The Drowning Pool Read online

  “Of course, I understand.” And she did. Mike Gardner was a responsible parent. It was one of the things she found so attractive about him—that and the fact that he was a studly hunk.

  Kim wondered if it made her superficial that she found him so physically attractive. Mike Gardner was a tall, dark-haired man with rock hard abs and a powerful build, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped. She couldn’t imagine why Detective St. Croix had referred to him as old. Mike was only in his late thirties. Of course, to a woman like the detective, who was likely in her middle twenties, he might appear mature. But Kim suspected Detective St. Croix was baiting him, being deliberately antagonistic. Kim had to wonder about the detective’s motives. But she had enough of her own problems to deal with.

  She and Mike exchanged a final kiss and parted at her door. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

  “Count on it.”

  “I certainly will,” she said with a smile. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning, but for some reason, she didn’t feel the slightest bit tired. Mike had a strange effect on her.

  Kim wished her feelings for Mike weren’t so confused and uncertain. Did he want more from her than she could ever give him?

  TWO

  Before returning to La Reine Gardens the next day, Gardner began going over lab findings. The basic facts were deceivingly simple and could be concisely summarized. Richard Bradshaw, male Caucasian, somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-five years of age, was found floating in the pool fully clothed. He had received a hard blow to the head. However, the victim’s death was caused by a stab wound, a lethal puncture just above the sixth thoracic vertebra. The murder weapon was most likely a knife, judging from the nature of the wound. Estimated time of death, somewhere between six and nine p.m. of the previous evening.

  “They haven’t pinned down the exact time of death,” St. Croix noted critically. “And there’s nothing here as to where the guy was killed. You think the killer concealed the body somewhere, then came back after everyone was gone and dumped the vic?”

  “Real possibility,” Gardner agreed, “but I’m keeping an open mind. Right now, I’ve got no opinions.”

  The swim club looked different in the light of day, as though nothing sinister could possibly have occurred there. Cushiony chaises and rustic redwood tables shaded by yellow and white umbrellas beckoned for occupants. Finely cultivated flowers and shrubs grew from decorative brick encasements. The tennis courts glistened smartly in the smoldering August sun. The pool itself was seductively inviting; the water very clear, more aqua than the pictures he’d seen of the Mediterranean. Gardner, already sweating through his shirt in the tropical forest heat and humidity, wished he could heed the siren’s call, just jump in and feel the cooling waters wash over him. He turned regretfully away.

  Ms. Rhoades and her staff were waiting for them. There were still police technicians on the premises continuing with their clinical investigation. Otherwise the place was deserted. Ms. Rhoades began by introducing her helpers. There was an anorexically thin girl named Beth whom she introduced first, patting the girl’s hand in a friendly gesture. Then there were two male lifeguards, both young, not yet out of their teens. The taller of the two was blond and muscular. He looked as if he belonged on the California surfer scene rather than a pool club in New Jersey. The other boy was dark and much slighter in build. His manner toward Ms. Rhoades was deferential, and although he didn’t look much like a lifeguard, Gardner saw that he would be the kind of worker she would prefer.

  “You’re Sonny?” Gardner asked, not waiting for Ms. Rhoades to continue with what was an unnecessarily long-winded introduction of the taller lifeguard.

  “I am,” the light-haired youth said. He stepped forward and flashed a near blinding smile.

  The teeth were so perfect that Gardner wondered fleetingly if they were capped. “You close up yesterday?”

  “I close every day.”

  “What time?”

  “About eight in the evening.”

  “Anyone still here?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Did you know Mr. Bradshaw?”

  Sonny nodded his head but didn’t speak.

  “Was he here yesterday?”

  “If he was, I didn’t see him.”

  “What about you?” Gardner turned to the other lifeguards and glanced quickly at each in turn, but their response was also in the negative. He looked back at Sonny. “Did Bradshaw come here often?”

  “Almost every evening,” the youth said. “See, children aren’t allowed after five, so all the mothers leave then. The place is practically deserted on weekday evenings. Just a few of the same people show. Some retired folks who don’t like using the club when kids are around and younger people who get home from work late.”

  Gardner studied the boy. His manner of speech, the broad, open smile implied honesty and straightforwardness. Still, Gardner was wary; he’d been a cop too long not to know that appearances are often deceiving.

  “Were any of Mr. Bradshaw’s friends here yesterday after five?”

  Sonny scratched his tow-head thoughtfully. His eyes were small and dull in contrast to the dazzling porcelain smile. “Yeah, there was Miss Nevins, Mrs. Walling and Mrs. Scofield. They were all sitting together. Mr. Walling and Mr. Scofield, they came by later.”

  “Did they come together?”

  “No. Mr. Scofield came first and practiced on the tennis court. Mr. Walling showed up later.”

  “Is it possible that Mr. Bradshaw might have come and you didn’t see him?”

  “Not likely. Of course, I was busy part of the time, picking up trash around the pool, putting away chaises, like that.” He looked about furtively and seemed relieved to observe that Ms. Rhoades was occupied elsewhere for the moment, giving orders to the rest of her staff much the way Napoleon would have done with his field officers. “See, it’s like this,” Sonny said in a soft, confidential tone of voice, “some guys I know dropped by wanting to shoot a few hoops. So we went outside for a while.” He indicated a small, concrete court outside the fence.

  “Weren’t you supposed to be watching the pool?” St. Croix asked pointedly.

  Sonny’s face turned red. “Well, yeah, sure, but there wasn’t nobody in danger of drowning and these guys are friends. And I gotta keep in condition. Next year I start college on an athletic scholarship.”

  Gardner noted the youth’s thick neck and bulging biceps. Football player, he decided.

  “You lift weights?” St. Croix probed.

  Sonny’s wary look indicated that he did.

  “How much you press?”

  “Usually two-hundred and ten, about fifteen pounds more than I weigh, but I intend to bring that up—and I don’t use steroids.” There was definite pride in the voice.

  “I guess the girls around here are impressed,” Gardner said in an easy, friendly manner.

  Sonny relaxed perceptibly. “The young ones maybe, but it’s real hard to figure women.”

  Gardner was well-coordinated and appreciated athletic skills in others.

  “How well did you know Bradshaw?”

  “Hardly at all.”

  “And his friends? Ms. Nevins, for instance?”

  “I just knew them all by sight ’cause they were regulars, but I don’t know anything about them. I was pretty much invisible to those people. You know how it is.”

  “Mike!” Gardner turned around and saw Herb Fitzpatrick from the lab coming toward him. “We found something in the utility room.”

  Quickly, he and St. Croix followed.

  “What have you got?”

  The police technician pointed to the floor. The room was dark in spite of the glow of one naked light bulb, and it took Gardner a few moments to adjust his eyes. At first, he observed nothing out of the ordinary. Then he saw a few dark brown spots on the floor and the back wall.

  “We’ll check them against Bradshaw’s type. Someone washed up most of it. The victim’s wound would have caused profuse
bleeding. There should be a lot more blood than this.”

  “Assuming he was killed here,” St. Croix said with a slight note of skepticism.

  “Oh, he was,” Fitzpatrick said. “I even think we’ve got the murder weapon.” The lab man carefully displayed a long-bladed, all-purpose knife.

  “Where was it?”

  “On the floor, over in that corner.” Fitzpatrick pointed to the darkest part of the room. Gardner noticed how clean the blade was.

  “Find any prints?”

  “I sincerely hope you mean that as a joke, Mike.”

  If there were anything else, Fitz would find it. Except for an occasional drinking binge when his wife was out of town visiting her family, Fitz was competent—and having met the termagant, Gardner could readily understand why Fitz felt the need to celebrate her infrequent departures.

  “I think we ought to bring Ms. Rhoades and Sonny in here.”

  St. Croix remained silent but left immediately, only to return like a Mercurial messenger moments later with both parties in tow.

  “How accessible is this storeroom?” Gardner asked Ms. Rhoades.

  “Obviously, we keep it locked at all times. There are a lot of valuable pieces of equipment in here. Only staff have keys.” As Gardner scrutinized Martha Rhoades more closely, he decided her unattractiveness went beyond mere physical appearance; it had more to do with her attitude, which struck him as patronizing and overbearing.

  “And the same key opens both doors?”

  “Of course.”

  Gardner looked around. One door led to the pool area, and the second led outside. If Bradshaw had been able to enter through this second door, no one in the pool area would have seen him.

  “Do either of you know who owns this knife?”

  “It’s mine,” Sonny said, his lips drawn thin.

  “Where do you usually keep it?”

  “Right here in the utility room.”

  “In plain view?”

  “Well, sure, it has to be handy. I need a blade sometimes, ’cause of the maintenance work.”

  Gardner couldn’t think of any more questions to ask for the moment so he let them go. Besides, the glare from Sonny’s teeth was hard to take even in a dark room.

  On the brief drive to Richard Bradshaw’s apartment, Bert began to talk. “It must have been a man. A woman couldn’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  Bert shot him a disapproving look. “You saw the size of that Bradshaw guy. Must have weighed at least two hundred pounds, and he was easily over six feet tall.”

  “Six feet two,” Gardner corrected.

  “And you think a woman could have carried or even dragged him to the pool from that utility room?”

  “An especially strong woman.” He thought fleetingly of Martha Rhoades and her physical characteristics. “I’ve seen some women body builders who were amazingly strong. And then, of course, a woman might have a male accomplice, or it could have been two women acting together.”

  “Wacko theories. Nine times out of ten it’s the obvious choice that’s right.”

  “So you think it was Sonny?”

  “That’s right, I do.”

  “What was his motive?”

  “How the hell should I know right off? They say around headquarters that you got some special kind of insight into people. I think maybe you’re over-rated.”

  Gardner trusted his instincts; they told him Bert’s hostility was directed at the world in general, not himself in particular. Whatever was troubling her, and something definitely was, she needed to talk it out—still, that couldn’t be hurried or forced.

  St. Croix rang the bell to the Bradshaw apartment and then waited with impatience.

  “Who is it?” a woman’s soft voice wafted through the door.

  “Police,” Bert called out in a throaty voice.

  The door was opened by a willowy brunette whose age Gardner estimated to be around twenty-five. She was wearing a blue halter and matching shorts. Her tall, slender model’s figure radiated elegance and style rather than sex appeal. Something about her made Gardner think of his daughter Evie, who had a similar natural grace and poise. He politely introduced Bert and himself, explaining that they wanted to talk to her about Richard Bradshaw. She agreed to speak to them only after he told her that Bradshaw was dead. She stood immobile, completely expressionless. The color drained from her face like wine escaping a shattered decanter.

  “It’s all over then,” she muttered, more to herself than them. Her eyes met his. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you both to leave.” She seemed preoccupied, but it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. There were no tears in her eyes; her expression was guarded, not at all what he would expect.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said gently, “there are a few things we need to discuss with you.”

  “Am I supposed to be able to help you in some way?”

  “Just a few minutes of your time.”

  She led them into a large, expensively furnished living room. It had all the glamour of a fashion showroom and was just as impersonal. Pushing back a long chestnut mane of hair, she seated herself on a carved, Mediterranean chair. He and St. Croix located themselves on an avocado, crushed velvet sofa. The thick, matching wall-to-wall carpeting felt incredibly soft under his feet. Bradshaw had obviously been a man of expensive tastes and had the means to indulge them.

  “You’re listed at the rental office as Mrs. Bradshaw. Is that your legal name?”

  “No, it’s not. Rick and I weren’t married.” She met his gaze in a direct, bold manner, defying him to comment or snicker. “That was just so we wouldn’t raise any eyebrows when we took the apartment.”

  “Your name then?”

  “Cheryl McNeill—Ms. Cheryl McNeill.”

  “The questions I have to ask, some of them will tend to be personal, Ms. McNeill. I hope you understand.”

  “No, not really. What I mean is, I don’t understand why you’re asking me any questions at all. I don’t know anything about Rick’s death. You seem to know a lot more than I do. I ought to be the one asking questions.”

  “Sure, go ahead.” His tone was sympathetic. If the young woman knew nothing about Bradshaw’s death, then this experience was at best difficult for her.

  “Was he in an automobile accident?”

  “No, why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know. He did enjoy driving fast and taking chances. Rick could be reckless, wild at times. He felt it made life more exciting. He didn’t like anything that was too predictable. It was part of his charm and his charisma. He always stirred up excitement around him.”

  “In what other ways was he reckless?”

  Her nostrils flared and her cheeks flushed. “With women, always with women.”

  “How do you mean?” He was more than a little surprised by her candor.

  Cheryl McNeill stood up and paced the velvet carpeting.

  “Rick was insatiable. No one woman could satisfy him for very long. He had to keep on proving his virility, always the need for new conquests.”

  Gardner noticed that she was no longer meeting his eyes, not even momentarily. He sensed that he was touching on a very raw nerve. At any moment, she would likely stop being cooperative altogether if he didn’t in some way make this easier for her.

  “Would it be all right if Mr. Bradshaw’s belongings were examined? Nothing will be disturbed.”

  She nodded her head. He gave Bert a meaningful look and she rose and walked toward the bedrooms.

  “What was your arrangement with Bradshaw?” With St. Croix gone, an aura of intimacy was established, and Cheryl seemed less tense.

  “Our arrangement? That’s a quaint way to put it. We lived together, as so many couples do.”

  “Just that?”

  “Well, not exactly. Rick didn’t want me to work. He paid me the equivalent of my old salary.”

  “To stay here?”

  “To behave like a wife in every
way. He liked nice things surrounding him. And weird as this might sound, he loved my cooking. I’m something of a gourmet chef.”

  “Would you have preferred it if he offered to marry you?”

  She sat down again, this time as if she were suddenly very weary. “Not at first, but we’ve been together almost a year. I won’t lie about it. I wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement. I don’t think of myself as a kept woman. That sort of thing went out with zoot suits. I dislike chauvinism in any form. When it all started, Rick said he wanted it this way because he’d been burned once before. He was afraid of remarrying. He figured we could live together like we were married but there wouldn’t be any demands or formal commitment. If I wanted to date someone else, even bring him here to the apartment, then I could. The same was true for him. Rick rented this apartment with that in mind. Two bedrooms, two complete bathrooms.”

  “And has it worked out?”

  “For him—definitely.”

  “But not for you?”

  She bit down on her lower lip again. “I haven’t wanted to date anyone else.”

  “Did he bring anyone here?”

  She nodded, the long mane of brown hair falling forward like a melting mound of rich, Swiss chocolate. “During the time I went home to visit my family in San Diego, he had another woman here. I could smell her cheap perfume on the pillow.”

  “How did it make you feel?”

  She viewed him with a pensive stare. “You want me to say that I was jealous? Well, I was. But I didn’t even ask him about it. I didn’t have the right.” Her eyes met his again, level and direct. “I think the situation was changing though.”

  He raised his brow and waited for her to continue. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, her tension all too evident.

  “Last month he neglected me completely. Didn’t show up for days at a time. When he was here, he barely spoke to me. I knew he had to be sleeping with someone else. Rick always had sex with me at least once a day until then. Occasionally, someone phoned, but when I answered, the person hung up.”