by Jordan Dane
If she woke him now, Gabe would drill her with questions about where she’d been—a natural concern for a partner and a friend. Angel had no idea if she’d be capable of lying to him outright. Seeing him at the station tomorrow morning would have made it easier to dodge his questions. The constant phone calls, the crowded detectives’ bullpen, and the case would have served as distractions, but Gabe had changed all that. Now with him practically on her doorstep—and in private—things were about to get complicated.
She raised her hand and knocked on the window. At the sound, Gabe’s eyes flickered open. For a second, in the stillness of the night, he stared at her as if he knew what she had done.
Chapter 8
Guilt could be a merciless enemy or it could be the most brutally honest best friend a woman could ever have. Tonight Angel had no idea if her guilt would be friend or foe. She only knew she had it bad.
Angel stared at Gabe Cronan now, with his face steeped in the shadows of his vehicle. She let her burden take over as she read more in his eyes than was probably there. Meeting Ethan Chandler alone, without her partner, had been a bonehead move. Her lie of omission to Gabe had been motivated by her personal attraction to a stranger. Although she knew that now, she wasn’t sure she was prepared to deal with it and break trust with Gabe, especially at this hour.
Hell! She had to understand her feelings first before she explained her actions to anyone else.
“Sorry. I fell asleep. I didn’t expect you to be so late.” He looked at his watch after he got out of his car. “It’s after one.”
“Yeah, thanks for the update, Big Ben. Why are you here, Gabe?”
“I, ah… “ He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I want to talk…about this thing between us.”
“What thing?” She cocked her head, totally unsure where he was heading with his opening salvo. If his intent had been to grab her interest, then mission accomplished.
“Can we talk inside? I promise I won’t stay long.”
She took a deep breath and stared at him before she finally nudged her head toward her front door.
“Come on. I’ll make coffee. Decaf.” She narrowed her eyes. “But only one cup. I gotta get some sleep.”
“Scout’s honor.” He held up his hand.
“You were never a boy scout, Gabe. That’s not even a guess.” She pulled out her keys and headed for her door with him following.
“If the scouts had badges for cursing, fighting, and underage drinking, I might’ve given it a shot.”
After Angel flipped the lights on inside and headed to her kitchen to make coffee, Cronan stood alone in her living room. Except for a woman’s touch here and there, nothing much had changed in Manny’s house. Same furniture, same photos on the wall, and a coat rack still had Manny’s windbreaker and hat on it.
He could even see an old inflatable beach ball behind the sofa. It looked out of place until he remembered where he’d last seen the ball. The red, white, and blue stripes reminded him of a summer’s day when all three of them had lazed around a pool drinking beer. It was one of the last days before they found out about Manny’s brain tumor. Walking through the front door was like stepping into the past—a past where his best friend would come from the kitchen, toss him a cold one, and give him shit.
Cronan hadn’t counted on how that would make him feel. If he felt that way, he couldn’t imagine how Angel did.
“Are you okay?” Her quiet voice pulled him from his memories. “This is the first time you’ve been here since the funeral.”
“You haven’t changed a thing. It’s like—” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “No wonder you can feel him here, Angel. It’s like he’s gonna walk in the door any minute.”
“What are you saying?” she questioned. “I thought you’d appreciate—”
“I’m saying it’s been two years. I miss him too, but he wouldn’t want you to live in the past.” He turned to point to the coat rack by the front door. “Look, his jacket and Cubs hat are still hanging. You haven’t packed up his clothes, have you? And you still have that old beach ball.”
“I can’t get rid of that ball. No way.” Her eyes glistened.
“I’m not saying get rid of it. Just deflate it and store it in a closet.”
“That’s the one thing I can’t do.”
“Why, Angel? It’s just—”
Before he could finish, she interrupted him.
“Manny blew up that ball. It’s his breath in the damned thing. It’s like the last thing I have that was really…him.” Avoiding his gaze, she crossed her arms as a tear slid down her cheek. “I can’t do it, Gabe. I won’t.”
He took a step closer and stopped. Inches from her, all he wanted to do was hold her. He reached out a hand to brush back a strand of her hair, but couldn’t do it. Not in Manny’s house. With Angel standing her ground, not needing his comfort, it took everything he had to stay where he was.
But he’d been the one to make her cry.
“I’m sorry, Angel. Guess this was a lousy idea. I’m the last person to give out advice on how to let go of someone you love.” He had a hard time meeting her gaze. “I only came to apologize for crossing the line. We’re partners. What you do outside of that is your business.”
“But that’s just it, Gabe. We’re not just partners. We’re family.” She wiped the tear off her cheek. “Because of Manny. You two were closer than brothers. Seeing how much he loved you, that made me feel even more connected to you than I ever did as your partner.”
The hollow feeling of losing Manny welled deep in his belly. He’d been in denial about how much his friend’s death had devastated him. Seeing what the tumor did—to watch him die—had been as hard as losing his mother and father to a sadistic killer. The reason he’d avoided coming to Angel’s house hit him between the eyes. It had hurt too much to lose someone he loved like a brother, and there was a chance his feelings for Angel were jumbled up in his grief for Manny. He wanted something from her, a connection he’d lost when his only friend died.
Loving anyone had become a sucker punch waiting to happen. When would he ever learn?
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake.” He turned for the door. “I’ll see you at the station.”
He didn’t hear what she said as he left her place. His mind was buried in the past. If he had any real feelings for Angel, he was too messed up to do her any favors.
Maybe they both were.
***
Grand Central Police Station – Late Morning
“That was the restaurant manager. Several witnesses confirmed they saw Ethan Chandler at Amandine’s on the night Olivia Davenport was killed.” Angel said to Gabe after she hung up the phone. “One of the valets said he almost drove off with a Maserati.”
“What?” Gabe laughed. “Talk about the blind leading the blind. How did that happen?”
“Apparently Ethan Chandler has a unique brand of humor. When the valet saw he was blind, he called him a cab, and our violinist gave the guy a generous tip.”
Her partner lost his smile and asked, “So what did the manager say about his reservation and when he actually showed?”
“He said Ethan had a reservation for two, but only he showed. He’d been late and nearly missed his reservation, but he stayed for over an hour before he split. A blind man gets noticed.”
“Yeah, I would imagine. How late is late?” Across from her, Gabe barely looked up from his desk. He’d been distant all morning.
“He said he never noticed. Their policy is to cancel after fifteen minutes, but for someone like Ethan Chandler, they could’ve made an exception.”
“But no one knows for sure?”
“The manager checked with his staff. It was busy that night. They only know he showed before they cancelled,” she said.
“Or maybe they seated him no matter what time he arrived.”
Angel knew it could be important to nail down the time Ethan Chandler�
�s alibi kicked in through credible witnesses, but Gabe looked like he had something more on his mind.
“What’s bothering you about this? You’re not telling me something.”
“Sometimes people who want alibis to fit their version of the truth, they do things to get noticed,” he said. “He might’ve waited until things got busy at the restaurant and wait staff wouldn’t remember. Maybe he’s used to people holding reservations for him. Then he gives a generous tip and tries to highjack an expensive ride. The focus shifts to what a nice guy he is and they only remember he was there. That makes the alibi murky as hell.”
“I see your point, but if the ME’s official time of death doesn’t give us a better timetable to compare against his alibi, what you’re saying is that his alibi may not be strong enough. We’d need more.”
“Exactly.”
Angel sighed and held up a folder. “I also have Olivia’s cell phone records, and I’m going through them now. Ethan called a few times and left voice messages. We heard most of them the night we worked the crime scene.”
“What about text messages?”
“According to her phone records, she got one text message on the evening she was killed. She deleted it off her cell, along with the reply she sent.”
“That’s squirrelly,” he said. “Most people don’t respond to anonymous callers unless they recognize the number. And deleting all traces of the message, going and coming, sounds like she had something to hide. How often does this number show up on her phone records?”
“So far I’ve only seen it once, on the day she was killed, but it looks like a dead end anyway. The phone number is an anonymous burner. It’s prepaid with no ownership to trace. And on her side of the equation, her phone company doesn’t retain text message history. Nada. They only keep that the call happened, not the content. Even if we find the actual phone in the possession of the killer, it’s only circumstantial without the content.”
“Sounds like she knew whoever sent it,” Gabe sighed. “We could be back to the drug dealer angle as the reason she was in the park. They use burners, but it makes no sense that a dealer would kill off a customer with money. Guess we’ll have to wait for tox to come back from the autopsy to see if she was a user.”
Not all the autopsy test results were in yet. A toxicology work-up on blood, bile, urine, ocular fluid, and nasal swabs were sent for analysis. The ME also had a few ways to screen for substance abuse, including testing hair follicles to build a timeline of drug use. If trace evidence was found on the body, that got processed separately, too.
With lab results pending, the ME only had preliminary findings. As expected, the manner of death had been ruled a homicide, with the cause of death being exsanguination. She’d bled out after her aorta had been severed, but the efficiency of the single stab wound just beneath her sternum hadn’t been the work of someone who’d killed in frenzy.
“Did Schumacher pull anything good off her cell?”
“He said he’d get us an update later today.” She thumped her pen on a pad of paper.
“Anything turn up on the BOLO for her missing vehicle?” he asked.
“Yeah, I got a report that her BMW 650i convertible was located on the south side. Stripped and charred. Only the VIN gave us ID. And uniforms canvassing near the crime scene found her empty purse in a Dumpster on Halsted. I was about to post that on our white board.”
“Someone tried hard to make it look like a robbery or carjacking, but why leave jewelry on the body? Stealing a vehicle would have been easier on the street, not in the shadows of a park. It’s a crime of opportunity. This feels staged.”
“So do you think we can rule out Ethan as a suspect? A blind man couldn’t have driven her car away from the scene. If TOD happens to coincide with the time witnesses place him at the restaurant, that’s another reason to knock him off the list.”
Gabe looked up from his work and stared at her. She’d seen those expressive blue eyes show great compassion, but not for her today. Her cheeks heated and the sensation spread down her neck. Although she found it hard to hold his gaze, she locked her eyes on his and returned the favor. Two could play the intimidation game.
Gabe was the first to back off. He blinked and heaved a sigh.
“I never said I thought fiddle boy actually did it,” he said. “Even if his alibi is rock solid, that doesn’t mean he didn’t hire it done. We gotta stay objective and let the evidence do the finger pointing. That’s all I’m saying. Why are you in such a rush to rule out this guy?”
“No reason. My gut tells me he didn’t have anything to do with killing her.”
“You sure it’s your gut doing the talkin’?” This time, he turned toward his computer and didn’t look back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Before Angel had a chance to push it with him, her phone rang.
“Yeah, Ramirez here.” She glared at him as she listened. “Okay, we’ll be there in five. Thanks.”
“We? What’s goin’ on?” he asked.
“I had uniforms pick up Bryce Peterson this morning. He’s the guy who left a message on Olivia’s answering machine. I brought him in for questioning. He’s in interrogation room five. You in?” She stood and grabbed a file.
“Hell, yeah. But why did you bring him here? I thought we’d hit him up on his turf.”
“I had trouble tracking this guy down. He doesn’t have a job, and he’s got a record of substance abuse. I thought if we bring him here, we could sweat him. You got a problem with that?”
“Who me? Mr. Sensitivity? You’re kidding, right?” He stood and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “Lead the way.”
***
The first thing that Cronan noticed about Bryce Peterson was that he had a permanent scowl on his face, like a guy with attitude who had plenty of reason to expect his life to suck. Hostile. Real hostile. With short spiked hair and dark eyes, the kid looked wired. He chewed on a thumbnail with his gaze darting around the room, unable to focus on any one thing. Wearing jeans and a wrinkled black House of Blues tee, he was lean and muscled and looked as if they’d pulled him from bed in a foul mood. Or maybe that was the only way he crawled from the sheets. On a good day, after a shave and a shower and a makeover, the kid might have some appeal to ladies who liked tough guys with a rebellious nature.
“If Olivia led another life, outside her social circle, you think she got into bad boys like this punk?” he asked his partner. “He seems a little out of bounds, even for someone like Olivia.”
“Yeah well, maybe that’s the point. Opposites attract.”
“That I can understand, but this guy looks like a pound mutt. How does he fit? Olivia doesn’t seem like a woman who’d rescue a pit bull,” he said. “Whatever connection they had, it came through Ethan. He’s known our boy the longest.”
Cronan stared through the two-way mirror of an observation room with Angel standing next to him in the dark, watching Peterson fidget. Angel hadn’t said much while they made Peterson wait on purpose, and he didn’t feel the need to fill in the void. Living alone, Cronan had grown used to silence, but for a guy like Bryce Peterson, the wait would seem like an eternity. In his situation, the guy’s mind would be working overtime on why he’d been brought in. Angel had made the right call, especially having the uniforms haul the guy to the station.
Cronan had a feeling about Peterson.
He found it hard to picture him with Olivia…or Ethan for that matter. The violinist and the socialite matched. They were educated, traveled in the same social circles and had a similar interest in music. But Peterson struck him as a hanger-on, the kind of guy who hung out with the cool kids hoping their popularity would rub off. And the cool kids kept him around to stroke their egos.
Cronan knew that Angel had done a background check on the guy. Peterson and Ethan had been at Juilliard together. They were the same age and both had played violin. They had to know each other. It shocked him after his partner pointed
that fact out. Ethan seemed older and was definitely more refined than Peterson. At some point in his life, the kid in the next room had enough talent to get into the prestigious school for the arts, but he’d lost his drive or let other demons destroy his future. The pressure of more talented peers or the constant barrage of critics could have been the catalyst for his drug abuse. Or maybe his addiction had been the crutch that gave him permission to fail.
Through all of that, Bryce Peterson had stayed in Ethan’s shadow. Cronan wondered how much that had eaten at him—to hang out with a constant reminder of how he’d fallen short.
“You seen enough?” Angel asked.
“Yeah, let me stop off at the break room before we go in. The kid looks like he could use some water.” He turned toward her. “You take lead. I’ll meet you in there.”
***
After the introductions, Angel took a seat and tossed out a few softball questions for Bryce Peterson to get him chatty, confirming what they already knew from his background check to see if he’d lie. He stuck to the truth on the simple stuff, but it was time to get down to business.
“How do you know Olivia Davenport?” Angel stared at Bryce Peterson, slumped in his chair across the interrogation table from her. Gabe stood behind her and leaned against a wall. She caught his reflection in the two-way mirror. With his arms crossed, her partner had his game face on as he stared at Peterson.
“You brought me in here to talk about that little—” Peterson stopped short of name calling and took a pull off the water bottle Gabe had brought him. “What’s this about?”
Although he directed his question to her, he kept his eyes on Gabe. Her partner had a way of speaking volumes with his hard to read glare.
“You called her and left a message on her home phone,” she said. “You sounded angry. What was that all about?”
“None of your business. It’s personal, between her and me.”
Gabe shifted his weight and walked behind her. Peterson followed every move.
