“But Chantelle never married him,” Madison said. “What happened to break his spell?”
“She saw him kissing another woman, and she wouldn’t hear any of his excuses. Around that time, she had credit problems rearing up.”
“Did Chantelle start dating any other men more recently or have any disagreements with people? Maybe problems at work?” Madison asked.
“She swore off dating. She said men were nothing but trouble. And, yes, she was having problems at work. What they were exactly she wouldn’t tell me much, other than she didn’t trust her boss.”
“Do you know anything about her having disgruntled customers?” Madison asked, her mind not far removed from GB—group benefits.
“Don’t know.”
“What’s her boss’s name?” Madison volleyed back.
“I can’t remember right now.”
“But she was still working at Southern Life?”
“She was.” She let out a puff of air and wiped her cheeks. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Madison offered and stood, loathing what she had to say next. “We’ll need to you to identify Chantelle’s body.” With Carson being divorced from Bill and their lives being separate, it would be more suitable for Barrett to handle this task.
“Wait, you don’t know if—”
“We’re quite certain it’s her, but she wasn’t found with her ID,” Madison said. “It’s just for the record.”
“I’ll do whatever I have to.”
Madison handed her card to Barrett. “I’ll have Cole Richards—he’s the medical examiner— reach out to you to arrange a time. It will probably happen within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Okay.” A tear snaked down her cheek.
Madison and Terry saw themselves out. She keyed a quick text to Richards with Barrett’s contact information and noted for a formal ID, as she walked back to the car. Once inside, she said to Terry, “We’ve got to find this Saul Abbott, whoever he is.”
“You think this con man guy killed her? I mean, I can see motive for Chantelle to kill him after what he put her through.”
Madison gave Terry’s words thought and came up with one possibility. “Take a leap with me—”
“When don’t I?”
“Ha-ha. But what if Carson ended up confronting him, and the situation got out of hand?”
“You’re right. That’s a leap.”
“Don’t make me hit you.” She smirked. “Is it really, though? If she was going to turn him into the police and expose him, he could have felt threatened and reacted to protect himself.”
“Sure, but Barrett said Carson was broken.”
“Only made her more desperate. Might not have wanted to get others involved, but that didn’t mean she let it go. She wasn’t afraid to reject people’s insurance applications. That’s what her ex told us. So she had a backbone in there.”
“Several years ago anyway. Though, I guess a confrontation could have gotten out of hand. And maybe the purse was taken to make it look like a mugging.”
She searched Saul Abbott on the laptop and had confirmation of her earlier fear. “No Saul Abbotts in Stiles. It’s a fake name.”
“Or he moved out of the area.”
She locked eye contact with him. “Really? If he was in the area any length of time, which we know he was, I should be seeing something on him. A driver’s license, a local address, but there’s nothing. I’m confident that Saul Abbott isn’t his real name. But we might be able to find him if we hunt down that guy who was going to marry them. Carl…what was it?”
Terry flipped through his notebook. “Carl Long.”
“Assuming that name’s not a work of fiction.” She typed in the name. “There are a few. We’ll just leave him for later. Right now, let’s go by Carson’s apartment and see what we can find.”
“Works for me.”
“We also have this.” Madison held up the framed photo. “I’ll get Cyn to run it through facial recognition software. If Saul Abbott has a record, we’ll find him.”
“Sounds good.”
She started them out in the direction of Carson’s apartment. The clock on the dash read 9:30 PM. Carl would need to wait until tomorrow, because by the time she and Terry finished running through Carson’s apartment and talking to her landlord, she’d need to call it a night. She had something else to take care of.
-
Eleven
Chantelle Carson’s apartment building could have used some TLC. The eaves sagged, and the paint on the front door was chipped. Given the rundown exterior, Madison didn’t hold much hope for a nicer interior.
Officer Harrison, who had been posted at the back entrance to the Bernsteins’ property, was standing outside Carson’s door. “Detectives,” he said and added a smile. “The door’s unlocked.”
“Thanks.” Good thing for his well-being he hadn’t pulled out “ma’am” like he had earlier.
“I spoke to the building manager,” Harrison said. “You know, when I got the key to the vic’s apartment.”
“Did you tell the manager that Chantelle Carson was murdered?” Madison drilled him with a glare.
“Uh, yes, ma’am.”
And there it was! That word! She was only thirty-six, not fifty—the fact she probably had the better part of fifteen years on the officer aside. “Detective Knight,” she seethed.
“Sorry, Detective, and should I have refrained from telling the manager?” Harrison looked from Madison to Terry, who shook his head.
“What’s done is done,” Terry told him.
She was too angry to speak. It would have been nice to see the manager’s initial reaction to the news. “Please let the manager know we’d like to speak with—”
“Done,” Harrison rushed out, standing tall and puffing out his chest. “I told him that detectives would be wanting to speak with him before the day’s over. He said he’d get himself a coffee on account of the fact he’s normally early to bed.”
Madison took a deep breath, searched within for an ounce of patience. “And the man’s name?”
“Theo Green, apartment 101, ma—”
She met his gaze, killing the ma’am on his tongue. She put on a pair of gloves and turned the door handle, letting herself and Terry inside.
A standing coatrack was positioned to the right of the door, the light switches behind it. Madison flicked them all on, revealing a compact, boxy space. There were some windows, their curtains drawn. Given the apartment’s location on the north side of the building, the space was probably full of shadows even during the day.
The living room was straight ahead, sparsely decorated with cheap, possibly secondhand furniture. To the right of the entry was a galley-style kitchen with laminate counters and cabinetry faces and hardware that dated back to the sixties. The backsplash was a patterned tile illustrating weaved baskets with flowers on some, garlic bulbs on others.
But it wasn’t just the dated decor and the cheap furnishings that made the place feel grimy; there was a strong chemical smell that seemed to be trying to hide a musty odor.
“Can’t believe Carson went from homes in the north end to this.” She was in a state of disbelief.
“Barrett said that Abbott destroyed her.”
“Well, here’s proof her finances took a hit. When the bank opens on Monday, we’ll need to talk to that banker, Alan Lowe, the one named on the piece of paper from Carson’s pocket.”
Terry nodded.
Madison walked through the apartment. Things didn’t get any better. A bathroom that had mold in the grout and a green toilet, sink, and tub. At least they matched.
A single bedroom that was barely big enough for a queen bed, dresser, and nightstand. A black-mold spot on the ceiling where there’d been a leak—or still was.
Madison grasped to find something good, but it was impossible. Even the building’s location in the east end put it close to industrial buildings and the power generation plant. She never researched it but heard that living too close to one wasn’t good for your health. Regardless, what seemed apparent was Chantelle Carson’s life had taken a nosedive that led her to moving here. What Lana Barrett had told them appeared to be true, but they still had to prove this Saul Abbott character was responsible.
Madison glanced around the room, taking it in. For someone coming from money, Carson’s bed didn’t even have a headboard or footboard. It was just sitting on a wheeled metal frame. But the bed was made, a white duvet spread over it. There was a tower dresser, four drawers, of honey-colored wood and a mismatched nightstand. The latter held an alarm clock and a water glass on a coaster. That touch told Madison that Carson worked with what she had. Madison lifted the glass and noted how the water had evaporated and left rings on the inside. “This has been here for a day or two.”
“We know she didn’t make it home last night; maybe she wasn’t here the night before either.” Terry backed out of a closet he’d been in, holding a book.
“What is that?”
He thumbed through the pages. “Looks like a diary to me. Appears to be how she felt while going through her separation and divorce.”
“We’ll definitely want to take that with us.” It could have been Carson’s shrink who suggested she record her feelings and emotions, assuming she had one. Madison had been seeing one for a while now, something that had started as a mandatory requirement by her sergeant, but she’d continued seeing Dr. Tabitha Connor even after that time had passed. Her next appointment was this coming Monday.
“Not clear on how it will help solve her murder, but okay.”
“Don’t know until we take a closer look, do we?” She let her question sit and then added, “We discussed the possibility that Carson may have been planning to confront Abbott. Her intentions could be in that journal. Even if it doesn’t cover Abbott, the journal might help us identify someone in her life with whom she had an issue or conflict.”
Terry stuck his head back into the closet and reemerged with a shoebox. He lifted the lid and held it so Madison could see inside. “Looks like there are more journals.”
“We’ll take them all.”
Madison returned to the living room. A sagging corduroy sofa, small flatscreen TV, and Blu-ray player. No stereo or sound system. A lidded ottoman served double duty as a coffee table and a storage container. A small bamboo tray sat on top of it with the TV remote and a box of tissues. Madison sat the tray on the couch and opened the ottoman. Inside was a laptop and its power cord. She removed both. They’d take them to Cynthia for her and her team to look over. There was also a small stack of bills from Stiles Wireless, a service provider for internet and cell phones. A customer herself and familiar with their invoices, Madison confirmed the billing was to Chantelle Carson and scanned down to see that Carson had Stiles Wireless manage both her internet and her phone. The account was current. She compared the phone number to the one she’d tried earlier that was disconnected. They were different.
She called Cynthia. When she answered, Madison gave her the new ten digits. “I’ll need you to trace this when you get a chance. Might lead us to her phone, the crime scene, possibly her attacker.”
“I’ll get to it as soon as possible. Mark and I are just pulling into the lot at Carson’s building.”
“Thanks.” Madison ended the call and updated Terry.
“Glad they’re here. They can bag up the laptop, its cord, and the journals.” He slipped into the kitchen and started opening cabinets.
Madison came up behind him. “Looking to fix yourself a snack?”
“Not a bad idea since it’s well past dinner hour and you didn’t stop anywhere for us to get food.”
“My chocolate bar carried me over quite nicely.” She realized that she’d had a few hours nausea-free. Maybe whatever bug she had was gone now.
“Huh,” he grumbled and continued opening and closing doors. “Oh.”
If I could take that one word away from him today… “What is it?”
He came out with a heap of envelopes. He fanned them. Past Due or Final Notice stamps adorned all of them, and none had been opened. Probably because she couldn’t pay them, but she hadn’t thrown them out either, so she must have had intentions to clear her debt.
“Poor lady,” Madison lamented.
“Quite literally.”
Madison rolled her eyes.
“Honey, I’m home,” Cynthia called out.
“Trust me, you wouldn’t want to live here.” Madison proceeded to fill Cynthia and Mark in on the journals, laptop, and the Stiles Wireless bills. “There’s also a bunch of past due notices—” Madison flicked a hand toward the kitchen counter where Terry had abandoned the pile of envelopes.
“Okay.” Cynthia turned to Mark, who was behind her, and gestured for him to get to work.
“How did you make out with the back driveway at the Bernsteins’, their upper deck, and Carson’s car?”
Cynthia smirked and shook her head. To Terry, she said, “She doesn’t give anyone much time to catch their breath.”
“I know you live for this,” Madison kicked out, aware her best friend loved her job.
“Nothing on the stairs or railing. The drops on the dirt were blood. Same type as Carson’s, but it will take time to confirm DNA, as you know.”
“And the shoeprint a match to her boots?” Madison asked.
“Could be.”
“Anything in her car?”
“Yeah, found pictures of some guy in the glovebox.”
“Some guy…” Slight goose bumps rose on Madison’s arms.
“If I were to wager a guess, I’d say she was stalking him.”
“And when were you going to fill me in on that?” Madison’s tone was sharper than intended, but it felt like Cynthia had held back potentially important information.
“I am now.” Cynthia moved past Madison.
“I’d like to see the pictures,” Madison said.
“They’ve already been locked in evidence.”
Madison talked herself down from lashing out at her friend. “There’s someone who is of interest to the case.”
“And when were you going to tell me?” Cynthia cocked her head and smiled.
“Trying to. Carson’s ex was a con man. We still need to find him. The guy in the pictures… was he good-looking, blond?”
“Yeah,” Cynthia said.
“Could be Saul Abbott.” Madison looked at Terry.
“Who?” Cynthia asked.
“The someone who is of interest to the case, Cynthia. Keep up,” Terry teased.
“You two have the ability to drive me crazy sometimes.” Cynthia set out to join Mark in the collection of items and processing of the apartment.
Madison faced Terry. “So Carson was stalking Abbott.”
“Sounds possible,” he said slowly. “But it’s still a leap from that to her winding up stabbed. Besides, remember GB. How does that connect to Abbott?”
Madison sighed and worried her lip. She had no idea. Yet.
-
Twelve
Chantelle was a nice enough lady, but…” Theo Green, the building manager, seemed hesitant to say what he was thinking, as if it would somehow be speaking ill of the dead.
Madison and Terry were in his living room, sitting on a leather couch that smelled brand new, but thankfully overpowered the cacophony of other odors she’d concluded were inherent to the building itself. Green’s apartment was a tad more spacious than Carson’s but still dated and stinky. The walls were painted a neutral beige and were scuffed and dirty.
Green was a sixty-something single man with dark skin, a genuine
smile, and a calm spirit. He was seated in a rocker recliner, and for a man used to going to bed early, his eyes were bright, and he seemed wide awake. Ah, the power of coffee.
It was just after ten by the time they’d knocked on his door and he’d opened it wide and welcomed them into his “humble home.” She kept glancing at the plastic wall clock. For her other plans, she had to get into position preferably by eleven. Any later and she might as well wait until next week.
“I understand that this may be difficult for you,” Madison began. “But whatever it is that you have to say about Chantelle, we need to hear it. No matter how bad it might sound.” She wanted to add that he couldn’t hurt her anymore but didn’t think the older man needed a reminder that his tenant was dead.
Green fussed with the arm of his chair, appearing to tug at invisible threads. “She had a problem covering her rent.”
“She wasn’t living here long, was she?” Madison wanted him to tell them.
“Two months. She paid first and last, but she made it sound like scraping that together was an effort. Actually, she was a hundred bucks short, but I gave her an extension. She was supposed to make it up in the next few months, added to her rent. Guess that won’t be happening now. But I feel for her. Life really seemed to have taken the wind out of her sails.”
Madison licked her lips, pushed the cliché from mind. Her mother had murdered colloquialisms for her. “Did she ever tell you what had her down on her luck?” Gah! “You know, desperate?” Madison rephrased.
“No, she wasn’t open about her personal life—at least not with me. Just appealed to my humanity to give her a break. She said she needed one.”
Madison glanced at the clock again. She really had to get moving.
Green followed the direction of her gaze, then met her eyes. “She’s really dead?”
What We Bury Page 6
