Red Blooded Murder

by Laura Caldwell

  “Yeah, my case. Murder one.”

  “Ignore me. What I meant to say is that Jane Augustine has a case, and you’re just here to talk about it.”

  The Belmont police station sat under the bypass of a highway entrance, as if the city had found its presence distasteful and had dumped it there to keep it out of sight. Its exterior was brown and squat, almost blending in with the concrete parking lot that surrounded it.

  Maggie pulled into a parking space marked CPD Only.

  I pointed at the sign. “It’s for police officers.”

  “They never tow.”

  We got out of the car and huddled under my umbrella as we walked toward the building. Maggie wore a long wool coat that was too warm for the weather and too big for her-she was so tiny that most of her clothes seemed too large.

  Suddenly, both of Maggie’s cell phones started ringing. She juggled them, shooting orders to her staff, texting clients back. I’d often thought that there should be a reality TV show where contestants compete on who can multitask the best. Maggie would kick ass.

  “I’ve got a jail visit in two hours,” she said. “But luckily, those kind of clients can wait. They aren’t going anywhere soon.” She dumped one cell phone back in her bag, kept listening to messages on another and kept talking to me all the while. “Okay, let’s review, Iz. Just listen to their questions, and answer only what they ask. Don’t let them lead you into saying anything you don’t think is true. They have video cameras in the rooms, but they don’t usually turn them on unless you want to confess.”

  “I’ve got nothing to confess!”

  Maggie stopped. She put the other phone in her purse and brushed her hair away from her eyes. She rarely had time to doctor her hair with product, and so it generally blew around in the Chicago wind, like now. Her forehead creased as she stared at me.

  “What is that look?” I said.

  “There’s no reason for me to be nervous here, is there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Jane, right?”

  My mouth dropped open, mortified. “How can you ask that? You’re supposed to be my friend! What kind of a question-”

  “Hey, hey, hey.” She reached out and squeezed my forearm. “It’s a lawyer question, not a friend question.”

  “Well, the answer is no! Of course I didn’t have anything to do with Jane’s death.” Suddenly, I felt those tears in my eyes again. “Jane and I weren’t friends like you and I are, but she was a friend. And you know I would never kill anyone!”

  Maggie reached her arms around my neck and embraced me. Since I was five inches taller than her, I had to lean down. She was a fierce hugger, something I loved. As usual, I was struck with how much better those strong embraces made me feel.

  “Of course you wouldn’t. And I know she was a friend,” Maggie said, her words muffled by our coats. “I just had to ask, because I don’t want to take you in there if there’s even the slightest chance this could all come back around to bite you.”

  “No way,” I said.

  She pulled back, peered in my eyes and smiled. “Let’s do it then.”

  Inside, at a square desk in the center of the lobby, were four uniformed police officers. Three were standing together and laughing at something in the newspaper. The other, a dark-skinned man whose uniform was immaculate, and who looked uncomfortable at the jovial nature of his partners, squinted at us when we entered.

  Then he recognized Maggie. “Hey, Bristol!” His face cracked into a smile. “What are you doing here? Got another client you’re trying to get off on a Miranda technicality?”

  “Hey, Munoz,” Maggie called back in a lighthearted tone. She gestured at me. “This is my client.”

  “Oh.” He dropped his grin. “Thought you were a lawyer.”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said again. Now he appeared confused.

  “I’m here about the Jane Augustine case.”

  Officer Munoz nodded, squinting once more, as if he was trying to figure me out.

  The other officers put down the newspaper and came forward. “I loved Jane Augustine,” the female police officer said.

  “Yeah, she always got the stories right,” another said. “Especially the legal stuff.”

  “Who would do that to her?”

  All the officers turned to me. I felt a blush creeping over my face. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just here to help. I found her-”

  Maggie put her hand on my arm, cutting me off, and she shook her head. I could hear her unspoken words. Shut up. “Detective Vaughn,” she said, looking at Officer Munoz. “I guess he’s got the case.”

  “Yeah, he’s upstairs.” Munoz raised a clipboard from behind the desk. “Just got to have you log in.”

  Munoz came around the desk and searched us, then ran our bags through a metal detector.

  He pointed at the stairs. “You know where you’re going.”

  Maggie thanked him again, and led me up the stairs. She stopped halfway up and turned. “Remember to listen to what he says, what he’s actually asking, and be careful. I didn’t get a good vibe from this guy last time.” After Sam had disappeared and Forester died, Maggie was the one who helped us sort everything out, and she’d met Vaughn.

  “Me, either,” I said.

  We kept climbing the stairs and stopped when we got to the top. We walked down a sterile hallway. As we did, I could hear a voice speaking. The words weren’t quite audible but something about the voice sounded familiar. Maggie heard it too. She stopped. We both stood there, listening. Maggie’s face scrunched in confusion.

  “Is that…?” she said.

  “It sounds like me,” I said. By now, I could clearly recognize my own voice.

  Maggie and I looked at each other, puzzled. We kept walking.

  I could make out the words now. And then I realized what it was-my broadcast yesterday on Trial TV.

  We reached a windowless square room that looked just like the one I’d been in the other night. Except that the table inside had a phone and a small TV on top of it, three chairs around it.

  And in one of those chairs was Detective Vaughn. He wore brown pants, a white shirt, an empty holster. He turned when he saw us.

  “Just watching you on TV here.” He pointed to the screen. “You’re good.” He stood and his eyes bolted onto mine. “You’re really good.”

  52

  H e shook Maggie’s hand. “Nice to see you again.” Ignoring any kind of greeting for me, he pointed to the side of the table with the two chairs.

  “Nice to see you, too,” I said.

  He continued to ignore me.

  Maggie took a seat. I followed her lead.

  Vaughn closed the door, sealing the room into silence.

  As we took our seats, I looked at Vaughn. His brownish hair with shots of gray seemed newly cut and stood up straight like the bristles of a brush. When he caught my eyes on him, he smiled with one side of his mouth. He had sharp eyes that made no excuses for studying me.

  I gave as calm a smile as I could, as if to say, Go ahead, I’m ready. But he just kept dissecting me with his eyes. The silence in the room grew oppressive.

  “You had some questions for my client?” Maggie’s tone was congenial, but matter-of-fact.

  “Yeah, one sec.” Detective Vaughn opened a manila folder and pushed his chair back, balancing the folder on a crossed knee so we couldn’t see what was there. He grabbed a pen clipped to his belt. Click, click, click with the end of his pen. He glanced up at me, grinned. It was as if he knew that the sound drove me crazy. He made some notes.

  “Okay.” He sighed. “They make us write all this stuff down when we interrogate a suspect.”

  I glanced at Maggie with a silent question-Did he just call me a suspect?

  Maggie stared at him hard. “Can we get moving, please?”

  “Yeah, hold on.” He scribbled something. “Isabel McNeil…” he
said, almost under his breath. More scribbling. “Represented by Maggie Bristol…”

  He looked up. “You related to Marty Bristol?”

  Maggie nodded. “He’s my grandfather.” Then she added, “He’s also my law partner.”

  Detective Vaughn gave an appreciative nod. “I remember when he had the Keith Lee Baker case.”

  Maggie nodded again. Her grandfather, Martin Bristol, now a wealthy criminal defense lawyer, had started out his career on the state side and prosecuted the infamous serial killer, Keith Lee Baker. Far from being intimidated by her grandfather’s reputation, or feeling like she had to take a backseat to it, Maggie had no qualms using that reputation to open doors. She’d always said that in business, everyone got a leg up for one reason or another-maybe it was your connections, maybe it was your looks, or maybe it was the fact that your grandpa put away a particularly nasty serial killer.

  “Hey,” Maggie said to Vaughn. “Someone told me you worked the Kenny Paris case. Is that right?

  “Yeah.”

  “Heard it was a crazy one,” Maggie said.

  I had no idea what they were talking about, but Detective Vaughn laughed. “Oh, man, it was fucking nuts.” He shook his head.

  He and Maggie bantered for a few more minutes, their tone sounding more as if they were gossiping about a neighbor’s lawn rather than the prosecution of a man who had killed ten people in a robbery gone awry.

  “Okay.” Vaughn gazed at me with that laserlike focus. “Have you wanted to do that for a long time?”

  I was taken by surprise. “Do what?”

  He pointed at the TV, now off. “Be a newscaster.”

  “It never occurred to me until Jane offered me a job at Trial TV.”

  He smirked, as if he didn’t believe it. “You’ve got Zac Ellis all revved up.”

  “I’ve got him all revved up? I haven’t done anything to that guy. In fact, you should know that he’s already dating someone else.”

  He nodded, his expression unfazed. “He thinks you were dating his wife.”

  “That’s nuts.” I glanced at Maggie, who was wearing her focused but unflappable lawyer look.

  “Is it? I’ve got a witness who says they saw you and Jane having coffee Saturday.”

  “We did.”

  “That person also said you two looked very cozy.”

  “We were friends. If that’s cozy-looking…” I trailed off, shrugged.

  He said nothing.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” I said.

  “I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “I am.”

  Another smirk. “Good. Then tell me the truth about this. Did you kiss Jane when you were having coffee that day?”

  “No!”

  “That same witness who saw you having coffee said that they saw you kissing.”

  “That’s absurd!” But then I remembered Jane leaning close to me. I remembered thinking she might be going to kiss me. I blushed now at the thought.

  Vaughn noticed. I could tell, because the smirk suddenly involved both sides of his mouth.

  “Jane and I were talking about the night before,” I explained, “and Jane was trying to make a point by leaning close to me. We did not kiss.”

  “Where were you the night before?”

  “I told you this on Monday. Jane and I were out that night at the hotel bar and then the place on Damen. I should have also told you that Jane went home with someone that night. A guy.” I looked at Maggie, who nodded at me to go ahead. “And so did I.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  I swallowed hard. “I didn’t know if it was an okay thing to talk about. Jane and I were friends-just friends-but since she’s married and a public figure, I thought it would look bad if this information came out.”

  I thought about one other thing I hadn’t told them-the sex game Jane liked to play, the scarfing. I’d promised her I wouldn’t. Because I was the attorney she had consulted on that matter, I couldn’t. But I’d already told them about the noose made from her scarf that she found in her house. They didn’t need to know that Jane had that sexual habit, that predilection, did they? I hated it when people, usually celebrities, became better remembered for how they had died rather than the life they had lived. The actor who accidentally overdoses, the politician who dies while visiting a prostitute. Their legend becomes about the circumstance of their death and the building of evidence by the press as to how they got to that point. The great work they did slides away in the collective consciousness of society, replaced by the reports that the celeb was a drug addict, a sex addict, a cheater. Jane won an Emmy Award. She broke huge stories and lived her life with passion. That was what she should be remembered for, not a minor sexual preference.

  Maggie cleared her throat. I realized I’d trailed off in thought, and Vaughn had said nothing.

  I looked at him expectantly, but he just sat quietly. The silence, started out like a trickle of water, but then it began to pool and grow. Like the other night, I could hear nothing outside the room.

  Vaughn stared intensely at me. Mute.

  Maggie had told me to only answer the questions he asked. And if he asked, I would answer.

  But he wasn’t saying anything.

  The room grew more and more uncomfortable. Suddenly the silence seemed like an ocean crashing over us. I heard Maggie clear her throat. Still, Vaughn and I gazed at each other relentlessly, a showdown. I remember he’d been like this the day he questioned me after Sam disappeared. But then I didn’t feel so afraid of what he was thinking.

  And the more he stared at me, the more the silence expanded, taking up all the air in the room. I grew more and more terrified, because swimming in that sea of silence, I could suddenly tell exactly what he was thinking. You killed Jane Augustine.

  “You all done, Detective?” Maggie said, breaking the awful quiet.

  He didn’t even glance at her, but he finally spoke. “So on Friday night, you and Jane didn’t go home together from this place on Damen?”

  It had the feel of a question, but Detective Vaughn’s tone made it clear he thought he knew the answer.

  “No. I went home with a guy I met that night.” It sounded so seedy.

  “A guy.”

  “Yes. His name is Theo Jameson.”

  Vaughn pulled the file folder in front of him closer. He opened it, picked up his pen. Click, click, click, click, click. “Theodore…” he said, trailing off.

  “Theo,” I said, loudly, firmly. “That’s how he introduced himself. Theo Jameson.”

  He wrote the name down. “Got his number?”

  “Yes.” I leaned over, took my phone from my bag, read the number to him.

  Vaughn wrote it down, closed his folder again. “So if I call this Theodore guy, he’ll tell me he was at your house that night?”

  “Yes, he’s in Mexico right now. Some place that doesn’t have cell service. But I believe he’ll be back shortly.”

  “Huh. Interesting timing.”

  I gritted my teeth. I’d had enough. “You should also be looking for the guy Jane went home with that night. Mick.” He wasn’t writing it down.

  “Last name?” he said.

  I exhaled. “I don’t know his last name. I saw him at Jane’s memorial for a second, then he disappeared.”

  “He disappeared.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe anything coming from my mouth.

  “Look, Detective,” Maggie said, “my client wanted to come here and be open about her whereabouts, and Jane’s, on Friday night. But I’d like to know why Friday night is so important. This woman was killed on Monday night.”

  “I’ll tell you why I’m asking her questions about Friday. Because I think she’s lying to me about it.”

  “I’m not!” I couldn’t keep my cool. I pounded a fist on the table. “Give me a lie detector test or something!”

  “Great. Let’s do that.”

  “Izzy,” Maggie barked, put
ting a hand out and sending me a warning look. “You are not taking a polygraph.”

  “Why not?”

  “Yeah,” Vaughn said with a cool smile. “Why not?”

  “Detective Vaughn knows as well as I do,” Maggie said, “that there are false positives with polygraphs and false negatives, which is why they’re not admissible. They only create more problems. I think it’s time to leave.”

  “I don’t want to leave,” I said. “I want to hash this out. Now.” I’d never been the patient type and there was no way I was leaving now and walking around the city, knowing a cop thought I was lying, thought maybe I had something to do with Jane’s death.

  Maggie gave a grunt. “Detective, if you continue to be aggressive, we’re out of here. I can promise you that. I don’t usually tell you guys how to do your job, but I think you should be concentrating on Monday. On the day Jane was killed.”

  “Let’s do that.” He gestured with his head at me. “Where were you that day, before the Trial TV party?”

  “I told you this Monday night. I told a bunch of other cops, too.”

  “That’s right, you did tell me.” He made a show of looking at some notes, but I could tell from his eyes he wasn’t reading them. “You went home that afternoon after you left the station, right?”

  “Right,” I said, annoyed. Then I checked myself. He was riling me up. He was hoping I’d get riled up enough that I’d say something stupid. But I knew that trick. I’d used it when I took depositions of people. “Right,” I said again, in an almost bored tone now. “I went home. I cleaned up my place and did a few things around my house. Then I got ready for the party.”

  “You call anybody that afternoon?”

  I thought about it. “No.”

  “You e-mail anybody?”

  “No. I was exhausted from my first day at Trial TV. I didn’t even turn on my home computer.”

  “You got any neighbors who you maybe talked to?”

  The other condo owners in my building were guys who worked until late every day. “No,” I answered. “But I texted Jane from the Latin place. A bunch of times.”

  “You texted her saying you were there. Doesn’t mean you were.”

  “I saw Tommy Daley at the party.”