Three-Ways: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery Read online

  “She was wearing a skirt the day she did that defense. You know, with Melissa?”

  “How about yesterday, at her house?”

  ‘No,” Ryan said. “Jeans.”

  I looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

  He put up his hands in mock defense. “I’m a detective. I’m supposed to notice things.”

  “All right,” I said. “Good to know, horn dawg.”

  My computer beeped softly. I looked down at the screen. An e-mail had just come in, from a Cynthia Henley in Clemson, South Carolina. Ryan was out of his chair, moving faster than I’d seen him move since he was shot.

  I clicked on the attached file. Up came the photo of a dark-haired woman with a thin face and wide-set green eyes. Her nose was long and narrow. She was wearing an awkward, tight smile.

  “Interesting looking woman,” Ryan said.

  “Very interesting. Kind of looks like she might be a dancer, no?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “But she doesn’t look a bit like Suzannah Montgomery.”

  “Not even a little.”

  Chapter 28

  “You want to tell the chief?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Wouldn’t know what to tell him. There’s something screwy with the records system at Clemson? Let’s dig a little more.”

  “Call Suzannah Collins’ home address in South Carolina?”

  “It’s worth a try,” I said, looking down at my notes from the call to Clemson. I dialed the number and hit Speaker.

  The phone rang four times, then went to voice mail. “Hello,” the robot voice said.

  Shit. The robot started explaining how nobody was home. I was about to put the phone back in its cradle when someone picked up.

  It was a scratchy voice, but at least it was a real voice. “Hello,” it said in three syllables, with a couple of throat-clearings in between.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m trying to reach the Collins residence. Do I have the right—”

  “Whoever you are,” the scratchy voice said, “I can’t help you—”

  “No, sir, please don’t hang up,” I said. “I’m not asking for money. This is Detective Karen Seagate, calling from Rawlings, Montana. Are you Mr. Collins?”

  There was a pause. He was working hard at clearing his throat. “You say a detective? From Montana?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Collins. That’s right. My name is Karen Seagate. You can call me Karen.” He sounded like he was seventy, but seventy with an oxygen tank. “We’re investigating a case here in Montana, and I need to find out a little more information on Suzannah Collins. She received an MA in literature from Clemson University in 1996. Are you the father of Suzannah Collins?”

  There was silence for the longest time. I could hear his phone being shifted from one hand to another. His breathing was labored.

  “Sir,” I said, “are you there?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m here.” It sounded like he was sniffling, wiping at his nose.

  “Okay, good. I asked if you are the father of Suzannah Collins.”

  “Suzi is my daughter. Yes. She went to Clemson. Yes.”

  “All right, Mr. Collins. Could you give me a couple minutes to help in this investigation here in Montana?”

  There was a pause. More sounds of him trying to breathe right. “Go ahead.”

  “Sir, can you tell me where we could reach Suzannah? We’d like to talk to her.”

  Now it was obvious he was crying. I didn’t know quite what to do. I looked at Ryan. He held up his palm and whispered, “Give him a minute.” I nodded.

  It was almost literally that long before Mr. Collins could talk. “She can’t talk,” he said. “She’s here, in Charleston, but she can’t talk anymore.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Collins.” I waited a beat. “Is that from her injuries?”

  “A few weeks after the car crash, she had a stroke. She’s in a coma now.”

  “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry to hear that. I didn’t mean to upset you like this.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he said in a thin voice. “What’d you say your name is?”

  “Karen, sir. I’m Karen.”

  “My name is Harold. Everyone calls me Harry.”

  “Thank you for telling me that, Harry. Here’s the thing, Harry. I sure don’t want to upset you any more than I already have, but there’s something going on here that’s confusing me. Here in Montana, I mean. I’d sure like to be able to talk to you a little bit to see if you can help me understand what’s going on.”

  “I’ll try, Karen. Not so sure I can help.” He coughed. “But I’m willing to try.”

  “That’s real nice of you, Harry. I really appreciate it. Here’s where we are. There’s this woman in Montana calls herself Suzannah Collins Montgomery. She’s a professor here at Central Montana State University. She teaches literature. Married to a man named Montgomery. But she went to Clemson, got an MA in literature at exactly the same time as your daughter. You see what’s confusing me?”

  “Are you asking me …” He started coughing hard. “Are you asking if there was another woman there named Suzannah Collins at the same time Suzi was there?”

  “That’s right, Harry. Did Suzi ever talk about another girl with the same name?”

  “I think I would’ve remembered that,” Harry Collins said. “I do believe that would have made an impression.”

  “Do you have any idea who this woman might be? I mean, the woman here in Montana who calls herself Suzannah Collins Montgomery?”

  “I don’t know anybody lives in Montana,” he said.

  “All right,” I said. “I thank you for that information. Now, Harry, I want to ask you a couple of questions about Suzi’s car accident. I know it’s gonna hurt you to have to remember it, but I have to ask you.”

  “That’s all right, Karen,” he said. “It hurts me every day. Some days it doesn’t make me cry, but it hurts me every day.”

  “I understand that, Harry. I do. Can you tell me if there was another car involved in that accident?”

  “No,” he said. He was breathing hard. “It was just the one car.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was late at night, maybe eleven or midnight. The car went off the road. It was just a country road, a two-lane near the college. The car went off the road, crashed into a big thick horse chestnut. Crushed the whole side of the car in.”

  “Suzi was alone?”

  “No, no, she wasn’t alone. She was with her roommate, a girl named Carol.”

  “Was Carol hurt, too, Harry?”

  “She was banged up a little. Bumps and bruises, but no, she didn’t get hurt bad.”

  “Suzi was driving at the time of the accident?”

  There was a pause. “That’s what the police report said.”

  “You don’t think the report was accurate?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t. I don’t think Suzi was driving.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “Both the girls had been drinking. That came out later. I know Suzi wouldn’t’ve drove if she’d been drinking. I just know it.”

  “I understand, Harry. She’d have known better, is that it?”

  “That’s part of it. Other part is that her injuries don’t match up with her being the driver.”

  “What do you mean, Harry?”

  “The car went off the road and hit the tree. The whole right side of the car was crushed in, starting at the engine and going all the way back past the rear seats. It was a small Japanese car, and it was just totaled. Suzi was the one who got hurt real bad. Her leg was destroyed, had to be amputated. All the internal injuries, the broken neck. And then I think her head got hurt, too, which maybe caused the stroke later on. But the other girl, Carol. Like I said, she was just black and blue. The policeman told me, he took me aside, he told me no way Suzi was the driver.”

  “But when the police arrived at the accident scene, Suzi was behind the wheel.”


  “That’s right. And Carol was sitting in the passenger seat, squeezed in because half the engine was where your legs are supposed to go. She’d called the accident in on her phone.”

  “Did the police or the prosecutor or anyone investigate who was really driving?”

  “Nah,” Harry Collins said. “They asked me if I wanted them to investigate, but I said no. My insurance from the fire department here in Charleston takes care of the expenses for Suzi. The damage was done. My daughter’s not coming back. I don’t have any interest in chasing down that other girl. She said she didn’t do it. I don’t believe her, but it doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s not me she’s got to answer to.”

  “This other girl: Carol. You ever hear from her?”

  “Last I saw her she was climbing into the ambulance. The second ambulance, that is. The first one was the one took Suzi away.”

  “Did you say you know her last name?”

  “Used to. Don’t anymore. But her first name was Carol, I do remember that. Because that’s my sister’s name.”

  “Harry, I want to thank you very much for talking to me. God bless you, Harry, and Suzi.”

  “Thank you, young lady. I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

  “It’s Karen, Harry.” But I think he had already hung up.

  Ryan came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, Karen?”

  “I’ve been better,” I said. I looked down at my watch. It wasn’t even three yet. “It’s just been a long day.” I wiped at my eyes. “I’ll be back in a minute, okay?” I got up and walked toward the ladies’ room.

  After I washed my face and tried to pull myself together, I came back to my desk. I saw my notebook was gone. I glanced over at Ryan, who had it open in front of him. He was on the phone.

  “Could I speak to Cynthia, please? This is Detective Miner, from Rawlings, Montana. My partner, Karen Seagate, just talked to Cynthia a few minutes ago.” When he looked up and saw me, he hit Speaker and waited a moment. “Yes, Cynthia. Detective Miner. Karen Seagate was called away for a minute. Do you have a moment for another question?”

  “Of course, Detective.”

  “First, we want to thank you for helping us get in touch with Suzannah Collins’s family in Charleston. Here’s what I’m hoping you can help me with. Suzannah was roommates with another young woman, named Carol. I don’t have a last name. Could you check and see if you had another MA student named Carol, same time as Suzannah?”

  “Can I get right back to you on that?”

  “Absolutely,” Ryan said, giving her his phone number. He hung up.

  “You doing okay?” he said to me.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Thought I’d see if I could nail down who this Carol is.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  “After we do that,” he said, “then we talk to the chief?”

  “Sure,” I said, struggling to find a smile, “then we talk to the chief.”

  Ryan’s phone rang. He picked up. “Miner.”

  “Detective, this is Cynthia from Clemson. Carol could be Carol Winters.”

  “Do you have any contact information on her?”

  “Sorry, her records have been purged from the system. I’m sure we have them here somewhere on paper, but they’re not with all the other records.”

  “Do you know why that is?”

  “Carol Winters never received her degree. She was dismissed from the program in her final semester.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “I’d forgotten it, but I checked with a faculty member who was involved with the case. It was the first year the students took their MA exams on the computer. She was caught cheating. She’d managed to store some cheat sheets on the computer somehow.”

  “Do you know where she went after she left Clemson?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I figured you’d ask, but we don’t know. Nobody made a real effort to keep track of her, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do know exactly what you mean. Cynthia, this has been very helpful. Thank you very much.” He hung up.

  “Let’s take a walk,” I said. The chief was standing in his outer office, talking with Margaret about something on her computer screen.

  “This a bad time, Chief?” I said.

  “No,” he said, “go on in.”

  We walked in but stayed on our feet, in case the chief was in a hurry.

  “Sit,” he said as he came in a moment later. He took a soft chair in front of his desk. “What’ve you got?”

  “Well, this is kinda weird. Suzannah Montgomery—Austin Sulenka’s adviser—we think that’s not her name.”

  “What do you think her name is?”

  “Carol Winters.”

  “You have my attention.”

  “The woman here in town, she calls herself Suzannah Collins Montgomery. She’s married to a guy named Montgomery. Problem is, Suzannah Collins is the name of a woman lives in South Carolina, got in a bad car accident after she got her MA at Clemson in the same class as Suzannah Montgomery, when she was Suzannah Collins. She’s in a coma now, in South Carolina. We just spoke to her dad.”

  “So how do you get to Carol Winters?” His face was screwed up pretty tight trying to follow this.

  “What we think is going on, Chief,” Ryan said, “is that these two women—Suzannah Collins and Carol Winters, they’re roommates, both going for an MA in English at Clemson—were out drinking one night, crashed the car. Suzannah Collins was badly injured, Carol Winters just banged up. Police report said Suzannah Collins was driving, but the injuries say it was Carol Winters. Anyway, Suzannah Collins loses a leg, breaks her neck, other bad injuries, few weeks later has this big stroke. Meanwhile, Carol Winters was tossed out of Clemson for cheating. She never got her degree.”

  The chief rubbed his forehead. “It’s been a long day, guys. Put this together for me.”

  I said, “My money is that Austin Sulenka’s adviser is Carol Winters. Suzannah Collins got a good degree from Clemson, but she was out of the picture because of the car crash. Carol Winters couldn’t get her degree. She took the one Suzannah Collins wasn’t using. Took her name, too.”

  “So where’d she get her PhD?”

  “University of Delaware.”

  “And what was her name at Delaware?”

  “Suzannah Collins. She hadn’t married Montgomery yet.”

  “So tell me how this makes her a murder suspect.”

  “Well,” I said, “I don’t know if it makes her a murder suspect. But it kinda makes her a liar. If she’s Carol Winters, we know she got thrown out of grad school for cheating and probably switched places in the crushed car so she wouldn’t get a DUI or vehicular manslaughter. Then she grabs Suzannah Collins’ transcript and Social Security number, goes and gets a PhD, never makes contact with Suzannah Collins in South Carolina before her stroke, when she could still talk.”

  “So your point is,” the chief said, still frowning, “if she’s that kind of person, everything she’s told us could be false.”

  “Like you said earlier, when we thought she just faked a recommendation letter, person like that doesn’t start lying when they’re forty. So, she’s outraged when I ask her if she was screwing Austin. Makes me think maybe that’s exactly what was going on.”

  “What do you want to do next?”

  I looked at Ryan. He waved for me to go ahead. “Our approach to the Sulenka case has been, if she was screwing Austin and she doesn’t have an alibi, she’s a suspect. Does she have a motive? Sure: one day Austin bangs her real good, she’s feeling all intimate, she tells him who she really is, and he blackmails her. She told us his thesis wasn’t coming together. That was his way of getting the degree.”

  “Or her husband finds out about the affair,” Ryan said. “He kills Austin. Or he and his wife kill him. Same scenario as Tiffany Rhodes and Brian Hawser.”

  The chief was silent for a moment. “I think you need to talk to her
husband.”

  Ryan and I stood up. “Want to tell the university about Suzannah Montgomery’s identity?” I said.

  “No.” The chief shook his head. “We don’t have any proof yet. And we’re working the Sulenka murder case.”

  “And the Tiffany Rhodes murder.”

  “That’s right,” the chief said. “If it turns out Suzannah Montgomery killed Austin Sulenka, that will solve the problem of the identity theft. If she didn’t kill Austin but she isn’t who she says she is, I’ll inform President Billingham. It’s a civil matter—”

  “Unless she killed her roommate driving drunk.”

  “It’s a civil matter unless the authorities in South Carolina make it a criminal matter. If Central Montana wants to pursue a civil case against Carol Winters, that’s their prerogative.” He looked at me, then at Ryan. “Talk to the husband. See if he knows who his wife is.”

  Chapter 29

  “How do you want to go at him?” Ryan said as we walked down the hall toward the detectives’ bullpen.

  “We’ve already pissed off his wife. You know, asking her if she was screwing Austin. So I assume he knows we’re looking at her.” We got to our desks and sat down.

  “Yeah, he’s going to be hostile, or at least on his guard.” He paused a moment. “How hard do you want to push to find out about whether he knows his wife is really Carol Winters?”

  “He’s not gonna know we were in touch with Harry Collins. He’s not even gonna know we know about his wife’s phony reference letter. I’d like to give him an opportunity to lay down a bunch of lies about his wife so we can come at her with a little more muscle. All we have now is that someone phonied-up a reference letter. We’re not even sure she did it—”

  “Who else you got in mind for that?”

  “No idea, really.” I exhaled a long breath. “Maybe Frances Hamblin, the scholar. She was the department chair at the time. She went to bat for Suzannah when she submitted her papers late. Maybe she had some reason to help Suzannah get tenure.”

  “Or the provost,” Ryan said.

  “Audrey Miller gave us the photocopies of the letters. It’s pretty clear she’s got it in for Suzannah.”

  “True,” Ryan said. “But unless we’re willing to put a lot more taxpayer time into figuring out why she’s holding a grudge against Suzannah, we’re never going to get to the bottom of that one.”