by Lisa Worrall
“You just threw that smile out there without a single thought for the poor guy it was aimed at.”
Will grabbed Scott’s elbow, forcing him to a halt. “What?”
“I’m just saying you better be careful who you smile at, detective, or you’re gonna find yourself the subject of your very own man crush.” Scott shrugged and schooled his features into a butter wouldn’t melt expression. “Not everybody is as immune to your charms as I am.”
“Really?” Will’s gaze narrowed and dropped to Scott’s mouth, the quirk of his lips indicating he knew exactly what that would do to his man. “As much as I would love to test that theory, this is neither the place nor the time… detective.” The smile he shot Scott was smug as he turned on his heel and continued up the drive.
Scott took a moment to compose himself after visions of exactly how that theory would be tested skittered across the surface of his mind, then followed Will into the house. He’d get his own back later.
In the hall, Scott looked around the space. To a casual onlooker, it would look as though he barely touched on anything for more than a nanosecond, but his well-trained gaze took in everything. The closed door to the left of the stairs that curved up to a spacious landing. The three doors off the right of the hall, the one at the end open to the kitchen, and the one on the right leading into the living-room, just as officer Kowalski had so helpfully pointed out. He noted the broken vase on the floor by the small table against the wall, and the bloody smears on the wall along the stairs, probably left by the victim’s hand as they stumbled down them in an attempt to escape their attacker. He also saw the small boy at the kitchen table, staring into whatever drink the sympathetic female officer sitting next to him had made.
“Detective Turner?”
Scott dragged his gaze from the boy at the sound of his name and turned to look into the nervous, and slightly flushed, countenance of Noah Lieberman.
“Hey, Noah.” Scott nodded toward the living-room. “What have we got?”
“The victim’s name is Tristan Petersen,” Lieberman replied, flipping open his notebook. “A forty-five-year-old bank manager.” He nodded toward the door across the hall. “Detective Harrison’s in the study with the body. According to the wife the attack began upstairs.”
“Attack?”
Lieberman nodded. “Wife says they woke up to find a man with a knife standing next to the bed. He was screaming about the safe and when the victim said it was in the study downstairs, he tied up the wife and dragged the husband down the stairs. The blood smears on the wall suggest the son of a bitch had already stabbed Petersen before they got to the safe.”
“Why?” Scott’s brow furrowed.
“Why what?”
“Why stab him before you’ve got him to open the safe?”
“A warning maybe?” Liberman relied. “Show he meant business? To stop Petersen doing anything stupid?”
“Maybe.” Scott glanced out of the front door at the flashing blue and red lights. “Who called it in?”
“She did, Kowalski and Davis were first on the scene. They found the vic in the study and the wife tied to the headboard in the master bedroom.”
“What about the kid?” Scott asked, scribbling down notes.
“The kid?” Lieberman stared at him blankly.
“Yes, Lieberman,” Scott repeated. “The kid.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Lieberman blushed and flicked through his notebook. “He was with the mother.”
“Did he see anything?”
“No, he heard shouting, got scared and hid in the closet.”
“Okay.” Scott closed his notebook and returned it and the pen to his pocket. “Keep the wife company for now. I’ll catch up with Will and Bloody Mary, then we’ll come in and talk to her.” Lieberman nodded and Scott strode across the hall to the study. The scene that greeted him when he opened the door, was not pleasant.
The body of the recently departed bank manager lay in front of the fireplace, sightless eyes open and glassy. Will motioned to the upturned desk chair and the pile of papers strewn across the floor. Scott noted that the telephone handset had been knocked out of its charger. The vic had obviously headed for the landline when he staggered into the room, in a vain attempt to call for help. Papers on the desk had fallen to the floor and he’d tripped over the chair. Or was pushed. Had the attacker followed him into the room? He glanced around the room. Nothing else seemed to have been disturbed. Will waved a hand at him to attract his attention and glared pointedly at the woman on her knees beside the body. Scott rolled his eyes. He knew what that glare meant. Be nice! He could practically hear the exclamation mark.
“Hey, doc,” Scott said as conversationally as he could. “What have we got?”
“He’s dead,” was the stoic response.
“Great,” Scott snapped his notebook shut. “Did you hear that, Will? He’s dead. Looks like we can all go home. Case solved.”
“I see you’ve still not taught your dog to heel, Detective Harrison.” The woman stood up and turned to address Will.
“Dog?” Scott spluttered. “Wait a goddam min—!”
“What do we have, Dr. Stein?” Will cut Scott off, much to his annoyance.
“Multiple stab wounds,” she replied, peeling off her latex gloves. She screwed them into a ball and passed them to her assistant, who put them into an evidence bag. “Superficial mostly, apart from the one that punctured the lung. He drowned in his own blood.”
“Superficial?” Scott repeated. He growled when she ignored him and threw his hands in the air. Thankfully, Will took the hint and echoed his question.
“Superficial?”
“I can’t say for sure until I get him on the table, but there’s no defensive wounds on his hands, and the other wounds are light. Almost as if he were killed by accident rather than design.” She picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “But like I said, I’ll know more when I get him on the table.”
“Light?” Scott attempted another question, which was, of course, ignored. “Like weak?” She walked straight past him to the door. “Like a woman?” She opened the door and walked out, slamming it behind her. “How long is she going to keep this up?” Scott shook his head at Will, frustration burning through him.
“I don’t know,” Will replied. “How long could you keep it up if I broke your heart and had to work with you?”
“It was almost sixteen years ago!” Scott shoved his notebook into his pocket and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “And I didn’t break her heart.”
“I don’t think that’s how she sees it.”
“We were kids, for God’s sake.” Scott tried to tamp down the all too familiar whine that threatened to resurface. “Even I didn’t know who I was back then.”
“Maybe if the two of you sat down and talk—”
Scott snorted loudly. “Seriously?” He shook his head. “What the hell makes you think she’ll agree to that?”
“But—”
“Let’s talk to the wife.” Scott turned on his heel and strode purposefully from the room. He had no desire to discuss Kimberly Stein, right now—they had bigger fish to fry. He could feel the weight of Will’s disapproving gaze burning into the back of his head as they crossed the hall. Was Will right? Yes—he usually was, his most annoying habit—and Scott would have to face his past sooner or later. Just not today.
In the living-room an attractive brunette sat on a large black leather couch, a tumbler half-full of amber liquid, held between her shaking hands, a long woolen sweater over her nightgown. She looked up as they entered the room and snapped, “Where’s my son?”
Scott sat down in the armchair opposite and Will sat down beside her, as Scott knew he would. Scott’s interrogation techniques bordered on the aggressive. Will was the touchy-feely one, much more suited to fire questions at a grieving widow, and Scott was more than happy to let him take the lead. If he was honest, as inappropriate as it may be, he got quite a thrill from watching Will work his magi
c. He pulled out his notebook, settled back in his chair and, pen poised, began to take notes.
“Mrs. Petersen?”
“Where’s my son?”
“He’s with one of our officers in the kitchen,” Will replied. “He’s safe, Audrey. May I call you Audrey?” Will’s tone was soft and low. She nodded and Will continued smoothly. “Audrey, I’m Detective Harrison and this is my partner, Detective Turner.” Scott gave her what he hoped was a sympathetic smile. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“I-I al-already told him.” She jerked her chin at Lieberman, who stood by the fireplace.
“I know,” Will replied. “But we need to hear it, too.” She sighed heavily and took another mouthful of whisky from the glass. “Please.”
Audrey stared at Will for what felt like, to Scott, forever, then the defiance seemed to drain out of her, her shoulders dropped, and she began to speak. “W-we went to b-bed around nine. Tris had booked a game with the club pro for tomorrow morning and wanted to get an early night. I read for about twenty minutes, but Tris was t-tired, so he was out like a light.” She frowned as if searching for something. “I-I can’t remember if I k-kissed him g-goodnight.” She grabbed Will’s hand. “Did I kiss him goodnight?” Her gaze pleaded with his. “I did, d-didn’t I? D-didn’t I?” Will took a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her as fresh tears began to fall.
“I’m sure you did,” Will soothed, gripping her fingers in his. “And even if you didn’t, he carried with him the memory of the thousands of other times you did.” Scott’s heart swelled. That’s why Will did this bit, he’d never be able to come up with a line like that. But, with Will, that was the whole point, it wasn’t a line. Will’s compassion wasn’t fabricated. Not that Scott wasn’t as compassionate, it was just a little harder for him to put it into words. “What’s the next thing you remember?” Will asked, after she’d composed herself.
“Screaming,” she replied. “Tristan, screaming.”
“Why was he screaming, Audrey?”
“There was a man, he had a knife and he was yelling about the safe.” She looped her hair behind her ear with shaking fingers. “Tris told him we don’t keep money in the safe, but he said he was lying, and he just kept stabbing at him. There was so much b-blood.” She took another drink and the clattering of the glass against her teeth was audible in the quiet of the room.
“Did he try to stab you?” Scott asked, scribbling on his notepad.
“No.”
“I only ask because….” Scott waved a hand at her nightgown and she looked down at herself. She flinched at the streaks of blood on the white satin.
“He made T-Tris tie me to the h-headboard. Oh, God. Is it—? H-his—?” She crumpled, pulling the edges of her cardigan together and tightening the belt, covering up the stains.
“It’s okay, Audrey,” Will said reassuringly. “Take your time.” He shot a glare at Scott, who shrugged. It was a relevant question. She’s covered in blood! “What happened after that?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head in despair. “The man pushed Tris out of the room, and I heard them going down the stairs. Tris screamed and then there was nothing for the longest time. I couldn’t reach my cell on the nightstand so, when the man didn’t come back, I called for my son. It took a while for him to answer me, he was scared, but he finally came and put the phone to my ear after he dialed 911.” She ran a finger around the mark that had been left on her skin. “He tried to untie me, but he couldn’t. So, we just sat and waited for the police.” She shrugged. “That’s it.”
“Thank you,” Will said softly.
“Can I see my son now?”
“Of course.” Will nodded at Lieberman. “Detective, would you please go and get…” he glanced at Audrey for confirmation.
“Christopher.”
“Christopher and bring him in here?” Once Lieberman had left the room, Will returned his attention to Audrey. “If it’s okay, we’d like to ask Christopher a few questions, too.”
“What questions?” Her eyes widened and her gaze flitted from Will to Scott and back again agitatedly. “He didn’t see anything.”
“Sometimes we see and hear things without realizing their importance,” Will explained. “He may be able to help us find out who killed your husband.”
“I don’t—”
“Mommy!”
Scott looked up as Christopher rushed into the room and all but flew into his mother’s arms.
“Christopher!” Audrey gathered her son to her. “Are you okay?” she studied every inch of his face, combing her hands through his hair. “You’re okay. Thank God, you’re okay.” The boy snuggled into her, wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face against her side.
Scott watched as the kid turned his head and peered at him from beneath his bangs. A quick glance put the boy at maybe eight, nine at a push. He sighed. He wasn’t good with kids. According to Will, it wasn’t what you said, it was how you said it. Well, Scott had no idea what to say and when he did say something, he said it the wrong way. But then, as he’d pointed out to Will more than once, that’s what he had him for. Scott was more your catch the bad guy and put him in a headlock kind of cop. He wouldn’t be the perfect choice to talk a jumper down off a ledge. Hell, he wouldn’t be the perfect choice to talk a grandma off a porch step.
“Where’s Daddy?”
Audrey Petersen stared at Will, eyes wide and horrified. Scott felt for her. “He’s… he’s—”
“In the other room,” Will interjected, saving her from having to answer her son’s question… for now. “Christopher.” Will sat down on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch. “I’m Will, and this,” he motioned over his shoulder to the armchair, “is Scott.”
“Who’s he?” Christopher pointed to Lieberman, who had once again resumed his position at the fireplace.
Scott glanced at the young detective and tried not to roll his eyes as Lieberman averted his gaze when Scott caught him staring at him.
“That’s Noah.” Will introduced him.
“You got I.D.?”
Scott swallowed a snort. Smart kid.
“I do,” Will reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “Do you want to see it?”
“Can I hold it?” Christopher held out his hand and Will gave him his badge. He studied it closely, letting go of his mother long enough to turn the badge over in his hands, his eager gaze taking in every nuance. After a few minutes, obviously satisfied with its authenticity, he handed it back to Will with a nod. “Cool.” He looked at Scott, who couldn’t hide his amusement the second time round. “You gotta ask for I.D.,” he said. “It’s the rules.”
“Yes, it is,” Scott agreed, tapping his forehead with the end of his pen. “Smart thinking.”
Will clasped his hands together and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I’m guessing tonight was pretty scary, huh?” he said softly. Christopher shrugged and shifted even closer to his mother. “Do you think you can tell me what you heard?”
“Do we really have to—?”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Christopher said, turning in her embrace so he was facing Will, but still attached to her. Scott thought she was going to say something else, but after a quick glance at her son, she quieted and took another swig of whisky. “The yelling woke me up,” Christopher said, a frown creasing his brow. “It was really loud, and I was scared.” His frown increased, as if annoyed with himself.
“It’s okay to be scared,” Scott said, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. He was as surprised to hear his voice as Will, who threw him a confused glare over his shoulder. If he was honest, Scott didn’t know why he was trying to engage with the kid either. This was Will’s territory, but something about the boy felt… familiar.
“I know. I’m not five,” the boy replied, tossing Scott a look that told him quite succinctly he was a moron. The smirk Will shot him told Scott he was of the same opinion. Scott ducked his head and p
retended to concentrate on his notebook.
“What did you do when you heard the yelling?” Will asked, returning his attention to Christopher. “Did you go and check?”
Christopher shook his head. “I was going to, but when I got to the door, Mommy screamed.” His gaze flitted to Scott. “That was when I got really scared.”
“Why?”
“It’s not good when Mommy screams,” Christopher replied. “She laughs and she cries, and sometimes she yells at me to pick up my toys, but it’s not good when she screams.”
Will nodded in understanding and, behind him, Scott mirrored the gesture. He knew from personal experience that there was no sound scarier than the terrified scream of your own mother.
“What did you do when you heard Mommy scream?” Will prompted.
“Hid in my closet,” he replied, looking up at his mother, shamefaced. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“No, baby,” Audrey replied, stroking his face. “You did the right thing.”
“Your mom’s right, Christopher,” Will replied. “You did the right thing. What happened while you were in the closet? Did you hear anything else?”
Christopher shook his head. “I heard running down the stairs, then nothing for like a long time. Not until Mommy yelled for me.”
“Did you come out of your closet as soon as Mommy called?” Will asked. Christopher shook his head. “Why not?”
“I thought it was a trick,” Christopher replied. “Like the bad guys do on the T.V.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Mommy yelled my whole name. Like she does when I’m in big trouble. So, I thought I’d better go.”
Will smiled. “I get it. My mom only ever used my whole name when she was mad with me, too.” He tipped Christopher a conspiratorial wink as if sharing a secret. “Usually when I’d been at the cookie jar.”
Christopher grinned back and whispered. “I sometimes do that.” Again, he looked up at his mother and apologized. “Sorry, Mom.”
“Somehow,” Will said, ruffling Christopher’s hair. “I don’t think Mommy’s going to mind this time. You’ve been a very brave boy, Christopher. Thank you for being so honest, it was very helpful.” He stood up and put a reassuring hand on Audrey Petersen’s shoulder. “Noah will accompany you to the hospital.”
