Hank and I walked over to the machine.
“It says ‘ready’ on the screen. That’s good,” I said. I grabbed a foam cup from the rack and placed it at the base of the machine. I thumbed the button for a large. “Okay, so far so good.”
I pressed Columbian Roast, the strongest offered, and hit the big blue Start button. Beans dropped into another window and bounced up and down until they were ground to perfection. The machine whirred and hummed. Noise from the machine working drew the detectives from their table to come over and watch.
“That thing making coffee?” Detective King asked.
Hank watched the process over my shoulder. “Looks like it.”
I heard a rush of water. “Someone must have fixed it.”
We looked on in awe as the machine went through its process and released caffeinated goodness into my waiting cup. A bell dinged, and the blue light under the cup flashed. I snatched up my coffee and went to the counter to add two creamers. Hank and the detectives shouldered each other for position to be the next to get a cup. Hank won, sticking his cup in and hitting the buttons. The machine dropped the beans and whirred again.
“About damn time,” Hank said.
The sound of water rushed again, and steam rose from Hank’s cup as the liquid flowed into it. Ding!
Hank pulled the cup from the machine. “Ha!” He brought the cup to his mouth, blew on the top, and took a sip. “What the hell?” He gargled his words around the mouthful of hot liquid. Hank ran over to the sink and spat out the contents of his mouth. “It’s filled with grounds!” He grabbed a few handfuls of water to rinse his mouth.
The detectives chuckled.
“Let’s see if I have better luck,” King said.
He stuck his cup into the machine and let it go through the process. Twenty seconds later, disappointment crossed his face as he pulled his cup from the machine. “It poured me a cup of water.” He stuck his finger into it. “It’s not even hot.”
I smiled and leaned against the counter, taking a sip of my perfect coffee. “Maybe you can add some of Hank’s hot grounds?”
The crowd didn’t find the humor in my joke. I turned to leave.
Hank poured his cup of wet grounds into the sink, tossed the cup in the garbage can, and followed me back toward the bullpen. He headed off to his desk. I headed back to my office.
I spread the contents of the file across my desk to go over it again. We needed to put a line of questioning together that would hit the points we needed to discuss. We needed to know what she was doing in town and who she knew in the area, and we needed to confirm her husband’s whereabouts over the last few days. My office phone rang a couple minutes later. I picked up the receiver. “Lieutenant Kane.”
“We have a positive. Her name is Sarah McMillian. Her husband will be here within the hour.”
“Thanks, Cap.”
Chapter 7
His eyes locked on the pickup area, watching the people come and go. He’d been working straight through the night with no hint of what he sought. Then, up ahead, he spotted a potential candidate. She waved for a taxi. The car in front of him started to creep forward. He wouldn’t let her take another cab—not after waiting a full night. He yanked the wheel, pulled out, and cut off the cab in front of him. The cabbie next in line slammed on his brakes to avoid the collision. The guy honked and flashed him the bird out his window. He dismissed the angered driver and pulled his taxi up to the woman on the curb. He opened the door and pulled himself out. “Need a ride, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you.”
From the curb, he carried her two bags to the trunk. His excitement spurred a coughing attack. Flecks of blood covered his fingers—he wiped it away on the back of his faded jeans before she could see it. He moved quickly to the cab’s back door and opened it for her. She ducked inside.
He took his seat behind the wheel and looked over his shoulder to see her. “Where to?”
“Channelside Towers, downtown.”
“It should be ten minutes or so.” He stared at her and waited for a response.
She nodded and went about looking at a paper.
His eyes covered every inch of her in the rearview mirror. He thought of her in his room—in the bed. Then he focused his attention forward as he pulled out into traffic.
“Here on business?” he asked.
“No, just got back. I’m finally headed home.”
“What do you do? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“No, I don’t mind. I’m a defense attorney for Stanley and Wallace.”
“That’s over on West Cypress, right?”
She looked up from her newspaper, nodded, and smiled.
A few minutes later, he pulled to the front of her building. “Hold on one second. I’ll be right there for the door.”
“Oh, okay.” She folded her paper and slid it under her arm.
She was tossing her purse over her shoulder as he slid himself out of the driver’s side and took off his hat. His hand ran through his sweaty, stringy hair. A clump of hair stuck to his fingers. He flipped it away and pulled the hat back over his head. He reached into the pocket of the driver’s side door and pulled out a syringe. The index and middle finger of his right hand held the collar of the needle, and the tip of his thumb rested on the plunger. He opened her door. As she slid across the seat to exit, he leaned into the doorway and sank the syringe into her thigh.
She tried to scream, so he covered her mouth. Her hands pried against his fingers. She’d just been filled with enough of the drug to knock her out for the rest of the day. Her grip on his hand became weak. He pushed her back into the car by the face and closed the door. The child locks prevented her single attempt to get out. Back in the driver’s seat, he turned the mirror on himself. His thin face was red. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and got lost in his beard. He checked his mirrors and pulled away from the front of her building. She was his.
Chapter 8
The husband had a few hours to process that he’d lost his wife. Although that was just a short while, we had enough time to move past the initial emotional outbursts. Hank and I stood on the back side of the observation mirror, looking into interview room one or, as we called it, the Box. A uniform from the front had placed Ken McMillian in the room ten minutes prior. The amount of gray in his black hair told me he was in his late thirties, maybe early forties. He wore a blue polo shirt and light khakis. His glasses didn’t hide the fact that his eyes were red and swollen from crying. Rick had brought the lingerie she’d worn back up to me earlier. I wanted to see if the husband recognized the outfit. We hadn’t found any trace evidence on it. Hank and I had our line of questioning set. I set the equipment to record the interview. We walked inside.
I greeted him as I entered. “Mr. McMillian, I’m Carl Kane. This is Hank Rawlings.”
He nodded.
“Can I get you anything before we get started?” Hank asked.
“Maybe water?” His voice crackled.
“Sure.”
“Hank, can you grab him something from the lunchroom too?”
“Sure.” Hank left the room.
I sat across from McMillian and set the bag of clothes by my leg. I got my file ready. Hank returned a minute later with a bottle of water and a bag of potato chips. He placed them on the table in front of him and took up a seat next to me.
“We want to give you our condolences before we start here today. We realize you have a lot to process. I know that this has to be unbelievably difficult for you. At the same time, the sooner we can compile information, the better the chances are of us getting to the bottom of this,” I said.
He stared at his hands, folded in front of him. He looked up at me. “I’ll do anything to help.”
“Thank you. Just so you are aware, we are recording this interview. While we do our best to take notes, being human, sometimes we can miss small details. We don’t want to miss anything. Sometimes the smallest, most insignificant things can
turn into big leads. By having the interview recorded, we can go back if there’s ever anything in question. Are you okay with that?”
He nodded.
“Let’s begin. Do you have any children?”
I started with a baseline question. It was a question that would fetch a truthful answer.
“No.” His answer was quick, direct, and truthful.
“When did you see Sarah last?”
“The morning she left to come here. Her flight didn’t leave until the afternoon. She planned to take care of her errands before she left.”
“Was that the last time you spoke?” I asked.
“No. She called me when she arrived at the Tampa airport.”
“Anything odd about the conversation? Did she mention anyone from the flight or airport?”
He shook his head. “No. She said the flight was fine. We just talked for a couple minutes, and then she said she would call me when she got settled into her hotel room.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “When I didn’t get a phone call, I just figured she went to bed.”
“What time did her flight arrive?”
“It was a little after nine. I have a copy of her itinerary that I printed out.”
He pulled a folded-up paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to me.
I looked over the travel arrangements and made a note of the flight time and number. “Can we keep this?”
He nodded. I slid it into the file.
“And the hotel confirmed that she had never checked in?” Hank asked.
“That’s what the woman told me when I called.”
“Mr. McMillian, how did she plan to get to the hotel? Did she have a business colleague picking her up from the airport? Did she plan to take a hotel shuttle? Cab?”
He put his glasses back on and took a deep breath. “I’m not sure. She didn’t mention that anyone from the company was picking her up, so I would think a shuttle or a cab.”
I made a note to check it out. “What company?” I asked.
He sat quietly for a moment before speaking. “I think this one was called Ace Marketing. She did sales training for marketing firms all over the country. The places hire her company, and then her company sends her to whatever city.”
The information got written in my notes. “So, Ace Marketing?”
“I believe so.”
“Do you know where the place is located?”
“Sorry, I don’t know.”
“That’s fine. What hotel did she have a room at?” I asked.
“Imperial Suites. I believe the hotel is downtown here somewhere.”
I was familiar with the hotel. It was a few blocks away. “How long did your wife plan to be in town for?”
“All week. Her flight back was on Saturday morning.”
“Okay. Now, what can you tell us about her job? Is there an element of competition? Did she have rivals at work? Enemies?”
He coughed and took a sip of the water. “Her job wasn’t like that. She’s a sales trainer. Traveled to different companies and put on presentations. She didn’t have coworkers that she worked alongside. It was a different city and different employees that she presented to every few weeks. When she didn’t travel for work, she was at home. She loved her job.”
“What about the places she did her presentations? Did she ever mention problems with any of the company’s staff?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“And these presentations she did. None of the employees attending were at risk of losing their jobs for underperforming or anything like that?” Hank asked.
“No. The trainings were for new hires.”
“All right. Now, our forensics team has looked over the clothes she wore when she was found.” I pulled the translucent bag with its orange adhesive evidence strip up onto the table and slid it toward him. “I just wanted to see if you recognized the outfit.”
He began to cry when he saw it. “She didn’t own anything like that. She wasn’t—”
I held up my hand and shook my head to interrupt him. I knew what his question was, and I didn’t want him to have to ask it. “No.”
He nodded.
We would keep the outfit as evidence. We had all we needed about his wife and the day she arrived. I dug through the file and removed the photo of the brand.
“Do you have any idea what this represents?” I turned the picture and slid it toward him.
He choked on his tears, shook his head, and slid the photo away.
I slipped it back into the file. The next line of questioning would be the difficult part. We started by digging into their marriage and his whereabouts during the time she went missing. He claimed they were happy. There was never any adultery or any reasons to even let it cross his mind, he said. He claimed he had still been in Chicago when she went missing, which would be easy enough to confirm. We brought up their financial situation, as well as life insurance policies. Through tears, he discussed everything at length. He didn’t seem evasive on any of the questioning. The same held true when we discussed the rest of the couple’s friends and family. We asked him if she took any recreational drugs. He claimed she’d never taken anything, never even smoked as much as a cigarette her whole life. After another hour, we concluded the interview. We told him that we’d be in contact with any developments.
I stopped by the captain to give him the highlights of the interview. I put Hank on checking into McMillian’s alibi and calling Nick Waterman. Waterman was the head of security at the airport. We needed to take a look at any video footage they had. I found my desk and hit the phones, starting with the hotel.
“Thank you for calling Imperial Suites, This is Sandy. How can I help you?”
“Hello, this is Lieutenant Kane with the TPD homicide division. Could I speak with a manager?”
“I’m the manager on duty. What can I help you with?”
“I wanted to see if you can confirm or deny a check-in from a few days back?”
“Oh, we’re not supposed to give out that information.”
“Sandy, I don’t want to go through the trouble of getting a subpoena for the registry, when you can just give me a yea or nay on the phone. I would consider it a personal favor to the TPD.”
“Hold on.”
I tapped my fingers across my desk as I listened to rummaging and whispering from the other end of the phone.
“The guest name and date?”
“Sarah McMillian. The check-in would have been Sunday evening.”
“I have it here as booked, but she never checked in.”
“Thank you.” I jotted it down as confirmed on my sheet. “Do you guys have video surveillance out front of the hotel?”
“Yes, we do. Would you like me to transfer you over to someone in security?”
“If you could, that would be great.”
“Sure, no problem. Hold on.”
I sat on hold for a few seconds before the music stopped and someone picked up.
“This is Ralph.” The man’s voice sounded as though he was a heavy smoker.
“Hi, Ralph. Are you in security there?”
“Yes sir, what can I do for you?”
“This is Lieutenant Kane with the TPD. I wanted to see if you had surveillance in front of the hotel?”
“Three cameras. One faces straight out the front doors. One shoots east, and one shoots west off the top of the car port. What are you looking for?” A muffled coughing attack followed his question.
I waited for him to finish before I continued. “I wanted to see if you caught a person of interest on video the other night. Think I could send someone by to look at your footage?”
“Well, I guess that would be fine. I’m here until eight.”
“Thanks, I’ll send a detective over. Should I just have him ask for you?”
“Yup. Ralph in security.”
I was ready to hang up when a note on my sheet caught my eye.
“Hey Ralph, one more thing, and I
’ll let you get back to work.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you guys run a shuttle back and forth to the airport?”
“No. We used to but quit a few years ago.”
“Thanks, I’ll send someone by.”
“Glad to help.” He went back to coughing.
I hung up and wrote everything he told me down. If no one from the ad agency had picked her up, she had to have taken a cab. Locating Ace Marketing and getting in contact with them was next on my list to do. I woke up my computer and plugged the ad agency’s name into a search engine. It came up right away with a phone number. The address listed sounded familiar. Figuring out why took me only a second. The address came back as the same place we’d found her body—the Manchester office building. Whoever killed her knew why she was in town. Some face-to-face with the folks at the ad agency was in order. I sent Detective Jones to go have a look at the hotel’s video footage and stopped at Hank’s desk on my way out.
“Alibi?” I asked.
“It checked out. He was in Chicago.”
I nodded. “Did you hear anything on the airport surveillance?”
“I just got off the phone. Waterman wasn’t in his office. I left a message for him to call me back.”
“Transfer your desk phone to your cell and take a ride with me.”
He picked up his phone, punched in the code to forward his calls, and stood. “Where we headed?”
“Ace Marketing. Want to guess where it’s located?”
Hank flashed me a puzzled look.
“Manchester building.”
“Where we found the body?” he asked.
“Bingo.”
We grabbed a cruiser from the parking lot. The lunch-hour traffic was backing up Kennedy. We pulled into the Manchester office building a few minutes after noon.
The elevator took us up to Ace Marketing on the eighth floor. I checked the sign on the wall, and we proceeded down to the double glass doors at the end. Hank pulled open the door.
Malevolent (Lieutenant Kane series Book 1) Page 4
