To make matters worse, Callen had a huge caseload, and now with Dixon’s murder, he’d likely be pulled in too many directions. With budget cuts and with herself and her father off work, the police department was operating with a skeleton crew. The shooting incident would be dealt with as quickly as possible to appease the masses and that worried her. Would they rush to judgment? Saturday night Callen had agreed to go back to the warehouse with her. Well, not exactly with her. He only said that he would go. Could she count on him to do that? She decided to call him later and remind him.
First, though, she needed to pay a visit to her lawyer. Rachael had called earlier to say they needed to prepare for the grand jury hearing. Not something she was looking forward to.
Angel ate leftover spaghetti for breakfast, trying not to think about how natural and right it had been to have Callen in her kitchen or standing beside her in church. After eating, she rinsed the dishes and left them in the sink. Then she studied her pitifully sparse wardrobe, thinking she probably should wear something other than the jeans and T-shirts she’d been living in.
She ended up wearing a white cable-knit sweater and a pair of black jeans. Her hair put up its usual resistance to any kind of order, and she finally gave up on it. The damp air would have its way, and within an hour she’d look like Shirley Temple.
She eased out of her apartment, hoping to avoid the press, and was surprised at their absence. Maybe they’d found someone else to hassle. One could only hope. Relieved, she hurried to the end of the lot, where she’d parked Brandon’s car. The Lexus was gone.
Angel felt a moment’s panic. Had someone stolen it? Brandon could have picked it up, but knowing him, he’d have called or dropped by to let her know. Then again, maybe he had. She didn’t remember checking her messages the night before. She hurried back inside and saw that the answering machine light was blinking. When she hit the play button, the mechanical voice indicated the call had come in on Sunday at 5:45 P.M. “I’m back in town,” Brandon said. “I haven’t been able to get away. Dad’s got all of us working on an important case. Anyway, I’m sending my secretary over to pick up my car. Don’t worry, you’ll find a replacement—my sister’s Blazer. I told her to park it close to your apartment. The key is under the mat in the front. I’ll call you tonight.” He paused. “Love you.”
She blinked back tears as she heard the last part of his message. She was going to have to tell him she didn’t love him. It wasn’t fair to keep him dangling like that. I will tell him, she promised herself. Today.
Angel found the Blazer and the keys and headed over to Tim’s church. She parked on the street in front and started up the sidewalk and around to the side, where an addition had been built to accommodate the offices, classrooms, and fellowship hall. Tim greeted her with a hug and pointed her toward Rachael’s office.
Rachael was looking at some files. Her office, if you could call it that, was a small cubicle that looked as if it had once been a storage room. There was barely enough space for a desk, let alone for the file cabinet, bookshelves, and a chair. Perched on the top shelf of a bookcase was a huge white cat. When Angel spoke, the cat assessed her with wide blue eyes then stretched, turned around in a circle, and curled back into a ball.
“Hi, Angel. Welcome.” Rachael greeted her with a wide, dimpled smile. “Hang on a sec. I want to file these.”
“Is that Sherlock?” Angel nodded toward the purring feline.
“Yeah. He’s resting. Poor baby, he had a late night.”
Since the room had no client chair and obviously no room for one, Angel waited in the hall. On the opposite wall a door stood open, revealing colorful banners, paintings, and drawings that were prominently displayed; she guessed the artwork came from the preschool children. She smiled at their efforts to re-create the world around them.
“Aren’t they wonderful?” Rachael closed her door and started back the way Angel had come. “I love being here and watching them.”
“It’s a wonder you get any work done.”
She shrugged. “I don’t have that many clients. I help Angie when I can—makes me feel like I’m contributing something for my office space. Besides, I love kids.”
They wove past Tim’s office, veered left, then right again, finally reaching the sanctuary. Rachael slid into one of the stained wood pews. “I hope you don’t mind. There’s no room in my office to talk.”
“So I noticed.” Their voices echoed in the high-ceilinged chamber.
“But isn’t this great? All this space and a stained glass window. I’ll bet even the Laffertys would envy this.”
Angel chuckled. “I doubt it, but I like your enthusiasm and your taste.”
With a pen and legal pad in hand, Rachael said, “You told me on the phone this morning that you have some new information.”
Angel filled her in on her trip to the warehouse and her talk with Callen. “I think he believes I didn’t kill Dixon, but I imagine he’s being pressured to get the case wrapped up. I know how these things go.”
“Let’s not worry too much about that right now. We need to concentrate on your case specifically, your part in Billy’s death. The hardest thing we have to face here is the missing evidence.”
“I think I’ve convinced Callen that there was another shooter, but what if I’m not able to prove it?”
“Well, don’t give up yet. We’ve still got your reputation. And we can probably fault Billy’s mother for her less-than-adequate parenting skills.”
“No.” The objection came out rather harshly.
Rachael gave her an odd look. “Well, we need something.”
“I don’t want her character brought into question. She’s a single parent and is already feeling guilty. I don’t want anything we do to add to that guilt.”
“Okay.” Rachael sighed. “We’ll just have to hope the missing evidence turns up or the crime lab guys find something at the warehouse to prove you didn’t fire those last two shots.” Rachael picked up her briefcase and rested it on her lap. Opening it, she drew out some notes.
Angel’s stomach knotted up. “Is that my file?”
“Uh-huh. Relax, Angel. I have a good feeling about all this. The grand jury rarely indicts a police officer.”
“Yes, but how many of them have shot a kid with a toy gun?”
“There have been a few.” Rachael tipped her head. “I know it looks scary.”
“What if they decide against me? I’ll be charged with man one and—”
“And we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. In the meantime, we need to make sure you have your story straight.”
Angel wished she could relax, but she wouldn’t, not until it was all over—maybe not even then.
“I have some good news—at least I hope it’s good.” Rachael opened her appointment book.“I’ve been doing some investigative work on my own. I found Dixon’s wife.”
“In Atlanta? You talked to her?”
“She isn’t in Atlanta. She came with him. She’s been visiting friends in Newport, and I have an appointment with her in an hour. Want to come?”
“Sure.” Angel wasn’t sure what good it would do to talk with the woman. She suspected someone from Sunset Cove P.D. already had. Maybe Callen. She tried not to picture him standing in her kitchen or walking with her on the beach. She tried and failed.
Rachael glanced at her watch again. “Do you have something to do between now and then?”
“No. Want to get a cup of coffee?”
“I like the way you think. Let’s go to Joanie’s, and I’ll buy you a latte.”
“Perfect, I love that place.” The coffee shop was located downtown in the refurbished area, sandwiched between two shops, one that carried every gift and souvenir known to humankind, the other an upscale art gallery.
A bell tinkled when Angel and Rachael entered the shop.
“Hi, girls.” Joanie poked her head up from behind the counter. She spoke with an English accent, despite having come to the Sta
tes fifteen years ago. “Be with you in a moment.”
Angel and Rachael chose one of several thick-cushioned armchairs by the fireplace, where they could enjoy the view of the ocean as it collided with the rocks below. Beside the chairs and sofas were white metal patio tables with matching chairs. The scent of delicate potpourri wafted through the room, along with the scent of coffee and fresh-baked pastries. Shelves were filled with treasures from Joanie’s native England, as well as an ample supply of coffees, teas, kitchen supplies, and candles.
“Sorry about that,” Joanie said as she headed toward their table, wiping her hands on a towel. “Just had a supply of ice cream come in, and I had to get it put away. Now then, what can I get for you?”
“One of your anise and orange biscotti—chocolate dipped.” Rachael studied the menu. “And a twelve-ounce mocha cappuccino.”
“I’ll have a...” Angel drummed her fingers on the table. “An amaretto latte. And do you still make those yummy chocolate-chip hazelnut scones?”
“I do. Do you want it with lemon curd or preserves and clotted cream?”
“Mmm. All of the above.” She tossed Joanie and Rachael a guilty look. “I’m drowning my sorrows in fat. Can you tell?”
“Like you need to worry,” Rachael chuckled. “Better that than booze.”
“Don’t worry,” Joanie teased, “I’ll stop serving you when I think you’ve had enough.”
Angel laughed. “Actually, I think I’m doing it because my mother thinks I don’t eat well.”
“I have news for you,” Rachael said. “This may be eating well, but it isn’t eating healthy.”
“How can you say that? Joanie told me herself that she takes all the calories out. Don’t you, Joanie?”
“Well, of course,” she said with a giggle. “Is that it, then? Want some soup or a sandwich with that?”
Angel hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Thanks for reminding me. I’ll have a bowl of clam chowder.”
“Me too.” Turning to Angel, Rachael asked, “Want to split a chicken salad sandwich?”
Angel nodded. “Sounds good.”
As Joanie prepared their food, Angel listened to Rachael extol Paul’s virtues. After delivering the order and bringing them waters, Joanie sat in a nearby chair. “How are you doing then, Angel? If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine, but I’ve been worried about you. All that awful stuff they’re saying.”
“I’m okay. I’m sure it’ll blow over soon. At least I hope so.”
“Most of the locals are on your side, luv.” Joanie got to her feet. “There now. That’s all I’m going to say on the subject. I imagine you get your fill of it elsewhere. You two relax and enjoy yourselves.”
“We will, thanks.” Rachael turned to Angel. “It was nice of her to say something. I know it must seem like everyone is against you—especially when you watch the news.”
“Or listen to certain cops.”
They both concentrated on eating, and it didn’t take long for Angel to realize she’d ordered far more than she could eat. She asked Joanie for a bag for her scone.
Rachael glanced at her watch. “We’d better take off. Mrs. Dixon will be waiting.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were standing in the doorway of Alicia Dixon’s hotel room, introducing themselves.
If Alicia Dixon were to audition for the role of a grieving widow, she’d never get the part. There was no sign of smeared mascara, no telltale redness around her eyes. Her hair had been brushed up and teased to perfection, and it framed her oval face and accentuated expertly applied makeup. She was dressed in an elegant pantsuit of soft, draping fabric.
“Some people are accusing you of killing my husband.”
Angel forced her gaze to meet Alicia Dixon’s eyes. “I didn’t kill your husband, ma’am. I didn’t even know him.”
“Why are you here?” She pursed her lips and folded her arms, looking as though she was going to make them stay in the hallway.
“Mrs. Dixon,” Rachael said, “we’d like to find out who did kill him.”
The woman’s skeptical gaze caught Angel’s. “I’ll talk to you, but I doubt I can be of any help.” She opened the door wider and motioned them inside. She indicated a table with four chairs and took one of them herself.
“Did your husband have any enemies?” Angel asked once they were seated.
“Not that I know of. He was a kind man, and everyone looked up to him. I’ve already told the police all of this.”
Angel wondered if Callen had questioned her, but didn’t ask.
“Yes,” Rachael said, “I figured as much. We’re just following up.”
“Why was your husband here?” Angel asked.
“Mr. Broadman asked him to come. He insisted that the Hartwell boy’s shooting was a racial incident. Broadman told Todd that he was filing a civil suit and needed his help.” She sat stiff and poised, her words sharp and to the point. “He wanted my husband to help him raise money to cover legal expenses.”
“You don’t like Ray Broadman much, do you?” Angel asked.
Mrs. Dixon raised a perfectly formed eyebrow. “Neither Todd nor I particularly cared for the man.”
“Why was that?” Angel picked a piece of lint from her pants.
“My husband doesn’t like being pressured. And Mr. Broadman was putting a lot of pressure on him to make a public statement to the effect that the police department here was prejudiced and would likely sweep the boy’s death under the carpet. He was concerned you would be exonerated and wanted to make certain the public knew the truth.”
“Was Broadman angry with your husband?” Rachael asked.
“Not angry.” She frowned, then added, “I’d say impatient. Todd likes to take his time and get all the facts. I think Mr. Broadman wanted things handled more expediently.”
Angel pressed on. “Can you tell us what happened the day your husband was murdered?”
“As I told the police, Todd had meetings all day. I left around 10:00 to go to Newport. I was meeting my sister and a friend at the aquarium there. We’d arranged to spend a couple days together.” She covered her eyes, showing grief for the first time. “I shouldn’t have left him alone.”
“We’re terribly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dixon,” Rachael said. “The reverend sounds like a fine man.”
Alicia nodded, her lips pinched.
“We won’t take any more of your time.” Rachael stood. “We appreciate your help.”
Angel stopped at the door. “Do you by any chance have Mr. Broadman’s address?”
She shook her head then touched her hand to her mouth. “Wait. He called here the morning after we arrived. Todd jotted something down on a pad by the phone. It’s gone now, but maybe there’s an indentation.” She looked embarrassed. “Um—I read mysteries and, well, I don’t know if police officers ever do this, but can’t you tell what was written by doing a pencil rub?”
“It’s not very sophisticated, but it works.” Angel lightly rubbed the pad’s surface with a pencil she’d pulled out of the desk and jotted down the revealed address. She and Rachael then thanked Mrs. Dixon and left.
“That was interesting,” Angel mused as they walked down the hall to the elevators. “It looks like Ray Broadman may have had a motive after all.”
“Because Dixon was taking his time?”
“No, but if Dixon refused to cooperate, if they argued over it...”
“That’s a lot of ifs, but I agree. I wish we had a tape of the conversation those two had Friday night.” Rachael punched the down arrow and waited for the doors to slide open.
“We don’t have a tape,” Angel said, “but we could talk to the person who waited on them. I think waiters and waitresses hear a lot more than they let on.”
“Hmm. You have a point.”
They stopped at the resort and were surprised to find Callen’s unmarked Crown Victoria parked in the circular drive under the wide and brightly lit canopy. Had he come back to look over the crime scene
and question more people?
As they walked into the restaurant, Angel and Rachael stopped one of the servers and asked to speak with the manager. She led them to a room in the office complex. “Mr. Sykes is with someone right now, but you could wait over there,” she said and gestured toward a small waiting area that looked much like that of a doctor’s office. Rachael seated herself and began looking through a Coastal Living magazine. Angel paced up and down the hall, noting that her brothers had offices in this section of the resort as well.
The door of the restaurant manager’s office opened, and Callen stepped out. His surprised gaze met Angel’s and moved to Rachael. “What are you two doing here?”
“I was hoping to talk to the manager to find out who was serving Dixon and Broadman Friday night.”
“And you were going to do what with that information?”
Angel licked her lips. Callen didn’t have to say it. She knew what he was thinking.
“I know, I’m on leave, but I thought it might be helpful to find the server and see if he’d overheard anything...”
The pained look in his eyes stopped her. “It’s too late, Angel. The kid’s name was Alex Carlson.”
“Was?”
“He’s dead.”
Where are we going?” Rachael asked when Angel turned off the highway onto Sixth Street, away from the ocean.
“I thought we might pay Ray Broadman a visit.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
Angel chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Alex served Broadman and Dixon last night in the restaurant. Dixon was murdered and Alex is dead. Tell me that’s a coincidence.”
“Maybe it is. Callen said the kid apparently died from a drug overdose.”
“But Alex waited on Broadman and Dixon. He might’ve heard something.”
“He may not have,” Rachael argued. “Seeing Broadman isn’t a good idea, Angel. The man threatened to kill you.”
Deadly Aim Page 24
