by Merit Clark
A Victorian house in miniature sat before him, complete with dormers and eaves and delicate gingerbread trim. A peaked roof made of real shingles was topped with a tiny metal weathervane. The front door was painted a dark, glossy green, and adorned with a tiny brass knocker and doorknob. The amount of detail the conspirators had put into their project was amazing. Even under the circumstances it was hard not to admire it.
On the rainy night Evan killed the singer, he hadn’t paid much attention to the exterior of her house. The layout of the interior, the logistics of getting her to the bedroom, how far the house was from the nearest neighbor, choosing a murder weapon—those were his chief concerns, not architecture. Whether the house was indeed yellow and whether the trim was painted in a contrasting shade hadn’t concerned him at all.
How did Brice explain this choice to Corie? When she talked about the project she said the house was meant to be symbolic. It didn’t look symbolic. It looked pretty damned real. Had Brice meant it to be some kind of warning? But without the scrapbook Evan wouldn’t have even recognized the house. It didn’t make sense.
The model kitchen contained a table, four chairs, and appliances. A tiny phone adorned the wall with the receiver dangling off the hook, exactly as the Charlotte police had found it in reality. The table was loaded with fake food. His wife had talked about that. She said it represented bounty: “Sharing bounty with the people you love.” Evan wished he remembered more of what Corie had told him about the class. He hadn’t known there was a reason to be interested.
The centerpiece of the table was a miniature plastic turkey surrounded by side dishes. It hadn’t been near Thanksgiving, had it? Evan’s brow creased. It was November. That’s why the weather had been so cold and rainy. He’d cut Monique from her loved ones right before the holidays. No pun intended.
The newspaper clippings said the house belonged to Monique’s grandparents—Monique’s and Brice’s. They were away on vacation and called home to find their snug home had been turned into a bloody crime scene. Where did the victim’s family have Thanksgiving dinner that year? Did they even celebrate the holidays? Was the holiday season ruined for them for years afterward? So many lives impacted by his actions. He felt a pleasant thrill deep in his lower abdomen.
How was he going to find out what Brice told Corie? Why did she let him touch her last night? Evan had wanted to regain control but his efforts backfired. He couldn't stop thinking about Corie and the way she felt under his hands. The way she throbbed. Her scent, her warmth, her softness.
Evan groaned and shook his head sharply to clear the images. So he longed for things after all: to keep the model as a souvenir, to make love to his wife. Instead, he forced himself to raise the axe. What took weeks of painstaking effort was destroyed in seconds. It made him inexplicably sad, and once the house was reduced to splinters and stuffed into a black trash bag, Evan felt desolate. No one knew him. Only in their final moments did anyone see who he really was, and for those carefully selected few, the knowledge brought no comfort.
Chapter 16
Jessie Markham seemed thrilled to see Jack and Serena. She had to be at least sixty but looked years younger with smooth, creamy skin, long, curly blond hair, and wide, green eyes. She’d kept her figure and her deep purple silk blouse was cut low, drawing the eye to the shadow between her prominent breasts. A broomstick skirt skimmed her knees and a wide, silver concha belt was draped low on her hips. She spoke in a breathy, excited manner, asked them all sorts of questions about their job, and told them she adored—that was her word, not liked or loved but “utterly adored”—Law & Order.
When they asked if she would provide fingerprints for elimination she practically clapped her hands. “How exciting. Isn’t this exciting, Len?”
Jessie turned to her houseguest, a man named Lennon Funderburk, who didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic about the detectives’ appearance.
“It’s not as exciting in real life as it is on TV, ma’am,” Serena said.
Jessie led them into a large, airy kitchen and prattled on happily about TV shows, books, and movies.
Jack showed her a picture of the ring they found under Brice’s bed.
“I wondered what happened to that!” Jessie excitedly reached for the photo.
“Is the ring yours?”
Jessie nodded. “Mm-hmm. I must have lost it in the guesthouse.”
Jack glanced at Serena but his partner was watching Len, who had slumped onto a barstool.
Jack turned his attention back to Jessie. “When was that, ma’am?”
Jessie made a playful motion, as if she was slapping Jack on the wrist. “Oh, don’t call me ma’am; it makes me sound so old. Jessie will be fine.”
“All right. Jessie. When were you in the guesthouse?”
“Early June, not long after Corie and Evan moved there. Such a gorgeous setting right on the Highline Canal, and it was so nice out. We had a decent amount of wine with dinner—Evan has such a lovely collection—and he decided it was best I didn’t drive. I slept in the guesthouse.”
“What about you, Mr. Funderburk?” Jack asked.
“Huh?” Len sat up straight. “What about me? What?”
Jessie looked at her friend and laughed. “Len, don’t be such a ninny.” She turned back to Jack. “He has authority issues. And he’s never been to Evan’s.”
“We’d like to hear it from him, ma’am,” Serena said.
“I haven’t,” Len said. “Never. Although I’d like to.”
“And you’re sure, ma’am, that the last time you were in the guesthouse was early June?” Serena asked.
Jessie scowled at her. “As I’ve said.” Her voice was crisp.
“Jessie,” Jack said, “don’t mind my partner. She’s new to homicide. If you don’t mind indulging us, we need to hear about what you did Thursday night and then we’ll let you get on with your day.”
Jessie favored him with a brilliant smile and her voice turned breathy and excited again. “Oh, I don’t mind at all. What time should I start with? Are you sure you don’t want more iced tea?”
Jack smiled back. “Sure. That’d be great.”
“We stayed in for dinner.” Jessie reached for a pitcher on the counter and leaned in close when she refilled Jack’s glass. “I made a frittata. In the Spanish style with potatoes and goat cheese and roasted red peppers.”
“Sounds delicious,” Jack said.
“And then what?” Serena asked.
“After dinner we watched one of my favorite movies, Cinema Paradiso, and then turned in early. Can you imagine? He’d never seen it! I thought everyone had seen that film.” Jessie reached across the counter and touched Len’s cheek indulgently. “All of that yearning and longing. Mmph.” She made a kind of strangled sound and put her hand to her chest.
“Bit of a drama queen,” Serena said when she and Jack were back in the car. She shed her jacket revealing athletic arms with toned biceps and cranked the AC up to high; it was another unseasonably warm fall day.
“What? You didn’t like the organic, free-range, hibiscus iced tea she offered us?”
“I thought everyone had seen Cinema Paradiso!” Serena did a creditable imitation of Jessie’s breathy voice and Jack laughed. “And what about her clothes? I was especially taken with the sandals and all the jewelry.”
“And what about the fact that Evan’s not here anymore?” Jack said.
“What?” Serena looked around.
“His car was here when we arrived. Jessie said he was working on something in the garage.”
“I hadn’t noticed. Crap.” Serena’s buoyant mood deflated a little.
“That’s okay. She was very distracting. All of the Markhams are quite entertaining in their own way.”
“All of the Markhams?”
“She’s not a Markham,” Jack said, too quickly.
“Speaking of Corie, did you ask her about Jennifer Suarez?”
“I wasn’t speaking of Corie.” Shit. How co
uld he forget to do that? Jack answered his partner with forced casualness. “I hit her with the girlfriend and it seemed like too much at once. Judgment call. I’m sure we’ll be talking to Corie again.”
“We’ll be talking to Corie?” Serena watched him but he didn’t take the bait. “You still think this is all worthwhile? Following up with D’Ambrose’s private investigator and talking to Jennifer? I mean, after finding Vangie with the murder weapon?”
“You too? If you want I can drop you off at headquarters. There’s still time for you to join the press conference.”
“No, Jack.” Serena sounded angry. “I don't want to join the press conference. Trying to prioritize is all.”
They fell silent for a minute and then Jack asked, “Any news on DNA?”
“They said by the end of the day.”
“We may look really stupid a few hours from now.”
Serena shrugged. Jack wished he could let it go that easily. He glanced at his phone, illogically hoping for, but not really expecting, a call from Corie. She’d made it pretty clear she wanted nothing to do with him. He couldn’t blame her, but he’d hated leaving her that way at the stables and hoped he’d have a chance to make amends. How the hell he’d do that, he had no idea.
Their next stop was an Einstein Bagels near the University of Denver where Leigh-Anne Hough, Brice’s former landlady, worked as an assistant manager. The store was crowded with students and Jack could feel the customers standing in line glare at him as he walked up to the cash register and asked for her. After a couple of minutes, a young woman walked out from the back wiping her hands on an apron. Jack showed her a picture of Brice’s face taken when they performed the autopsy.
Leigh-Anne frowned at it. “I don’t recognize him. Who is he?” She handed the picture back.
“His name is Brice Shaughnessy,” Serena said. “He rented an apartment from you.”
“No, he didn’t.” Leigh-Anne’s frown deepened.
“Are you sure? He listed you as his previous landlord on a rental application.” Jack said.
“He never rented from me. I don’t know why he would say he did.”
“Maybe he had a friend that rented from you. Can you think of any other way he would get your name?” Serena asked.
“What did you say his name was?” Leigh-Anne asked.
“Brice Shaughnessy,” Serena said.
“Oh. Brice. I couldn’t tell from the picture. What happened to him?” Leigh-Anne asked.
“So you do know him?” Jack asked.
“I was in a class with him at DU. I must have mentioned that I own rental property or something. I wouldn’t have minded if he used me as a reference. Is he okay?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead,” Jack said.
“Oh my God. What happened?” Leigh-Anne’s eyes grew wide.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Jack said.
“We need to talk to his friends, his partners. We’re hoping you can give us some names,” Serena said.
Leigh-Anne shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t know who he hung out with. He hadn’t been around very long but he was really nice. Oh, wait. You know who you should talk to? His partner in the class. This woman named Corie something.”
“That’s who he was renting from,” Jack said. “That’s how we got your name.”
“How weird. I’m sure it’s all just some kind of misunderstanding.” Leigh-Anne glanced at the line growing at the cash register. “I should get back to work.”
“If you think of anything, I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me a call.” Jack handed her a card.
“Sure. Sorry I didn’t know anything.”
“Gee, Brice lied.” Jack held the door for Serena on the way out. “You could knock me over with a feather.”
“It seems pointless. Corie liked him,” Serena said.
Jack unlocked the car. “I’ve come to the conclusion that lying is an irresistible human reflex.”
“Brice manufactured a housing emergency so Corie would invite him to stay in their guesthouse. But if Corie and Brice were friends, wouldn’t she have offered anyway? Did he need an elaborate ruse?”
“There was a reason he wanted to be close to the Markhams. It’s usually sex, drugs, or money, but in this case it’s none of those.”
“How can you say that? He was having sex with someone.”
“Brice was investigating his sister’s murder. I’d stake my career on it. And I’m also willing to bet Vangie Perez knew nothing about it.”
Jack and Serena visited briefly with D’Ambrose’s private investigator, then drove to Jennifer Suarez’s neat, brick ranch house in Lakewood, one of Denver’s western suburbs. An overhang provided a small shaded area outside the front door, which was decorated with a bench on one side and a grouping of several pumpkins on the other. A pair of muddy gardening clogs rested under the bench, along with a couple pairs of small children’s shoes.
The investigator had been cooperative but unable to offer much in the way of information. D’Ambrose had really tried to take an interest according to the investigator, even going so far as offering to help her find new employment. But Jennifer made herself scarce abruptly and decisively, firmly rebuffing any offers of assistance or inquiries into her well-being. Just like Aranda Sheffield had told them.
Jack knew Jennifer wouldn’t be happy to find them on her cozy doorstep either. The woman who answered the door was around thirty, with dark hair and a child on her hip. Her smile faded quickly when they introduced themselves and she didn’t invite them in. Instead, she disappeared inside the house for a couple of minutes closing the door behind her. When she reappeared, she was alone.
“I don’t understand why you’re here.” Jennifer’s voice was cold. “How did you find me?”
“We need to ask you a few questions about a man named Evan Markham,” Serena said. “We know you used to work for him. And that you filed assault charges against him.”
“Those charges were dropped. Now if there’s nothing else—”
“I read the report. It sounded like he really hurt you,” Serena said.
Jennifer folded her arms across her chest. “I’m fine. I need to get back inside.”
“We're investigating a homicide, Ms. Suarez,” Jack said. “We could really use your help.”
“It’s Hoffman now. I’m married.”
“Mrs. Hoffman,” Jack said. “When individuals exhibit violent behavior, it’s been my experience that they escalate. You were sexually assaulted and beaten. What if he’s escalated to murder?”
No response. Jennifer’s face remained stony.
“We’d like to know why you dropped the charges. Can you tell us why you didn’t allow the police to proceed?” Serena asked.
Jennifer exhaled and her features softened slightly. “He seemed really sorry. I’ve moved on. I have a family now and I don’t want to live this all over again.”
“I understand,” Serena said. “But someone is dead and we need to find the person responsible. Evan doesn’t have to know we talked to you.”
Jennifer glanced back over her shoulder toward the house and lowered her voice to a whisper. “My husband doesn’t know. We have a child together and one more on the way.” Instinctively she put a protective hand on her stomach. “I don’t know that there’s much I can say that would help anyway. What I can tell you is that he’s got two faces—like, what’s that story? Dr. Somebody? He was scary. And before that he’d been so nice.
“He had a knife. He acted like I should find that sexy or something. It was so weird. He said it was a fun game. Said he knew all along I’d be fun—he kept using that word. Said he could tell what I wanted. When I said no—and I did say no—was when he changed. At first he acted like he didn’t believe me, but when it became clear to him that I meant it, he became enraged. I felt lucky to get away.”
Jack was quiet until they were back in the car. “You know, Corie used almost those same words. That Evan was Dr. Jek
yll and Mr. Hyde. That he could be charming one minute and then completely different the next. Although personally, I missed the charming part.” Jack’s eyes flicked to his partner. “Corie also said he liked to play games. Sex games.”
“He convinces them that he’s only playing and they’re wrong for making a big deal out of it. Poor misunderstood guy.”
Jack snorted. “It’s hard to misunderstand being threatened with a knife.”
“Was that in the report? Why wasn’t this written up as felony menacing if there was a weapon?” Serena read for a minute. “Huh. Jennifer didn’t mention the knife. All she told the police was that he knocked her around. And there was no sexual penetration, although she believed he’d meant to rape her.”
“Maybe because she didn’t let him act out his fantasy. Apparently Markham needs props or he can’t play. I mean, look at what we found in Vangie’s place.”
“Poor Corie.”
“Read my mind.”
Chapter 17
Evan knew from personal experience that getting rid of a person wasn’t easy. The Vangie problem had grown in his mind until the need to get rid of her blotted out all other concerns. The need to regain control was visceral. What did she know? Who was she working for? How was he going to neutralize the threat without backsliding into his old behavior? His vow might be self-imposed but he took it seriously.
He needed Vangie where he could keep an eye on her and, until he came up with a better plan, the Westin downtown was going to have to do. He found Vangie in the room he’d reserved, pacing and barely coherent.
Vangie glared at him. “Where the hell have you been? How could you all do that to me? Why’d you have Stu bring me here? They took my fingerprints and they locked me in a room and I didn’t think I’d ever get out again.”
Perpetual makeup smudged around her eyes, like a white-trash raccoon. She was rabid and unpredictable like a raccoon, too.
