"No, but it's not talked about either, is it? I suppose they want it that way.” She looked away, suddenly sad once again. “So, what happens now? I know Scott had...” Her lip trembled and she took another sip of water. “Do you know? That is. Do you know how he..."
"There was an attack on the estate. The attackers were well-armed and several guards were killed before anyone understood what was happening. The motivation is somewhat unclear at this point, although we are investigating.” A sudden thought occurred to Cyn. “We have reason to believe there may be some connection to organized crime. I don't know how much Scott told you about what he did."
"He hardly ever talked about it,” Emily said with a melancholy smile. “He said this was his refuge. This house, our daughter ... me. But things slipped occasionally, you know how it is.” She looked at Cynthia. “You're married, Ms. Leighton?"
"Uh, no. But I understand,” she lied. “Did he have any friends he talked to? Maybe even someone he worked with?"
"Not really. We lived so far away. Most of the others lived closer to the estate, so it was difficult. Lately, he'd been spending a lot of time with someone my cousin's husband introduced him to. Barry something. I heard them talking a few times, but I never met him myself."
"You said your cousin introduced them?"
"My cousin's husband,” she corrected. “Ronnie. This Barry worked with him. Ronnie's a truck driver. That used to be a good job, you know. Until they started recruiting over in Mexico. Now they bring in people who live ten to a room and work for half the price. So guys like Ronnie are out of luck. Anyway, he got this job at some warehouse over in East L.A., and it's worked out really well for him. When he found out where Scott worked, he introduced him to this guy Barry. I guess Barry was looking for a security job. My husband never really talked to me about it.” She frowned thoughtfully, glancing at Cyn and away as if trying to decide whether to go on.
"Mrs. Judkins? Was there something you wanted to tell me about Barry?"
She made a face. “It just that Scott didn't seem to like him very much, but they spent a lot time together anyway. That's odd, don't you think?"
"Did you ever hear them talk about work, anything—"
"Was Barry involved in this? Did he do something that got Scott killed?"
Cynthia regarded the other woman silently, feeling guilty at the idea of pumping a grieving widow for information. On the other hand, this might be her only chance. “It's possible,” she admitted. “We do have reason to think Barry was involved."
"But not Scott! You can't believe that! Scott would never do something like that. He's a good man...” Her voice faltered. “He was a good man. And he loved his job, Ms. Leighton."
"What sorts of things did they talk about? Your husband and Barry. Did they talk here, or was it—"
"No! Scott never brought Barry here to the house. They talked on the phone mostly, or met at a local bar.” Her mouth tightened in disapproval. “I didn't like that, Scott going to the bars so much.” Emily grew silent. Cyn was just about to say something to prompt her, when she started talking again. “Like I said, I didn't hear much, but there was one thing that kind of stuck in my mind. A name, I think. I took a class last semester at the college. A night class, you know, for people who want to learn something interesting, or meet someone, I guess. There were an awful lot of single people there. Anyway, it was a poetry class, 19th century poetry, and that's why the name stuck in my mind."
Cynthia smiled encouragingly, wondering if the story was going anywhere.
"Pushkin,” Emily said, as if that explained everything.
"Pushkin? You mean the Russian poet?"
"Exactly. That's the name I heard on a voice mail message. I picked up Scott's messages by mistake and there was a message from Barry. Of course, as soon as I realized what I'd done, I hung up."
Sure you did, honey, Cynthia thought to herself.
"But he said that name. Pushkin. Which I thought was odd."
"Hmm. The name doesn't mean anything to me, but it might to someone else. That might be helpful, Mrs. Judkins. Thank you.” Cynthia cleared her throat nervously and reached for her purse and the fresh envelope she'd prepared.
"Ah, I know this is difficult, Mrs. Judkins. But, well, I have some paperwork here that you need to see."
Emily took the envelope hesitantly. She glanced up at Cyn, as if asking for permission, before gently lifting the flap. Her eyes filled with fresh tears when she saw the life insurance benefit statement, as if that single piece of paper brought home that her husband was really dead. By the time she got to the first check, and then the second, the tears were rolling unheeded down her face and her mouth was hanging open, stunned. “This is—"
"A lot of money. Yes. Raphael Enterprises takes its responsibilities very seriously. Your husband died doing his job, and the management doesn't want you or your daughter to suffer because of it. That's not enough to live forever.” She gestured at the two checks. “But if you manage it carefully, it'll last awhile and maybe even put something away for your daughter's college education. It doesn't replace Scott, but—” She shrugged. “It's something we can do."
"Thank you,” Emily breathed. “I wouldn't have known—"
"Mrs. Judkins, forgive me for intruding, but do you have family? Is there somewhere you could take your daughter, somewhere not in California?"
Emily looked at her in surprise, then alarm. “You think whoever killed Scott might try to harm us? To harm my daughter?"
"I don't mean to frighten you, but these are very bad people. You've got the money there to build yourself a new life pretty much anywhere you want. It might be good for you, for your daughter, to get a fresh start."
Emily clutched the envelope to her chest and stared at the house around her, as if cataloging the memories. “I have family in Wisconsin,” she whispered. “Maybe..."
"You don't need to decide right now,” Cynthia hurried to say. “You don't even need to let me know what you decide.” Please don't tell me what you decide! she pleaded privately. “It's just something to think about.” She stood and tugged her jacket straight. “I'm sure you want to call your family,” she said, thinking about the urn sitting in her truck. “I've uh, I've got—"
"Oh God, I have to call Scott's parents.” Emily buried her face in her hands, drew a breath and looked up. “Thank you, Ms. Leighton, for coming to telling me. You've been very kind."
I have? “It's the least I could do. Your husband talked about you and your daughter, he thought about you all the time."
"You knew Scott? You worked with him?"
"At the end. Yes. At the very end.” Cynthia made her way to the door, suddenly eager to get away from this comfortable home and its memories. “If you need anything further, if you have any questions, there's a card in the envelope with a number you can call."
She was already pulling open the door, steeling herself for her final, necessary act of delivery, when Emily called out from behind her. “What about Scott's ... remains.” The last word was a disbelieving whisper. “I know we agreed to cremation, but how is that..."
Cynthia blew out a breath, struggling to put some sort of dignified face on it. “I, uh ... I have your husband's urn in my car. I'm sorry, but I didn't want—"
"Oh. Oh my God."
"I'll, um, I'll get it for you. If that's okay?"
"Of course. I...” Emily was crying again, hard, wracking sobs that collapsed her to the couch.
"Please let me call someone for you,” Cynthia said miserably.
"Helloooo!” Cynthia jumped as a voice called from outside the half-opened door. “Emily, you home?"
Cyn pulled open the door all the way to admit an older woman, stylishly but affordably dressed, old enough to be Judkins’ mother or aunt. Please let it be her mother or aunt!
"Emily, dearest, whatever...” The new arrival gave Cyn a suspicious look, then hurried over to comfort the grieving widow. Cynthia used the interruption to rush out to her truck and retrieve the brown box from the back seat. She'd thought about putting it all the way in the back, in the cargo compartment like she would have any other box, but it seemed too impersonal for someone's ashes. On other hand, the front seat was way too creepy, so Scott had settled for the back seat. Still a people place, but not quite participatory.
Emily and her consoler had disappeared into the depths of the house by the time Cynthia returned, so she deposited the carton on the dining room table—again debating, floor or table, finally settling on the table since it probably didn't get used that much anyway. She thought about calling out to say good-bye, but then figured Mrs. Judkins had probably heard pretty much everything she wanted to about, from or to Cynthia Leighton, so she closed the door quietly behind her, climbed into the Land Rover, and headed for the one man she thought could provide some answers. Who was Kolinsky and what did he have to do with a long-dead Russian poet?
Chapter Twenty-five
It was shift change at the station; blue uniforms crowded the hallways, coming and going amidst the usual flotsam of a big city police station. She saw a few people she knew and waved; saw some others she knew and looked the other way. There was more than one reason Cyn had decided to become a private investigator. Low whistles of appreciation for her snug skirt followed her passage through the warren of desks in the squad room. So much for sensitivity training, she thought. Dean Eckhoff was waiting for her when she rounded the corner to his office, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling like he'd been waiting a long time.
"Cut the dramatics, Eckhoff, you've got nowhere else to be and you know it."
"There was an attack on the estate. The attackers were well-armed and several guards were killed before anyone understood what was happening. The motivation is somewhat unclear at this point, although we are investigating.” A sudden thought occurred to Cyn. “We have reason to believe there may be some connection to organized crime. I don't know how much Scott told you about what he did."
"He hardly ever talked about it,” Emily said with a melancholy smile. “He said this was his refuge. This house, our daughter ... me. But things slipped occasionally, you know how it is.” She looked at Cynthia. “You're married, Ms. Leighton?"
"Uh, no. But I understand,” she lied. “Did he have any friends he talked to? Maybe even someone he worked with?"
"Not really. We lived so far away. Most of the others lived closer to the estate, so it was difficult. Lately, he'd been spending a lot of time with someone my cousin's husband introduced him to. Barry something. I heard them talking a few times, but I never met him myself."
"You said your cousin introduced them?"
"My cousin's husband,” she corrected. “Ronnie. This Barry worked with him. Ronnie's a truck driver. That used to be a good job, you know. Until they started recruiting over in Mexico. Now they bring in people who live ten to a room and work for half the price. So guys like Ronnie are out of luck. Anyway, he got this job at some warehouse over in East L.A., and it's worked out really well for him. When he found out where Scott worked, he introduced him to this guy Barry. I guess Barry was looking for a security job. My husband never really talked to me about it.” She frowned thoughtfully, glancing at Cyn and away as if trying to decide whether to go on.
"Mrs. Judkins? Was there something you wanted to tell me about Barry?"
She made a face. “It just that Scott didn't seem to like him very much, but they spent a lot time together anyway. That's odd, don't you think?"
"Did you ever hear them talk about work, anything—"
"Was Barry involved in this? Did he do something that got Scott killed?"
Cynthia regarded the other woman silently, feeling guilty at the idea of pumping a grieving widow for information. On the other hand, this might be her only chance. “It's possible,” she admitted. “We do have reason to think Barry was involved."
"But not Scott! You can't believe that! Scott would never do something like that. He's a good man...” Her voice faltered. “He was a good man. And he loved his job, Ms. Leighton."
"What sorts of things did they talk about? Your husband and Barry. Did they talk here, or was it—"
"No! Scott never brought Barry here to the house. They talked on the phone mostly, or met at a local bar.” Her mouth tightened in disapproval. “I didn't like that, Scott going to the bars so much.” Emily grew silent. Cyn was just about to say something to prompt her, when she started talking again. “Like I said, I didn't hear much, but there was one thing that kind of stuck in my mind. A name, I think. I took a class last semester at the college. A night class, you know, for people who want to learn something interesting, or meet someone, I guess. There were an awful lot of single people there. Anyway, it was a poetry class, 19th century poetry, and that's why the name stuck in my mind."
Cynthia smiled encouragingly, wondering if the story was going anywhere.
"Pushkin,” Emily said, as if that explained everything.
"Pushkin? You mean the Russian poet?"
"Exactly. That's the name I heard on a voice mail message. I picked up Scott's messages by mistake and there was a message from Barry. Of course, as soon as I realized what I'd done, I hung up."
Sure you did, honey, Cynthia thought to herself.
"But he said that name. Pushkin. Which I thought was odd."
"Hmm. The name doesn't mean anything to me, but it might to someone else. That might be helpful, Mrs. Judkins. Thank you.” Cynthia cleared her throat nervously and reached for her purse and the fresh envelope she'd prepared.
"Ah, I know this is difficult, Mrs. Judkins. But, well, I have some paperwork here that you need to see."
Emily took the envelope hesitantly. She glanced up at Cyn, as if asking for permission, before gently lifting the flap. Her eyes filled with fresh tears when she saw the life insurance benefit statement, as if that single piece of paper brought home that her husband was really dead. By the time she got to the first check, and then the second, the tears were rolling unheeded down her face and her mouth was hanging open, stunned. “This is—"
"A lot of money. Yes. Raphael Enterprises takes its responsibilities very seriously. Your husband died doing his job, and the management doesn't want you or your daughter to suffer because of it. That's not enough to live forever.” She gestured at the two checks. “But if you manage it carefully, it'll last awhile and maybe even put something away for your daughter's college education. It doesn't replace Scott, but—” She shrugged. “It's something we can do."
"Thank you,” Emily breathed. “I wouldn't have known—"
"Mrs. Judkins, forgive me for intruding, but do you have family? Is there somewhere you could take your daughter, somewhere not in California?"
Emily looked at her in surprise, then alarm. “You think whoever killed Scott might try to harm us? To harm my daughter?"
"I don't mean to frighten you, but these are very bad people. You've got the money there to build yourself a new life pretty much anywhere you want. It might be good for you, for your daughter, to get a fresh start."
Emily clutched the envelope to her chest and stared at the house around her, as if cataloging the memories. “I have family in Wisconsin,” she whispered. “Maybe..."
"You don't need to decide right now,” Cynthia hurried to say. “You don't even need to let me know what you decide.” Please don't tell me what you decide! she pleaded privately. “It's just something to think about.” She stood and tugged her jacket straight. “I'm sure you want to call your family,” she said, thinking about the urn sitting in her truck. “I've uh, I've got—"
"Oh God, I have to call Scott's parents.” Emily buried her face in her hands, drew a breath and looked up. “Thank you, Ms. Leighton, for coming to telling me. You've been very kind."
I have? “It's the least I could do. Your husband talked about you and your daughter, he thought about you all the time."
"You knew Scott? You worked with him?"
"At the end. Yes. At the very end.” Cynthia made her way to the door, suddenly eager to get away from this comfortable home and its memories. “If you need anything further, if you have any questions, there's a card in the envelope with a number you can call."
She was already pulling open the door, steeling herself for her final, necessary act of delivery, when Emily called out from behind her. “What about Scott's ... remains.” The last word was a disbelieving whisper. “I know we agreed to cremation, but how is that..."
Cynthia blew out a breath, struggling to put some sort of dignified face on it. “I, uh ... I have your husband's urn in my car. I'm sorry, but I didn't want—"
"Oh. Oh my God."
"I'll, um, I'll get it for you. If that's okay?"
"Of course. I...” Emily was crying again, hard, wracking sobs that collapsed her to the couch.
"Please let me call someone for you,” Cynthia said miserably.
"Helloooo!” Cynthia jumped as a voice called from outside the half-opened door. “Emily, you home?"
Cyn pulled open the door all the way to admit an older woman, stylishly but affordably dressed, old enough to be Judkins’ mother or aunt. Please let it be her mother or aunt!
"Emily, dearest, whatever...” The new arrival gave Cyn a suspicious look, then hurried over to comfort the grieving widow. Cynthia used the interruption to rush out to her truck and retrieve the brown box from the back seat. She'd thought about putting it all the way in the back, in the cargo compartment like she would have any other box, but it seemed too impersonal for someone's ashes. On other hand, the front seat was way too creepy, so Scott had settled for the back seat. Still a people place, but not quite participatory.
Emily and her consoler had disappeared into the depths of the house by the time Cynthia returned, so she deposited the carton on the dining room table—again debating, floor or table, finally settling on the table since it probably didn't get used that much anyway. She thought about calling out to say good-bye, but then figured Mrs. Judkins had probably heard pretty much everything she wanted to about, from or to Cynthia Leighton, so she closed the door quietly behind her, climbed into the Land Rover, and headed for the one man she thought could provide some answers. Who was Kolinsky and what did he have to do with a long-dead Russian poet?
Chapter Twenty-five
It was shift change at the station; blue uniforms crowded the hallways, coming and going amidst the usual flotsam of a big city police station. She saw a few people she knew and waved; saw some others she knew and looked the other way. There was more than one reason Cyn had decided to become a private investigator. Low whistles of appreciation for her snug skirt followed her passage through the warren of desks in the squad room. So much for sensitivity training, she thought. Dean Eckhoff was waiting for her when she rounded the corner to his office, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling like he'd been waiting a long time.
"Cut the dramatics, Eckhoff, you've got nowhere else to be and you know it."
