by Jordan Dane
“I can be rather opinionated, I suppose.” The man shook his head and avoided his eyes. “I’ve always treated Olivia as if she were my own child.”
“Wait. She’s not yours?”
“Not biologically speaking. I adopted her when she was a baby. Her real father died in a car accident. I met Elizabeth when Olivia was a toddler, and we were married a year later. I adopted her to solidify the family.”
Cronan thought it strange that Charles Davenport talked about the adoption as if it were a business merger, until he said…
“But I always loved her…” Davenport said. “…as if she were mine.”
Cronan had no doubt the man was close to Olivia. He’d seen the many pictures of their travels together, but those photos brought up different questions. His cop instincts pushed him to go down a path he hadn’t been prepared for.
“Was Olivia close to her mother?”
Mr. Davenport stopped short, fixed his eyes on Cronan, and said, “Why do you ask?”
“The photos I’ve seen of your family. It looked like you and Olivia shared similar interests, but your wife didn’t appear to feel the same. I wondered how that affected their relationship.”
“Are you implying something?” The man looked insulted.
“No. Just curious.”
It took a long moment for Charles Davenport to answer, but Cronan waited without a word. He’d learned that in any interview, silence could be used as a tool. People often filled the void in conversation, even when it was in their best interest to keep their mouth shut.
“Elizabeth didn’t share our enthusiasm for hunting and travel. It strained our relationship as a couple.”
“How’s that?”
“Olivia saw her mother as…a cliché. Whatever she could do to shock her sensibilities, she often did, until Elizabeth had enough. She asked me to stop giving Olivia money…to subsidize her…excessive lifestyle, as she put it.”
“Did you?”
Charles heaved a sigh. Cronan knew what his answer would be before he even opened his mouth.
“No. I couldn’t. I saw too much of my spirited and adventurous influence in her. That made it hard to say no.”
“Do you think your wife knew that you kept the financial support going?”
Gabe balanced his cop push for answers, anywhere he could find them, against his strong impulse to console the father of a murder victim. The puzzle of Olivia’s life, and the feeling that he didn’t understand something, forced him to dig in directions that seemed unlikely. How far would the Davenports go to protect their social standing from a daughter who pushed the boundaries on scandal?
“No. I made sure…” the man stopped. “Why are you asking about our relationship with Olivia?”
From the look in the man’s eyes, Cronan didn’t have to spell it out for him. Charles Davenport’s jaw clenched, and his face grew stern.
“You must work in a vile dirty world, Detective. I can only assume you’re asking these questions because you’re trying to determine if we had anything to do with the death of our only child.”
Davenport was right. His natural progression in questions would’ve led to him ask if Charles and Elizabeth had alibis for the night of their daughter’s murder. Everything he’d seen in photographs and heard of Olivia’s life from her parents and others made him question any close relationship she had. He hadn’t planned on pushing in that direction when he sat with Mr. Davenport today, but he let his gut feelings guide him.
Cronan had faced angry and offended family members before. It was never easy to turn off his natural compassion to look on the dark side of human nature. He had a job to do—investigating murders, building a solid case of evidence, and taking killers off the streets. Often his tactics looked callous to those outside the job.
If he could turn off the sympathetic side of his nature, it would make aspects of his work easier, but that wasn’t who he’d become. That side of his personality wasn’t what made him good at his job. After years of investigating countless murders and being exposed to the darkest of motives, Cronan had developed a thick skin and learned ways to insulate him from that kind of depravity.
He had to remain objective, for the sake of his victims, but that didn’t mean he was immune to feeling like crap when he crossed the line.
“FBI statistics show over fifty percent of victims knew their killers,” he told Davenport, keeping his voice low and steady. “That means friends, loved ones, co-workers…people they should’ve been able to trust. Your daughter became my responsibility when someone took her life. She’s in my hands now, and I won’t let her down, but that also means if you had anything to do with her murder, I won’t have blinders on because you’re her father. I hope you understand.”
Davenport blinked and sat back in his chair, staring at Cronan. Eventually he gave him what he needed to know, without Cronan having to ask. He made note of the alibi, a charity fundraiser held at the Navy Pier on the waterfront, where Elizabeth and Charles were invited patrons. Cronan would have to confirm their alibi with the organizers of the event and find credible witnesses who remembered seeing them there, but in his ‘vile dirty world,’ it wouldn’t be hard to slip out of a large function without anyone knowing. Oz Park wasn’t a long drive from the Navy Pier.
Imagining a big game hunter like Charles Davenport using a knife to kill his adopted daughter made Cronan sick, but he’d seen the dark drama of a parent killing a child played out many times before. Cronan couldn’t imagine being anything other than a homicide cop. What had happened to his parents had driven him to it, but he stayed in it because he loved the rush. What did that say about him?
After Davenport left the interview room, Cronan sat in his chair and stared down at his notepad. He felt a presence in the room and looked up to see Angel gazing at him with her arms crossed. He had a hard time reading her expression, except he felt sure she had heard the interview from the observation window. Before she said anything, he got up to head back to his desk.
As he pushed by her, he said, “Everyone’s a suspect until they get ruled out. That’s how it is.”
Angel only touched his arm as he walked by her.
***
Minutes later
After Angel grabbed a cup of coffee, she found Gabe staring at the white board of details on the Davenport killing. She sat at her desk and waited until he spoke up. She’d seen that intense stare before.
Dressed in a crisp white shirt, a tasteful blue pattern tie, and dark charcoal slacks, Gabe wore his Glock in a brown leather shoulder holster and had his suit jacket on a hanger by his desk. His shirt looked freshly pressed, but something in his eyes told her he hadn’t been sleeping well. She’d seen him haunted by a case before. The look wasn’t new, but it always shut her out, even as his partner. Gabe went to a place in his mind where no one else could follow. He was a good man doing a tough job. Every cop had their own way of dealing with the hard ones.
She liked talking through the case details, but when things got tough, Gabe internalized his process and ‘felt’ his way through until he was ready to hash it out again. Fortunately he never required a quiet place to think. He had such focus that a bomb could go off in the homicide detail and Gabe wouldn’t even blink. She called Schumacher to get a forensics update, while Gabe drew on his mental hoodoo.
When she got off the phone, Gabe asked, “What did Schumacher have? Anything new?”
“Prints on the burner were McFarland’s only,” she read from her notes. “He said that for a cell phone, the print patterns were off. It was like the phone had been wiped clean recently. McFarland’s prints were definitely there, but not all over the surface like they would normally be on a cell.”
People cleaned their phone from time to time, to avoid the nasty germs that accumulated. McFarland could be one of those fastidious neat freaks, but most people used their cell too much, even in one day. She could see why Schumacher would’ve found the fingerprint pattern odd.
“The guy had two p
hones,” Gabe said as he swiveled his chair toward her. “Maybe he didn’t use the burner much. Did Schumacher find text messages on it?”
“No. If there were any messages, they got deleted like Olivia’s. Dead end there.”
“We have the phone number,” he said. “Can we track it against the sale of prepaid phones? We could get lucky with store surveillance…or a credit card hit.”
“Yeah, I tried that. I ran the number through NCIC. The FBI has that number reported as part of a shipment of stolen phones. It hadn’t surfaced until now. That’s why it hadn’t come up at a retail store.”
Gabe winced like he had a headache.
“What about the knife?” he asked.
“Because McFarland’s blood is all over the knife, he hasn’t found any DNA that links it to the Davenport killing, but the blade is consistent with the murder weapon.”
Gabe sighed.
“If someone set up McFarland to take the fall for Olivia’s murder, they did a bang up job. With our lead suspect dead, the circumstantial evidence could put a chill on the Davenport case. If our killer is as smart as I think, all they’d have to do is sit tight and do nothing. We can’t let that happen.”
Angel narrowed her eyes at Gabe.
“You don’t look like a guy whose staring at a dead end. What’s on your mind, partner?”
“I went back to McFarland’s last night, and I found something interesting. It gave me an idea that I’d like to kick around with you.” Gabe crooked his lip into a lazy smile and said, “Let’s grab a Starbucks. I gotta get out of here.”
“I’m with you,” she said.
***
Two hours later
In his mind and gut, Cronan had a hunch that Ethan Chandler had played a part whether he knew it or not. If they intended to draw out the killer, they had to start with the violinist. Angel had set up an appointment to meet Chandler at his home. She also made sure to request Bryce Peterson and Rachel Blevins were with him, since they had witnessed the backstage altercation with McFarland. All three were present when Cronan and Angel arrived and were ushered to the living room.
“Tell us what you know about that backstage argument between your neighbor and Bryce. What did Bryce mean when he said he’d heard about the guy’s good neighbor policy from you?” Cronan asked, directing his question to Ethan Chandler. When Bryce opened his mouth to answer, he stopped him. “I want to hear his side. You’ll get your chance.”
With Cronan’s opening question, the pale skin of Chandler’s face turned red. The kid was normally a cool customer in person and on stage, but now he looked like he’d eaten bad sushi. Rachel slipped her arm through his and held the guy’s hand as she sat next to him on the sofa. He let her, but something in that gesture made Cronan believe that Ethan had already confided the whole story to his publicist. Bryce was too antsy to sit. He trolled near the bar area like a junkie looking for a fix.
“This is…embarrassing.” Ethan Chandler took a deep breath. “The day before my concert, I got a call about a package that had been delivered to a neighbor by mistake. He suggested I pick it up, that he was only next door.”
“Tim McFarland?” Cronan asked.
“Yeah, he told me his name on the phone, and when I went to pick up the delivery, I introduced myself. To my knowledge, I’d never met him before, but he told me that we had.” Ethan shook his head. “I’m not very good with faces.”
Cronan crooked his lip into a faint smile and said, “Go on.”
“The thing is, I don’t know how he got my unlisted private number. That didn’t occur to me until I got to his door. When I asked him about it, he never gave me a good answer.”
After Angel looked into McFarland, she found out he volunteered on the residents’ board for the building. Getting a private phone number would be easy. Ethan went on to tell them about McFarland’s insistence on entertaining him with food and drink when he only wanted to pick up his package and leave. The man had made him uncomfortable.
“How so?” Cronan asked.
Rachel heaved a sigh and squeezed Chandler’s hand. Her eyes darted to Bryce. She’d definitely heard this story before, but when she didn’t butt in and take charge like usual, Cronan had to give her props even though he had faith she wouldn’t let him down. It wasn’t in her nature to roll over.
“He insisted I come to this special room where he told me that he displayed his hobby. He said he was a photographer and took pictures of things he loved. He got aggressive when I tried to leave.”
“In what way?” Angel asked.
“He pushed food and drink on me, trying to make it a social call. And he had to know what was in the box. He said he could let me know what it was, so I wouldn’t have to wait for someone else to tell me, like he had a right to know,” he said. “But the address thing bothered me. It didn’t make sense that he had my phone number…and that this box came directly to the building.”
“What was in the box?” Cronan leaned against the bar, not taking his eyes off the fiddle player.
“He said it was a rare vintage of Macallan Scotch, a brand I prefer. There was a card inside from some auction house.”
“Did he say who sent it?”
“I questioned him on that, and he said it came from an anonymous sender, but when I told him that didn’t make sense, he got mad. I explained that the delivery had to be from a personal friend. Only someone I knew well would’ve sent it to my home, because I have a post office box that’s public, but my residence isn’t. After that, things got…strange.”
“Define strange. You said that your encounter with McFarland had been embarrassing. Tell us what you mean about strange and embarrassing,” Cronan pushed.
“Strange became embarrassing.” Ethan lowered his head. “Something about him, I didn’t trust from the start. He wouldn’t take no for an answer on anything. When I wanted to leave, he kept finding reasons to make me stay, but I had to get out of there.”
“The asshole was a damned pervert,” Bryce blurted out with a grimace.
“Bryce.” Rachel calmed him down with only one look.
Cronan had a pretty good idea where Chandler was heading with his story. There was honesty in his telling of it that rang true, and everything showed on his face. He looked like a guy who’d been carrying a burden that he couldn’t get rid of.
“I mean, he wouldn’t let anything go. He raised his voice. He insisted on feeding me…and touching me. When I felt his fingers on my face, it shocked me. I had to get out of there, but I wasn’t sure…he’d let me go. Please don’t make me spell it out for you.”
“Who did you tell about this…incident with McFarland?” Cronan asked, even though he had a pretty good idea what he’d say.
Ethan shut his eyes tight and took a deep breath.
“Bryce was the first one I told. He’d called me that day. He asked to come over so we could talk about…Livie. He wanted to make sure I was okay. When he got to my place, I was still upset and had to talk to someone. In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the smartest choice. Bryce is a loyal friend, but…”
Cronan glanced at Bryce, a look that reminded the guy he knew his secret about him having an affair with Olivia. Loyal, my ass.
Ethan went on. “…he’s also got a bit of a temper. I mean, how was I to know that McFarland would have the nerve to show up at my concert and demand to come backstage?”
“He had a pass and claimed you or someone slipped it under his door,” Angel said. “It looked as legit as mine, but his name wasn’t on the master list. Do you know how he would’ve gotten a real pass?”
Angel directed her question to Ethan, but her eyes fixed on Bryce and Rachel.
“No way that it came from me, I can assure you.” Chandler shook his head. “Other than that, I have no idea.”
“So as far as you know, no one would’ve anonymously slipped a backstage pass under his door, but purposely left him off the control list to…embarrass the guy in public?” Angel pressed with a
theory of her own. After Ethan gave her an emphatic no, she asked, “When did you tell Rachel about your encounter with your neighbor?”
He smiled at his partner’s question. She’d phrased it as if she knew the answer. Angel hadn’t given Rachel Blevins an option to lie.
“I called her, and she came over while Bryce was with me.” He spoke to his friend and said, “Sorry, Bryce, but neither one of us thought you’d leave without causing a scene. We didn’t want you to get into trouble…just for being a friend. With McFarland only one door down, Rachel wisely insisted she come to cool Bryce down and escort him off the premises. That’s it. That’s what happened. I didn’t hear about the argument backstage until Bryce said something later.”
“Is that how you remember it, sport?” Cronan turned to Bryce.
“Yeah. I got nothing to add.” The guy shrugged. “Guess I should sign up for an anger management class.”
“Hell, take two. Couldn’t hurt.”
“What can you tell us about McFarland and how he died?” Rachel asked, her eyes shifting between him and Angel.
“It’s an unrelated case. We can’t discuss it,” Cronan said.
“Basically you’re saying it’s none of our business.” The publicist glared at him.
“That’s not what I said,” he told her. Cronan kept his game face unreadable. He had no intention of giving her any way to read between the lines.
“I heard he might’ve committed suicide. Did I have anything to do with that?” Chandler asked. “The guy gave me the creeps, but I hate to think he took his life because…of me.”
The violinist’s question could’ve been a ploy to garner sympathy, but he looked too messed up over it. Cronan had a pretty good notion what Angel saw in the guy. Now wasn’t the time to let his guard down, but he couldn’t throw the kid under the guilt bus if he didn’t have to.
“Whatever went on in McFarland’s head was on him, not you,” he said.
Ethan dropped his chin and nodded. He seemed satisfied with his answer, and Angel shot him a faint smile, too.
“Was McFarland the guy stalking Ethan?” Rachel asked. “Did he have anything to do with Olivia’s murder?”
