by Kathy Altman
He didn’t respond, simply watched her.
“Don’t pull that silent Cree warrior bull with me, Dixon Ironmaker. Give.”
His chest rose and fell with a soundless sigh. “We both know what has the sheriff worried. My issue is personal. We can talk later.”
Personal. Dix never told her anything personal. Her stomach muscles twitched, and she was tempted to beg him to tell her and get it over with. But you couldn’t push Dix any more than you could push a chain.
She hugged Sarah’s file to her chest. “Just tell me you and I are okay.”
Something unsettling passed across his harsh but handsome face. He smoothed it away, but not before she’d realized that whatever he had to say, she wouldn’t enjoy hearing it.
“You and I are fine.” Dix reached for the door handle. “Let’s find out whether Drew Langford will be.”
* * *
The door opened and Drew jumped. Two deputies came in, the hot blonde he’d heard his grandparents arguing about before they’d left for work that morning, and the tall, fierce-faced cop the kids in school called Chief. Never in earshot, though. Drew sat up straighter, praying he wouldn’t humiliate himself by spewing. Or worse.
Where was the other dude? The blond surfer type? He’d been cool, and hadn’t made Drew feel anywhere near as lowlife as these two did.
In clipped voices the deputies greeted Drew and Owen Quinn, the family lawyer. They each pulled out a chair on the other side of the table, neither reacting when the metal legs screeched and scraped over the worn tile floor. They sat.
Two against two.
Drew didn’t care much for Quinn—the dude rarely cracked a smile and always seemed to be watching his mom. Still he was damned glad to have someone on his side.
“I’m Deputy Bishop and this is Sheriff’s Detective Ironmaker. Ready to talk about what brought you in this morning?”
Drew glanced at his reflection in the two-way mirror. Who was watching from the other side? Were they high-fiving each other for catching a killer? Placing bets on how much time he’d get? Or maybe his mom was back there, still trying to convince them she was capable of murder. A woman who’d cried for an hour after finding three hummingbirds lying dead beneath the feeder their orange tabby had staked out.
“We’ve been ready.” Quinn’s voice was smooth, his posture relaxed, but that one cocked eyebrow carried more disapproval than Drew’s mom had ever managed with her face screwed up in a frown and both hands on her hips.
“I’d like it noted that my client came forward of his own free will to offer his account of the events of last evening. He recognizes he was remiss in not contacting the police earlier.”
“Remiss.” Deputy Bishop turned her steady gaze on Drew. “Is that the word you’d use, Drew?”
He resisted the urge to shift in his seat and tried not to move his arms since he had what felt like a game day’s worth of sweat trapped in his pits.
His gulp was embarrassingly loud. “You guys know my mom is innocent, right?”
“That’s why you’re here,” Chief said, in a deep, quiet voice the soccer team could use for their haunted house fundraiser. Anyone hearing that voice coming out of the dark would piss their pants. “To help figure that out.”
“Well, the word isn’t ‘remiss,’ it’s ‘scared,’” Drew said, the grit in his throat making his voice unrecognizable. Shame soured his stomach. “I was scared and sad and angry. Instead of doing the right thing, I ran.”
Deputy Bishop continued to watch him and he was shocked as hell to see encouragement instead of disapproval in her eyes. Probably some good cop bad cop bullshit. Still he held onto her gaze like a lifeline.
He told her everything he’d told Uncle Grady. To his surprise Quinn let him talk. On TV, lawyers were always advising their clients to shut it. Quinn interrupted only once, and that was because Drew got choked up. He always did, whenever he thought of how badly he’d let Sarah down. When he finally finished his story, the lawyer produced Drew’s phone and pushed it across the table.
“The text message is intact.”
“Thank you.” Deputy Bishop set it on the folder she had yet to open. “You said you told your father and your uncle about your affair with Sarah Huffman.” Deputy Bishop tapped a finger on his phone. “Did anyone else know?”
“I told my mom, when she drove out to the vet’s office.”
“And how did she react?”
“She hurked all over the parking lot.”
“And your father?”
“He, uh…Sarah broke up with me so she could be with him.”
No better word to describe the silence than shocked. Drew kept his face as stone-still as possible while Deputy Bishop shot Chief a quick side-eye. “But he didn’t know about your affair until you told him?” she asked.
“No. At first he didn’t believe me. Then he got angry.”
“How angry?”
Good going, dumbass. “Not violent angry. Embarrassed angry. My dad wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Chief leaned forward. Drew knew he should meet his gaze, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the strong, copper-colored hands clasped on the table. “Anyone else know?”
Drew shook his head.
“Anything else you want to tell us?”
He looked up then. “I’m worried about Allison.”
Chief frowned. “Allison?”
“Allison Young.” He shifted his gaze to Deputy Bishop. “You’re friends with her mom. Kate.”
She nodded. “Why are you worried?”
“We used to go together. Then we broke up and—” beneath the table he scrubbed his palms along the thighs of his jeans “—I started seeing Sarah.”
“And Allison didn’t like that.” Deputy Bishop said it slowly.
Drew shook his head. Judas Priest, was he going to get everyone in his life in trouble? “She never knew. I mean, I never would have told her.”
“Did you still love her?”
“No, it’s because of what she said when we split.” His left leg started to bounce. “She was all hysterical and stuff. Said she’d hurt herself if she ever found out I was seeing someone else.”
“She used those exact words? That she’d hurt herself?”
His fingers dug into his thighs, and he swallowed again. “Kill,” he muttered. “She said she’d kill herself. I can’t stop thinking about it. What if she finds out about Sarah?”
* * *
Charity’s mind raced as she swallowed her concern. What if Allison already knew? What if her threat to hurt herself didn’t have the effect she’d hoped for, so she’d taken it one step further? One huge, gigantic, mammoth step, yeah, but still a possibility.
“You were right to tell us. We’ll talk with Mrs. Young and make sure Allison gets the attention she needs,” Charity said.
Drew’s leg slowed. “Good. That’d be good.”
Charity picked up the phone and traced a finger over the flame design on the case, biting the inside of her lip. If anything happened to Allison Young, Drew would blame himself. An emotional burden like that would zap the joy right out of his life. Given Justine’s standard state of inebriation and her ex-husband’s apparent preoccupation with Sarah Huffman, the teen would have to bear it on his own. Like Grady, who’d received more censure than support from his own parents.
Her fingers convulsed around the phone. Drew reminded her of Grady. Was that why she couldn’t believe he was guilty? Why she’d already accepted she wouldn’t relax until they’d cleared Drew Langford of all suspicion?
Dear Lord, maybe Dix was right. Maybe she wasn’t capable of being objective. She felt him watching her, but didn’t dare turn her head.
Owen Quinn gave his throat a slow, deliberate clearing. “Is my client free to go?”
Charity swallowed a sigh. If only.
More obnoxious scraping as Dix stood. “You know the answer to that.”
Her coworker’s face remained impassive, but Charity could feel the impatienc
e vibrating in the air around them. Dix was anxious to compare notes. She understood, because she was reeling herself. Drew and Sarah. Who’d have thought?
Sarah Huffman hadn’t been thinking, that much was clear. Had Justine known about the affair, despite what Drew claimed? Talk about a motive for murder. An even stronger motive when you factored in that not only Justine’s son, but her ex-husband was sleeping with her best friend. She had more than enough reason to hold a grudge.
Charity put down the phone and pulled a clear plastic envelope from her breast pocket. She slid it across the table. “Recognize this?”
Drew eyed the coil of leather and its one ornament, a turquoise cat’s eye marble. He swallowed thickly. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Sarah gave that to me.”
Dix leaned forward, and braced his palms on the table. “So why do we have it?”
“I don’t know.” Drew’s gaze flicked back and forth, from Dix to Charity and back again. “I lost it a while ago.”
“How long’s a while?” Charity asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” he said again. “About a month?” He pushed a hand through his hair. “She was going to break up with me. Maybe she took it back?” All at once his face went slack. “Is that what they used to kill her?”
Charity scooped up the necklace, folder, and phone, and got to her feet. “We’ll check back in a little while. Anything you need in the meantime?”
“Some coffee would be nice.”
Dix grunted. “We were talking to Mr. Langford.”
Drew managed a shaky smile. “Could I get some water?”
Charity was halfway out the door Dix held open for her when Drew called out.
“Deputy Bishop?”
She turned.
He stood with his shoulders level, hands fisted at his sides, like a soldier braced for a dressing down. “How much trouble am I in? For running, I mean?”
She had a feeling he didn’t so much run as fail to reject bad advice from his mother, though the distinction wouldn’t make much difference in court.
“It’s up to the prosecutor whether or not she’ll press charges,” Charity said. “Failure to report a death is a misdemeanor. It’s possible you could get jail time up to one year, a fine of up to one thousand dollars, or both. Might be more if the prosecutor decides to tack on obstruction of justice.”
Drew nodded, looking almost relieved. “Sarah deserved better.”
Charity knew he was talking of his own actions as much as he was talking of the murder. “About your mom—” She hesitated. “Mothers can be fierce when their children are threatened.” She saw it firsthand every time Hank or Lucas got mixed up with the police.
“She thinks I did it.” Drew’s eyes looked haunted. “Why else would she confess?”
Quickly Quinn stood, turned his back to Charity, and spoke in a murmur to Drew.
Preparing to shut his client down. She let fly one last question. “You don’t believe your mother is guilty?”
“How can she be? She was...Grandfather said she had an alibi.”
She saw Drew work it out, saw the moment he realized his mother could have left the bar long enough to kill Sarah and make it back in time to get his call.
Indignation piped red into his cheeks. “Just because she could have done it doesn’t mean she did. Even if she did kill Sarah, which she never would—she’d never kill anyone—why would she lure me out there with a text and try to pin it on me, only to turn around and take the blame?”
The kid had a point.
“So, Detective.” Quinn adjusted his tie. “How about you bring us those drinks you promised?”
Outside in the hallway Charity rubbed her forehead. “We need to talk to Allison.”
Dix grunted his agreement. “I’ll check with the sheriff, see how he wants to handle it. You do realize we have probable cause to hold Drew?”
She rubbed harder. “I know.”
“You putting Mrs. Langford in the box next?”
Charity dropped her hand and nodded. “We’ll do Scott Langford last.”
“Better make sure those two don’t catch sight of each other.”
“Right. I don’t feel like breaking up any fights today.”
“I heard you almost had one out in the parking lot last night.” When she bristled, Dix backed off. “I’ll put in a call to Kate Young.”
Charity nodded and turned away, hesitated, and turned back. She fingered the button on the left cuff of her uniform shirt. “Dix?”
He must have heard something in her voice, something that made him nervous, because he crossed his arms over his chest. If the mood were lighter, she might have made some crack about his Indian Chief pose. Or not.
“Yeah?” Dix asked warily.
“Justine didn’t kill Sarah.”
He shrugged. “Never thought she did.”
“Despite what Sarah did to her?”
“We did our due diligence. Talked to Big Mike. Checked the security footage from the bar. She had the time to leave, but she didn’t.”
“Maybe she hired someone.”
“Maybe. But that isn’t what she confessed to.” He unfolded his arms. “Either she knows what happened or she doesn’t. I know an easy way to find out.”
“I’m listening.”
“Tell her that her son is here.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, with drinks delivered to Drew and Quinn, and Justine delivered to interview room two, Charity met up with Dix in the hallway. “She refused to let Quinn sit in on the interview.”
“She doesn’t want him to talk her out of it.”
“So let’s see if we can. Ready?” Again Charity walked into the room ahead of Dix.
He paused in the doorway behind her and spoke over his shoulder at the fire extinguisher on the opposite wall. “The kid asked for a glass of water. Get it for him, would you?”
“Kid?” Justine grabbed the edge of the table. “Drew? Is he here? Do you have my son in custody?”
Dix winced, muttered something that sounded like an apology, and left the room. So far, so good.
Charity sat, and leaned forward over the scuff-marked table. “We’re prepared to accept your confession, Mrs. Langford.”
Justine blinked. “You are?”
“We need just a few more details. I realize this might be upsetting for you, but do you think you can walk me through what happened with Sarah last night?”
“Again? It’s…I can’t…” Justine waved her hands. “It’s all a blur.”
Charity shook her head and offered a flat, tight-lipped smile, as if in sympathy. She lowered her voice, and leaned in further. “You don’t remember anything? The bar? Meeting Sarah in the clinic parking lot? Drew’s phone call?”
Justine tugged at her left earlobe as her gaze skittered around the room. “I’d been drinking.”
Charity hummed in understanding. “You’re sober now, right?”
With an unconvincing smirk, Justine tossed back her lustrous black hair. “I’ve been locked away in a cell all night, and someone forgot to stock the mini-bar. So yes, I think it’s safe to say I’m sober.”
“But you don’t remember meeting Sarah Huffman last night?” Charity frowned, flipped open her folder, and started scribbling. “Just as well we didn’t bother your lawyer,” she muttered.
“Wait.” Justine pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Wait. I think…yes, I do recall pulling into the lot.” She dropped her hands. “It’s hazy, but I do remember seeing Sarah there.”
“Do you remember who arranged the meeting?”
Justine shook her head.
“When you first pulled in, did Sarah remain in her Audi, or did she get out and approach your car?”
“She…when I got there, she was standing by her car.”
Charity resisted the urge to drop her pen and sit back in smug celebration. “Standing by the Audi, or leaning up against it?”
“Standing beside it. With her arms wrapped around h
erself because she was cold.”
Charity tapped her pen. “Did you argue?”
“I don’t know,” Justine whispered.
“Do you remember how she died?”
“She was…I…strangled her.”
“With your bare hands?”
“No. No, of course not.” Justine’s fingers shook as she brushed them back and forth at the base of her own throat. “She had a—” She stopped, and swallowed. “I used… something.”
“Something like this?” Charity slid a clear, flat plastic bag out from under the folder and pushed it across the table. Justine stared at the dark green terrycloth belt coiled inside.
“Do you remember using this to strangle your best friend?”
One slim, quivering hand hovered over the evidence bag. Tears glazed Justine’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to kill her,” she said, voice tormented and raw.
Charity fought a surge of sympathy. Sympathy didn’t get the job done. “We need to know. Is this what you used?”
“Yes.”
Charity closed her eyes for a moment, then jerked a nod. She shut the folder, slapped the bag on top of it, and pushed to her feet.
Justine blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“What happens now?”
“Now we find out if the prosecuting attorney wants to file charges against you for providing a false confession.”
Justine popped upright. “But I’m guilty! I am. Me. No one else. I just told you how I….” Her voice trailed off as her frantic gaze finally registered the certainty in Charity’s expression. Justine’s shoulders drooped, and her face sagged. “How did you know?”
“Sarah didn’t drive her Audi last night. Her car’s in the shop. They set her up with a loaner.” Charity plucked at the evidence bag cradled in her arm. “And this isn’t what killed her.”
Justine sighed. “Can I see my son?”
“It may be a while.” Charity paused. “Would you like me to bring your brother back to sit with you?”
Justine nodded listlessly. As Charity opened the door, Justine spoke from behind her. “Make sure it’s my brother,” she said, her tone weary. “Don’t bring me yours by mistake.”
Charity couldn’t help a snort. She stepped out into the hallway, threw her head back, and stared up at the dirty-yellow water stains on the ceiling tiles. Despite her best intentions, she was starting to like Justine Langford.
