to ruin him. It could even explain why Lewis had wanted to blow the whistle on Baider Industries.
Vicky dug her cell phone out of her bag on the seat beside her and, at the next red light, tapped out Steve Clark’s number. His answering service picked up. She said she had a hunch that Jana Lewis knew why her husband had been killed. “Call me as soon as you can,” she said.
In the distance, the shadows of the mountains merged into the rain-filled sky. She glanced at the dashboard clock. Almost six-fifteen. Marie Champlain would be in her office at the Indian Center, supervising the evening classes and meetings.
She made a right, circled beneath the Speer Viaduct and merged with the southbound traffic on I-25. A sheet of water billowed over her windshield from the tires of the semi ahead. She changed lanes and sped past.
20
Vicky parked in the graveled lot of the tan brick elementary school that was now the Denver Indian Center. This was the Indian neighborhood: white bungalows with pickups in the driveways and sofas and chairs crammed onto the porches. Rain danced in the streetlights.
Inside, the building retained the feel of a school, with bright fluorescent lights illuminating the notices tacked along the walls. Doors on either side led to classrooms that now served as offices and meeting halls. Through the glass in the doors, Vicky could see Indian people seated around tables: dark skin and black hair, like punctuation marks against the whitewashed walls.
She knocked at the door with the black-lettered sign below the glass: DIRECTOR. A pickup basketball game was going on in the gym at the far end of the corridor. The grunts and shouts mingled with the thud of a dribbled basketball. From behind the office door, silence.