The Eligible Suspect

by Jennifer Morey

  “What time was that?”

  “Two in the afternoon.”

  “What friend did you meet?”

  “Collette Hamilton.” He explained that she was worried about Damen hurting her and that they had made plans to meet back at the restaurant this morning, when he’d help her get out of town. He checked the time. He wasn’t going to make it now.

  “She came to you for help?”

  Did that seem strange? “Yes. We’re friends.”

  “Romantic friends?”

  “No.”

  “Has this Damen Ricchetti been violent with her before?”

  “I wasn’t aware of his abuse until she told me yesterday.” But he explained how Damen had been behaving differently, leaving out why.

  “Why did she go to you for help? Why did she need your help? I guess I don’t understand why she couldn’t leave on her own.”

  “She trusts me. And she’s afraid of Damen.”

  “What were you going to do to help her?”

  “I found her a place to stay where she’ll be safe for a while.” He didn’t mention the fake ID. “And I’m going to give her some money.”

  “She knew you had money?”

  He nodded.

  “Please respond verbally for the recording.”

  “Yes, she knows I have money. Look, I need to get out of here so I can help her.”

  The detective stared at him for a long moment. Korbin hoped Collette’s knowledge of him having money would provide enough of a motive for her to come to him for help.

  “What do you do, Mr. Maguire?”

  “I have a degree in computer science, but I’m not working right now. I have a trust fund.”

  The detective nodded, watching him again. “After you left the restaurant...which one did you say it was?”

  “The Laughing Grass,” he said. “Pizzeria.”

  “Don’t they sell pot there?”

  “They don’t sell it, but you can bring your own and smoke it in a private room. As long as you’re a member of their club, it’s legal.”

  “Do you smoke pot?”

  Was he trying to establish something about his character? “No.”

  “Did you smoke some pot yesterday?”

  “No.”

  Korbin suffered another of the detective’s stares. “Where did you go after you left the restaurant and what time was that?”

  “Around three. I went straight home. I did some internet searches on places for Collette. A place to rent. And I withdrew some money for her.”

  “So you did go out last night.”

  “No. I stopped at my bank on the way home.”

  “But you just told me you went straight home.”

  “You can check with my bank. I was there shortly after three.” He gave the name of his bank. “After I got some cash for Collette, I went home.”

  “And what time did you finish searching the internet?”

  “About eleven. Then I went to bed.”

  “The hit-and-run occurred at 2:21 a.m. A thirty-year-old man was crossing the street with the walking sign lit. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

  “Someone stole my car,” he said. “And I think it was Damen.” He’d been home and hadn’t heard him break into the garage and drive away with it. Damen was the only person he knew who could do that.

  “Can anyone confirm you were home all night?” The detective ignored his claims, the raisin creases of his forehead deepening as he fixed impassive eyes on him.

  “No.”

  “Has Ms. Hamilton ever filed charges against this Mr. Ricchetti?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. She told me he threatened to kill her. She’s afraid of him.”

  “And since you’re such a nice guy you agreed to help her?”

  Korbin didn’t respond to that, but his fear for Collette’s safety was another matter. “Please. Either let me go so I can check on her, or have someone go check on her for me. Damen might have hurt her.” He should never have let her go back to her house alone. He should have stayed with her and taken her home with him.

  “If you’re so worried about her, why didn’t you notify the police after she came to you?”

  In Korbin’s line of work, going to the police was never an option. He hadn’t even considered it when he’d met Collette. “I guess I thought she should be the one to do that.” And he hadn’t thought she’d be in too much danger.

  The detective sighed and leaned back against the chair. He studied Korbin a while, not believing him.

  “Witnesses got your plate number after the hit-and-run. We found the car abandoned not far from the scene.”

  “It wasn’t me driving.”

  “They described a man who looks like you.”

  Damen had dark hair but wasn’t as tall. Three inches shorter.

  “Wasn’t it dark at 2:21 in the morning?” Korbin asked.

  The detective didn’t respond. He had to realize that would make a difference. No one could positively identify him without any doubt.

  Another detective entered the room and motioned for the other to come to him. He did and listened to the man. Korbin couldn’t make out what was being said.

  A moment later, the other man left and the detective returned to his seat.

  “There’s no evidence of a break-in at your home, Mr. Maguire.” He looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

  Korbin had none.

  “Your security system is operational. There’s nothing broken. No fingerprints.”

  Damen must have found a way inside. Copied a key. Taken a garage door opener. Something.

  “Why don’t you tell me what really happened?” the detective said.

  “I have. I didn’t kill anyone. My car was stolen and I think it was Damen who did it.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  He couldn’t say it was because he’d refused an illegal hacker job. “He must have seen me meet with his girlfriend.” That had to be it. Korbin hadn’t looked closely on his way inside. It was only after he’d realized Damen was becoming violent that he’d paid more attention. Damen could have seen him go inside to meet Collette. He may have even sneaked inside. Spied on them.

  “And in a jealous rage, stole your car and deliberately ran a stranger over so you’d be charged?”

  “Yes. Check the car for evidence that he was in it.” Damen would have worn gloves but maybe there’d be other evidence.

  “He’s your friend. He could have been in the car before this.”

  “I wasn’t driving the car. It wasn’t me.”

  The detective didn’t respond. No one would believe he wasn’t the one driving his car. But the detective began to show signs of doubt. Or maybe he just didn’t have enough on him yet. The evidence hadn’t been fully analyzed. Korbin now had a taste of what it was like to be falsely accused. At all costs, he had to prove his innocence, or Damen would have his way and Korbin would spend time in prison.

  * * *

  Korbin was released on his own recognizance and was out by late afternoon. He was worried sick about Collette. He took a taxi home to get his phone and saw that she hadn’t called—not even when he hadn’t shown up at the Laughing Grass this morning. She wasn’t answering her phone, either. He tried calling Damen but he didn’t answer. Where was Collette? Was she all right?

  Parking his truck outside Collette’s house, he jumped out and jogged to her door, knocking several times and ringing the doorbell. When that produced nothing, he used his tool to unlock the door, looking around to make sure he wasn’t seen. Going inside, he took two steps in, shutting the door behind him, and saw a lamp and some picture frames broken. And on the other side of the couch, Collette lay on the floor. Blood had soaked the carp
et beneath her. She’d been shot and it looked like she’d been dead several hours.

  “No.” Korbin was light-headed with shock and dismay as he rushed over to her.

  He crouched to check for life even though he knew she was gone. Her eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. Breathing out a harsh breath, Korbin bent his head and swore. How could he have allowed this to happen? How? She’d come to him for help and he’d failed her. Damen had killed her. She’d been afraid of him and he’d killed her.

  Standing, he picked up a dining room chair and slammed it down onto the floor with a growl. It broke into pieces. The horror of what Damen had done almost made him pick up another.

  His wife’s beautiful face came to him, engulfing him with terrible grief and guilt. He hadn’t saved her, either. She’d died because of his underestimation of Damen. Just like Collette. While ravaging guilt and helplessness gripped him, he vowed to bring Damen to justice.

  Returning to Collette’s body, he began to search for evidence, carefully checking the area surrounding her and her clothes, all the while not disturbing any of the crime scene.

  The gun...

  With that sobering thought, he looked for the weapon. It wasn’t here. He searched the whole house and didn’t find the gun he’d given her.

  He went to her computer. She didn’t keep it locked, so he easily clicked his way to her email. Not finding anything there, he went through all of her files. In a folder labeled “Resumes,” he found an email file with the subject “What’s Next?” It was an exchange between Damen and a man he didn’t know. Korbin opened it and realized his luck had finally improved. Collette had forwarded an email exchange from Damen’s machine to hers. She’d cleverly hidden it in the file folder and deleted it from her email program. If Damen had checked, he’d missed it.

  Korbin printed a copy, reading the exchange on the screen. A man named Tony wanted to know if Damen had finished putting together a team and Damen had replied with Not yet, but I’m close. The time the email was sent was a few days after Korbin had refused his request. Tony had replied, You promised me a team. If you can’t handle this, I’ll have to make other arrangements. What wasn’t written there was what Tony would do with Damen if he failed him. You’ll have your team, Damen had responded. And the last of the thread was Tony saying, For your sake, I hope so.

  With Collette dead, Korbin didn’t have to worry about Damen finding out that she was onto him. What else had she known? What had made her keep this email thread? Korbin wished he could ask her.

  Wiping his prints from the mouse and anywhere else he’d touched, he left the house, deliberately leaving the email open on Collette’s computer so that it would be easy for police to find.

  Now he had to get somewhere safe to hide, somewhere he could do some research on Tony Bartoszewicz. And figure out a strategy to take Damen down. Before Damen cost him more than he already had.

  Chapter 2

  “I’m not using my house as a fortress to protect me from men, Mother.” Putting her book down on the table, Savanna Ivy stood up from the cushiony chair in the corner of the loft. Her feet sank into the thick mocha rug as she passed between a love seat and a television atop an antique wood cabinet. A log railing allowed a view of the living room below. She saw through the gabled windows and under exterior lights that it was snowing harder now. Her mother had interrupted a really good book on a stormy evening.

  “You went there on purpose,” her mother said.

  “I live here.”

  “On purpose,” her mother insisted. “Your reclusiveness worries me.”

  Camille Ivy didn’t like it when Savanna went into her hermit modes. She couldn’t surprise her with her celebratory family visits. Tucked deep in the woods just south of Wolf Creek Pass, Savanna’s log home was on seventy-five rugged acres in Colorado’s southeastern San Juan Mountains. In winter, she was frequently snowed in.

  She went down the open stairs and into her living room, passing a white leather sofa, love seat and chairs with nail-head trim on a mosaic rug in dark green and black. A beautiful alder wood buffet and wine cabinet were behind the sofa and against the wall.

  Beside the large gabled window, the black gneiss rock fireplace rose all the way up to an exposed log ceiling. She had a fire going. Soft piano music played from her stereo, stored in a built-in cabinet where a huge television was embedded in the log wall, off for now.

  The sun had set an hour ago. It had been snowing all afternoon and the news had forecast another storm the next night, a much more severe storm. A blizzard, they were saying. Savanna couldn’t wait to spend the day cooking and reading.

  “You need to talk about it, Savanna,” her mother said in her silence.

  “I like living alone, Mom. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m okay. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  Another man had broken her heart and she was in the grieving process. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been through this before. It’ll pass.”

  “That’s what worries me.” Then her mother sighed. “You and Autumn. You’re both so independent. At least she’s around other people when she travels, and she found herself a decent man.”

  That came with a sting Savanna had trouble pushing away. Savanna had thought she’d met two decent men, but they’d turned out to be liars.

  After a moment, her mother said, “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

  Savanna wished her mother would stop talking. “It just hasn’t worked out for me yet. It is what it is.”

  “You bought that mountain home after the first one.”

  Savanna didn’t argue. Her mother thought she was hiding here, burying her heartache and protecting herself from any more. Maybe she was. She felt better here than anywhere else. That had to count for something. If her mother preferred to think of her remote mountain house as a fortress, then it was a fortress. The only way in was a long and winding dirt road. Either that or on a snowmobile, or a pair of cross-country skis or snowshoes, or horseback. And when it snowed as it did now, no one was getting in and Savanna wasn’t getting out. She needed this time to herself. Being alone and isolated rejuvenated her.

  “You need to get out more. Be with other people. Socialize. It’s not good for you to be pent up in your house with nothing else to do than think.”

  “I have plenty to do here. And I’ll come see you in spring.”

  “Don’t be a smart-mouth, Savanna Ivy.”

  “I’m not. The way it looks outside, it will be spring by the time I get out of here.

  In her mother’s long silence, Savanna added, “Do you really think all I’m doing here is obsessing over my ex-boyfriend?”

  With that her mother breathed a laugh. “No. Your hobbies are keeping you busy, I’m sure. And you always were a solitary girl. I just hate to see you hurt.”

  “I’ll get over that. And I will come and see you this spring.”

  “Okay, honey. You’ve managed to somewhat calm me.” And then she asked, “Did you plow your road?”

  So her mother could come to visit? Savanna could hear her thinking it.

  “No.”

  “Are you going to have it plowed?”

  “Sometime. When I need to get out of here, I’ll have it plowed.” Until she was ready for visitors, she was grateful for the snow.

  “Oh, Savanna.”

  Savanna laughed lightly. “Would you like me to host a family gathering here?”

  “You know I’d love that, and you also know I prefer spontaneity. But you take your time. Just call me often so I know you’re okay.”

  “I will. Love you, Mom.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Savanna pressed the off button on her remote phone and stared out the ga
bled window, entranced by the falling snow. Maybe she’d have her road plowed later this week. One night with her family wouldn’t be so bad. Except for all the questions.

  She was about to start dinner when she saw something. Soft lighting reflected on the glass. Leaning closer, she saw headlights shining through the heavy snow. A truck. It wasn’t moving. Who would come to see her during a snowstorm? Were they lost? A vehicle not moving in this weather would put anyone inside in real trouble. If they stayed in the truck and ran out of gas, they’d freeze, and if they tried to walk through the snow, they might not make it to her door without snowshoes. She watched for several more minutes. Whoever was out there was well and truly stuck on her road. There had to be at least two feet on the ground.

  Going to the front entry and into a large walk-in closet where she kept every imaginable necessity for navigating snowy terrain, in several varying sizes to accommodate her large family, Savanna geared up in her under-and outerwear and put on some boots. Meeting a stranger or strangers on a remote, snowy road had its risks. She was a single woman all alone in unforgiving wilderness. Stuffing a container of Mace into her pocket, she left the warm coziness of her house and stepped into the fifteen-degree air.

  Snow pelted her face as she made her way to the barn. The four-car garage was attached to the house and the heated barn wasn’t far from there. She employed caretakers who did most of the work, but they were off for the weekend. She managed everything on her own when she had to. She preferred it that way so that she’d be self-sufficient whenever she needed to be. Savanna, like most of her siblings, did not depend on others to take care of herself.

  Inside the barn, she saddled a big gray Oldenburg stallion named Gandalf. He was built for the rugged terrain of the San Juan Mountains. With sturdy legs and lots of stamina, he was also a beautiful animal, sort of like a giant version of a Friesian. She had a stable full of Oldenburg horses. They were her favorite horse for their strength, versatility and personality.

  The horse nickered as she led him outside, eager for the exercise he anticipated.

  Climbing onto his eighteen-hand-high back, Savanna gave him a gentle nudge with her heels. The stallion began to walk through the deep snow, occasionally having to leap.