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Mrs. Winslow's Daughter

By: MysteryWriter



I awoke with a terrible need to use the bathroom. If I had still lived in my nice little house on the cull-de-sac, I would have gotten right up. Since I no longer lived there, and since the distance from my bed to the bathroom was about twenty-five feet of bone chilling cold floor, I lingered in the bed.

Coal stoves are pretty to watch and cheap to run, but they tend to leave a house cold as hell first thing in the morning. If I could make it as far as the bathroom, I would be all right. In the bathroom a very small, but efficient, electric heater ran to keep the pipes from freezing. It heated the room to only forty-five degrees but that was better than the thirty of the bedroom. 

I knew it was thirty from the rather large thermometer on the wall. It had to be large if I was going to read the numbers without my glasses. I finally quit stalling. I made the mad rush to the bathroom. Along the way, I slowed down only to grab my pants, and wool shirt.

I lingered in the slightly warmer bathroom long enough to brush my teeth after I had answered nature's call. Showering could only be done in the afternoon. It took that long to build up enough heat inside the house to prevent the wet hair from freezing on top of my head.

When I returned to the one large room of the cabin, I shook the grate to dump the ashes into the bottom of the French coal stove. I added a few large lumps of coal to the stove, then slipped back into the bed with my clothes on. I couldn't sleep, but I could lie in a twilight state until the room heated.

Half an hour later, the area by the stove was at least warm enough for me to drag my sorry ass out of bed. The first thing I did was to reach under the sink to twist the long rod which led to a water valve buried underground. Without that valve and my draining of the sink pipe every night, I would have had burst pipes every morning.

With the water running, I filled an aluminum tea pot, then moved the pot to the coal fired stove. One thing about the old French coal stove, it had a rather large top surface. When the stove had been used in France, it had been both the cook stove and the heater for a French peasant family. My father had bought it before anyone thought to collect such things. He had bought it just to heat his fishing cabin.

His fishing cabin had been my permanent home for the last two years. When Anne threw me out, I had nowhere else to go. The house, where we lived, had been hers before we married. Even though I paid for a remodeling job, it stayed hers after the divorce. In exchange for my repairs to her house, she didn't challenge the ownership of my dad's cabin.

I probably got the better deal, since I got away from both Anne and her daughter. I made the move the next day. It was only on mornings when the temperature was well below zero that I regretted the move. Since I lived in North Carolina, there weren't too awfully many of them.

I noticed again the funky smell of the cabin. It happened more on damp days than cold ones, but it was there that morning. The cabin had started life as a tobacco barn. The logs had retained the sweet smell of every leaf of tobacco which had been cured in it.

I had seen other barns and knew mine was large as tobacco barns go. At twenty-four by twenty, it was more the size of a double garage. My dad had made only a few changes. He had filled the dirt floor with broken bricks from a deserted power station on the river, the bricks made for a nice looking, but cold floor. He also added the bathroom, which bulged from the side of the barn like a tumor.

"The small kitchen sink, in the corner, and the insulation in the ceiling had been added the year before. I wasn't convinced that the insulation had done much good. The barn seemed to disperse heat like a giant outdoor radiator. Not withstanding, it was a pretty comfortable existence. I hunted some in the winter, and fished some in the summer. It seemed to be a pretty good life for a retired man in good health.

I pulled the plug as a sergeant of homicide just one month after the divorce degree was final. I had never looked back. Thirty years as a cop was more than enough for anyone. My pension was fair, and my expenses were low. I did just fine without any of their crap. I did, on occasion, miss the job. Usually when one of our backwater Sheriff's cars passed on the main road with his siren blaring.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the water boiling in my teapot with no whistling device. I had learned a neat trick, sense my exile to the wilderness. I knew how to brew a single cup of coffee. I poured the water into a heavy mug, then dipped a small cheese cloth bag filled with coffee grounds into it several times. After four or five minutes, it was a fairly strong cup of coffee. I would have made more than one cup at a time, had I not drank so much stale coffee over the last thirty years.

I sat in the very old overstuffed chair for a long time, thinking about breakfast. To be honest I wasn't a very good cook, but I hated to spend the three bucks on somebody else's bad cooking. It was the only kind of cooking they did at the cafe. The cafe was about five miles down the road.

Since the room was heating up, and the outside was still as cold as a two dollar whore's kiss, I decided to cook on the coal stove. Breakfast was a couple of frozen sausage patties and toast. It wasn't fancy but the animal fat was filling.

After breakfast, I sat in my chair trying to work up the courage to leave the warm cabin. I had been meaning to do some hunting. I just hadn't been able to do it since the cold snap began. About the most I had been able to manage in the cold was a trip to the store house.

My dad had built a concrete block store house behind the cabin. He had used it mostly for tools and the like. I had cleaned it out, then installed a couple of dehydrators. It was filled with many large mayonnaise jars filled with dried fruits vegetables as well. 

I bought the produce in the summer, when prices were low. There were also large white bags filled with dried meats of several different varieties. Most of it was game, I hadn't been able to eat all the meat at the time of the kill. The coal stove was ideal for cooking soups and stews, which comprised most of my dinners. Lunch was usually a piece of spicy jerky and a biscuit left over from the night before. Reconstituted fruit of one kind or another made up most of my deserts. I was probably healthier than I had ever been in my life.

I finally gave in to my one great vice. I turned on the radio to the, all news, station, then lit a very smelly cigar. A cup of fresh coffee, a cigar, and the radio seemed almost like heaven. I should have known that it wouldn't last.

A sharp rap on the door was followed by a female voice, "Anybody home in there?"

I moved across the quickly warming room to the door. I opened it to find a woman only a few years older than my fifty-five years standing under my porch cover. "Can I help you?" I asked.

"I think so, that is if I am in the right place. It is hard to know for sure. People around here don't give very good directions," the woman said.

"I guess that depends on where you are supposed to be?" I replied with a smile.

"Is this the Taft place?" she asked.

"It is," I replied.

"In that case could I come in from the cold?" she asked.

"If you aren't a bill collector or process server sure," I agreed.

She stepped through the door, then took a long look around her. While she did, I took a look at her. She seemed tall at first glance, but that was mostly because she was thin as a rail. If she ever had any hips or breasts, they had withered away. She did have nice silver hair, and a fairly wrinkle free face.

"Are you Edgar Taft?" she asked. "And do you really live here?"

"Yes to both questions," I answered guardedly.

"Frankly, I would have expected more. Do you mind if I have a seat?" she asked motioning to the straight wooden chair by the small table under the window.

"Not at all, and why would you have expected more?" I asked.

"I heard you were the sharpest homicide detective ever," she stated skeptically.

"Not anymore, now I am the most incompetent hunter ever," I replied with a smile.

"I doubt that, anyone who could live like this has to be pretty good at all the primitive arts," she said it sounding, for all the world, like a school teacher.

"So what can I do for you?" I asked. I almost hated to rush her into her story. I didn't get all that much company, especially women.

"Sergeant Everette suggested I come see you," she said.

"Donny Everette, do you mean to tell me some idiot, made another idiot a sergeant?" I asked with a smile.

"Donny is my cousin," she said indignantly.

"Does that make him less an idiot?" I asked. Since I didn't know why she came to see me, I didn't mind angering her.

"I guess not," she said with a gentle laugh.

"So why did Donny send you to see me?" I asked.

Her face slid from a smile to a look of great sorrow. "Mr. Taft six months ago my daughter was murdered by her husband. For some reason the police and district attorney have been unable to arrest him."

"All kidding aside, if Donny couldn't do it, then I sure as hell can't," I replied.

"My daughter lived in Greenpoint with her husband at the time of her death. Donny can't investigate over there. He also has been unable to determine, what if anything, the Greenpoint PD has done," she informed me.

"So exactly what is it you think I can do?" I asked.

"Donny said you could look over the reports, then begin an investigation of your own. He frankly said that if you couldn't find the killer, I should forget it. He has a great deal of faith in your abilities."

"That sounds real good Mrs.?" I left it open for her to fill in the blank.

"I'm sorry, I am Nora Winslow," she said.

"Not one of 'The' Winslows?" I asked.

"I suppose some people call us that," she said.

"I had no idea Donny had such a wealthy relative," I replied.

"Mr. Taft since there is no answer to that, I will not comment. It changes nothing, I still can not get anything done in Greenpoint," she said.

"Mrs. Winslow, with all your money, the cops and DA are beating their brains out trying to solve the murder of your little girl. If I were you, I would be content in that knowledge." 

"Mr. Taft, I want you to help me find out what happened to my little girl. I will pay you anything within reason," she said.

"I'm afraid money won't do it. Not that I am not inclined to take your money. It's just that I don't expect I can get the cooperation of the local police," I replied honestly.

"You need not concern yourself with that. I can arrange anything you need," she said confidently.

"I don't expect you know much about police departments. They tend to be rather closed mouthed with outsiders," I replied.

"Mr. Taft, I don't expect you know much about me," she said with a cruel smile.

Her smile was almost as cold as the air outside the cabin. "It's been a long time since I was involved in an investigation. I doubt I could be of much help." Actually I still doubted she could get the kind of cooperation necessary for an outsider to do any good at all.

"Mr. Taft, I understand the going rate for investigators is five hundred a day, plus expenses. I will pay that willingly."

"Mrs. Winslow, I think it would be a waste of your money," I replied. "One day should be about all it takes to convince you of that."

"Then give me one day. If you don't get full cooperation, I will give you one thousand dollars for the day."

"It's your money," I replied. "Answer me one question?"

"No one has ever been able to say no to me," she said with a smile.

"That was the question," I replied with a smile to match hers.

"One more thing, I do not wish to merely be kept informed of your progress. I wish to be a part of the investigation," she said.

"Out of the question, I work alone," I replied.

"Before you say no, and I leave here without you, think about this. For six months I have been kept in the dark as to the facts surrounding my daughter's death. The small amount of information I do have, I had to pry from the district attorney. I have not been unable to get any information from the police. I have been going mad from the lack of information. I have to know, If nothing else, I have to know what is going on," she was as close to tears as a sophisticated woman ever gets in front of the hired help. There was a mist in her eyes.

"If you are going to be involved, then you are going to make yourself useful," I said.

"I will do anything within reason," she said.

"Exactly what do you consider outside the realm of reason?" I asked.

"I don't know at the moment, but if it happens I will tell you," she said.

"Fair enough," I admitted. "First of all, you are going to be my chauffeur."

"I had planned on no less," she stated without any emotion.

"In addition to the five hundred, there are going to be expense. I assume you will pay all of them?"

"I will, what exactly do you foresee?" she asked.

"A motel for sure, and possibly bribes."

"The bribes are no problem, but the motel is out of the question." Before I could object she said, "You will be staying with me. Until this ends, I do not intend to allow you out of my sight."

"Well, I sleep alone," I said in a strong voice.

"I hadn't planned to keep quite that tight a reign on you," she said smiling again.

"Good, let me take a shower. Why don't you go to the cafe while I do?"

"No thanks, I will wait right here."

"Up to you," I replied as I went to the wall which was filled with nails. On the nails were clothes hangers with shirts and slacks. I removed a hanger, then went to the chest for clean underwear. I left her sitting in the cabin, while I went into the cool bathroom. I left the door open as was my custom. It wasn't to embarrass her. It was to allow the heat to continue entering the bathroom. 

"You might want to look away while I shower," I suggested.

"I shall," she said defiantly.

When I finished my shower, I pronounced myself ready to leave. "Aren't you going to pack?" she asked.

"If it makes you happy, but I expect to be home by dinner," I replied removing a canvas garment bag from the storage loft over her head. I tossed a few things into it. I turned off the water to the kitchen sink, then drained the water from the lines.

"Are we ready now?" she asked impatiently.

"Sure," I replied.

She looked at the pistol hanging on a nail. "Aren't you going to take your gun?" she asked.

"Let me explain something about pistols. First of all, I was a cop for thirty years, twenty of those I was a detective. A detective only needs a pistol, if he makes a serious mistake in judgment. If he does that, the pistol won't help much."

"No matter," she said. "I never leave home without mine."

There was a smile on her face. I didn't know for sure whether she were joking or not. When I opened the door, I was again assaulted by the cold outside air. The sun was shinning brightly, but the air must have been well below freezing. "Damn I hate the cold," I muttered.

When I reached the edge of the cabin, I saw her car for the first time. She had parked beside my rusty old pickup. I was surprised to find that she drove a shiny red Pontiac Trans Am. Nora Winslow noted my surprise.

"You expected a Cadillac?" she asked.

"That or a Mercedes," I replied.

"You are in for several surprises before we are finished," she said matter-of-factually.

During the ninety minute drive she filled me in on what she knew of her daughter Robin's death. According to her, Robin had married an opportunist. As long as the Winslow money came without question, the marriage was fine. When Robin reached the age of twenty-five her trust fund dried up. She would receive no more money until her mother passed away. Nora informed me that she had intended to out live Tony, the no good bastard, Robin had married.

With several questions tossed in by me to clarify her story she continued. Robin had always battled a slight weight problem. She ran between ten and twenty pounds over weight almost all the time. At the time of her death she had begun to jog to try keeping her weight down.

Since Robin and Tony, the no good bastard, lived in a town house on the city reservoir, she jogged around the lake. On that particular Friday, she was about half a mile from home. Her body was found in a wooded area just off the jogging path. She had been shot twice in the back of the head. Her clothes had been torn but there was no evidence of rape.

The no good bastard had an alibi. He was working late at the office, verified by a secretary who left shortly before the cops called about Robin. Fortunately for the no good bastard, the secretary was just short of sixty and married. There was no office love affair as a motive for her to lie.

"So Mrs. Winslow, if there was no inheritance, as long as you lived, what motive could he have?" I asked.

"My daughter was a spoiled brat. Actually, I prided myself on that." She wasn't kidding. I could tell from her voice that she had meant for her daughter to be spoiled. "She had to be hard for any man to live with, especially one who could not give her all the things she had become accustomed to receiving from me. I knew when she married that no good bastard it wouldn't workout. I raised my daughter to marry into money. I cut her off,"

"So Robin was a hard woman to live with. In a case like that I would expect the husband to have an alibi, if he did it, or had it done. She wouldn't have been killed because of some argument." 

"Add to that the fact that Robin carried half a million dollars in insurance and you might have a motive," she replied.

"Why would Robin have that kind of insurance?" I asked.

"Robin held a position on the board of her father's company. It was mostly a show position. We paid her almost nothing."

"How much is almost nothing, and why did she have all the insurance?" I repeated.

"Her pay was a flat twenty thousand a year," Mrs. Winslow informed me.

It might be a pittance to her, but it was a nice chunk of change for most folks.

"The insurance was carried by the company on all it's key employees. The board members qualified for it. Robin, against my wishes, named the no good bastard as the beneficiary," Mrs. Winslow informed me.

"So Tony, got half a mil when Robin got popped?" I asked.

"I'm not sure I like your cavalier attitude," Mrs. Winslow said. "We are discussing the murder of a beautiful person."

"I'm afraid I have to divorce myself from the person to work. You can't be emotionally involved and do the case justice," I replied gently.

"I see, Tony hasn't received the money yet. I have been able to block it so far. That I'm afraid will not be possible much longer. I'm afraid the police may no longer consider him a suspect in her death. If they state that to the insurance company, the no good bastard will be paid," Mrs. Winslow said. "The thought of him profiting from my daughter's murder is more than I can bear."

We rode in silence for a long time. We were probably twenty minutes out when I asked, "Do you watch much TV?"

"Not really why?" she asked.

"We are going to play a game with the cops," I admitted.

"What kind of game?" she asked.

"I am going to be very nice while asking for a list of things from them. They are going to be very nice when they refuse. At that time you and I will argue about my easy acceptance of their refusal. You will then bring all the juice you have." I replied.

"Juice?" she asked.

"You know influence. Don't hold anything back, give it all you have on the first try. Go just as high as you can on the very first try," I ordered.

"Are you sure," she asked with a small smile.


Mrs. Winslow's Daughter



"Absolutely, I want them to think I am a good guy, so that when I ask them later they will be inclined to help me all they can. However, I also what them as intimidated by you as possible," I admitted.

"Okay, but you may be surprised again," she said.

I almost asked her why, but decided to let her run her string instead.

When we arrived at the police station, I admit, I was a little surprised to find that she knew not only where the building was, but where the chief of detectives office was to be found. She walked right into his office without even bothering to knock.

"Mr. Sims, I think we need to talk," she said.

Sims stood, then looked past her to me. "Edgar what the hell are you doing here?" He asked it not at all unfriendly.

"Lawrence," I said extending my hand. I really hadn't expected to see him in the chief of D's chair. "What the hell are you doing in this one horsed town?"

"I moved over five years ago, when they made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

"So Mr. Sims, it seems you know my consultant," Mrs. Winslow said. The bitch knew Sims and I had worked together. It was the real reason she had chosen me for her consultant.

"Yes Ma'am I do. Edgar taught me all I know about being a detective. If he had wanted, he could have had my job, or maybe the chief's. Edgar never took the Lieutenants test. He didn't want to sit behind a desk."

"Then you two should be able to work together," she said shortly.

"So Edgar, how did Mrs. Winslow get you out of the back woods?" he asked.

"She came with a suitcase filled with money. Oh yeah, did you ever try to say no to her?" I asked.

"Haven't had to yet," he replied ominously.

"Don't bother, she gets her way," I replied.

"So what can I do for you?" he asked.

"I need a copy of all the police reports and other documents on her daughter's murder. I want to see the evidence, and talk to all the officers involved."

"Is that all?" he snapped. His attitude had changed as I expected it to do.

"That should do it," I said.

"Well, I can't do that. The investigation is on going. I am not going to open my files to you," he said angrily.

"See, Mrs. Winslow I told you no one would give us those files. Now why don't you drive me home, I have things to do." I said gently.

"Is that all you are going to do? I mean this petty little official says no and you fold like an accordion. I thought I was hiring someone with guts," she said nastily.

"Well there is nothing I can do to force Sims to cooperate," I replied just as shortly.

"Let me give a lesson to the great detective," she said while opening her cell phone. She began punching numbers. I thought for a moment she would never stop. She actually smiled wickedly while she waited for someone to answer.

"Timothy, what took you so long? I told you I might need your help today," she held the phone just listening for a while. Then she launched a tirade against both Sims and me. When she finished, she listened again then asked, "Do you want to talk to the chief detective or not? Very well I will wait right here." She clicked the phone closed. 

"I am expecting a call, if you don't mind we will wait here for it," she said haughtily.

"I have work to do, why don't you wait in the hall," Sims said angrily.

"Your call," she snapped.

I followed her into the hall. "Damn you played that a little strong. I sure as hell hope you have the juice to back it up?" I said as I watched any hope of Sims's cooperation go out the window.

Fifteen minutes later I heard the phone ring in Sims' office. I couldn't hear his words because he either didn't speak much, or kept his voice very low. When he opened the door, his attitude was considerably changed. He spoke to us in the hallway.

"Edgar, I will have the reports copied, you should be able to get them in an hour or so. You can call the lab anytime to get a viewing of the evidence. Go by the DA's office anytime you are ready, they will have a copy of their reports for you," he said in a too calm voice.

"Lawrence, you have to know I had nothing to do with this," I said hoping to get off his crap list.

"In a pig's ass," he said closing the door to his office. 

When Mrs. Winslow and I were in the parking lot she said, "It doesn't look as though he was fooled by your ruse."

"Never expected him to be," I replied. "It's kind of like a dance. He leads for a while, then we lead. Now, exactly who did you call?"

"The chairman of the democratic party."

"How the hell could he get so much done so fast?" I asked.

"The mayor needs party money and endorsement to get reelected. So does the DA," she replied with a grin.

"You do have the juice," I admitted.

"If that was a compliment, then thank you," she replied.

"How about lunch while we wait for the copies?" I asked.

The fancy restaurant was a waste. Winslow had a salad and I had a roast-beef sandwich. We could have gotten the same things for five bucks. The bill in the Garden Restaurant was over twenty. Since it was her money, I didn't complain.

When we arrived in the police records section to pick up our copies, I knew from experience that some would be missing. I looked into the clerk's eyes. Since I knew how much juice we had, I was determined to get it all. "Could I see the original file? It looks as though some of the documents are missing," I said softly.

"They are all there," she replied cautiously.

"In that case, I would like to compare them to the file."

"Wait here, I will have to call my supervisor," she suggested.

"Okay, have her call the chief of detectives, tell her to remind him that I know what should be in a six month old murder file." I said.

"Maybe you are going to be worth the five hundred a day," Mrs. Winslow commented.

"Probably not," I replied.

When the clerk returned, she added another dozen or so pages to the pile. "That will be twenty-five dollars even," she said flatly.

I turned to Mrs. Winslow who paid the clerk in cash. I stuffed the papers into the manila envelope the clerk furnished for the twenty-five bucks. I didn't even look at them first.

"So where to now?" Mrs. Winslow asked.

"The DA's office to get his file," I replied.

"Isn't it just going to be the same?" she asked.

"It had better be," I replied.

"So you are just going to make sure no one is trying to short us?" she asked.

"Some of that, but the DA will have a few papers his office generated. He will probably have the coroner's report. The cop file may or may not have it," I replied.

I didn't bother to question the DA's clerk. I simply took the file for which Mrs. Winslow paid twenty-eight dollars.

"So now what?" Mrs. Winslow asked once we were in the parking lot. 

"Now we go somewhere to read all this crap." I replied.

"Do we need to stay in town or can we do it at my house?" she asked.

"It is going to be mostly reading and making notes, so it doesn't matter where we are so long as there is a phone," I replied.

"In that case, let's go to my house."

Twenty-five minutes late she pulled the Trans Am into the circular drive of a very old colonial style house. I waited until she had stopped the car before I asked, "The family estate?"

"Hardly, my husband started life rather poor. He amassed a fortune in the chemical business. His first wife, was from the same environment as he. He moved on, to a more stylish house, and wife. Actually the stylish wife, bought the house," she said.

"That would be you?" I asked.

"One and the same, I come from a rather good family which had fallen on bad times. I had the class Robert needed to climb even higher on the ladder. It was a pretty good trade, I traded my name and upbringing for a ton of money. We both profited from the marriage," she informed me lightheartedly.

When I entered through the front door, I was surprised to find that the rather large room held only a very large spiraling stairway to the second floor. The stairs lead to a round hallway with several doors. Each door she informed me led to a bedroom and bath. 

As she took the files from me she suggested, "Why don't you go on up and pick one. While you settle in, I'll fix us a drink."

"Make mine iced tea, I have rather a lot of detailed reading to do." I climbed the stairs, then just opened the first door I came upon. It led into a bedroom all pink and frilly. I decided to try another. The second was pretty neutral, nothing feminine or especially masculine about it. I put my bag on the double bed, then began to unpack.

No more than ten minutes later, I descended the stairs to the entrance room, the area was much too large to be called a hall. I enter one of the two opening on the opposite wall from the front door. I found myself in a very modern kitchen. It was about as out of place in the grand old house as I was.

I tried the opening beside it and found myself in a kind of den. Mrs. Winslow was seated at a library type table with the files unopened before her. Also on the table were two glasses. One obviously filled with iced tea, and the other with a similar colored liquid. From the way she sipped the second glass, I had to assume it was liquor of some kind.

"Maybe you should wait in another room," I suggested.

"Not bloody likely," she replied sharply. Her nerves were on edge just looking at the envelops.

"Suit yourself, but I smoke rather smelly cigars while I think," I replied.

"Is that all you were worried about. I have been known to smoke one myself on occasion," she replied as she moved to the rather large desk. From it she removed a wooden box. I found it to be a cigar box. Inside lay a handful of very large thick cigars.

"Thanks, but I prefer my own," I said as she extended the box to me.

"Up to you," she replied taking one of the monsters for herself.

She removed a fancy lighter from the desk, then she lit the thick roll of tobacco. When she had it going, she handed me the lighter then moved an ashtray from the desk to the table.

Even with her skinny shriveled body, there was something marvelously sexy about her puffing on the fat cigar. I tried to ignore her as I returned my attention to the envelopes. I opened the cop envelope first. I removed the stack of papers. The reports were in chronological order except for the dozen extra pages. Those I put aside until last. 

The patrolman's incident report pretty much followed the story Mrs. Winslow had told. Robin's body had been found by a young couple out for a nature walk. At least that was their story and they stuck to it.

According to his report the beat cop cordoned off the area, then called the detectives. The two detectives arrived half an hour later, followed shortly by the SI unit, then the coroner's office.

The patrolman held the couple who found the body, but did not write a report on their interview. That, I expected, was done by the detectives.

I went from the patrolman's reports to the first report filed by a Detective Riley. According to detective Riley's report one of those jogger's pouches was found on the body. In the pouch along with a couple of dollars was a card with Robin's name and address. The card was provided by the bag's manufacturer to be used as Identification in case of accidents. I expected they had falls and car accidents in mind when they included it. It was a hell of an idea, since joggers seldom carried their driver's license.

The detectives left the SI to search the scene while they went to Robin's home to notify the next of kin. Since the on scene investigation had taken so long, Tony, the no good bastard, was home at the time. The neighbors confirmed that he had arrived only moments ahead of the cops. Tony gave his whereabouts to the officers, who confirmed it with a call. Since the body appeared to have been sexually molested, at the time they accepted his alibi without further question.

After the initial interview with the husband, the two detectives began looking for someone who might have heard the shots. All the residents who lived near the area where questioned, as to noises or strangers. The results were that an old couple living about a hundred yards away from the crime scene had heard the shots at five twenty-five, but had not seen anything. Since there was a strip of trees between the crime scene and their house it seemed to be a plausible story. The time of death became five twenty-five on a Friday evening.

The SI report listed all the items taken into evidence. With one exception, they were the effects of the victim. The exception being two .380 shell casings found near the body. The .380 was a bit of a surprise. I would have expected either a .22 or a 9mm. The .22 was the gun of choice for a professional hit and the 9mm was by far the most popular weapon among the criminal element. A .38 wouldn't have been unusual, but the .380 was.

The coroner reported no sexual activity at all, yet the clothes were torn from Robin's body. Of the two slugs recovered one was in good shape but the second was mangled beyond identification. Everything else about the autopsy was normal. Descriptions of several interviews with neighbors proved almost useless. The investigation center around the no good bastard for a while, but had to move on when nothing showed up.

When the police packet was finished, I found I had only two notes. "Why the torn clothes and a simple notation .380."

"Well," Mrs. Winslow asked around the stub of her cigar.

"The cops seem to have done a respectable investigation. I don't know if they center in on the two oddities, but they covered all the standard things." I replied.

"What oddities?" she asked.

"Her torn clothes, and the pistol." I saw that she didn't understand. "If the body was found around six pm. the killer wasn't frightened off, so why would he tear her clothes if he didn't intent to molest her. It doesn't say so, but I'll bet the clothes were torn after she was dead. Why anyone would do that, I have no idea.

The second thing is the pistol. Hit men sometimes use .22 caliber pistols, but most people think bigger is better. I really would have expected a street weapon. Those are almost exclusively 9mm with some .38s."

"So what does it mean?" she asked.

"Damned if I know," I replied thoughtfully.

"So what do we do now?" she asked.

"We read the DA's file to see if they have anything else, then we sleep on it," I replied.

"For this I am paying you five hundred a day?" she asked sarcastically.

"If you say that one more time, I am going home. Lady, I can use the money, but I wasn't starving when I met you," I replied.

It took a moment for the fire to leave her eyes, when it did she said. "I'm sorry this is all so frustrating. I was hoping you could just look at the file and tell me who did it," she admitted.

"Mrs. Winslow, it doesn't work that way. The cops are not idiots, no matter what you think. They have had six months to work on this. Maybe a fresh mind can find a lead, but even that isn't very likely."

"So what are we going to do tomorrow?" she asked more subdued.

"We are going to talk to the detectives, and the coroner. After that, I don't know, but I will think of something," I replied.

The autopsy photos were in the DA packet as I had expected. They were pretty gruesome but they always are. I looked at the color photos for any indication of bruising on Robin's body. The only marks of any kind were the two small holes in her skull. The photos only confirmed my opinion that her clothes were torn after her death.

Once the heart stops pumping the body no longer bruises. There surely would have been bruises from the ripping of her bra if nothing else. I didn't know from personal experience, but I had it on a good authority that it takes a great deal of force to rip a bra. I imagined the same would be true for the waist band of her shorts.

I hadn't allowed Mrs. Winslow to see the autopsy photos. The shots didn't ruin my dinner, but they would definitely ruin hers.

Mrs. Winslow was exiled to the kitchen while I reviewed the photos. When I finished, I wandered into the kitchen. She was up to her elbows in dinner. At the very moment I walked in she was washing ingredients for a salad.

"I would have thought with the size of this place you would have at least a cook," I replied.

"I actually have a staff of three, but I sent them all on vacation until further notice. I don't want anyone distracting us," she replied.

Since I had no idea how distracting a staff of three could be, I said nothing. Instead I asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Get the hell out of my kitchen," she suggested with a smile.

I poured myself a fresh glass of iced tea then returned to what I then knew was the library. I returned to the crime scene photos which I had passed over at the time of the initial reading. I went through them carefully but saw nothing. I almost picked up the dozen pages which had been left out of the original offering. I decided again to leave them until after dinner. Something about them was important. I had emerged myself in the mundane facts so that I would be ready to understand the significance of those pages. There was also some significance in the fact that the cops wanted to hide them from me.

Dinner was a rather nice steak complete with baked potato and salad. I ate with relish while Mrs. Winslow picked at hers. Almost all of hers went into the garbage. 

"Do you think there is any chance I will ever know who killed Robin?" she asked.

"Damn you are direct," I replied.

"I don't know any other way. My daddy taught me to talk straight and carry the bigger stick," she said with a sad smile.

I nodded at the good advice, then said, "Odds are about one in four that you will find out who did it. However the odds that we can prove it from the evidence are about one in a hundred."

"What makes you say that?" she asked.

"A crime committed outside like this one is a bitch for physical evidence. There is no DNA, no blood and no prints. The only possibility is that there may be a pistol around to match. The odds of that are pretty long though."

"Why," she asked.

"This wasn't a random killing. The person who killed your daughter wasn't some wacko who might hang on to the gun. It was a planned execution, anyone who ever watched TV knows that the cops can match up the pistol. It probably went right into the lake."

"Couldn't it be recovered from the lake?" she asked.

"Possibly and it might even have a serial number. That would be a very expensive, and time consuming project. One not likely to end in success. I would say this though, judging from the fact that it was a .380, the odds are better that it was bought by the killer in a gun store. That isn't the kind of pistol you buy on the street corner. It still might have been stolen somewhere, but I kind of feel that it wasn't."

"Then tomorrow, we hire a dive team to search that fucking lake," she said angrily.

"I really wish we had the manpower to search the files for sales of .380s in the last year or so. We are going to be talking to a lot of people, it would be nice to have a list to cross-check."

"Mr. Taft, do you have any idea how much money I have?" she asked seriously.

"No Ma'am," I replied honestly.

"Money I can get my hands on immediately equals probably two million, money I could get in two weeks probably come to another ten. Give me six months and I could raise more than the gross national product of some countries. You just tell me what you want and I'll get it for you. I even thought about offering a million dollar reward, but the DA talked me out of it. He said there was only one person who knew who killed my daughter and no reward would make him tell."

"He is right, this wasn't a robbery where some kid will brag to a friend. Your daughter's murder has assassination written all over it. However, if you can use your money to get information, then it is better than any reward."




Mrs. Winslow's Daughter



"Mr. Taft you are a simple man, I know. I want you to watch what a pissed off old lady can do." She lifted the phone from its cradle. Again she dialed several numbers. "This is Nora Winslow, is Mike home?"

She waited a few minutes then said, "Mike I don't have time for your ass kissing right now. I need the name of that research firm we used on the Billings thing. I know it is after work, but you can get it for me." She waited and listened. "Mike, I have a man here who is trying to help me find Robin's killer. We need that name now." She said it calmly but there was a threat in it.

"Okay, you call me back no matter what time it is," she said. She turned to me, "Mike is going to the office for the name. It will take about an hour."

"Those people are going to have a hard time getting all that information without cops to press the gun store's buttons," I suggested.

"Don't you read the papers?" she asked. She went on without an answer. "All sales of handguns are now on a computer somewhere or other. It's a requirement of the Brady Bill."

"But those files are kept by the department of justice," I replied knowing at least a little.

"They are," she agreed without any concern whatsoever.

The call came an hour later. While she spoke to Mike, she wrote a long list of numbers then a phone number. She switched the call to the speaker phone so that I could hear.

"Electronic research," the metallic computer voice answered. Mrs. Winslow began punching in the numbers Mike had given her.

After a few transfer clicks, a man's voice came on the phone. "Mrs. Winslow, how very nice to hear from you again. I read in the papers that the Billings thing worked out well for you."

"It did, I have another task for you."

"The same type things as last time?" he asked.

"Not exactly, I need to know, Hold on a minute. She turned to me after killing the speaker. "What do I need to know?"

"The names and addresses of everyone who purchased a .380 automatic pistol in either North Carolina, South Carolina or Virginia, in the last year," I suggested.

She turned back to the phone, then repeated the information to the man on the other end of the line. "How soon do you need this?" he asked.

She turned to me. "Three days, " I replied.

She again relayed the information. They agreed on a figure that was staggering to me. When she finished the call I said, "Don't ever talk about how much you are paying me again. Between this and the dive crew, I am going to be your least expensive employee."

"I hope you are going to be the best investment I ever made," she said.

"That remains to be seen. I may be wasting your money," I said feeling a little guilty.

"Mr. Taft, for the first time in six months, I feel that I am doing something. Win or loose it is worth every penny," she said.

"If that's the way you feel, I promise you this. If we don't figure this out, it won't be for lack of trying." I made the promise while getting into it myself.

I stopped making promises and turned to the dozen unread pages. The first and only one of interest was a report filed by the SI. The lab's investigator had written that the detectives seemed less than enthusiastic about pursuing the case. In his mind at least, they decided instantly that it was a sex crime. Those kinds of crimes when committed randomly have an almost zero chance of being solved with hard police work. It they ever get solved it is because the culprit gets caught in the act. Or more likely, a victim survives to identify him. Their attitude seemed to be, wait until we get him on something else and he will cop to this one.

The balance of the pages were a rehash and update after four months. It was the report which a new investigator would read when working a case that had been put on the rear burner. It was simply there for reference in case a similar crime occurred. One hopefully with a valid suspect, nobody seemed to want to fool around with a whodunit without a witness. I gave up after an hour of reading with no new information.

I had gotten so used to the cold cabin, that I had a hard time sleeping in the warm house. I did manage to sleep some, but it was only in short bursts. I awoke early, then used the warm bathroom for all my morning things. I had to admit that it was nice to shower first thing and in a warm room.

When I arrived in the kitchen, Mrs. Winslow was sitting at the table over a dirty plate and a coffee cup. "What would you like for breakfast, I can just about cook an egg," she replied with a smile. Her smile was much warmer than the one from the day before.

"To tell you the truth, I don't get to town much. I was kind of hoping to get a biscuit from one of the fast food restaurants," I admitted. I saw the curious look on her face. "It's kind of a nostalgia thing. I would like a cup of coffee though."

I drank the coffee while I worked on the morning paper. Nothing of any real consequence had happened over night. Since I hadn't seen a paper in more than a week, nothing had happened in the last week.

After the coffee, we drove to a local dive shop. It was actually part of a sporting goods store. The dive club president worked at the store. I explained what I wanted done. He and his group were up to it, he assured me. He named a per day, per diver, fee to which Mrs. Winslow immediately agreed.

"There is very little current in that lake. If a pistol was tossed in, it is likely to be close to where it landed," he assured us. He also knew the location of the murder scene. He explained that he dived in that lake often so the description in the paper was familiar to him. He had never thought of diving there for a pistol. I was a little surprised that the cops hadn't had divers in the waters near the site of the murder.

Mrs. Winslow and I drove to the coroner's office in the basement of the Greenpoint Hospital. Doctor Shell was such a nice sympathetic man that the Winslow juice wasn't necessary. He and I poured over the pictures. In the end he agreed that the clothes were torn after Robin's death. Why neither of us knew for sure.

"Now what?" Mrs. Winslow asked as we walked to her fire bird.

"Now we go somewhere to have a cup of coffee. While we drink our coffee, you tell me all you have learned about the no good bastard." I replied.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Mrs. Winslow, you are not the kind of woman to have allowed your daughter to marry without a background check on the prospective son. I also imagine you have had him checked out since the murder." She didn't even bother trying to deny it.

"Okay, I admit I have a couple of reports on Tony," she said dropping the no good bastard phrase.

"So let's get to a place with a coffee pot while you tell me," I suggested.

The place turned out to be one of those restaurant with cute little tablecloths and flowers everywhere. The coffee at least was adequate, if a little weak.

"When Robin met Tony, she was in college. At that time, Tony was a year ahead of her. She dropped out when he graduated. They married just as soon as I got him a job. I wouldn't have him in my company, so I found one of our suppliers to take him. I have been told that he is less than a hard worker. That is why his staying at the office on a Friday night bothers me."

"Does he still work at the same company?" I asked.

"Yes and he will until he gets the insurance money," Mrs. Winslow said bitterly.

I made a note to talk to his boss. I was forced to use a napkin for the note. It wasn't even all that unusual, I had done it often before while still a cop.

"So did your man come up with any girlfriends?" I asked.

"Plenty when he was in college, even one while they were dating. He could find nothing after he and Robin married. Why should he fool around, he would be risking everything?"

"Why would the president of the United States fool around? Some men just can't help themselves." I commented.

"He seems to have been a good boy after the wedding. My man checked carefully," she replied.

"No offense but Tony may have been more careful." I suggested. "He did have a lot at stake."

"I know but Matt would have found out if he was fooling around even after Robin's death," she said.

"Did anyone check his bank records?" I asked.

"I suppose the police did," she suggested.

"I doubt it, they had no probable cause for a warrant," I informed her. The suggestion was like a light going off in her head. I stopped her from calling the bank by informing her that the bank couldn't release that information under penalty of law.

Instead of calling the bank she called Electronic Research again. I finally knew for sure, Electronic Research was a fancy name for some computer hacker or hackers. It made no difference to me. Live and let live, was one of my many mottoes.

I waved to get her attention, "While you are at it get his credit card purchases for the last year."

When she shut off the phone, she asked brightly, "So what else can we do today?"

"We can talk to the detectives who investigated this case. Maybe you can convince the chief of detectives to have their notebooks copied for us."

An hour later we met Detective Riley in yet another restaurant. I was certainly getting a tour of all the restaurants in town. Winslow was actually very good during the interview, both with the coroner and Riley. She knew enough not to ask any questions. She allowed me to ask them all.

"So Riley, what happened to Robin?" I asked.

"She got herself killed," the moderately overweight woman said.

"Exactly what did she do to get herself killed?" I asked.

"You know that jogging is hazardous to your health," she replied with a grin. Either she didn't know who Mrs. Winslow was or more likely she didn't care. She was a civil servant and fairly immune from political pressure. At least civil servants like to think so.

"Okay, then who do you think killed her?" I asked.

"If I had any idea, I would go out and arrest him," she said.

"Did you like the husband for it?" I asked.

"I liked him fine, but he had an air tight alibi," she admitted. 

"How about a hired hit?" I asked.

"You watch too many TV shows in your retirement. It was an attempted rape gone bad," she said. "You saw the pictures."

I was sure Mrs. Winslow was biting her lip to keep from screaming at the woman. I knew because I was doing the same. 

"I don't suppose you did a background on the husband, just to be sure?" I asked.

"Sure we did, he was squeaky clean," she replied.

After she left Winslow said, "No wonder they couldn't solve Robin's murder, they were looking in the wrong place. The no good bastard did it somehow."

"We don't know that, but it would be my guess at the moment. Let's just see how it shakes out before we draw any conclusions. We don't want to fall into the same trap as the cops."

We met with Edwards whose story was the same as Riley's. They had checked out Tony and every known sex offender in the area.

Winslow and I made the lab our last stop. The lab director was expecting us. He escorted us to a small room with a table in the middle. On it lay all the evidence from the crime scene. I didn't bother opening the envelopes with the slugs and shell casings. I did sort through the bags of clothing.

I noticed the portable tape player. I couldn't remember having seen it in any of the pictures of the body. I lifted the evidence tag, but it told me nothing.

"Is your scientific investigator who gathered this stuff working today?" I asked.

"He is on a call," the lab manager said.

"I have only two questions, could you get him on the phone?" 

"I guess, what are your questions?"

"Where exactly was the tape player and what was the name of the tape in it," I asked.

"What possible difference could it make?" the lab manager asked.

"None probably, but I would like to know. Also did the husband identify the tape player as his wife's."

"That is three questions but okay," he said escorting us out of the evidence area.

When he returned from his private office he said, "The tape player was found on the path, and her husband identified it. The tape in it was a country and western tape of some kind. If you really need to know the name, Jake can look in his notes when he returns."

"If I need to know, I'll call back," I replied.

Once outside Winslow said, "That couldn't have been Robin's tape player. She hates country and western music. She told me it was too vulgar. She would have been listening to classical music."

"I expected that, not about the music, but I didn't think it was her player," I admitted.

"Why would you say that?" Winslow asked.

"You said Robin was a spoiled brat. That was some Chinese piece of crap tape player. I don't expect anyone like Robin would have been satisfied with anything less than a Sony or a disk player of some kind."

"If Tony identified it as hers, then it proves he had something to do with her murder," Mrs. Winslow said.

"It doesn't prove anything, since we can't prove it wasn't hers. Besides he will just say he was upset and mistaken."

"That no good bastard can't get away with this," she almost sobbed.

"Come on, we have only been at this a day. Give it some time. He may not get away with anything," I admitted.

"I am personally ready to call it a day." I suggested after a pause.

"Why it's only five thirty?" Mrs. Winslow asked.

"Because, I don't know what to do next," I admitted.

Back at the Winslow house, I reread the SI report. It did indeed place the tape player on the path. Further down in the report, I found that an attempt to print the tape player proved useless. There were no prints on either the tape player or the tape inside. The SI had been thorough in his failures.

After dinner, Mrs. Winslow wanted to talk over her evening drink. "Do you plan to talk to the no good bastard tomorrow?" she asked.

"I don't think so," I admitted.

"Why not?" she asked.

"We have his statement from the police. He isn't going to change his story. He has had six months to work on it. What we need is a direction to move. To get that we need information."

"I don't understand?" she admitted.

"If this was a planned murder, and I think it was, then somebody she knew planned it. You say it was Tony and I have no reason to doubt that at all. However, there has to be somewhere for us to begin proving it. All the background checks have been done by the police or your last investigator. Whoever did it knew your daughter and knew her well. We need to find out who she knew. The cops talked to her friends and came up blank, we need to use a different approach." I stated.

"So what's it to be?" she asked.

"We take the advice of every investigator since Watergate, we follow the money. When we get the bank records and the credit card records, we begin there. Those records should give us a pretty good idea of Tony and your daughter's habits. Even those nobody told the cops about."

"I don't understand?" she admitted.

"There will probably be a shop where your daughter bought her clothes, now Tony probably had no idea where she shopped. The cops sure as hell didn't ask the clerks if they knew anything, but we can."

"You are hoping that something from the credit card purchases will tell us something?" she asked skeptically.

"Maybe, or maybe Tony withdrew a couple of grand from the bank around the time of your daughter's death."

Maybe I need to speed up our little research firm?" she suggested.

"The sooner the better," I replied.

She made the call then without another word went to her home computer. Not five minutes later the phone rang again. The computer answered it. Ten minutes later it began vomiting out pages of paper. I sat in my chair marveling at what real money could do.

When I saw the first page, I knew that the research company had been worth whatever she paid them. The purchases were by date even though there were four different cards used. The research company had somehow merged all the cards into one giant list. I couldn't have asked for a better job.

The bank list was done similarly. Every transaction from either of the three bank accounts was listed by date. I began with the bank records. There were no large withdrawals and few withdrawals on a regular basis. The house payments, car payments, and utilities being the notable exceptions. I wasn't too disappointed, since I hadn't expected it to be that easy.

In the credit card list, I found weekly purchases from two different gas stations. It appeared that husband and wife used different brands of gasoline. I also found that one or the other of them belonged to a gym, most likely Robin. I found the name of a small boutique listed several times over the last year. I put it on my list of places to visit.

I noticed a regular charge to the account only on one card and only at a restaurant on the interstate. The restaurant wasn't near anything. The charge was for a hefty fifty bucks twice a week. A lot for me to spend for a meal but probably not too much for Tony or Robin. I wrote the address anyway. I wanted a list of anything either of them did on a regular basis. When the list was finished, I had two retail stores, the restaurant, gas stations, and the gym.

Mrs. Winslow had been reading the pages as I finished them. She checked the bank records and the credit card list a second time while I watched. I could tell she was looking for something.

"What's wrong, Mrs. Winslow?" I asked.

"There is no beauty shop on either of these lists. Every woman goes to the beauty shop."

I might never have thought of that myself. It did seem peculiar. "Why in hell would your daughter put gas on a card, then pay a beauty shop in cash?" I asked.

"She wouldn't without a damned good reason. My daughter loved credit cards."

"Do you happen to know where she had her hair done?" I asked.

"No, she and I didn't talk much after she married the no good bastard," she admitted sadly.

"Do you have any idea who might know?" I asked.

"Her only girl friend was a neighbor. The woman three doors down," she suggested.

"Let's go talk to her first, then we will work on the shops," I suggested.

Laura Duffy was the neighbor and only close friend. We spent almost half an hour with her. She gave us the name of the woman who did both Robin's and her own hair. The story was simple as is usually the case. The woman had been doing Laura's hair for years. The beautician became pregnant and had to quit work at the fancy shop. The woman's husband had built her a small shop at home. She continued to work a few hours a day for her favorite clients In an emergency Robin had used her once. She had continued since she found the woman competent and pleasant to be around. According to Laura, she also loved the woman's baby. Robin would often stay after her appointment to play with the child. The cash was simple, the new mother was trying to beat the IRS. We had to reassure Laura at least ten times that we weren't going to report her friend. She actually seemed more concerned with the woman's availability to work on her hair than any potential legal problems for the beautician.

"You know, women talk to their beauticians, maybe we should see this woman next," Mrs. Winslow suggested.

"That actually sounds like a good idea," I admitted.

The woman's name was Jean Davis, she was a very attractive thirty something woman. She had beautiful blonde hair. I would have expected no less. She seemed to be carrying a little extra weight, from the baby most likely.

I made a large point of introducing Robin's mother before I began asking questions. "Miss Davis, we are having a bit of trouble pinning down exactly how Robin spent her days. Could you help us with that?" I tried to start off easy.

"Jean, please call me Jean. Actually I don't know a lot about Robin, except that she loved children. She sometimes spent an extra hour playing with Mikey." Mike sat in a fishnet playpen in the middle of her small shop's floor.




Mrs. Winslow's Daughter



"Did you get the feeling that she and Tony were planning to have one of their own?" I asked.

"I don't think so. Frankly she told me in confidence, but since she is dead. I guess I can tell it. She told me she was thinking about divorcing Tony. I expect it was because he didn't want kids." She looked thoughtful, then added, "At least that was part of it."

She didn't go on so I asked, "What was the other part?"

"I think she had met someone else. She never exactly said, but I just got the feeling that toward the end she was moving closer to leaving her husband."

I tried but she didn't seem to know any more. In the car I asked, "Mrs. Winslow did you have any idea Robin might be considering leaving Tony?"

"None, I am shocked," Mrs Winslow said.

"Didn't your investigator find out?" I asked.

"He was looking at Tony, not my daughter," she replied defensively.

"If she had mentioned divorce to her husband, it certainly gave him a stronger motive to kill her," I admitted.

Mrs. Winslow had a picture of both Tony and Robin. I used those pictures to try to jog the memories of the clerks in the two boutiques. I found clerks who remembered Robin without too much trouble. Neither of them knew anything except that Robin had been a rather particular customer. She had always bought the best of everything, but she was picky. She was careful to buy only things which didn't emphasis her weight problem.

The weight thing reminded me of the gym. We tried it after the shops. I found the manager who explained that she didn't really have any dealing with the customers after they had signed the contract. She did allow me to interview the various weight loss instructors. The problem was, we were at the gym in the early morning. Robin worked out after lunch three days a week. If we wanted to speak with the instructor who had the most dealing with her, it would require a visit the next day after lunch.

"Why don't we go to lunch at the restaurant by the interstate?" I suggested.

When we arrived, I thought we were in the wrong place. The restaurant was one of those family places. I was very much at home in the place, but I doubted Robin would have been on a regular basis. To spend fifty bucks at that restaurant, she would have had to feed six people. 

I guessed immediately that the motel attached to the restaurant might be the real attraction. I wondered why the hell she would be paying for the room if she were having an affair. Surely the man would pay, even in those days of women's lib. The only way to find out was to ask.

The clerk wouldn't even look at the photographs until Mrs. Winslow broke out the cash. I showed him first the picture of Tony. I still had hopes that it was Tony who charged the room. It would make more sense for him to pay the bill than for Robin to pay.

He didn't recognize Tony. On the other hand he did recognize Robin. "Sure," he said. "That's Jenny. She used to come in a couple of times a week, but she hasn't been in lately."

"I don't expect so, she was murdered six months ago." I waited for that to sink in. "So tell me did she check in with anyone?"

"No, but I'm sure she was meeting someone," he said.

"Why are you so sure?" I asked.

"Because she stayed only a couple of hours. Nobody checks into this place for two hours unless it is for a quickie," he replied with a smile. I hadn't explained that Mrs. Winslow was 'Jenny's' Mother.

"Did you ever see the man?" I asked.

"No, I never did," he replied. "She checked in, then left the key in the room when she was finished. She wasn't a hooker or anything was she?"

"No," I replied.

"I didn't think so, she had way too much class for that," he replied.

"Tell me why her credit card receipts have the restaurant as the charge?" I asked.

"Take a look at this place. We do it for the business," he admitted.

"You have a lot of short term guests then?" I asked.

"You bet," he replied.

We had lunch in the parking lot restaurant. "You know it is hard for me to believe that my daughter was having an affair. At least with a man who could not afford to pay for the motel," Mrs. Winslow said seriously.

"I know, that is bothering me some," I replied. "Where would she come into contact with someone like that, and why would she be considering divorcing her husband for such a man?"

"Love is a strange thing, Mr. Taft," she said with a sad little smile.

"I guess we might as well go buy some gas," I suggested.

"I suppose so," she agreed.

The first station was the one where Tony bought his gas. It was a self service station near his home. The clerk recognized the picture but knew nothing more than Tony seemed to be a nice man.

The second station was a little better. Robin had bought her gas at one of the few full service stations in the city. The owner knew her car, better than her. At least that's what he told us. As I had done at every other place, I obtained a list of his employees as of the date of Robin's death. I had been compiling the list to cross check with the gun purchases when the records arrived. It was a real long shot, but we were reduced to playing long shots.

After we left the station, I suggested that we stop by the police crime lab. I wanted to talk face to face with the tech who had gathered the evidence. We managed to get him away from the lab. In the snack bar over coffee he explained his actions and his initial concerns about the detectives's apparent lack of enthusiasm.

"At the time, there was just nothing to go on. As a matter of fact nothing really ever developed. I understand that everyone 's conclusion was that the woman was just a random victim. You know, in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said.

"You know I have one little problem with all of this, I never got to see the items collected from her home. Surely things were taken from her home."

"We examined a few things but returned them to her husband's lawyer. Since none of it was important, we couldn't keep it," he declared.

"Did you make a list of the items before you released them?" I asked.

"Sure, didn't you get it?" he asked.

"No, I don't think so. Do you have a copy?"

"Absolutely, it's in my notebook. I can get it for you now," he suggested. 

While the tech went for the list, I tried to think of anything to help move our investigation along. Nothing came to mind. After the tech had given me the list, he returned to work. Mrs. Winslow and I drove to her house.

I was seated at the library table when I said, "I need to think out loud a minute. Is that okay with you?"

"Sure, I am interested in what you think," she replied.

"Okay, starting at the beginning, we have to assume that the torn clothes were a red herring. The killer wanted us to think that it was an attempted rape gone bad," I suggested. "Or that the killer was a man," I mused. "Maybe Robin was killed by a woman."

"Is that likely?" Mrs. Winslow asked. "I would think the amount of strength required to rip a bra would be more likely in a man."

"It would indeed, but let's not close our minds to any possibility. We are pretty sure Robin was having an affair. If so, it might have been her lover, or maybe he was married and it was his wife."

"I still think it was Tony," Mrs. Winslow said.

"Like I said, let's not close our minds just yet. However, maybe Tony was fooling around too. He could have hired someone to do the hit, but how did he pay him. There is no money missing,"

"Maybe he had a secret bank account," she suggested.

"His only income was from his job, maybe you can get someone to run the figures. You know, see if there is a chuck of money unaccounted for," I suggested. Mrs. Winslow made a note on a legal pad.

"What we really need to know is who Robin was seeing at that motel. Now how do we go about it?" I asked.

"If she didn't tell her best friend, then she didn't tell anyone," Mrs. Winslow stated.

"Let's go at this another way. She met the man at lunch a couple of times a week. You probably could answer this better than me. Why lunch time?"

"Maybe it was the only time he could get away. Robin didn't work so she could have met him anytime during the day without any problem, so it must have been his problem," she replied.

"Can we assume, he at least had a job?" I asked with a smile.

"Yes, but he didn't have enough money for the motel room," she replied.

"Maybe he did have the money, but was afraid to leave a trail. He had her register and pay so that he wouldn't be seen with her," I suggested.

"Of course, we were looking at it wrong. He couldn't pay without leaving a trail. If Robin had to leave the trail, then she had less to lose than the man. That makes a lot more sense," Mrs. Winslow said. She seemed somehow relieved that her daughter had at least taken up with a man of means.

"That actually is bad news. It means the man covered his tracks well and that if we find him, he probably won't cop to it," I suggested. "That said, do you have any ideas?"

"Not right off the top of my head," she admitted.

"She wasn't into politics, was she?" I asked.

"No, I don't think Robin even knew who the president was," Mrs. Winslow admitted.

"You said Robin was on your company's board, could it have been someone there?" I asked.

"Men on the board are all in their seventies," she admitted.

"You keep thinking about it anyway, just to humor me," I replied shortly.

She nodded, then sat quietly for a while. "I can't think of anyone. How about dinner, it's that time you know."

"No offense to your cooking but could we order something brought in? I think I would like a pizza," I suggested.

She actually laughed. "I don't really like to cook, I was just doing it to show my appreciation. Pizza would be fine."

After the pizza I tried to get my mind off the case for a while. I sat in front of the television watching a mindless comedy. Mrs. Winslow sat beside me on the sofa but certainly not close.

"Taft, tell me something," she demanded. "Don't you get lonely living out in the woods?"

"I never thought about it. After I left the department, I needed the solitude to wind down. Now that you have dragged me back, I don't know how I will feel when I return," I replied honestly.

"I wasn't thinking about that, I was asking about women. Don't you miss the female companionship?"

"I was married until I went to live in the woods. I sure as hell don't miss that companionship." I replied.

"You may be the best detective in the world but you are dense as a post. Don't you miss the sex?" she asked.

I was a little surprised by her question. "To tell you the truth there wasn't much of that at the end of my marriage. I suppose I got used to it not being available. To answer your question, I just never thought about it." I thought about it for the first time. Mrs. Winslow remained silent while I did.

"How long have you been a widow?" I asked.

"Three years, but that wasn't an offer," she stated. "I have been with other men since my husband's death. I was actually seeing someone up until a couple of months ago."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Mr. Taft, rich women do not marry poor men. John worked for me. I should never have started up with him. He was too young for me anyway." She said it sadly. She obviously missed him.

"How young is too young?" I asked.

"He was forty. I am not going to tell you how old I am," she said smiling at me.

"Where is this John now?" I asked.

"Home with his wife and kids, I expect," she replied. "Could we not talk about him?"

"Not a problem for me," I replied.

"Edgar, I lied earlier. It was an offer," she said quietly with her eyes down.

"I don't know what to say, except that I am highly flattered. I do have a problem with it though. At this particular moment, I need to stay focused and I couldn't do that if we were involved. I mean you would be a constant distraction. If you will hold that thought for a day or two, I would be most honored to accept your kind offer."

"You mean we should wait until this is over?" she asked.

"I think that would be best," I agreed. Far from being angry as I had feared, she took it as a great joke. 

"In that case, I will tell you that I may not look like a sex pot, but everyone tells me I am great in bed. So let that be an incentive for you to solve this quickly." 

We sat closer on the sofa during the evening news. I went to bed alone that night. I had second and third thoughts as the night drew out.

At breakfast the next morning I asked, "Were you seeing this John at the time of Robin's murder?"

"Yes, but John couldn't have had anything to do with her death. He and Robin hardly knew each other," she replied.

"I know, but he was involved in the family life at the time. I really should talk to him. Could you arrange a non confrontational meeting?"

"We can just drop in on him. He does work for me."

John proved to be a wimpy little man. I doubted that he would have had the strength to pull the body from the path let alone rip Robin's clothes. On the other hand, he was very nervous when he spoke to me. I had the feeling all was not well with Johnny boy. While we spoke, I checked out his office. I found a very bad photograph of his family on the desk. The lighting was so poor the only thing I could tell for sure was that his wife was at least four inches taller than Johnny boy.

After the meeting we made the short drive from Avery to Greenpoint. We met with Robin's workout trainers. They expressed their regrets about Robin's murder, but really couldn't help us.

I asked just in passing, how Robin had come to join a gym so far from her home. There were several gyms closer. One of them was much fancier. None of the instructor could give me an answer. 

I returned to the manager's office. The woman behind the desk was more than happy to allow me access to Robins records. There was nothing in them of course. I was on my way out the door following Mrs. Winslow, when the instructor called me back.

Mrs. Winslow kept going, "I didn't want to say anything in front of Robin's mother, but I know why Robin came here. I think she was having an affair with an instructor in the Avery branch of our Gym. The instructor recommended us to her. The way she talked about the instructor I felt like they might be real close, if you get my drift."

I nodded then asked, "Who was the instructor?"

"I don't know her whole name but Robin called her Molly," the girl said. "This isn't going to cause me any problems is it?" 

"I don't see how," I admitted.

Son of a bitch, I thought as I walked to meet Mrs. Winslow. This was getting complicated. I suppose the motel meeting could have been with a woman. There seemed to be one hell of a tangle in Robin's life.

I was left with the unenviable job of telling Mrs. Winslow. I decided not to say anything for a while. After the meeting at the gym, I tried to think of something else to do. Nothing came to mind, so I convinced Mrs. Winslow to drive me to her house. On the way I suggested we stop in the Avery branch of the Gym. Molly just happened to be working at the time. She was absolutely covered in sweat and her hair hung down in strings.

I convinced Mrs. Winslow to allow me to talk to Molly in private. Molly admitted to knowing Robin, but laughed when I hinted at a love affair. 

"Where on earth did you hear that. I am a happily married woman with two kids," she said with a sigh. "I get that kind of crap all the time because I look butch." She took it good naturally.

"So how did you happen to know Robin?" I asked.

"Actually, I met her here. She stopped by for one of our free trial offers. She looked the place over, then came a couple of times on the trial. About that time she moved to Greenpoint. Since we have a facility nearer to there, I suggested she join it instead of making the even longer drive here every day or so."

I was more than a little thankful that I didn't have to tell Mrs. Winslow about the insinuation that her daughter was having an affair with a woman. Of course, it didn't get me one bit closer to the killer.

That evening over a dozen white boxes of Chinese take-out, I said, "We have to figure out who the boyfriend was. If we know that, then we can start beating on Tony's cage."

Mrs. Winslow asked the pertinent question, "I know the dodge about the restaurant had to appeal to Robin, but how did she find out about the place?"

"She surely didn't ask any of her girlfriends, maybe the man knew," I suggested.

"Maybe it was a lucky accident," she countered.

"How so?"

"What if the reason they chose that motel had nothing to do with the billing, at least not at first. Suppose they chose it because it was close to the interstate," she suggested.

"As in the boyfriend was from out of town?" I asked.

"Right, she might have phone calls on her home phone bill."

"The cops already checked the phone bill," I replied remembering having seen a copy in the files.

"Maybe they didn't know what they were looking for," she added.

"How so?" I asked.

"If Tony lied about the tape player, maybe he lied about the calls. He could have identified the numbers as those he had called." 

In some twisted way it might make sense. I went through the files until I found the bills. I handed them to Mrs. Winslow to check. She went through them without any comment. "I don't see a thing. She made a lot more calls to me than I would have thought, but nothing else."

"How so?" I asked.

"There are several calls here to the plant. I didn't realize she called me so often," she said.

Little things make the difference between a run of the mill detective and a good one. I picked up on it, then tied it to my previous thinking. "Mrs. Winslow, what if the man kept his affair with you daughter quiet, not from fear of his wife or the publicity but fear of you. Could she have been having an affair with an employee of your husband's company?" I asked.

"That's ridiculous, as I said the men she came into contact with were seventy or more years old."

"Humor me again, could you find out who those calls went to?" I asked.

"Incoming calls are not logged," she informed me.

"Maybe our man called her, would it be on the log, if he called her?" I asked.

"Absolutely," she informed me going to the phone. It was well past the closing hour of the plant. 

"Mrs. Winslow, could you make sure it is a woman whom you call. I would hate to speak to the man who made the calls. If he buried them, we might never find out who it was," I suggested.

"Are you thinking Mike?" she asked disbelievingly.

"Not really, I just don't want to take any chances," I admitted.

"All right, I have the company directory around here somewhere. Mrs. Brown is the communications manager. She should be able to run it down."

She made the call, then we waited for Mrs. Brown to go to the office. While we waited, I asked Mrs. Winslow if the gun store records were ready. We might have a name to check against it soon.

The information was in her computer, she just hadn't checked. The names were all in alphabetical order regardless of the date of purchase. That research company was a marvel.

Mrs. Brown called with the names shortly after nine. Mrs. Winslow was of course on the log, as was her former boyfriend John Matlin. One call could have been explained as a call concerning her mother, but twenty-four calls in the two months preceding Robins murder were going to be a bitch to explain.

"That son of a bitch was seeing my daughter and me at the same time," Mrs. Winslow shouted. "I'm going to kill that prick." She was sobbing hard by the time she finished her conversation. 

I left her to sob while I checked the gun purchases. Neither Tony nor Matlin's names were on the list, but Robin's was. Tony hadn't mentioned to the cops that Robin had a .380.




Mrs. Winslow's Daughter



I showed her daughter's name to Mrs. Winslow. I explained that there was almost no way it could be a coincidence. Robin had almost certainly been killed with her own gun. "That my dear," I said to Mrs. Winslow, "Opens up several new possibilities. If Tony knew about the pistol, but didn't mention it to the police, then he is going to up to his ass in it again. If on the other hand he didn't know, then no harm no foul. Robin might have had the pistol with her for protection. Someone might have taken it away from her, then shot her with it. What we are going to have to do is sweat some people tomorrow. It would sure be nice if I were a cop again."

"Why?" Mrs. Winslow asked.

"It is a lot easier to get information from a suspect when he has jail to look forward to. Without the trappings it's hard to get the same effect." I replied. I thought about it for a while. "With Johnny boy, maybe the job loss and the threat to tell his wife will work. On Tony, I have no idea unless we threaten to kill him."

"I can do that," Mrs. Winslow said evenly.

"Threaten or kill?" I asked.

"Either," she said quietly.

"Before you kill anyone, let's find out who needs killing," I suggested.

"I can wait," she said with a large smile. I wasn't sure whether she had changed the subject without me know it or not.

The next morning we began with Johnny boy. Mrs. Winslow kept an office at the headquarters building which she seldom used. On that day we both occupied it. John was summoned to the office around nine thirty.

"Come on in John and close the door behind you," she said icily.

"Mrs. Winslow, what can I do for you," bless his heart he tried to smile.

"John, Mr. Taft has some questions for you. If you want to keep your job, and your marriage, I suggest you answer them truthfully." Mrs. Winslow showed a cold side of herself which I had not seem before.

"I don't know what this is about but I can tell you Nora, I don't intend to sit here and be threatened," the whiner said.

"Shut the fuck up," I shouted loud enough to be heard outside. "You are going to sit there and you are going to answer my questions or I am going to kick your ass all over this room."

Johnny boy cringed. "What do you want?" he asked close to sobbing.

"You are going to tell us when and how your affair with Mrs. Winslow's daughter began," I demanded.

"I didn't have an affair with your daughter Nora, what kind of man do you take me for?" he asked. He at least tried to act indignant.

I tossed the telephone log on Mrs. Winslow's desk. "You called her twenty four times in the two months before her death. You met her twice a week at the Morrison Motel. Now either you come clean, or I go first to your wife then the cops," I threatened.

"What the hell are you talking about? I never called Robin, and I sure as hell never met her in a motel," he said.

"The telephone logs don't lie, asshole. You called her and you met her. Tell you what let's you and I drive over to Greenpoint. I expect that motel owner can identify you." Of course I knew he couldn't.

Instead of answering he bent to look at the logs. "These calls weren't made from the office. They are charges against my calling card. Someone must have stolen my number then used it to call Robin. As for the other let's go. If that will end this nonsense, let's just go see if the Motel man can identify me." His voice was quivering. I would have thought it a sign of fear, if I hadn't already determined that John was a wimp.

"You sit there and think about telling the truth, while I talk this over with Mrs. Winslow."

Outside the office, I said, "I swear I believe the little twerp."

"Me too," Mrs. Winslow said.

"Why did you two break it off?" I asked.

"Take a look at him. I got tired of mothering the twerp," she said. "It appealed to me for a while, but it got old after a few months."

"To tell you the truth, I doubt he could have moved the body, let alone ripped her clothes."

"So we are back to square one?" she asked.

"Maybe not, let's find out who could have used his calling card."

"Okay John," I said when we returned to the room. "I am about half convinced that Robin would never have had anything to do with a wimp like you. You tell me who else uses your card and I'll let you off the hook."

"Nobody else uses it with my permission, that would be against the company rules."

"John, somebody has been using that card. If that someone wasn't you, then all we really have to do is call some of the other numbers to find out who called them on that date. You need to get your head straight."

"Maybe it was my wife," he suggested.

"Why the hell would your wife call Robin?" I asked.

"She knew Robin from the gym. She might have called to change her appointment times or something," he suggested.

"You wife goes to the gym in Greenpoint," I said it sarcastically.

"No, my wife is an instructor at the Avery Gym. She had Robin as a client for a while," he suggested.

"What is your wife's name?" I asked trying to keep it casual.

"Molly," he said miserably.

My mind raced. "Did your wife suspect that you were having an affair?" I asked.

"I wasn't having an affair with Robin," he said again.

"Not Robin you ass, me." Mrs. Winslow said.

"I don't think so," he said less than convincingly.

"Come on John, spill it," I said as I slapped him from the chair.

He picked himself us with tears in his eyes. "She found out a few months before Nora ended it. We had a row, but I explained that I couldn't afford to lose my job. She hardly spoke to me for months. When our affair ended, Molly forgave me."

"Johnny boy, you sit right where you are for a while. I'll tell you when you can leave." I motioned Mrs. Winslow from the room. 

"Come on Mrs. Winslow, we need to make a quick trip before Johnny boy calls his wife."

"Why," she asked.

"Unless I miss my guess, Molly killed Robin." I said.

"Why would she do that? If she knew about me and John, why didn't she just kill me."

"She would have been the number one suspect in your death. Besides Robin's death would cause you a great deal more suffering than a quick death. 

"Shouldn't we call the police?"

"I don't think that will be necessary. I expect she will deny it for a while in any event. I just want to make her start thinking."

When we arrived at the gym, Molly met us in the lobby. It was an accidental meeting. She seemed to be in a hurry to leave the building.

"I see John called you," I said.

"I knew you had figured it out when he told me that you had left him sitting in the old bat's office." While she spoke she pulled a very small automatic pistol from her bag.

Mrs. Winslow hid behind me. I guess we can call off the divers at the lake. It looks as though you kept the pistol. Tell me something, I am curious."

"I don't have time to talk. I am on my way out right now."

"This won't take a second. If you tell me then I will step away, otherwise you are going to have to shoot me. I expect someone will come running even with the sound of that toy."

"Hurry up," she shouted.

"Why were you meeting Robin at that motel?"

"Why do you think. Her mother seduced my John, so I seduced her daughter. It seemed like a fair trade."

"So why did you kill her? Just to strike back at her mother again?" I asked.

"Hardly, I had done enough to her. I knew that someday she would find out. No, I killed her because she threatened to tell my husband about the affair. She had somehow gotten it into her mind that my kids were suffering because I am a closet lesbian. There was no talking to her. Now if you don't get out of the way, I am going to add an old man to my list of killings."

I stepped aside to reveal Mrs. Winslow holding a much larger pistol. I waited to see what would happen. Molly tried to drop her pistol but before she could release it completely Mrs. Winslow shot there three times in the chest.

People came running from everywhere. It was a mad house for a while. After hours of police interrogations, I found myself again at the Winslow house with a glass of iced tea in my hand.

"So Edgar, why didn't you tell the cops a different story?" she asked.

"You shot her. I didn't much care one way or the other," I replied.

"So, the case is solved and there is no reason for us not to sleep together."

"Only that I would be afraid to now," I replied remembering how she looked when she pulled that trigger three times.

"If I were you, I would be more afraid to refuse," she said.

The end.