by Carsen Taite
Claire turned her head in the direction he pointed and spotted one man and two women in a booth. One of the women stared intently in her direction, and she met the stare without flinching, instantly drawn to her striking beauty. “Thanks,” she said to the bartender. She motioned for Nick to follow and started walking in their direction.
“Hi,” she said when she reached the booth, her eyes still trained on the trim and muscular androgynous woman who’d been watching her since they’d locked eyes. Her job now was to keep from being distracted by the stirring of attraction. Based on Lila Henry’s description, this was the woman who’d stayed after the rest of the group had left the night before, but Lila’s description hadn’t prepared Claire for the captivating allure of her dark brown eyes.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, but I’m hoping you could help us out.” She waited to gauge their reaction, not wanting to pull out her badge in the middle of the rowdy bar and scare off any of the intoxicated patrons. Everyone had a right to burn off some steam, and she didn’t want to piss off the owners since she knew plenty of cops hung out here when they were off duty.
“What can we do for you?” the other woman at the table asked.
“They’re cops,” Brown Eyes said, an edge of distaste in her voice.
Claire nodded and stuck out a hand which Brown Eyes ignored. “We are. I’m Detective Hanlon and this is Detective Redding.” No sense being roundabout now. “We’re investigating a death that occurred in Deep Ellum Saturday night. We understand your sketch group was down there early in the evening.”
The man at the table reached for her outstretched hand. “I’m Buster Creel. This is Natalie and Riley. Yes, we were down there, but none of us saw anything suspicious.”
“What time did you leave?” Nick asked.
Buster looked at Natalie and shrugged. “Not too long after five. We came here to celebrate my birthday.”
Claire smiled. “Happy late birthday. You have a big crowd?”
“About a dozen.”
“And you’re sure no one in your group saw anything suspicious while you were in Deep Ellum Saturday?”
“Seems like they would’ve mentioned it if they had,” Buster said. “I can get you a list of names if you want to ask them yourselves.”
“That would be great.” Claire handed him her business card. She spotted Riley shoot Buster a warning look, but he was busy examining her card. “My email address is there at the bottom. Let me know if you think of anything else. Thanks for your help.” She started to walk away, but a few steps in she turned around. “Did everyone leave at the same time to head back to the bar that night?”
She directed the question at Buster but kept a careful watch on the reaction from the other two. Natalie didn’t flinch, but Riley clenched her fist on the table, and Claire was certain she’d struck a nerve.
“I’m not sure, to be honest,” Buster said, clearing his throat and avoiding her eyes. “I left a little early because I had to run home to let my new puppy out to pee, but I seem to remember everyone was at the bar when I arrived.”
He was lying and Claire wondered why. She’d figure it out eventually, but the best thing she could do right now was to let him think he’d gotten away with it. “Thanks very much. I appreciate you talking to us.”
She signaled to Nick, and led the way out of the bar, walking slowly, like they had all the time in the world. When they got to the car, she took the driver’s seat while Nick started typing on his phone.
“He was lying about that last,” Nick said.
“I know.”
“Any idea why?”
“Nope, but we’ll find out.”
“Think he’ll send that list?” Nick asked.
“I do. He didn’t tell a big lie, just a little one. He seems genuinely interested in cooperating, not the kind of guy who likes to lie, but he’d do it to protect someone. Riley, the one on the left, she’s the one who Lila Henry saw after everyone else left. She matches the description perfectly.”
“Or he could be lying because he left early and doubled back.”
“Could be, but I get a good vibe off of him. Anyhow, his story should be easy enough to sort out once we talk to everyone else in the sketch club.”
“So, two possible suspects, but neither one seems likely,” Nick said. When Claire didn’t immediately respond, he added, “You don’t really think Riley is good for this, do you?”
Claire’s first thought was that she liked the name Riley, but she shoved the inappropriate distraction away in favor of focusing on the case. She wasn’t sure what to think, but when people started lying, they had something to hide, and she had a hunch Buster had been covering for Riley when he said everyone in the sketch club was already at the bar when he arrived. Besides, Riley’s body language made it clear she wasn’t fond of cops, which usually meant she’d been on the wrong side of an altercation at some point.
Claire mentally ran through the list of everything they knew about the case so far, including the preliminary results of the autopsy. It didn’t take long. Jill Shasta had been strangled to death. Her neck was bruised, but there were no specific marks like handprints or rope burns indicating the killer had used some other material to apply pressure. Reyes had found some fibers and was having them tested, but her initial theory was that the killer had used a scarf. Now that they knew how, the remaining question was who, and Claire was focused on the drawing they’d found in Jill Shasta’s pocket.
“You saw the way Riley reacted to us,” Claire said. “And tell me you didn’t notice the muscles in her arms clench while we were talking. She lifts, and unless her legs are super short, she has at least five inches on Jill Shasta. If you say a woman couldn’t have strangled another woman, then I’m going to tell Cheryl to take away your feminist card.”
“Not even remotely saying that. Just trying to figure out a motive here. Urban artist goes rogue on unsuspecting office equipment salesperson.”
“Okay, smart-ass. Obviously, we need to do a little digging to see if there’s a connection. We need a last name to get started.”
Nick held up his phone. “Checking Facebook now.”
“I thought their names weren’t on there.”
“They aren’t listed on the page, but maybe she’s tagged somewhere on there.”
A moment passed and Claire couldn’t stand it any longer. “Find anything?”
“Nothing. I see a group picture, and I think that’s her kind of off to the side.” He pointed to a figure in the shadows. “But she’s not tagged. Most of the pics on this page are of their artwork.”
“See anything that looks like the picture we found?”
“Not really, no.” Nick set his phone down. “Maybe we should’ve shown them the drawing. If it’s one of theirs, that guy Buster would probably know.”
“I thought about it, but I’d prefer to see if we can figure out who the artist is on our own in case the artist and the killer are the same person.”
“Good plan. We could double back and follow Riley when she leaves. See if we can pull up a last name with her car registration.”
Claire considered the idea and dismissed it. They were early into the investigation and chances were she was focusing too quickly on one person, a dangerous trap to fall into. “Let’s give Buster until tomorrow to get us the list of names. If we don’t hear from him, we’ll get more aggressive. I’m not convinced we’re looking in the right direction. It could be a complete coincidence that Jill had a drawing in her pocket. She could’ve found it on the ground, left behind by one of the sketchers.”
Claire didn’t believe that was true, but she didn’t want to risk missing a clue by homing in on one theory too quickly. Yet even as she tried to focus her attention in a different direction, she couldn’t stop thinking about Riley back at the bar. From the moment they’d locked eyes, she’d experienced an instant connection that was at once exciting and unsettling. If they’d met under other circumstances, she might have o
ffered to buy Riley a drink as a prelude to a night with no strings attached—a freedom she hadn’t indulged in a while, and one she wasn’t likely to enjoy as long as this case remained unsolved.
Chapter Four
Riley pulled another box down from her closet shelf, pried it open, and rummaged through the contents. She’d spent the better part of Tuesday afternoon poring through all of her sketchbooks, but still hadn’t found the one that contained the rough sketches for her most recent paintings. This box was her last hope, and she eagerly scanned the contents, a stack of empty watercolor tins, her first portable easel—it was broken, and she’d been meaning to repair it, an empty Blackwing pencil box. She rummaged around, but there wasn’t a sketchbook in the mix.
She leaned back against the closet wall and closed her eyes, trying to visualize where and when she’d last seen it. She managed to conjure up a memory of tucking it into her messenger bag the day she’d filled it up when the group met at the Old Red Courthouse last month, but she had no recollection of filing it away when she got home. For all she knew, it had fallen out somewhere and was lost forever. She was disappointed, but not defeated. The sketches weren’t essential to the show, but they would’ve added a nice touch, and she hadn’t wanted to disappoint Lacy.
Deciding to give up on the search for now, she put the kettle on for tea and fired up her computer. Her email inbox contained a couple of emails from Lacy with ideas for the installation and she responded to say she’d come by tomorrow to discuss. The landing site for her email contained a running ticker of recent news, and the story about the body found in Deep Ellum was in the feed. The teaser text said the police had released a statement confirming the identity of the victim and that her death was a homicide.
Riley stared at the screen for a moment, wavering between moving on and clicking through to learn more. The water kettle started whistling, saving her from a decision, and she fixed a cup of her favorite blend, letting it steep for a full ten minutes before she added a touch of cream. When she returned to the computer, the story was still there, daring her to read it. Curiosity won and she clicked on the article.
Not many more details than they’d had the day before. The reporter had captured a photo of Detective Hanlon standing at the crime scene that had been picked up by every news outlet reporting on the murder. Riley could see why. Claire Hanlon was incredibly striking, feminine yet tough, and the image of her, in the dimly lit street, against the backdrop of the mural, carried a mysterious air. Riley typed in a few search terms and read what she could find on Claire’s background. Claire had recently testified in a case of a man accused of sexually assaulting and killing his victims, and the news outlets described her as a formidable witness, impervious to the sharp questioning of the high-profile defense attorney who’d tried to grill her on the stand. Riley got it, having faced down those piercing blue eyes and knowing appraisal. She sipped her tea and let her mind wander. Was Claire grilling a potential witness right now?
No sense wondering—it was none of her business and not a good use of her time. Detective Hanlon might be beautiful, but she wasn’t pleasant. Her hard-charging demeanor at the bar said she was used to swinging her badge around and having folks fall in line. Well, she could find someone else to boss around. People who were supposed to be on the right side of the law had stepped over the line in ways that had permanently altered her life. It might not be fair to lump them all in one group, but she didn’t really care. She clicked her way back to the original story and scanned it for details. The medical examiner was still working on the autopsy, but the preliminary report was that the woman had died due to strangulation. Riley instinctively touched her neck and shuddered as she imagined the feeling of helplessness that must’ve coursed through the woman’s body as she lost the ability to breathe. What other trauma had this poor woman been forced to endure before she died?
Riley abruptly closed the website and checked the weather network, figuring that absent some natural disaster, she would find only innocuous events happening there. While she waited for the site to load, she contemplated venturing out to rough sketch some of the locations Lacy wanted to feature, but as the images loaded on the screen, the bright yellow and orange movement on the radar dashed her idea.
She stretched her arms and contemplated her options. Maybe she needed to do something entirely different today. Her mood had been dark since the visit from her father, and she worried it would spill over into her drawings. She didn’t feel like being around other people, but a movie might be nice. She switched to the site for the theater down the street and clicked on the day’s schedule, but before she could focus on the choices, her doorbell rang. She stared at the door. Except for the visit from her father, only Mormons and telemarketers darkened her door, so she ignored it at first, but the persistence of her unwanted visitor finally won out over her ability to block out the noise. She walked over to the door and peered through the viewer and sighed when she saw the woman on her doorstep. She eased the door open only a crack. “Mom, I’m working.”
“If you answered your phone, I wouldn’t drop by, but you leave me no choice.”
Riley sighed. She recognized the tone for what it was and knew her mother wasn’t going to go away until she’d delivered whatever news was so important it had to be told rather than texted. “Come in.”
She left the door standing open and walked in front of her mother back to her easel and turned it around. Her mother carried a large, oversized umbrella and carelessly shook it out in her entryway. “It’s getting nasty out there.” She pointed to the easel. “Why can’t I see your work?”
“Because it’s not done.”
“You let those people you hang out with see your work in progress.”
Riley took note of the way her mother put emphasis on those people like she was hanging with a bad lot and tried not to be frustrated at the irony. “Those people are fellow artists. We share our work so we can learn from each other.”
“I get it. Your poor little mother has nothing to offer and wouldn’t understand your work anyway.”
Riley wasn’t buying in to her poor pitiful routine today. “Please. There’s nothing to understand. I’m working on some new pieces for a show. My first solo gallery show.” She handed her mother one of the glossy flyers Lacy had sent over.
Her mom awkwardly touched the edge of the paper, and then quickly set it down. “That’s so exciting.”
She’d said the right words, but they fell flat. “It is actually.”
“Where is this gallery?”
“You don’t have to go.” Riley had a vision of her mother drinking way too much of the complimentary sparkling wine and telling everyone in sight to buy her daughter’s little drawings in a slurred voice.
“What if I want to?”
“I’ll send you the exact details as soon as it’s all confirmed,” Riley said to buy time. “But just you.”
“Your father would be so proud.”
“Don’t start.”
“He said he came by to see you.”
“He did.”
“It would kill you to join us for lunch?”
“Kill me? No, but I refuse to do lots of things that aren’t going to kill me because I don’t want to and there’s no compelling reason to do them. Please respect my boundaries.”
“He’s innocent. He spent years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Shouldn’t that make a difference?”
“Maybe, but it’s more complicated than that.” This wasn’t the first time her mom had tried to nag her into being nice to her father. Angela Flynn might be capable of forgiving and forgetting the many versions of her husband that didn’t fit with the current wrongfully convicted model, but Riley’s memories of the distant father from her teens who’d cheated on her mother with one of his teaching assistants was vivid and unrelenting. “Please let it go. I’ll deal with this in my own time.”
“I’ve forgiven him.”
Her voice was low, almost as if sh
e was ashamed to admit how easily she’d slipped back into the time before their lives had been shattered. Riley recognized the huge admission for what it was—a desperate grab at rewriting the past. Her father’s trial and incarceration had had a huge impact on her life, but nothing compared to her mother’s. Her mother had to find a job in the working world to support Riley and also to pay the mounting debt from her father’s legal defense. Back then, it wasn’t fashionable to conduct online fundraising campaigns, and even if it had been, no one contributes money to a lost cause.
From what she’d gleaned from her own research, her father had been sleeping with his graduate TA for months, telling her he was on a path to leaving his wife and family so that he could be with her. In truth, he was merely stringing her along to get laid, and medicating his middle-age crisis with drugs and a younger woman. At the trial, they learned that Frank had told his best friend he had considered leaving his wife several times but had never been able to follow through. Riley was pretty sure that was the moment she’d gone from not liking him to actively hating him and wishing he was completely out of their lives.
When the TA’s dead body was found, his infidelity was revealed. The police focused on him as the number one suspect, causing him to lose his job, his family. When a jury decided he’d strangled the TA in a fit of rage when she grew tired of being his secret sidepiece and threatened to tell the world about their love, he’d lost the last thing he had—his freedom.
The jury verdict had been swift and the punishment phase of the trial grueling. When the jury settled on forty years of prison, it had seemed like a lifetime to Riley. Her mother had been a real stand by your man kind of spouse, but before the last appeal was exhausted, Riley vowed never to speak to him again. She’d piled everything she owned into the back of an old Ford pickup she’d bought with money she’d earned giving drawing lessons at the local community center and drove east to Denton where she did odd jobs until she started college in the fall. The university was only an hour away from her childhood home, but it was far enough to get away from him, away from the press, away from the stress of never knowing who her father really was—benevolent guy who taught her how to ride a bike or selfish prick who’d fucked over their family.
