by Jenn Burke
“Do I? A lot can change over thirty-three years.”
“Not that.”
“Maybe you solidified accidentally and she caught you, hmm? She was gonna call the cops, and you had to stop her, and things got out of hand.”
“Are you even listening to yourself?”
“Yeah, I’m listening, and I’m thinking, and most of the puzzle pieces fit into place in that scenario.”
“They don’t.” I could feel the barest breeze of Hudson’s peppermint-scented breath on my cheek. “I’m not strong enough to hold her down, let alone strangle her with my bare hands.”
Hudson’s grip relaxed slightly. “Yeah, that’s the piece that doesn’t fit.”
“Then what the fuck?” I jerked my arm out of his grasp. “What was that?”
“A taste of what hanging around crime scenes can get you,” Hudson growled. “Why are you here?”
“I—” God, it sounded so stupid, but... “I want to help.”
Hudson let out a bark of laughter that sounded rusty, as though he didn’t laugh often. But that didn’t fit with his crow’s-feet. “Right. Sure. Did someone hire you to spy on the investigation?”
“What? No.”
“I don’t believe you. Who hired you?”
“No one. I’m not here for that. Jesus, you’re jaded.” I huffed out a breath. “And can we turn on a damned light so I can actually see you?”
Something moved past me, probably Hudson’s arm, and the pantry light blazed. I grunted, squinting. Hudson seemed to be in the same boat, with his eyes narrowed to slits as he looked at me. We probably made quite the sight, and I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“What?” Hudson demanded.
“Nothing. Look, I’m not here on a job. I’m here as the guy who—who saw this happen, and who feels...” I trailed off.
“Guilty?”
“Yeah.” I sighed.
“Because you watched it happen and did nothing.”
Way to twist the knife. “I’m not a fighter.”
“You’re also not a good guy.”
At that, I turned away. I wasn’t a good guy. I’d never claimed to be. But I was no different than when we were together, so why was Hudson harping on this so hard? “Just...find the asshole who did this, okay? The news is going apeshit and it—I hate it.” I started to fade back to the otherplane, ready to be done with this conversation.
“Stop.”
I could ignore him, but something in me didn’t want to. I edged back into reality. “What?”
“You’re not going anywhere. You’re my only witness.”
“I can’t testify.”
“Wow, thanks for telling me. I’m not an idiot. Of course you can’t testify. But you can help me eliminate suspects. You can accompany me—ghosted—on my interviews and let me know if you see anyone whose silhouette matches the killer’s.”
I was immediately suspicious. Hudson hated my abilities and what I used them to do, but he was suddenly willing to overlook that? “Do I get to look forward to more of your charming treatment?”
“Look, we’ve got nothing. No trace evidence, no fingerprints, no DNA. There was also no forced entry, so we’re operating on the assumption that she knew her killer and let him in. I will bet a month’s salary the killer is one of the people I’m heading out to interview, and unless I get info from them that confirms my suspicions, you’re the only one who can tell us for sure. So...you in or out?”
I stared at Hudson for a few moments. This was what I wanted, right? A chance to help. Even if it meant spending time with this new, not-improved Hudson. “In,” I finally said. “And, um, there’s something I didn’t tell you. Two things, actually.”
Hudson leaned against the shelves. “Oh, this should be good.”
I scowled and resisted the urge to give him the finger. If we were going to work together—and god help me, that was indeed what this plan entailed—I needed to be fully transparent. Uh, so to speak. “The killer’s image in the otherplane was...different.”
“How so?”
“Darker. More jagged than how I usually see people.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Haven’t a clue,” I said with a small shake of my head. “Maybe that he’s a murderer?”
“It’ll make it easier for you to identify him, right?”
“Hopefully.”
“All right. And the second thing?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “He looked right at me. Before I, um, left.”
“Ran.”
“Yes, okay. I ran from the scene of a brutal fucking murder. So sue me.”
Hudson held up a hand to halt my tirade. “So you think he saw you?”
“Maybe my mojo is getting old. You saw me too, so...”
“I don’t think it’s anything to do with your abilities failing. I was on alert, hyperalert even, straining to find any clues. The killer would have been the same, sort of—high on adrenaline and listening hard for anyone approaching.”
I frowned. “He didn’t seem that on edge.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
Well...yeah. I knew that better than anyone, didn’t I? The idea that the murderer maybe saw the same wrinkle Hudson had—and not actually me—calmed my pulse. I let out a breath and nodded. “I’ll go with you.”
Hudson arched a brow, as if to say like you had a choice. “Great. Meet me outside.”
Chapter Four
Our first stop was Julia Boucher’s townhouse.
I glared at Hudson when he informed me who we were going to see. “But I already told you it isn’t her.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why—”
“Because I’m the cop who just got assigned to this case, and my supervisor wants me to speak to the next of kin again.” Hudson met my glare with one of his own, daring me to challenge him.
I obliged. “They’re divorced.”
“So?”
“So how is she the next of kin?”
“Because the lawyers say she is.”
“It’s a waste of time.”
He barked out a laugh. “Most of police work is. We’ve still got to do it.”
“Yeah, but see?” I waved a hand at myself. “Not a cop.”
“And the world thanks you for that.” Hudson parked and turned off the car. “C’mon. Think of it as a dry run for the people I actually need you to observe.” Without waiting for me to respond, he got out, then bent down to look back into the cabin when I didn’t move. “You did say you wanted to help.”
Fuck him, he was right.
I slipped into the otherplane and followed Hudson up to the door. The townhouse was nice, with upscale materials and a well maintained front lawn, but definitely a few steps down the social ladder from Meredith’s mansion. I tried to remember what I’d dug up about Julia Boucher in my research. She used to be the CEO of a tech firm, but she’d quit shortly after getting hitched to focus on her marriage and charity work. In the magazine articles I’d found, she’d stated it was a dream of hers to be able to devote her time to charitable causes.
That was not the mentality of someone who committed murder—or hired a murderer.
Julia answered the door. Her silhouette did not match that of the woman who had graced the pages of multiple magazines. Instead of her hair being coiffed just so, it draped limply around her face. In photos, she was usually dressed in a modern take on fifties style to emphasize her voluptuous and abundant curves—very rockabilly with poufy A-line skirts and bright red lipstick, which made her and Meredith look like matching bookends—but now she wore oversize clothing that made her figure all but shapeless and appear a few sizes larger than she was. I couldn’t see any details about her expression, but the tissue clutched tightly in one hand told me enough.
Hudson held out his ID. “Detective Hudson Rojas, Ms. Boucher. We spoke on the phone?”
She sniffled. “Yes, of course. Come in.” For an instant, she looked right at me. I stilled, but her gaze continued on without a pause. “It’s just you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Julia led the way into the townhouse and waved at the kitchen counter. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Water would be great, thank you.”
Julia busied herself with that. I let my head fall back and groaned with how painfully unimportant this was.
“Do you have any idea when they’ll release Meredith’s house?” Julia asked as she placed a tall glass of water with a slice of lemon in front of Hudson. “My lawyer said...everything’s in order for me to...” Her voice faltered. “I’m sorry.”
Those two words stilled my fidgeting.
She was apologizing. When she’d done nothing wrong. I was the one who should be sorry. I was the one who’d stood there, motionless, while someone murdered her ex-wife—clearly someone Julia still cared for. I swallowed hard and directed my gaze away from her and Hudson.
But I wanted absolution, right? I wanted to help. So here I would stand.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. We’re doing everything we possibly can to find out who did this,” Hudson said, his low voice genuine and sincere. “I know you spoke to one of my colleagues yesterday, but would you mind going over some things with me again?”
Julia sucked in a shaky breath and nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“You and Meredith recently divorced.”
“Yes. It was final six months ago.”
“Was it amicable?”
“I didn’t hate her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
In my opinion, there was a big gap between amicable and hate, but hey, I wasn’t the cop in the room.
“Were you still friendly with her?”
Julia’s form sagged. “We’d been talking about reconciling,” she whispered.
That explained the lingerie in the laundry room and the dresses in the closet. Maybe “talking about reconciling” meant “having sex.” They wouldn’t be the first couple to only realize what they’d had was pretty good once it was gone. Now I was doubly glad I’d canceled the contract with Meredith’s lawyers—Julia didn’t need more conflict piled on top of the heartache she was already going through.
“What was the reason for the divorce?”
Julia sighed. “A lot of little things. As an actor, she couldn’t comprehend that I liked my shape, so she’d make digs about my weight.” She paused. “Then there were the parties, both the ones she held and the ones she went to. She spent a lot of time socializing—she definitely wasn’t a homebody, whereas I would much prefer to watch a movie on the couch, you know? And I guess the final straw was the talk of moving to Los Angeles. It was just one more sign that our relationship was not her priority.”
“She wasn’t happy in Toronto?”
“Oh, she loved Toronto, but it’s a smaller market for actors here and roles for someone of her age were starting to dry up.”
“I thought she’d just had a relatively major one.”
“A Canadian project and story with a Canadian cast will never lead to the fame Meredith has been seeking—” Her voice broke. “Had been seeking—her entire life. She wanted to end her career with an even bigger bang.”
“Had any of those issues you mentioned been resolved before you started to reconcile?”
“No,” Julia admitted with a wet chuckle. “I just got swept back into her orbit. She was like that. A magnet. You couldn’t look away from her.” She twisted the tissue in her lap. “But I loved her. Love was never really our problem.”
Yeah, I knew how that felt.
“Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt her?”
To her credit, Julia didn’t immediately respond, but took her time to consider the question. “She didn’t get along with her half brother, Edward Harris. He felt she should share her good fortune, but she didn’t like him and wouldn’t give him the time of day, let alone any money.”
“Do you think he could be violent?”
“I don’t really know him, to be honest. I’ve seen him a few times over the years, but Meredith avoided him as much as she could.”
That wasn’t a no.
“Anyone else? A stranger, someone she mentioned as being questionable?”
“She’s had her share of negative comments online and elsewhere, but nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly nothing threatening. I’m sorry, Detective. I can’t think of anything else.”
Hudson wrote something in his notepad. “And her estate—”
“She didn’t change her will, so I’m—I’m the beneficiary. She had no one else—her half brother, maybe.” Julia shrugged. “I can’t see her leaving him much, if anything.”
“Ms. Boucher—”
“Julia is fine.”
“I hate to ask, but where were you the day Meredith was killed?”
The tissue in Julia’s hand tore and she absently put the pieces on the counter, smoothing them. “Of course you have to ask. In the morning, I was at the office—The Sky’s the Limit offices, the charity I work for. I can give you the names of people I met with or who saw me there. In the afternoon, I—” Her voice faltered again. “I was at the spa. Treating myself. I was getting pampered while Meredith—while she—”
And there they were, the waterworks. Hudson patted her shoulder, looking about as uncomfortable as I felt. My throat clogged up, in sympathy to the emotion Julia was displaying but also with guilt and shame.
What if I’d acted sooner? What if I’d fucking stopped it?
The quiet but intense sobs lasted only a few minutes, and Hudson closed out the interview by getting the names of people who could confirm Julia’s alibi. I headed out to the car to wait for him and get my emotions back under control.
By the time he sat down, I’d pushed the self-recrimination out of the forefront of my brain. It was still there, but focusing on it served no purpose. I knew I’d fucked up, and Hudson had made it clear that he was the last person who was going to offer me sympathy.
I didn’t have club-clothes armor to pull out this time, so I employed snark instead. “Waste. Of. Time.”
His grimace told me he agreed, but of course he wouldn’t admit it out loud. “Anything?”
“I know you’re going to be shocked at this, but—wait for it.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Her shadow figure looks nothing like the murderer’s.”
“If that was all an act, she deserves a fucking Academy Award,” Hudson grumbled, putting the car into gear and pulling into traffic.
“I couldn’t see her expression, only her body language.”
“Eye contact, her eyes and nose were red and swollen from lots of crying, and—You’ve seen pictures of her, right?”
“She was definitely not as put together as she usually is.”
“Exactly. Everyone’s reactions are different to traumatic events, but my gut says she’s not involved.”
I lifted my hands and gestured at myself. “Uh, hello? Didn’t I already call that?”
“Shut up, Wesley.”
* * *
Dave Galway, the director on Meredith’s last movie, was not the killer. I could tell immediately. He had a slight beer gut on an otherwise slender frame and he was far shorter than the man who’d taken Meredith’s life. On top of that, he didn’t have the presence the killer had exuded. That confidence, or entitlement, or... I don’t know what it was, but whatever had prompted the killer to help himself to a drink, so casually, as Meredith lay dead on the floor.
The memory was enough to make me shudder.
Dave had graciously greeted Hudson despite the hour—it was almost 9:30 p.m., which I thought late for this sort of det
ective work, but what did I know? His interview was going in the same direction as Julia’s. He was much less emotional—shocked, sure, but it was easy to tell his relationship with Meredith had a professional distance. His voice was soft and a little shaky here and there, but I thought it was more from disbelief than anything else.
I tuned him out and looked around. There wasn’t anything truly interesting about the living room. It wasn’t as light and airy as Meredith’s, but the furniture and art definitely had the same “Look, Ma, I got money!” sense as her house had, only richer, darker, with leather and rough-grained wood. More man cave and less airy beach house. I wondered if Dave had six unused bedrooms too.
Pfft. Rich people.
Well, that passed a good, oh, two minutes. And Hudson hadn’t even gotten to the alibi portion of the questioning.
Ugh.
I wandered into the hall. It was decorated with posters from all of the movies Dave had directed, from Cracks in the Ice, the movie Meredith had starred in, back to his first film, Lycan Ridge—a movie made famous because of a tragic accident on set. I paused for a moment, wondering if Meredith’s last film would see a bump in popularity now that she was dead. Could that be motive for murder? Dave hadn’t been the figure I’d seen in Meredith’s mansion, but he could have hired someone.
Except Cracks in the Ice had actually done a decent number at the box office, if I remembered correctly. Particularly for a Canadian-set movie. Maybe not enough for Meredith’s ego, if Julia was to be believed, but both audiences and critics had enjoyed the story. So how much of a boost could the film get from its star’s death?
At the end of the hall, I found Dave’s study. Instead of movie posters on the walls, there were pictures of Dave on set, Dave accepting awards, Dave with crew and cast members. I eyed his desk, noting the agenda opened to today’s date with Hudson’s appointment scheduled in, and a copy of a local paper with news of Meredith’s murder splashed across the front page.
Gathering energy to manipulate the living plane from the otherplane, I nudged the touch pad on Dave’s open laptop. The screensaver shut off, revealing his icon-scattered desktop. Messy, ouch. Dave needed to take fifteen minutes and organize his stuff. I scanned through the items, but I didn’t see anything weird. Beyond folders with placeholder project names, I mean. One was called “Basilisk,” another was “Cyclops,” and yet another was “Medusa.”
