“Allison Minard,” Madison began, breaking the silence.
Allison matched her gaze to Madison’s, and while her looks could have pegged her as midtwenties, the wisdom in her eyes spoke to late thirties, maybe even early forties.
Madison went on. “You’re the one who found Claire Reeves?”
“Yes.” She exhaled, sinking further into the couch and crossing her legs. “I’ve been through this with the other officers.” She twisted a wrist, looked at her watch. “And I’ve got to go.” Her crossed-over leg bobbed up and down, fast, without a set rhythm.
“You have something more important to do?”
“Actually, yes, I do.” She offered no further explanation and her posture stiffened.
“I’m sure that whatever your plans were, they can be postponed a little longer—”
“Always whatever Claire wants. Even in death she’s a conniving bitch.” Allison crossed her arms tighter, adding height to an already well-endowed bosom.
“Why were you working tonight?”
Allison remained silent.
“Claire is dead. She was someone who you knew, Miss Minard, someone with whom you had regular contact. And if you take it from our viewpoint, short of a spouse, the last person to see someone alive or the first person to report the find is the first suspect—”
“I’m not the killer!”
Madison leaned forward like the officer had, yet she was not anxious to leave; rather, she was desperate for answers. She placed two hands on her thighs. “Prove it to us. Help us by reconstructing everything as you found it.”
Allison broke eye contact and looked around the room. “I don’t see why I have to go through it again. I have a party to get to.”
Madison couldn’t help but contemplate how selfish and single-minded people could be. If anything came up to interfere with their agenda, the mentality was, How dare it?
“I’m sure they’ll wait on you to get things started.” Madison’s disgust over the woman’s priorities couldn’t be masked. “A woman’s dead—”
“Like I said, I had nothing to do with it.”
“Miss Minard, Claire Reeves was murdered.” Madison placed emphasis on murdered. “I would hope that you could find it within yourself to see the bigger picture.”
“Maybe you should know the full picture. Any number of people would have wanted her dead.”
“Were you one of them?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I didn’t kill her. Why would I? She gave me a job when I had nothing.”
Quite the contrast to she’s a conniving bitch… There was something hidden deep within Allison’s eyes, something she was holding back. Guilt perhaps? And if so, on what scale?
“You don’t seem really shaken up by her death. Maybe more by what you saw,” Madison ventured.
“Do you think you can read everyone?” There was a flash of defensive anger in her eyes. “You can’t read me.”
“On one hand, you give me the impression you didn’t like Claire, and on the other, you seem to have a soft spot for her, saying that she helped you out when you had nothing. What made you resent her despite the fact she helped you?” Madison glanced at Terry. “Normally I admire those who help me out—”
“Well, she was a very anal-retentive person. Meticulous. She had a way she wanted things done, and you had to do it by the book. She had a list of what she wanted cleaned weekly, monthly, and bimonthly. She’d leave it on the kitchen table and expect that I work through it, checking off the items as I went along. Like I was an idiot.”
“So that’s why you hated her?”
Silence.
“You said a number of people would have wanted her dead. Who specifically?”
“She made a lot of enemies—” she loosened her crossed arms, then retightened “—but I’d start with Darcy Simms.”
“Who was she to Claire?”
“Her best friend.”
Madison and Terry shared a look. “Her best friend wanted her dead?”
“Hell, I wouldn’t put anything past that woman, but there’s more. Claire was very active. Sexually.” The last word came out tagged with disgust. “Although, I’m sure your CSI people have already confirmed that. I was always cleaning up used condoms from the wastebaskets.”
It was possible Claire was caught in the crossfire of a love triangle…
Allison continued. “Let’s just say Darcy wasn’t as good a friend as she portrayed herself to be. I know her well enough.”
“How do you know Darcy?”
“Claire recommended my services to her, and I ended up cleaning for her once. She made up a reason to fire me after what I saw.”
“Which was?”
“She was sleeping with one of Claire’s men.”
“Do you know his name?”
She shook her head, her ponytail swaying the way it had earlier. “Not going to say. All I know is Darcy will sleep with anything that has a pulse. Male or female.”
With the last word from her mouth, Allison had erected a barrier. The energy was tangible, and they wouldn’t be getting any more from her right now. But Allison had already said plenty and brought up the possibility of a love triangle. Darcy could have confronted Claire—or the other way around—and things got out of hand. But that didn’t fit with the lack of evidence to indicate a struggle or the kill method typically belonging to a man.
Madison pulled out a notepad and pen for Allison. “Please write your name and phone number here.”
“Don’t see why I should have to.”
Madison kept the notepad and pen extended.
Allison let out a heavy breath, scooped the pen from Madison, and scribbled down the information.
Madison observed which hand she used: her right.
“Now may I go?” Her head tilted to the side.
“One more thing. Where were you between two and four this morning?”
Allison stared blankly. “I was at home.”
“Can anyone else verify that?”
She avoided eye contact as she tossed the notepad onto the coffee table in front of her. “Want anything else, talk to my lawyer.” Allison rose to her feet and snatched her purse from the couch cushion.
“Why a lawyer? Guilty of something?”
Allison stopped moving and faced Madison. “The smart ones get a lawyer, Detective.”
“Thanks for your help,” Madison muttered sarcastically to Allison’s back as she left the room. Madison picked up the pen and notepad and said to Terry, “Well, I guess she could be innocent. She’s right-handed, unlike our killer, but she does seem to be holding something back.”
Terry nodded.
Sam Thompson came up beside Terry in the doorway. “Detectives, I’d like to talk with you.”
“Sure.”
The man’s hands clasped and unclasped. He twisted his wedding band. “I saw someone at her back door in the wee hours. About two or so.”
That was the estimated time of death. He could have seen the killer. “What did they look like?”
“Her light back there is bright enough to illuminate a football stadium. And that’s what woke me up.” He was dancing around the meat of his discovery.
“You said you saw someone?”
“Well, I didn’t see anyone at first. Figured the light was one of those motion-sensor ones and triggered by a cat or something. I just got back into bed only to have the damn light come on again. I threw the sheets off and looked out. That was when I saw someone.”
“A man or a woman?” Madison didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. She struggled for control. Please get to the point.
“Not too sure, but they walked like they were in a hurry. But at the same time, they took deliberate st
eps.”
“So this person was in a hurry but deliberate?” Not intended, but her tone mocked his message. “And you’re not sure whether it was a man or a woman?”
“I’m only telling you what I saw.”
“At the time you saw this person, didn’t you say the light was on?”
“The surrounding area was quite dark, and the glare from the light made it hard to see clearly. The person was more of a hazy silhouette, but they wore a puffy jacket.” He mimicked the bulge with cupped hands pulsing from his shoulders.
“Which direction were they going, toward the house or away?”
“Toward.”
It could have been the killer, and it would explain the boot prints in the backyard. She wanted to verify the view, and she was also curious how a bright light hindered clarity. “Show us this window.”
He directed them to the bedroom, pointed toward the window, but stayed in the hallway.
Madison and Terry looked outside. A CSI worked in Claire’s backyard but physical distinction was hard to ascertain. It was only due to their size and mannerisms that she could identify the investigator as Mark Andrews. The light was just as bright as Mr. Thompson had said. “So we have a witness who could have seen our killer but can’t identify them. Still no further ahead.” When she turned back to look outside, the CSI was gone.
-
Chapter 3
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Madison’s cell rang and she answered without noting the caller’s identity. “We’ll be right there.” She hung up and turned to Terry. “That was Mark. He’s found something.”
Terry glanced at his watch, disappointment washing over his expression. And for a moment, she was envious of what he had and she didn’t. He had someone waiting for him.
Maybe it was the giving spirit of the season, or the fact she couldn’t stand it when someone didn’t emanate the same enthusiasm as she did on a case, but he should be at home with his wife tonight. “Go. I’ll take care of this.”
“You sure? I can stay a bit longer—”
“No, get out of here. Go. Tell Annabelle that I’m sorry I answered the call.” She had been at Terry’s house for a dinner party when the call came in. He waved a hand in the air with his back already to her.
His absence left her with a brief sense of nostalgia and loneliness. She couldn’t help but pity her current situation. Instead of being with family and friends tonight, she was working a murder investigation.
Her sister, Chelsea, was probably laughing around a tree, stringing up ropes of popcorn while sipping on eggnog, all while insisting it wasn’t laced with liquor. Her family always decorated the tree with this last-minute touch, a tradition. Of course, they would have eaten a meal of her sister’s cooking, which Madison didn’t envy her nieces or brother-in-law suffering through. Chelsea could do pretty much everything perfectly, but cooking wasn’t one of those things. The thought caused her to smile and inflicted another stab of homesickness.
And Madison’s mom and dad were likely duking it out over which game show to watch, Wheel of Fortune or Jeopardy. She’d even gladly exchange this moment for that one.
Then there was Blake, a defense attorney by profession, the man she was currently dating from a personal standpoint. The situation there was becoming too complicated. For the number of times she told herself to back off and take things slow, it was of no consequence. Whenever he entered her mind, she felt warm. But he had left her alone for the holidays and was off on a seven-hour road trip to see his parents and siblings, none of whom she had met yet. In fact, she didn’t even know their names. He was an expert at changing the topic whenever his family came up, likely a resultant crossover from his occupation.
“Detective?” It was Mr. Thompson.
He broke her from her thoughts and reminded her that she was still in the Thompsons’ house. She turned to him and said, “I’m leaving.”
Thompson gave her a nod. “Thank you.”
As she moved past him, a moment of weakness battled with her commitment to finding a killer—a moment of wanting a normal life consisting of loved ones within reach and a Christmas tree.
SHE STORMED INTO CLAIRE’S HOUSE as if she were a woman who had everything under control—and there was that smell again. It threatened to ground her feet to the floor. Instead, she hurried through the kitchen to the side hallway, then into the master bedroom, but it wasn’t enough to prevent a reaction. Recycled coffee burned the back of her throat.
In the bedroom, Cynthia Baxter was rummaging through a trash can and Mark stood near a closet. His cheeks were bright red, likely still kissed by the chill of the winter night. He rubbed his latex-gloved hands together.
Madison addressed him, “Okay, whatcha got for me?”
Cynthia intercepted, speaking over a shoulder. “No Terry?”
Madison pressed her lips. “I took pity on him, sent him home.”
“Talk about having the Christmas spirit.” Cynthia smiled at her and went back to the contents of the garbage bin.
Madison turned to Mark. “You get around fast.”
The statement resulted in Mark lifting his eyebrows. Was it confusion or was he flirting with her? It was hard to tell. Everyone loved Mark, but the circulating rumors were undecided as to whether his sexual preference was for men or women. Not that it really mattered.
Madison jacked a thumb toward the hallway, opting to side with his reaction having to do with confusion. “I just saw you outside.”
He stared at her blankly.
“What do you have for me?”
“Maybe it’s nothing, but it stuck out to me. Maybe, somehow, it’s involved with a motive for the murder.”
That was a lot of maybes. Mark was the newest member of the crime lab and always eager to not only please, but to exceed expectations. His confidence hadn’t quite grown a thick skin yet. “Show me what you found.”
He opened both hands, palms up, gesturing for her to look inside the closet. He stepped back, an unsure smile on his lips.
“A filing cabinet?”
“It’s not just any cabinet.” He moved toward the two-drawer unit and pulled on the top drawer. Instead of it sliding out, it was a hinged door that opened to the left. Behind it was a safe door that required a key.
Cynthia rose from her haunches, hands to thighs, stretching out. “Not bad work for a newbie, is it?”
Madison looked back at her. “Not bad at—”
“Knight.” Weir stood in the doorway. “I found the vic’s phone.”
“Well, I found it,” Cynthia said. She smiled at him.
“There’s nothing on it.”
“Nothing?”
“Pretty much nothing. There are two contacts. A Darcy Simms and Allison Minard, the maid you’ve met. No text messages at all, sent or received.”
“What about call history?”
“Nothing. It’s clean.”
-
Chapter 4
MADISON HAD MARK BAG THE phone for evidence, and Weir excused himself from the room. Madison looked back to the cabinet. “Interesting that the drawer itself wasn’t locked, but the inside compartment is.”
Mark pointed to an external locking mechanism, showing it was an option. “And there’s no sign it was forced open.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But the killer could have had the key for the inside safe and maybe forgot to lock the drawer behind himself.”
“I assume you haven’t found the key?”
He shook his head.
“It’s possible the killer was after something and got what he came for, but kept looking.”
“Of course,” he stated with the enthusiasm of a motivated child about to set out on an Easter egg hunt, but his feet remained planted.
“Mark?”
“Yes, I’m looking.” He pressed his lips and formed a weak smile before he dropped down
and worked at prodding the edges of the closet.
Madison knew the chances of him finding the key so close to the safe was unlikely. She would have started with Claire’s purse or nightstand, and then moved to the next bedroom, which served as an office. She made the suggestion to Mark and turned to leave.
“Maddy, before you go,” Cynthia called out to her. “There’s lots of evidence to indicate Claire had company.” She held up a used condom, dangling it in the air from tweezers.
“Where’s Jenn when you need her?”
“It’s Jennifer, remember? How many times—”
“One more apparently.” She was in her early thirties but had this fixation that her name could never be abbreviated.
Jennifer Adams’s specialty was forensic serology.
“Anyway, she’s not here, I am.” Cynthia kept the condom held out at a full arm’s length from her body. “There’s a full trash can of these. I think the girl was a nympho. And I get the lucky job of collecting this? I should have called Jennifer in.” Cynthia went back to the garbage.
Madison turned to Mark. “We could always call someone in to open the safe.”
“The department does have a contract with Confidential Locksmiths, over on Second Street,” Mark began, “but they’ll probably be closed ’til Friday with the holidays.” His expression revealed a mute wince, his lips pulling back and teeth clenching. “Hopefully they’re open again then.”
She nodded, trying to calm her raging impatience.
She returned to the kitchen, and Richards was loading up the body with his assistant. Her eyes were pulled to the black bag and the blood on the floor.
She walked closer, her willpower enabling her to overcome her fear. It was then she noticed a white fluff in the void where the body had been lying. “Cyn!”
She came out of the room. “What?”
Madison pointed at the find. “Looks like a feather.”
Cynthia moved closer. “Our vic wasn’t wearing anything with feathers. She doesn’t have a bird.”
Justified Page 2
