Part 9 (2/2)
I'm tired of your bulls.h.i.+t threats about taking me back to court, and I'm REALLY tired of your efforts to destroy my career. I will not put up with it. You tell your hired a.s.shole not to call me at the office any-more or he'll regret it. I'll take care of him myself.Get it through your thick, b.i.t.c.hy brain: I have no more money to give. You have sucked me dry, you contemptible leech. So Lizzie has college bills-- Whoopty Doo. Tell her to get off her a.s.s and get a job. I've got to eat, live, get on with my life.Sell the G.o.dd.a.m.n house that's too big for you anyway. I don't live there anymore. By the way I drove by the house the other day. The lawn looks like s.h.i.+t. The car looks like s.h.i.+t. And what happened to the money I gave you to repair the roof? You ob-viously spent it on something else, you b.i.t.c.h. On what? It's my right to know. It was MY money.I would ask you to pa.s.s my love to the kids . . . of course, you won't. Anyway, you've already poi-soned their minds and hearts against me. I rue the day I ever met you. What in the h.e.l.l was I thinking when I married you? Just don't forget, if your law-yer calls me at work again, I'll make him regret it. You too. Don't underestimate me. Cliff.
I looked up from the screen. Bian and I exchanged glances. My goodness. Clearly theirs had not been a divorce on amicable terms.
Fortunately, JAG officers don't go near divorces--just wars, which generally suck, though they have one saving grace: When they're over, usually they're over.
Bian turned to John and asked, ”There are more letters like this?”
”Yeah. I'm still browsing . . . but the t.i.tles don't tell if it's hate mail to his ex-wife.”
I asked, ”Anything else?”
”One thing. It's interesting, I guess. Mr. Daniels belonged to several online dating clubs and chat rooms.”
”Tell us about that.”
”Oh . . . well, he tried to erase the entries and e-mails. Everything on a hard drive is recoverable, of course. But you know how you can meet people online?”
I suppose I looked confused, because he explained, ”It's more efficient. Easier.”
”What is?”
”Meeting women on the computer. No need to hang around bars trying to think up clever things to say to real women.”
I could see where that might be a problem for John.
Bian looked at me and remarked to him, ”I've heard Drummond's best line.” She suggested, ”Why don't you do him a big favor and explain how this works?”
I smiled back. b.i.t.c.h. b.i.t.c.h.
John said, ”With online services you pay a fee and fill out a questionnaire. It's very convenient--you answer a few questions about your likes, dislikes, hobbies, the type of person you'd prefer to date. The service culls through similar profiles filled out by women, looks for commonalities, and hooks you up electronically. Chat rooms are a free-for-all. Log in to the conversation, and maybe another member likes your style and becomes interested in you.”
”You're telling me my computer's a pimp?”
”No . . . I--”
”What happens if you both lie?”
”Well . . . that can happen but--”
”And you get together and it turns out you're both stupider and ickier-looking than you said?”
Bian was stifling a laugh.
John was now staring at me like I was weird. Truly, it's a whole new world. I'm part of the older world; I don't really like being reminded of it. However, I said to John, ”You've done great work. Thank you.” I asked Bian, ”Who notifies his ex he's dead?”
”The Arlington police.”
”You know this for a fact?”
”I do. I checked before I left the office. I hate notification detail.” She added, ”The obligation for a military notification pertains only to uniformed military.”
”Not this time. Call your pal Detective Enders. Tell him he's off the hook.”
”You think that's a good idea?”
”Is it ever a bad idea to observe a suspect's expression at the instant she learns the body was discovered?”
She paused for a moment, then said, ”I should've thought of that.”
”Yes, you should have.”
Bian made the call, and I stood looking over John's shoulder and read more letters from Cliff to his ex, and about his ex. All were post-divorce, uniformly bitter, angry, insulting, and frequently they were threatening. On a hunch, I mentioned to Bian, who was still talking with Enders, ”Tell him to check for past reports of domestic violence. Restraining orders, protection orders, whatever.”
That Cliff was corresponding by mail with his ex suggested, at the very least, a geographic restraining order, perhaps extending to a telephonic order. Or alternatively, this physical excommunication may have been self-imposed. When it comes to divorce, nothing ever makes sense, and you never know. It was too early to jump to conclusions, but based on the tenor of that note, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she wanted to put a bullet through his brain.
And for sure it would be easy for us, and convenient for many, were it to turn out Cliff was popped by a p.i.s.sed-off ex. Frankly, I would be a little disappointed; also, a lot relieved.
Well, we would see.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The house was on South 28th Street, a winding lane of small, double-storied, red-brick colonial homes that looked like two long lines of red-coated soldiers. The lots were tiny quarter-acre jobs, with mature oaks and elms; everything looked tidy and well-kept. The street held an old-fas.h.i.+oned charm; the homes were uniformly older, constructed in the late forties or the early fifties, a middle-cla.s.s enclave for men who had just survived and returned from a world war, relieved to be in one piece, ready to enjoy peacetime employment, build families, and get on with their lives. It still looked wholesome, yet dated enough that any second I expected to see Wally Cleaver come das.h.i.+ng around a corner chasing the Beav.
I parked the Crown Vic directly in front of Theresa's house and Bian and I got out. Cliff was right; Theresa's yard was unkempt and overgrown with weeds, a swath of tiles was missing from the roof, and the Chrysler minivan in the driveway was long overdue for a paint job, probably an oil change, a tire rotation, or better yet, a complete replacement.
Bian and I proceeded to the front stoop. I pushed the bell and we waited. After a few seconds, a woman opened the door, dressed casually in dark sweatpants and a ratty T-s.h.i.+rt festooned with a snarling Georgetown University bulldog and the words ”Up Yours.” Bian handled the introductions, remaining deliberately vague about our purpose, and very politely asked if we could step inside.
It took a stretch, yet from the photograph in Clifford's apartment, I recognized the lady. She had aged considerably, or, more charitably, her face had acquired a new character since the photograph. It was Winston Churchill who said that by the time a person reaches fifty, the story of their life is written on their face. Apparently not always, because the smiling Theresa Daniels I had observed in the photo was about fifty then; somehow, in a few intervening years, a whole new story had been etched on her face.
I guessed she had once been moderately attractive--not necessarily pretty, not even s.e.xy, but striking in a certain sharp-featured way. Cliff, as I mentioned, was fairly plain in appearance, so at least physically he had married above himself.
She was of medium size, possessing a narrow face with good bone structure, high but overly sharp cheekbones, attractive blue eyes, and a trim figure, with thin hips and wide shoulders. But, as with her house and her car, Theresa Daniels had let things slide. Her leathery skin and husky voice suggested she was a heavy smoker, possibly a heavy drinker, and we had caught her sans makeup, which, for all concerned, was seriously unfortunate. In the photo, I recalled, her hair had been brunette and coiffed in a stylish pageboy cut; it now hung below her shoulders, gray, untended, s.h.a.ggy--less a bad hair day, more a bad hair decade.
Also, I detected something in her posture and movement, a disjointed looseness, as if the spirit inside the body had run out of breath.
Anyway, she had a wary expression as she studied us, Bian in her Army field uniform and me looking natty and businesslike in my blue Brooks Brothers suit. She asked Bian, ”Would you tell me what this is about?”
”I . . . it would be better if we discussed this inside.”
Mrs. Daniels hooked a languid hand and we followed her inside, turning right into a living room that was small and cramped. To our left, a pair of French doors led to a matchbox dining room, and to our rear a narrow staircase led to the second floor; this was a home designed to induce claustrophobic fits.
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