Can You Remember My Name

Doris had not been exactly forthcoming about the affair, but Sandra understood. The detective had her past. Sandra married a man that everyone said was the catch of a lifetime. The kind of husband that every woman wants to come home to, but Sandra had what might be called an occupational hazard. She was surrounded by male police officers, big alpha males who were constantly on the prowl for available partners. She had not succumbed easily, but no one can stay strong forever.

While Sandra' husband Tom stayed loyal, she played. Not all the time, but once in a while. It was just some harmless fun-a tension relief. Tom did not see it that way. He was an attorney and the first she knew that he knew came when the Sheriff's Deputy handed her the divorce papers. He had gone for maximum embarrassment, serving her at work through the Sheriff.

Sandra had been deeply in love with Tom. The fact was she had never loved anyone else. What happened hurt then and still hurt now. Sandra could not see how if Tom loved her as much as she loved him he could do what he did. The divorce had left her bitter and suspicious of men like Tom and Aston Phillips. The good quiet men who made you love them, but were ready to walk over something as silly as sex.

Sandra felt sorry for Doris suspecting that the alleged murder was all a sadistic trick by a clever attorney. Three things in particular bothered her. The first was no body was ever found. There was blood, almost too much; second there were bike tracks at the scene. Her theory was someone could have ridden off on a bike after setting the car fire. The fire department had made a mess of the scene, but near the road there still were bike track made after the rain fell that evening probably about when that fire started, an hour or two before the fire trucks arrived. Why ride a bike that time of night in those mountains?

The third piece was the Richland Estate. How convenient that the heir was found just at the last minute and then the attorney disappears. She had done some research there. That estate after five years of delays was through the final Court proceeding in two weeks. The clerk at the Surrogate's Court told Sandra the judge and state's attorney wanted to see the Phillips' children well provided for. Seems their trust received almost three million dollars, no questions asked. Very convenient!

But more than all the rest was the lack of motive. Sandra saw Doris as a smart woman, and her alleged partners in crime were not dummies. There was simply no reason to kill the husband. He was on the hook for support, and the settlement was bound to favor Doris, they usually did. Why kill the goose that laid the golden eggs. None of the suspects had ever committed a serious crime. They were mere adulterers, and they had success within their grasp.

The other possibility made sense; Al Philips had nothing to gain by hanging around. The game was stacked against him, and he was in a position to know that. The average idiot husband would expect justice in the divorce court. Philips knew he could expect nothing but pain. It seemed just possible he figured a way out.

Sandra had placed a call and was waiting for a response. It was five forty-five and Doug, her partner, was waiting to leave.

"Come on Sandy there's a tall cold Samuel Adams waiting for each of us at the Wayfairers," Doug said.

The Wayfaiers was the local police bar and Sandy often stopped after work since her divorce. She had left many a night with a fellow officer, but not lately. Her recent visits had her sitting alone pondering how she could catch Aston Phillips.

The phone rang. Sandy snatched it up and said: "Highland Police, Chief Detective Sandra Parkman."

The man on the other end spoke perfect English although with a thick Spanish accent.

"I am investigating a case and was interested in getting some information on an individual who I believe lives in your jurisdiction," Sandy began.

As she said this Doug frowned at her, they had been over this ground so many times. The evidence was irrefutable. A mass of blood in the car trunk, the victim's blood in a distinct line heading toward the trees, the DNA there was conclusive if not at the burned vehicle. Blood was found on Nieves' clothing and his hands. No Judge or jury would have bought into the defense theory that Aston Phillips was still alive.

To fake his death the man would have had to acquire a lot of blood and then to bleed himself. Sandra was relying on Phillips having been a medic in the army, but the army record had served the prosecution. When Manuel Nieves took the stand to allege that the blood on his person came from a minor fight with the distraught husband, the prosecutor trapped him.

"You say that Al Phillips struck first?" Ted Parker asked.

"Yes," Nieves answered.

"Which hand did he use?"

"As I said previously, his right." Whereupon the prosecution introduced into evidence the army service records showing that not only was Al left-handed, he was wounded in his right arm resulting in a minor disability. The only inference that could be drawn was that Nieves was lying.

Sandra would not give it up. She had some wild theory that it was some devilish plot by a criminal mastermind attorney. Everyone knew of her problems with her husband and assumed she was projecting her problems onto this case.

"So you know him Captain," Sandy said into the phone.

"You're sure he's Peter Allen, but how long have you known him?" Sandy asked.

"Dos bandido de pistol," she said "the two gun bandit-what does that mean?" she asked.

The Capitan then launched into his favorite story where he recounted how he had disarmed the two-pistol bandit. The Capitan never mentioned the fact that neither gun was loaded, times after the war being very hard and bullets being expensive. He was, however, certain that his drinking companion who was an endless river of tequila, the Anglo, Peter Allen, had witnessed the entire event.

With a sinking feeling, Sandra asked when these events had taken place.

"Mas de cinco anos—over five years ago," the good Captain replied.

Sandra could only thank him for his assistance as she hung up Doug said, "Beer?"

As they walked out of the station, they passed two uniform officers leading in a teenage male with a bike. When asked, they indicated that the kid claimed he found the bicycle by the back of the bus station, but the officers knew better. Sandra wanted to stop to check out the bike, but Doug put his foot down.

"Enough! Get back with Tom already. Go beg him to forgive you. Tell him you were a colossal idiot and that I'll personally shoot down like a dog any man that so much as makes a pass at you in the future."

"If only that would work."

"Of course, it will because I told him yesterday if he took you back he would never get a ticket in Highland Falls again, and every member of the force has been pleading with him. A man would have to be made of stone not to at least talk to you," Doug said and smiled.

"You and they didn't do that," she said and then, "Well what did he say?"

"He said to meet him at the Wayfaiers for a beer. Hey, we did our part now it's your turn, and if you blow this, you are one stupid bitch."

Sandy hesitated no further, all thoughts of Al Philips forgotten, she raced to the Wayfaiers to beg and grovel and do whatever it took to regain what she saw as her man.

******************************

The climb up the volcanic hill to the hacienda at the top was steep. Bill Walsh was a bit winded before he reached the gate with its two big, mean looking and very well armed guards. He showed them the pristine white business card with its gold lettering, and they passed him right through. He doubted either man bother to read the name; the card seemed to be enough. It denoted wealth, and that was everything here.

Bill had been thinking on the way up remembering the good times. Wondering what had gone so wrong. If only he had been given a chance to make things right. Sure his ex-wife had found that younger guy, but it did not last. She now went from man to man without any semblance that she could or would find the right one again. Maybe if the Court had been more reasonable, made it a little easier on Bill or a little harder on her; if it were not so easy to divorce, they might have put it back together. But when a society takes sides, it unbalances the natural order of things. Bill had struggled hard to try and stay that private hero he saw himself to be, but in the end he lost everything including his self-respect.

Bill navigated the crushed stone driveway to the large and ancient mahogany door. It opened as he crossed the black stone steps.

"Good evening Senior," the woman said. She was gorgeous. Maybe five foot tall in a pair of stiletto heels seen only in fetish magazines. She wore a brightly colored silk robe and was naked beneath, as she turned the fabric billowed out revealing the most magnificent breasts. Her long dark hair streamed down her back. More than all this she was just beautiful with her black eyes and honey colored skin.

"Al said we might expect a new verdadero hombre," she said leading him across the wide vestíbulo principal toward a room where a soft Spanish guitar could be heard playing.

"I am Morena-You are very tall," she said.

"And you are very pretty," he replied.

"All you sad gringo Hombres say such things, I wonder if in your country you have no buenas mujeres(good women) that you must come to live with the grande señor. More and more of you come. I think someday the gringo mujeres will have no longer any verdadero hombre only hombres débiles. Poor mujeres will be sad then."

She led him to a large room that opened into an inner atrium. It was furnished in teak wood, mahogany, satin and silk. The scent of perfume mixed with the acrid smell of illegal substances. But what he noticed most were the women; dozens of them all young, nubile and all engaged in blatant sexual activities with the smattering of Anglo men that laced the room. His companion shed her robe and eased his arm round her.

Bill Walsh had landed in heaven or hell; he knew not which and perhaps it was just a matter of opinion. As his hostess led him deep into the room to an unoccupied sofa, he managed to pick out his host and benefactor in the mass of bodies. The man was no longer in a silk jacket, but quite naked and buried under three exceedingly pretty brown mujeres. That man who he knew only as Peter Allen, the man who wanted everyone to remember his name.