by Merit Clark
Command turned up, especially in a case like this—a murder in a neighborhood of million-dollar homes. The high profile denizens of the Aspen Ridge subdivision would want to know how chaos, in the form of a shooting, could have scaled their brick walls and sullied their manicured existence.
“You know who the Markhams are?” Dani asked.
Jack had worked with Dani for two years and their relationship was solid if not exactly friendly. But then, he didn’t know anyone who was really friendly with Dani. The lieutenant didn’t join in on most of her team’s lunches or go out drinking with them after work. Maybe she was one of those rare cops who actually had a social life outside of law enforcement.
Or maybe his boss was watching him out of simple concern. This was his first week back from medical leave and Jack found himself uncharacteristically self-conscious. He felt as if everyone were waiting for him to keel over, as if he needed to prove himself all over again. He himself had been hoping for a quiet first week catching up on paperwork and easing back into the routine. The citizens of Denver had managed to oblige until Thursday. Now, not only had he caught his first post-operative case, so to speak, but it involved a woman he loved. Used to love, Jack corrected himself. It was a lifetime ago in another, younger life. None of which he was about to share with his lieutenant.
Jack kept his gaze bland and expectant. Or so he hoped. “Just talked to Mr. Markham.”
“Evan Markham sits on the board of several high-profile charities,” Dani said. “On some of them with the chief and the mayor.”
“How nice that he’s involved in the community.”
“Thought you should know. He can be a pain in the ass.”
Jack poured himself some coffee from a machine set up on a folding table. Probably not the best thing for his stomach, but he was finding Dani’s scrutiny uncomfortable and needed a distraction. He was also stalling. Serena had told him Corie was cooperative, had offered to help, and asked why they needed a warrant. That sounded like her. If it was the same her.
Serena hung back and let him deal with the lieutenant.
“Paul and I will be handling all of the media,” Dani said.
“Fine with me,” Jack said. Paul Diamond was the chief of police. He and Dani were welcome to talk to the press. News vans were already clustered outside the gates with neatly groomed reporters getting ready to do their first remotes. Everyone would want answers, preferably before this led off the five o’clock news. No pressure or anything. Jack poured powdered creamer into his coffee that immediately congealed into oily clumps. He poked at them with a plastic stir stick.
“Delgado’s bringing in a team to process the main house,” Dani said. Mike Delgado was Jack’s old partner.
“He’ll like that.”
Dani finished up with a terse, “Let me know what else you need,” and Jack wondered if he’d been too abrupt. He’d found himself monitoring his behavior, trying to remember how he used to act, almost as if he were putting on a performance. Which sucked.
No delaying any longer. Jack walked the few short steps to the back of the RV where Corie Markham sat at a table with her back to him, giving him a few seconds to process his reaction. He felt as if someone had struck him in the solar plexus. There was the long, lush, untamed strawberry blond hair he’d always wanted to bury himself in; the same slim build. He would have known her instantly.
“Mrs. Markham?” This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not on his first case back.
Corie looked up. She was dressed casually in a peach-colored t-shirt and faded jeans. Not work clothes. No makeup. No jewelry other than her wedding and engagement rings. Her eyes were puffy and red, like she’d been crying, but for the moment she’d stopped. Several crumpled tissues were on the table. Jack tried to hold her gaze but couldn’t and stared at a point somewhere over her right shoulder. The expression on her face was distant and unfocused, a look he knew all too well. He and Serena sat down at the table with her.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jack said. The words felt as inadequate as always.
Corie nodded once, bit her lip, and appeared to be trying not to cry again. Something in Jack’s stomach twisted in response.
“I’m Detective Fariel. Jack. I believe you’ve already met Detective Owen. We need to ask you some questions.” How strange to be introducing himself to her. And how awful for her to look at him with no sign of recognition. He ordered himself to get a grip. It had been a long time. She’d had a terrible shock. In his mind Jack saw her in high school, laughing up at him, her smile bright, in horrible contrast to the misery in front of him. So she’d gotten married. How could he possibly be surprised by that?
Corie recognized the young, black detective from earlier. “Serena, right?”
“How are you doing, hon?” Serena touched Corie’s arm reassuringly for a moment.
Corie shook her head. She started to raise the cup of coffee to her lips, then changed her mind and set it back down.
Jack still couldn’t hold her gaze. He fidgeted with a digital recorder on the table and cleared his throat. “You were the one who found the body?”
“Jack?”
His left hand, holding a pen, froze poised above his notebook. “Yeah,” Jack finally managed.
“Wow,” Corie said.
Serena’s face was neutral but her dark brown eyes were alert. “You two know each other?”
“You’re a cop now?” Corie stared at Jack, who forced himself to meet her eyes.
“Yeah.” His powers of speech were welcome to return anytime.
“I mean obviously you’re a cop. Sorry.” The look on Corie’s face was somewhere between shock and amazement. “How long has it been?”
“Almost twenty years.” Eighteen years and four months almost to the day, but who’s keeping track? “I’d ask how you are, but under the circumstances . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Corie, I know this is all pretty upsetting.” Jesus, he really had developed a talent for understatement. “Just take your time and tell me what happened.”
He saw her eyes fill, although she fought the tears. “Jack, it was awful. I have no idea how to even describe it.”
So pretty. Even with the puffy eyes and red splotches highlighting her pale cheeks. “You’re the one who called 911?”
She nodded, then added, “I can’t believe you’re a cop.”
“Homicide detective.” Jack tried to smile and instead cleared his throat again. “Corie, what happened here this morning?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand. I don’t know how any of this—” She choked back a sob and made a helpless gesture in the general direction of the guesthouse with her right hand.
“It’s all right,” Serena said. Corie and Jack looked at her as if surprised to see her there. “Answer our questions in your own words.”
For the first time in their short partnership Jack was grateful for Serena’s presence. Emotions warred within him. He wished himself off the case; a sense of unreality clung to everything. Focus. Do your job.
“Tell us about your relationship with Brice,” Serena asked.
Corie told them she’d enrolled in two courses at the University of Denver about a year ago thinking she might pursue a master’s degree in psychology. Her mother-in-law, Jessie Markham, had encouraged her although her husband had been lukewarm about Corie going back to school. She’d met Brice in one of the classes and they got to be friends. As far as Corie was aware, Brice didn’t do drugs and only engaged in social drinking. He was new to Colorado and didn’t know many people yet, so when he lost his apartment Corie volunteered the guesthouse.
“How did your husband feel about that?” Jack asked.
“Evan’s always jealous.”
Jack thought of the cold, unfaithful man he’d just interviewed and didn’t react to the irony.
Corie gave a small, defiant shrug. “It’s my house, too. Besides, Brice is gay.”
She didn’t seem to notice that s
he used the present tense. “Did Brice have any visitors in the last couple of days?” Jack asked.
“No,” Corie said. “He keeps—” She bit her lip and her voice faded. “Kept to himself.”
Jack thought about what they found in the guesthouse. Maybe Corie had been too upset to notice.
She seemed eager to defend her friend. “He offered to let us run a background check.”
Jack looked up from writing. “Did you?”
“No. Evan wanted to, but I didn’t see the need. I know that seems . . . dumb, but I trusted Brice.”
“Where was Evan this morning?” Jack’s neutral expression felt frozen on his face.
“I didn’t call him right away, and when the officers showed up they took my cell phone.”
That wasn’t an answer. “That’s standard procedure now, Corie.” Markham. Of course. Jack’s mind started to connect the dots as memories resurfaced. He found it especially curious that while Evan couldn’t stop asking when he could see Corie, she hadn’t asked once if she could see her husband.
“Tell us about Evan,” Jack asked.
“What do you want to know?” Corie asked.
“How would you describe his relationship with Brice?”
“Evan would have preferred it was just the two of us in our new house for a while.” Corie gave another small, defensive shrug. “Evan’s gone a lot for work, and it was nice to have someone to—” She stopped and looked down at the coffee, blinking furiously.
Jack’s chest felt tight, seeing her in pain. He spoke as gently as possible. “Tell me what happened this morning.”
When she looked up at him, her dark blue eyes were sad. “Brice and I got into a routine where I went out there after I got up and had coffee with him. On the way this morning, I let Murphy out of his pen.”
She hesitated and then the words came out in a headlong rush.
“I’m so sorry about the dog—it’s just that Murphy usually goes with me. He ran ahead and the guesthouse door was open, so he went right inside. It took me a minute to catch up to him. I didn’t think. I pushed the door open further with my hand. I called Brice and then I called Murphy. He came running back tracking something, you know, with his paws. I know now it was blood, but I thought at first maybe he’d gotten into something. I called Brice again, but of course he didn’t answer. When I saw him, I let go of the dog. I was—it didn’t make sense.”
And then Murphy had sniffed the body and walked in the blood. Sacrilege on top of the unspeakable. Corie made a praying motion with her hands and then covered her face with them for a moment. Jack and Serena waited.
“All I could think about was calling 911,” Corie continued. “I waited outside until the cops came. I know I should have checked to see if Brice was okay, but I just couldn’t.”
“He was already dead. There was nothing you could have done,” Jack said.
Serena did what Jack couldn’t and patted Corie’s arm reassuringly. “Did you see anyone around when you went to the guesthouse this morning?”
“No.”
“Any strange cars parked out front?” Jack asked.
“I don’t think so. But I wasn’t really looking.” Corie put her hands flat on the table and stared at them.
Jack caught his partner’s eye. “Did you hear anything unusual?”
“You probably wonder how I slept through gun shots.” Corie was still staring at her hands. “I wonder myself. But I took a sleeping pill. I never do that, but last night I got one from Brice. I must have slept like the dead.” She winced as soon as she said it.
“Tell us about the last time you saw Brice alive,” Jack asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that. It was nine or nine thirty last night, at the latest. We had a drink with him in the guesthouse, me and Evan.”
Jack mentally reviewed Evan’s statement. “Why was that?”
Corie leaned back in her chair and played her thumb along the rim of her coffee cup. “I went over there first, right after dinner. And then we called Evan and asked him to join us. He had a Scotch.” Another evasive answer.
“What did the three of you talk about?” Jack asked.
“Personal things.”
“Corie—”
“I know. I know I have to tell you. It’s embarrassing. I confided in Brice about some problems with my marriage.” She looked at him, then away again, took a deep breath, and let it out. Her voice faded. “This can’t be relevant.”
“There’s no way for me to know that yet.” Jack’s throat was so tight he was amazed his voice sounded normal.
“Brice had this idea that maybe the three of us could sit down and talk, but it was a really dumb idea. I mean, you can imagine how well that went over.”
“How well did it go over?” Jack asked.
For the first time Corie displayed signs of irritation. “On a scale of one to ten? Look, I know this sounds really stupid now but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Evan came in, caught wind of what we were up to, and left. That’s it.”
Fight with friend in the evening. Friend dead in the morning. You didn’t have to be a detective to connect those dots. “Was there anything physical? A fight between your husband and Brice?” Jack asked.
Instead of answering she stared into her cup as if trying to divine a solution.
Jack persisted. “Were there any threats exchanged?”
“There wasn’t a fight.”
Jack changed tacks. “How late did you stay in the guesthouse?”
“I left with Evan.”
“You didn’t stay and talk more with your friend? I know I would have been pissed if my husband acted like that,” Serena said.
“No.” Corie looked at Serena and the irritation drained back out of her voice. Now she sounded defeated. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Is it possible your husband saw Brice again last night or early this morning?” Jack asked.
“No.”
“You sound sure,” Jack said.
“Not that I know of,” Corie amended.
“When you and Evan went home last night, what did you do?” Jack asked.
An edge of panic crept into her tone. “Do? What do you mean?”
“We’re trying to get a picture of where everybody was,” Serena said.
Corie nodded and took a steadying breath. When she spoke again her voice was calm. “Evan went into the family room and started watching TV. I went to bed.”
“What else happened?” Jack’s gut felt tight.
“Look, I told you.” Corie sat up straighter and leaned forward, although she kept her voice soft. “It was a dumb idea ambushing Evan and expecting him to talk. Evan’s a very private man. He had every right to be annoyed. We argued, like all married couples do. That’s it.”
His eyes locked with Corie’s for a long moment and Jack decided to let it go. For the time being. “Do you know if Brice owned a gun?” he asked.
“I don’t think so but I don’t know for certain,” Corie said.
“How about you and your husband?” Serena asked.
“Yes.” Corie told them where to find several rifles locked up in a gun safe.
Only now she wouldn’t meet Jack’s eyes. “Anything else? Besides the rifles?”
Her voice faded. “I also have a nine millimeter. Evan bought it for me. But—”
The sour feeling in Jack’s stomach intensified. “But?”
“I’m not exactly sure where it is. It might be up at our cabin but I’m not sure. I haven’t seen it in a long time.”
Chapter 3
“Always nice catching up with old friends,” Serena said when they were on their way back to the crime scene.
Jack didn’t answer. He led the way briskly down the flagstone path to the guesthouse and Serena had to trot to keep up with him.
It was a relief to be done talking to Corie, to get away from those sad blue eyes, indicting him for past mistakes. Except of course that wasn’t true. He was an arrogant jerk to even t
hink she cared after all this time. She barely remembered him, and he couldn’t afford the luxury of paranoia and self-absorption.
“How’s the canvas coming?” Jack asked.
Several other detectives were making the rounds, talking to the neighbors, the mailman, the Comcast guy whose van was parked down the street—all the usual constituents in a residential neighborhood on a sunny weekday morning.
Serena brought him up to speed efficiently and then Jack took a last, deep breath of the fresh outside air before ducking into the guesthouse. He pushed Corie out of his mind as he absorbed everything he could about the scene: how it smelled—bad, after being closed up for hours on an unseasonably warm morning—how it sounded, how it felt, even how the air tasted. He saw evidence of her touches everywhere, in the comfortable furniture, the artwork, the fabrics, the muted color palette. She’d designed the place to be a sanctuary for her friends, serene and soothing; it sure as hell hadn’t worked out that way.
Frank Yannelli, the investigator from the Office of the Medical Examiner, was finishing up his preliminary examination. Frank was a gentle man in his fifties, impeccable at his job, and Jack was glad to see him.
In the bedroom, Brice Shaughnessy had fallen onto his right side with his left arm extended in a frozen, futile gesture of supplication. There was something grotesquely unnatural about bodies that had undergone violent death, utterly graceless, robbed of all humanity. Perhaps those who died a natural death in their beds at ninety-five looked peaceful. None of Jack’s victims did. He swore they were still looking at their killer, if only he knew how to read the meaning in their horrified stares.
The dead man had turned thirty a week ago, according to his driver’s license. He was naked and his brown eyes were open, bisected horizontally by an angry, garish, tache noire stripe. That blood-red band wasn’t unexpected but it was still jarring. Years of dead eyes had caused Jack to develop an aversion to eating fish with the head attached, or any other entrée that stared back at him.
“Corie Markham walked in and stood here.” Jack approximated her position in the doorway, attempting to see the room as she had.
The bed was a rumpled mess. Someone had pushed the covers back on each side and the pillows were mangled by more than one head. They’d found semen on the sheets.
