I had sublet my apartment and sold my car over a year ago. Work paid for my lodging and meals. I couldn’t go shopping because I’d have nowhere to put anything I bought. For a thirty-one-year-old with a bachelor’s degree, my bank account was rather impressive.
“Oh, okay honey, I understand,” she said in her trademark defeated, woe-is-me tone of voice. “I know it’s not supposed to be like this. I’m the mom. I’m supposed to be helping you—not you helping me.”
She wanted me to tell her it’s okay, that everyone has hard times and I’m happy to help. But it’s not okay and I’m beyond sick of helping. I allowed the silence to linger until I couldn’t take it anymore.
My stomach started to knot as I wondered about the fallout from telling her no. Would she go on a bender and wind up in the hospital? Or start harassing other relatives, or just keep calling me until I gave in? Everyone says you shouldn’t give money to people with substance abuse problems, but whenever I give my mom money, she leaves me alone for a while.
“How much are the repairs?” I asked. I knew there weren’t any repairs. She probably didn’t even have a car, or a license for that matter. My mother had a habit of drinking her paychecks and running out of money before she’d paid for rent or groceries.
“Um, well, I think the estimate was three hundred,” she said.
“I’ll give you a hundred,” I said. “But this is the last time.”
I’d said that last time.
| Nine
Iwas still lounging by the pool when I received Colin’s text. “I’m not sure what I just heard, but I think they made an arrest.”
I wrapped my cover-up pashmina around my torso, tossed my bundle of towels into the hamper, stepped into my sandals, and called Colin while I left the pool and hurried toward the elevator. As I stepped aside to allow a man and two little kids dressed in swimsuits to exit the elevator, I put my head down in an attempt to hide my wide, stupid grin. Had the case been solved? Were we done in Denver?
“I don’t know if I heard it right, but Chamberlain was on the scanner—it was definitely her—and she said, ‘he cooperated, no incident.’ Then, a few minutes later, she radioed in telling them to open the intake bay,” Colin said when he answered the phone.
I thanked Colin, while silently scolding myself for my ongoing failure to listen to the police scanner. But really, was I supposed to have that thing on twenty-four hours a day? I guess I could have at least downloaded the app, though.
“I’m going to call down there and see if they’ll tell me what’s going on. Call you back.”
When I spoke with someone at the police station, the only thing the operator would tell me is that Chamberlain was going to make a statement in half an hour. I called Colin and we made plans to go to the station.
It was far longer than half an hour before Chamberlain, her partner, and the police chief finally filed out of the department and stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, behind the podium.
This time, I was front and center.
Detective Chamberlain stepped closer to the podium and leaned toward the microphones.
“This evening, at seven fifteen, I and my partner, Matthew Burton, apprehended Mitchell J. Evans at his place of business in Mission Key. He was arrested on suspicion of the murder of his neighbor, Guinevere ‘Bunny’ Malone.”
The crowd of reporters was smaller than it had been at the last press conference, but it was much feistier—bloodthirsty, even. A quarterback’s son was being arrested for murder. Even I had to admit it was a juicy story.
The reporters all started shouting out questions simultaneously.
“Did Evans try to flee?”
“What was the motive?”
“What’s your evidence?”
The police chief stepped forward and held his palm out toward the crowd. “The D.A. is looking at the case now, but we do have some details we are able to disclose.”
The crowd fell silent as Chamberlain began explaining, “Our forensics team recovered fingerprints and hair from the scene. They have been identified as belonging to Mr. Evans.
“Miss Malone and Mr. Evans had a highly contentious—and litigious—relationship. Before Miss Malone’s death, Mr. Evans had filed a civil suit regarding the commercial property that he leased from Miss Malone. They were scheduled to enter mediation.”
Chamberlain continued, “Mr. Evans has secured legal representation with the Denver County Office of Public Defense.”
A public defender? My eyes widened in surprise as I looked around at the other reporters, trying to gauge whether they were as surprised as me that Mitch, with his wealthy family, wasn’t springing for the best defense attorney in the state. Instead, he would be represented by an attorney hired by the government for people who can’t afford one.
Chamberlain looked like she was about to step away. Something felt off, though. Fingerprints and a civil lawsuit don’t seal the deal. Could Mitch really be a killer? Maybe there was more.
“Did you find the lanyard?” I shouted, surprising myself with the volume I’d just projected.
Detective Chamberlain’s eyes widened slightly and, for just a moment, she looked frozen.
“Lanyard?”
“Her nephew said she always wore a lanyard with keys on it,” I said. “Could that have been the murder weapon?”
Her composure now under control, Chamberlain said, “Miss Malone was strangled by a rope or cord estimated to be one to one and a half centimeters wide.”
Her gaze hardened as she said, “We have not recovered the murder weapon.”
Then she took a breath and explained, “We did obtain a search warrant and conducted a thorough search of Mr. Evans’ business and residence. The evidence we’ve collected at this point is adequate.”
“Adequate?” a man in a Channel Seven jacket repeated, the sarcasm obvious in his voice.
Detective Chamberlain didn’t respond. Her mouth formed a sneer of unmasked contempt.
The police chief stepped forward and announced, “Now we’re going to turn things over to Tyler Soundingsides, Mr. Evans’ attorney.”
A thin man who was younger than me, probably just out of law school, approached the podium.
“My client is a liked and respected Denver entrepreneur. His, uh disagreeable, relationship with Ms. Malone was well known, but that has absolutely nothing to do with her death. Mitch Evans is innocent. Thank you.”
A noisy barrage of questions erupted from the crowd as Tyler stepped away from the podium and walked toward the station, followed by the other officers.
Colin walked up beside me. “I gotta talk to Mitch,” I told him. “Even if I have to wait all night. You can take the car back. I’ll get a cab.”
He shook his head. “There’s no way I’m missing a chance to get a shot of that guy wearing an orange jumpsuit.”
But it wouldn’t be a long wait at all. As Colin and I made our way toward the police department lobby, Tyler Soundingsides emerged from a metal door holding a scrap of paper in his hand. He glanced down at the paper, then up at me.
“Are you Jae Lovejoy?”
I nodded.
“Mitch asked to talk with you,” he said. “I’ve advised him to refuse all interviews, but he wants to make a comment. He says you’ll be fair.”
I nodded again, and then he directed Colin and I toward a security line. After passing through a metal detector and turning over our bags, we were led into a small room with a table and chairs.
Mitch was there, already dressed in a denim jail-issued jumpsuit. His eyes were wide—earnest and desperate.
“I didn’t do it, Jae,” he said with a hoarse voice. “My DNA is all over that place because I’ve been in that office a million times, and nobody ever cleans over there.”
I sat down and put my pen and notebook on the table. Finally, I peeled my gaze up from the notebook and looked him in the eye. “It looks bad, Mitch.”
I hadn’t made up my mind. The investigation seemed hasty, and Mitch
didn’t seem like a murderer. But I learned at a young age, you never know who people truly are behind closed doors.
He gazed blankly at his hands resting on the table, as if he were patiently waiting for the answer—the thing that would prove his innocence.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had all these problems with her? You two were going to court?”
“We had a huge falling out. Things had been tense between us ever since she started raising the rent a couple years ago. I offered to buy the building. She’s getting up there in age, and she finally agreed. She said she wanted to get out of the city, retire on her estate.”
He sighed and shook his head. “I leveraged every last penny and convinced the bank to give me a loan. After I’d spent thousands on inspections and insurance and closing costs, she backed out of the deal. That’s why I took her to court—she broke the purchase contract.”
“Is that why you’re going with a public defender?” I asked, glancing guiltily at Tylor, who was sitting beside Mitch.
“I’m beyond broke.” Mitch’s gaze was numb. “I’m drowning in debt. Every quarter, the brewery does a little better, gets a little closer to breaking even. Then my boiler needs replaced, or taxes go up. I keep thinking, if I can hang on a little longer, she’s gonna fly. Your article in ANA would have done it—would have been my big break.”
“But your dad?”
After a bitter laugh, Mitch said, “My dad. He resents me. He resents my mom, says she was just looking for a lottery ticket. But it wasn’t like that.”
I didn’t know what to say after Mitch’s voice trailed off. Then he continued.
“He paid the child support, trotted me out for a couple photo ops, and that’s it. No holidays. No coming to my games. Missed my high school graduation,” he said. “I saw online that he threw a party around the time of my eighteenth birthday. I guess he’d just made his last child support payment and wanted to celebrate.”
The room was silent for a minute, except for Tyler, who was compulsively clicking his pen.
“That sucks,” Colin said.
It may not seem this way, but “that sucks” is a highly sincere expression of man-grief.
I glanced sideways at Colin. His expression was full of empathetic sorrow. He never came across as a softie. But maybe there was something in Colin’s past that allowed Mitch’s sob story to strike a chord with him.
I, on the other hand, sensed manipulation.
“Mitch. We need some evidence. At this point, we have to either figure out an alibi or find stronger evidence that points to the real killer,” I said.
“Well,” Tyler said. “We’re also going to examine the procedure. If the investigation was biased or compromised, we can get you off.”
I wrinkled my nose at him and fought to keep my composure. “That might be acceptable to you. But my job is to find the truth,” I said.
Tyler tipped his chin up toward me and cocked his head slightly to the right. Then Mitch did that thing where he goes way overboard on eye contact.
“Please, Jae. I’m not a murderer. I’m already cooked as far as the press is concerned,” he said.
I leaned back in my uncomfortable metal chair and let my hands fall into my lap, staring at them for a long time. I thought about Vegas and what that story would do for my career. The implications of losing out on that—going home instead—made me shudder.
But I couldn’t deny that something was wrong with this investigation. I didn’t necessarily believe in Mitch’s innocence. But it was clear that making an arrest was more important than serving justice, as far as Detective Chamberlain was concerned.
| Ten
It was dark outside when we left the police station. Colin’s expression was stony.
“You think he’s innocent?” I asked.
“Yes,” Colin said flatly. “I think Patrick Malone did it. And it’s ridiculous that he’s not arrested yet.”
“The fingerprints and hair sure seem like flimsy evidence,” I said. “I mean, they’re neighbors. DNA is bound to be hanging out all over the place.”
I sent Lance a text telling him I’d be submitting a story about Mitch’s arrest within the hour.
“How about we go back to Mission Lager House? I’ll write my story from there,” I said. “And hopefully, Robyn’s working. I want to talk to her.”
At first glance, the lager house appeared to be business as usual when Colin and I arrived. But after spending a few minutes inside, I could tell the place was far from normal.
Autumn was serving drinks as always, but tonight, her eyes were red and puffy. She mostly looked down at her notepad when she talked to her customers. Robyn continued to smile at her customers while she chatted with them, but the smile never made it all the way up to her eyes.
I didn’t remember hearing music the last time we were here, probably because it was drowned out by the patrons’ chatter. But tonight, it seemed to be the only sound in the place. People who were talking, seemed to be using hushed tones.
Amos and Jennie were sitting at the bar. There were several empty tables in the room, even with pairs of people scattered about. Only one large table seemed to be having a lively time. They were watching the Rockies beat up on Kansas City.
Colin and I said hello to Amos and Jennie as we found two seats near them at the bar. I opened my laptop—feeling more than a little odd to be working on my computer at a place like this—while Colin ordered a pint of Lost Trail.
I wanted to talk to Jennie, but I needed to get my story to Lance. I’d come up with my lead during the car ride here. I had lots of good quotes, so I expected the rest of the story to fall into place easily.
“I guess you’re coming from the press conference?” Robyn said quietly. She slid a cola in front of me. “They walked right up to the bar and started reading him his rights. Thank God they didn’t put him in handcuffs.”
“Do you think everyone knew what was going on?”
“They didn’t act like it, but yeah, probably,” she said. “I mean, I’m glad there wasn’t a lot of commotion, but you know everyone gets news alerts on their phones. Plus, I’m sure some of the customers would have no qualms about plastering what they saw all over Facebook and Twitter.”
“At least no one took pictures,” I said.
“That we know of,” she said. “People can be sneaky with those things.”
I nodded. I’d been trying to talk to her and write at the same time.
“So how was it? I’ve had the game on TV here—didn’t dare turn on the news,” Robyn said with a sharp chuckle.
“Basically, the detective came out and said Mitch and Bunny were fighting in court and his DNA was in the office.”
“But not, like, on the body?”
“No, they just said in the office,” I said. “They didn’t say exactly where—they wouldn’t give a lot of details. But I know that if there was DNA found on the body, Chamberlain would have loved bragging about that.” I kept my gaze on my computer screen, hoping that would mask my surprise at Robyn’s question.
Did she believe he might be guilty? Maybe she was just worried about keeping her livelihood—a legitimate concern in these circumstances. After all, no one wants to buy beer from a murderer.
Jennie hopped down from her bar stool on the other side of Colin and came to the empty stool next to me.
She set her pilsner on the bar, leaned toward me, and said quietly, “I know you’re probably on deadline, but I have to talk to you when you’re done.”
I nodded and smiled a little. It sounded like a conspiracy was brewing. “Like, three minutes,” I said.
Finally, after I hit “send” on the story and texted Lance asking him to let me know that he received it, I closed my laptop and turned toward Jennie.
“What’s up?”
“Mitch didn’t do it,” she said. “I just know it.”
Jennie was a police dispatcher. She dealt with people who were in their worst, most desperate circumstances ever
y day. Whether she had some sort of proof or just a blind hunch, I was inclined to believe her.
“How do you know?”
“He’s not violent,” she said. “I’ve known him for years, and I’m sure he’s not capable of that.”
“Are you two?” I lowered my chin and leveled my gaze at Jennie. She knew what I was talking about.
“No!” She shook her head. “We’ve never dated, we’ve never messed around. Strictly friends.”
That piece of information—knowing she wasn’t saying these things from across the blinding veil of affection—made me even more willing to believe Jennie.
“Who do you think did it then? We were wondering about that nephew.”
“He’s an odd duck for sure,” Jennie said. “But Mitch told me he thought it might be that Gus Grubler, from the Tin Pan Saloon down the street.”
My eyes widened. “The police questioned him.”
“He and Bunny have been having an affair for, like, decades,”
I wrinkled my nose. “Affair?”
Jennie giggled. “Well, you know, a relationship. I don’t know what they do.”
For just a second, her expression glazed over, then Jennie shook her head. “Anyway, Mitch said he sees Gus coming and going from Bunny’s shop all the time. He said he sees him in the alley.”
“I heard him tell the cops he and Bunny broke up a long time ago.”
Jennie shook her head. “He was lying.”
I remembered the bouquet of roses in Bunny’s apartment and nodded.
Jennie put her hand on my forearm and gave it a squeeze. “We should go to Grubler’s saloon.” Her eyes were wide, a little wild-looking.
“And do what?” I asked while I tried to hide the fact that her suggestion really was intriguing.
“Snoop around,” she said, whispering now. “If they were in a relationship, maybe there’s notes, receipts, something. Or maybe there’s something, you know, linking him to the murder.”
“Like that lanyard,” I whispered.
Jennie looked puzzled, so I explained to her it was likely a lanyard holding Bunny’s keys that was the murder weapon.
Assignment Denver: The Case of the Eccentric Heiress: Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mystery One (Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mysteries Book 1) Page 7
