Split (Chapter-12)

Ann Gottlieb was supposed to call him back hours ago.

Ian thought about returning to the station to check his voicemail for messages, but decided he might as well swing by the woman’s home and meet with her face to face. He used to believe he could read people pretty well, but his ability to see through deception was seriously in question. He figured he’d have a better shot up close and personal.

At the light at the bottom of Main Street, Ian shuffled through his papers on the front seat and found Ann’s address. She lived on Fourth Street, on the block closest to the river.

He brought the car to a stop in front of a four-story, modern construction made mostly of glass. Alongside several decaying two-story bungalows, the Gottlieb home stuck out like an expensively manicured branch on a withered, dying tree. Ann, or possibly someone close to her, must have some big buckeroos.

The doorbell buzzed like an angry beehive. No one came to check on the insects, though. He buzzed again. And then a third time.

After several minutes, Ian figured Ann had either left home or couldn’t hear him. He decided to do a bit of snooping, in case the latter was true.

His list told him she owned a brand new Mazda RX7. Turbo-charged. There was no sign of it on the street so he attempted to find it inside what he assumed must be the garage. Unfortunately, this was the only section of the see-through house that appeared to be opaque. The glass block let light in, but resisted prying eyes.

Giving up on the garage, Ian inserted himself between some scraggly bushes. He wondered idly why none of the home’s obviously immense budget had been put toward landscaping. There were no yews, but plenty of tall weeds and thorny vines. Around the back of the house, he found a spiral staircase leading up from a concrete patio to three outdoor decks stacked one on top of the next.

The metal staircase clanged with each step he took. On the first deck, he pressed his nose up against the thick plate glass and peered inside. He was looking into a stark living space, with blonde wood floors, a large glass coffee table, and two couches facing each other. A floating staircase rose from one side of the room. There appeared to be a pile of laundry left at the bottom of the stairs.

From the next deck, Ian was able to view the top of the same staircase. A single woven rug lay bunched to one side. And a brass bowl sat upturned on the floor next to the rug.

Ian took a moment to mentally process the scene. No pool of blood. No overturned chairs. No broken glass. Just subtle signs of a struggle. He couldn’t justify breaking in without more than this.

He tried the sliding glass door. Locked. Also barred. He wasn’t getting in this way.

Continuing up to the next level, he tried the last set of doors. All locked. Ann Gottlieb took security seriously.

He returned to the front door and disturbed the angry bees again. Still no answer. He tried the knob. Locked, of course.

Ian left, heading for the station.

Taking the stairs from the parking lot two at a time, Ian yelled to the first person he saw, “Is the chief upstairs?”

Sergeant Niklaus happened to be chatting up Lorraine, the receptionist. “Don’t know. What’s your big hurry?”

Ian didn’t bother to explain, but continued up the stairs, down the hallway, and straight into Chief White’s office. She was on the phone when he burst through the door, panting.

“No, Mr. Mayor, no obvious connection between the two deaths. I think we can put the lawyer’s down to accidental poisoning.” She listened to the response while Ian fell into one of her leather armchairs. “I’ll be sure to do that. Absolutely.”

As she hung up the phone, she narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on? You take up jogging? Somebody chasing you?”

As succinctly as he could manage, Ian outlined the brief conversation he had had that morning with Ann Gottlieb and the situation at her home, including his suspicions.

“I’ll get Judge Williams to issue a warrant. You go grab the sergeant and whoever else you can find. Do you know if anyone else lives there?”

“No clue, Chief. No one else was home, but she might be married.”

“Alright. Just get in there. I’ll bring the warrant over.”

Ian heaved himself up, felt a wave of dizziness hit him, and grabbed the back of the chair. He realized he still hadn’t eaten lunch. Too late now.

On his way to the parking lot, he explained what he needed to Darlene, the dispatcher. She got on the radio and asked nearby units to head to Fourth Street.

As he pulled the Crown Vic to the curb in front of the four-story home, he saw the front door standing ajar. A white Peugeot sat in the driveway. A tall man in a navy suit and overcoat appeared in the doorway, cradling a phone to his ear.

Ian jumped out of the car and raced toward him, shouting, “Police! Freeze!”

The man put his hands up in the air, one holding the telephone, the other holding the cradle. “Don’t shoot! I didn’t do it!”

Ian hadn’t even reached for his weapon. “Nobody’s shooting anybody. Step outside and tell me your name.”

“Barry Gottlieb. I was calling 911.” He bent and placed the telephone on the floor before stepping onto the front stoop. “My wife, Ann. She’s inside. I think she’s dead.”

“Did you touch her? Did you touch anything at all?”

Barry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. I think so. Yes, I touched her. I put my hand on her neck to try to find a pulse. But I knew she was dead. She felt cold.”

“Anything else? Did you move anything?”

“No. I don’t think so. I went straight for the phone.”

“How long ago did you get home?”

“Just a few minutes. I left work early today. I was hoping to surprise Ann. Take her out to dinner.” Barry sank slowly to the stoop.

Sergeant Niklaus screeched to a stop in the middle of the street and squeezed out of his vehicle. His beer baby had developed to the third-trimester stage. Watching him approach, Ian thought he should probably apply for maternity leave. Or desk duty.

“This the perp?” the sergeant asked, striding belly-first up the walkway.

“Nah. Just the husband.” Ian glanced through the open door. “Can you stay with him? I want to check the scene.”

Two more police cruisers pulled up as Ian entered the Gottlieb home. He heard Sergeant Niklaus barking orders and moving Barry out of the way.

There was no sign of forced entry. The front door did not appear to be scratched or damaged in any way. He recalled someone had buzzed the doorbell when Ann was on the phone with him. It was possible she had let her killer in after their aborted conversation.

Behind the entryway, toward the back of the house, a staircase led up to the second floor. At the bottom of these stairs, Ian found Ann’s body in a heap of twisted limbs. This was what he'd earlier assumed was a pile of laundry. He deduced, without too much trouble, she had most likely fallen down the stairs.

Slipping on a pair of Latex gloves, he climbed the stairs. At the top, he got a close-up look at the brass bowl he had noticed earlier through the window. On his hands and knees, he examined its outer edges, which appeared to be hammered, perhaps by hand. He thought there might be a round, dried spot of blood on one side, but the forensic lab would need to confirm this.

Ian was positive he’d seen a similar bowl somewhere recently. Was it inside one of the homes he’d visited? Did Angelica own a bowl like this? Or maybe he’d spotted it at Liberty Crafts?

Without touching the bowl, he inched over to the rug. It had clearly been pushed to the side. Possibly by someone running? Or hurrying to the stairs?

Of course, it was possible the whole thing was an accident. Ann could have been carrying the brass bowl, slipped on the loose rug, and gone headfirst down the stairs without any assistance.

But it was very odd that two women in the same yoga class died in mysterious circumstances only days apart. The timing of Ann's death was particularly troublesome, as she was on the verge of sharing possibly crucial information about the night Gail Hunter died. And how did the third woman, Beth Strauss, fit into this scenario?