Inside, the police station was poorly decorated with fake potted plants and a hideous color scheme more appropriate for the visually impaired. The entire look was made worse under the harsh glare of fluorescent bulbs. Cassidy had expected to find herself surrounded by sleek lines, glass walls, and low-yet-soft lighting, like those of the headquarters on CSI:MIAMI.
Disappointed yet again.
“Can I help you?”
Cassidy turned around to find a middle-aged woman wearing an Armani business suit, last season’s three-inch Manolo heels, and a decently colored dark brown hairdo. Granted, it had been pulled into a tight ponytail that stretched back the skin around her eyes, but two decent fashion choices out of three wasn’t too bad.
“I’m Detective Sanchez.” The woman offered her hand to each of them, but only JJ shook it. Cassidy faked a sneeze into her hand as an excuse. She'd need to sanitize later.
“Under different circumstances,” Cassidy said. “I might say it’s nice to meet you. But I hope to spend as little time as possible in here. Must be so hard for you to enjoy coming to work every day.”
Sanchez smirked. “You’re exactly how I’d imagined you’d be.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Cassidy blinked. “Not sure what you mean by that, so I’ll chalk it up to your headache.”
“I don’t have a headache,” Sanchez said.
“Really? Surprising, considering how tight your ponytail is.”
Sanchez narrowed her eyes. “You think you're something pretty special, don't you?”
“I do, thank you. I’m Cassidy Hudson and this is Jamal Jones. We were told to come down to the station to answer questions about Francine Castranova’s death.”
Cassidy scrutinized the room. Who did this stuffy woman work with? On every television cop show she’d ever seen, the detectives came in pairs. She hoped her partner was male, and hot as hell.
To her left, an officer semi-dragged a rather large and smelly, handcuffed man, who screeched about being framed. The odor of onions and vinegar wafted through the room as they passed by. Unable to quash the need to clean her hands, Cassidy took out hand sanitizer and lathered it on like department store body lotion. She looked around the lobby and wondered if Sanchez’s office smelled this bad.
“I already know your names. And you, Ms. Hudson, perfectly match the description I was given.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s move on. You two were her therapists, correct?”
JJ nodded. “But I was under the impression the police at the scene had already asked us everything.” He cupped his mouth, clutched his stomach. “I still feel sick whenever I think about all of the blood and—”
“Do you work alone?” Cassidy said.
Sanchez blinked, caught off guard. “What? No. Why?”
“Curious. Figured you might have a hunky partner hiding around here somewhere.”
Sanchez scowled at her. “Anyway, thank you again for coming down on a Saturday. I’m sure there are plenty of other things you’d like to be doing.”
Cassidy smiled inwardly, imagining what Sanchez’s partner looked like—shirtless, of course. Could he be a cross between Benjamin Bratt and George Clooney, perhaps? Though, with her luck as of late, the illegitimate love child of Rosie O’Donnell and Dom Deluise was more like it.
“Please, come with me,” Sanchez said. “I have just a few more questions, then you’ll be free to go. We’ll keep your information, though, and may call upon you again if we have more questions in the future.” She led the way down the stark hallway to her office.
The name on the wall placard read: “Detective Sanchez and Detective Delacruz” followed by the word: “Homicide.” A horrible crime had been committed and no amount of emotional distancing could change that. Guilt settled deep into her gut. Life was so short. Maybe she’d try to be a little nicer to people from now on, or at least make a conscious effort to let those closest to her know how much they meant to her.
Once inside the office, Sanchez began to interrogate them. At first, it felt like a job interview or speed dating—a rapid series of questions that seemed to be aimed at getting to know them better. All seemed simple enough, though; piece of cake.
“Mr. Jones, how long had you known the victim?”
“Not that long.”
“Can you be more specific?”
JJ looked over to Cassidy for help, but she shrugged. “Don’t look at me. She’s asking you the questions.”
“It’d been at least three weeks since she’d been on our caseload,” he said.
“Did you know her personally at all, or have any dealings with her, outside of work?”
“No. Never.”
“Ms. Hudson, how about you? Did you know Mrs. Castranova prior to her becoming your patient? Did you ever see her outside of work?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Did you have a problem with the victim?”
“A problem?”
“Yes. Was there a particular reason you didn’t care for her?”
“Well, she was one nasty woman with a bad attitude. She was mean to me, mean to JJ, and mean to everyone else she’d ever encountered.”
“Did this make you angry with her?”
“No, I wouldn’t say I was angry with her. Did it make me dislike her? Of course. But I just kept a professional distance whenever we had to treat her.”
Sanchez nodded and scribbled some things down onto a notepad she held on her lap behind the desk.
“I’ve received word from the coroner’s office that the time of death has been estimated between five and eight on Friday morning. Where were you during this time?”
JJ spoke up first. “I was at home, alone, until Cassidy picked me up.”
“And I was home, alone, until I went to his apartment.”
“And what time was that?”
“Around nine in the morning,” Cassidy said. “We were running late.”
“As usual,” JJ said.
“What do you know about the tribal spear used to impale the victim?” Sanchez tossed a full-color photograph onto the desk, one of the late Francine Castranova pinned to the wall by the weapon in question.
Cassidy shrugged. “She’d bragged about going to Papua New Guinea on a Cannibal tour. Supposedly, she’d won a fight with some witch doctor, and her prize was this spear. She’d told everyone about it; almost seemed to enjoy the fact that it’d been used to kill someone.”
“What a wonderful woman,” Sanchez said, rolling her eyes. “That’s brutal.”
“That was Francine,” Cassidy said. “She never gave either of us anything to enjoy or like about her. Trust me, we tried. JJ brought her cookies one time, and she threw them away. I’d pretended to be interested in pictures of her grandchildren, and she’d simply referred to them as selfish brats, then turned the frames face-down.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her? Had she ever mentioned anyone who might have threatened her, or maybe someone with whom she was having trouble?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” JJ said. “She once complained that the neighbor to her right had mowed her lawn without asking.”
“Do you know his name?”
“She simply referred to him as ‘the Nazi,’” Cassidy said.
“The Nazi?”
“I’d said hello to the guy one time, and he had an accent,” Cassidy said. “Could have been a German one. I didn’t really pay too much attention to it at the time.”
“Have you had any contact with any of her other neighbors? Seen anything unusual around the neighborhood?”
“I don’t think I’ve talked to anyone else. I usually try to keep to myself.” Cassidy looked over at JJ. “I don’t really remember anything out of the ordinary in the neighborhood, do you?”
“No, not really.”
“Oh!” Cassidy shot her index finger up. “There was someone asking around about Francine when I was outside waiting for JJ yesterday.”
/>
“Who?”
“Well, I’m not entirely sure. Some woman, a gossipy type, wanted to know if Francine was okay. I do remember her nearly wetting herself in pure gossip-driven excitement when they wheeled Francine out on a stretcher. I’m sorry, I don’t know any more than that.”
“I’ll check into it. Thanks.”
“Are we almost done here?” Cassidy said.
“Do you have somewhere more important to be?”
“Of course.”
Sanchez scrutinized her list of questions. “I have just a few more. Jamal, is that a family name?”
JJ huffed and straightened, looking affronted.
“Oh, just give her the CliffsNotes version of how you got your name. Then we can move on to more important topics, like lunch.”
“Fine,” he said. “My mom was pregnant with me and went for a jog in Central Park. Somewhere between a hot dog stand and the public restroom, she collapsed and started to give birth. Very few people were there at that time of the morning, so a homeless man named Jamal delivered me into the world. He’d been a physician in a past life, and on that day, he’d actually saved my mom’s life, and mine. In a show of gratitude, my mom named me after the man, who, to this day, she still refers to as her guardian angel.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction, huh? Now, Ms. Hudson. Did you or your friend, here, kill Mrs. Castranova?”
“That’s absurd! Why would you even think that?”
“Just a question.” Sanchez pinned her with a dead-serious stare. “No need to be so defensive.”
“Well, neither of us had anything to do with the woman’s death.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No,” Cassidy said. “But I’d like to find out who did. I don’t like getting blamed for stuff I didn’t do.”
“No one’s blaming you.” Sanchez raised her hands. “They’re just questions. Thank you again for coming down to the station. You’re free to go... for now.”
Cassidy and JJ walked outside and into the oppressive heat and humidity that hit them like a ton of bricks. Sweat immediately formed all over Cassidy’s body, plastering her name-brand clothing to her skin, which left her very uncomfortable and far from happy.
“Ugh. Can you believe this?” Cassidy said.
“No. No, I can’t. I can’t believe a woman is dead. I can’t believe we just spent an hour at the police station being questioned about a murder. And I can’t believe all this has happened to us.”
“I was talking about my clothes. They’re clinging to me harder than K-Fed did to Britney Spears.” She tried to pull the offending fabric away from her body.
JJ’s steps faltered, and Cassidy slowed her own to match his, then turned to face him.
“I’m sorry. I was trying to make a joke. A bit too soon for it, maybe?”
JJ mulled over her words and nodded, accepting her apology, or at least her explanation. By the time they’d reached the car, her clothing needed a good dry cleaning.
“Do I smell?” she said.
JJ leaned in to get a whiff.
“Don’t smell me!”
“Well, how am I going to know if you stink if I don’t sniff you?”
“Never mind. If you can’t smell me from outside my personal space bubble, then we’re okay.”
“Lunch, and maybe some drinks?” JJ said.
“Do fish have gills?”
CHAPTER 6
W
elcome to Sammie’s Subs and Spirits. How many?” the hostess asked. The girl chomped on her gum and played with her phone without looking up.
“Fourteen,” Cassidy said.
“Four—what?”
Suddenly, Cassidy had her attention.
“There’s just the two of us.” She smacked her lips together like the annoying young hostess. “We’d like the booth on the end. Oh, and if someone with children comes in, seat them as far away as possible.” Cassidy twirled on an expensive heel and walked to the table she’d already selected.
Before sitting down, Cassidy used a fresh napkin she’d swiped from the neighboring booth to brush stray crumbs from the bench seat, then used a few Lysol wipes from her purse to scrub clean the table top.
“The specials are on the back,” the hostess said. She tossed two menus onto the table and walked away.
“Well, she’s rude,” Cassidy said. “Guess it’s hard to find good help these days.”
Within a few minutes, a rather large and cheerful blonde waiter skipped—literally skipped —over to their table to take their drink order. Cassidy ordered a double shot margarita with extra salt on the rim, and JJ decided to have a Diet Coke and some water. Neither of them spoke while they waited for their drinks.
“Here you go!” announced the enthusiastic waiter as he bounded toward them. “Anything else I can get for you? I recommend the foot-long meatball sub with extra mayo. It might sound odd, but it’s simply amazing!”
Cassidy grimaced. She was not surprised this guy, who had to suck-it-in to fit between the tables and into his uniform, would love a fat-filled foot-long sandwich. What did surprise Cassidy, though, was that he was all too willing to admit it in public.
“No thanks,” Cassidy said. “I’ll have a six-inch turkey sub with no mayo. Mustard will be fine, though I want just four slices of meat, not the usual six. That’s way too much meat. Also, I’d like four evenly spaced pickle slices on the sandwich.” And as Cassidy looked up from the menu, she added, “Please,” for fear of reprisals from the wait staff in the form of spit or other bodily fluids.
“Okay, and for you, big guy?”
“A large chicken salad sandwich, please.” JJ handed the menu back to him, and after he’d left, JJ whispered, “Why do they always call me ‘big guy’? I’m not that fat, am I?”
Cassidy scrutinized her friend for a moment. “No. I mean, you’ve put on a few pounds in the past year or so, but who hasn’t?”
JJ’s eyebrows crinkled down the middle.
“Well, no,” she amended, “I take that back. I haven’t gained anything, but that’s because I watch what I eat and try to stay in shape.”
JJ’s crinkled brows were soon joined by his pouty bottom lip.
“Geez, JJ. I’m not saying you’re fat; I just said you’ve gained a couple of pounds. We’re friends, I’m not gonna lie to you.”
“Whatever.” JJ took a long drink of his Diet Coke. “So, what do you make of the questions Detective Sanchez asked us? It’s almost like the police think we had something to do with it.”
“No, I don’t think so. You’ve watched cop shows, haven’t you? They ask everyone those questions. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you were the one covered in Francine’s blood, so it’s only natural they’d ask you more questions.”
“Well... I suppose you’re right.”
“Hey, have I ever steered you wrong? Wait,” she said with a laugh, “don’t answer that.”
“Which one of you had the chicken salad?” The waiter stood next to the table with two plates and one really big smile.
“Me!” JJ said.
“Okay, here you go.” And he set an enormous plate down in front of him, then turned to Cassidy. “I guess that means you get what’s left.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” She scrutinized the proffered sandwich before officially accepting it.
“If you need anything else, just let me know.” The waiter bounced away while using his pen to scratch deep into her ear.
“Ugh,” Cassidy said. “I just lost my appetite. Want my sandwich?”
“You need to eat something. You’ve had a pretty strong drink on an empty stomach.”
“I guess... ”
As Cassidy took a bite, something nagged at her regarding the interview questions. “Hey, JJ, do you remember how Sanchez asked me about the neighbors, wanting to know if anyone else had been around the scene, anyone who seemed suspicious or didn’t belong there?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“I for
got to mention the guy with the dog.”
“What guy with a dog?” JJ took another bite of his lunch, and Cassidy cringed, turning her head from the mayo-soaked chicken chunks that oozed out from the bottom of the sandwich.
“That was one strange dude. Older, maybe late sixties. I really didn’t notice anything else about him other than his cute dog and that his shorts didn’t match his shirt any more than they belonged in this decade.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Well, he kind of mumbled on about some stuff, but I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to the dog. I guess I should have paid more attention, but I was trying to get some sun.”
“Maybe you should go back and tell the detective. Could be a lead.”
“Remind me to tell her if we’re ever unfortunate enough to see her again. Now, hurry up and finish that enormous sandwich. I want to get home and watch Days of Our Lives. I have at least five episodes on tape.” Cassidy slammed back the last of her margarita, coughing as her throat tightened from the liquor.
“When are you going to stop taping things? I mean, you have cable, why not get a DVR?”
“Because it’s always worked this way for me, and I see no reason to change it.” Cassidy rummaged through her purse for her keys. “All right, where are they?”
“What, your pills?” JJ hid his smirk behind his napkin. “Get it? Pills? You could probably take pills for your OCD.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Here they are!” Cassidy jangled her keys in the air like she’d just cut off the head of her enemy in battle. “And for your information, I don’t have OCD. I just don’t like germs, and I like things how I like them. Now unless you’re going to lick that mayonnaise off of your plate, let’s go.” She slid out of the booth, then clapped her hands. “Come on, mister! Look alive. Knees to chest! Knees to chest!”
Once outside, she hurried her friend across the parking lot to her car. “Buckle up,” she said, which JJ managed to do seconds before Cassidy peeled out of the parking spot.
“You’re gonna get us killed!” JJ clutched the seatbelt, knuckles white.
“I’m an expert driver. Now, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.” And as she pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road, Cassidy thought back to the man with the little white dog. The idea that she might have come face to face with a killer made her stomach churn.
The Cure May Kill You: A Cassidy Hudson Mystery Page 4
