Price of Innocence

by Patricia McLinn

  Landis put away the earbuds he’d used to listen to the in-house stream of the news conference.

  He left the privacy of the back stairwell and spotted Roy Isaacson the instant he walked into the detectives’ area.

  The detectives had the dubious pleasure of being housed in a bullpen of pods in an area left open when a line of glass offices along the outside wall met an oddly angled interior wall. That interior wall held a bank of elevators at the far end, a break room, two conference rooms, and the back stairwell.

  The glass offices — a design feature used throughout the building and that served as shorthand for those of higher rank — let more daylight into the area than it otherwise would have had. That was the pleasure.

  The dubiousness came from those offices — with the exception of the one belonging to their Chief of Detectives — housing free-floating bureaucrats. Too senior to fob off with a regular pod, not yet persuaded to retire or move on, they dotted these glass cubes that diminished in size like nesting dolls the closer they got to the corner. Several of their occupants enjoyed poking into the business of the working-stiff detectives in the bullpen.

  Talk around the department made them the most likely source for the leaks to this podcaster who’d appeared out of nowhere.

  Reasonable.

  Landis, though, wondered if the leaks also involved Roy Isaacson.

  Isaacson was pleasant enough on the surface. But that’s what you got with Isaacson — surface. Maggie learned that before breaking up with the jerk last spring. The only thing that kept the breakup from happening faster was Maggie hadn’t been around him much, because she worked constantly.

  Unlike Isaacson. Who found enough free time in his shifts to hang out where he didn’t belong — like here — picking up tidbits he traded and leveraged like a peddler in a bazaar.

  Isaacson also spotted Landis.

  He finished what he was saying to Danolin, a long-time detective who gave nothing away, then sauntered out as if he hadn’t been rousted by Landis’ arrival. If everyone in the detectives’ room was like Danolin, Landis wouldn’t mind Isaacson’s forays here. Not as much, anyway.

  Before Landis could reach his desk, Terrington’s head popped up over the top of his cubicle. “Landis, have you heard what this shithead podcaster said?”

  “How do you have time to hear what some shithead podcaster said, much less care? Did you put together the paperwork for phone records?”

  “I wasn’t listening to it.” If he didn’t have a deep voice, he’d sound like a whining kid. “Isaacson told me about it. I was checking the transcript. And it wasn’t only the podcast. It came up at the department’s news conference just now. Kepler should’ve stuck up for me, made it clear—”

  “I don’t care what—”

  “You should.”

  Landis pivoted to the voice behind him.

  Roy Isaacson himself.

  He’d circled back through the back stairwell to see what he might have stirred up to the surface of the bullpen.

  “Nice of you to take time out of your busy day to visit again, but we’ve got this case—”

  “You should care what this Oz guy is saying on his Death, Violence, Murder Podcast,” Isaacson repeated. “Not as much as Terrington does about being called second-rate, but, still, you should care that his latest podcast said Detective Tanner Landis, the lead on this very high-profile case, is famed for spending more of his time in bed — not his own bed — than on the job.”

  “The little slime,” Terrington muttered, solely in his own defense.

  “Don’t pay attention to him — or any of them,” Landis advised. If Isaacson took any of them to include himself, he wouldn’t mind. “Clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Everybody knows I give equal time to the job.”

  Even Isaacson allowed a slight smile, though he didn’t join in the general guffaws.

  Neither did Terrington.

  Truth be told, Terrington wasn’t first rate. If he put the energy into the job he wasted on being touchy about his rep and whining about other detectives getting bigger assignments, he’d be a hell of a lot closer.

  “Yeah, funny for you, being half of the department’s hotshot duo. Even when this podcaster delivers what sounds like a slam, it’s still praising you for being a sword master. Me—”

  “Sword master? What kind of bullshit is that?” Eddy Knarr asked.

  “I like it,” Landis said. “That’s how I’m answering the phone from now on. Sword Master Landis. Can somebody get me a nameplate?”

  “Meantime,” Terrington said with sufficient loud vehemence to compete with more guffaws, “this Oz-something podcaster’s making me look bad. But he’s right about one thing — I should be secondary. How can Belichek be secondary? He’s supposed to be gone. In fact, he is gone. Maybe he did leave on vacation, otherwise why isn’t he here doing his jo—?”

  No longer amused, Landis said, “He is doing his job. Same way everyone should be. Get on that records request and, Knarr, where is the report on the neighborhood canvass?”

  Everyone snapped back to business. Except Terrington, still pouting. And Isaacson, who waited another half a minute, smirking at them all before turning to leave again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Celeste Renfro arrived at the Sunshine Foundation even earlier than usual. Hendrickson’s car was already parked there. First time he’d ever beaten her in.

  Why?

  No, don’t get distracted. Prioritize. On a day like this, that was vital. Prioritize.

  The first matter was when would the police get here? Even more important, how much did they know?

  If they knew some, there was no sense in trying to hide anything except the vital issue. Maybe that was a better approach, anyway. Be as open as possible, which made it seem more likely she was being entirely open.

  Jamie would say to be completely honest.

  Jamie…

  Celeste forced herself forward when she wanted to stop. Just stop. Stand still and do nothing.

  Jamie wasn’t here anymore.

  Jamie had no say in this.

  Celeste had to decide on her approach. And once she decided, it couldn’t be changed.

  Tell them as little as possible?

  Or go as close to the truth as she could?

  * * * *

  “You spent all night there, didn’t you?” Landis asked as he drove them from the neighborhood of mid-rises where the Fairlington County Police Department resided to the offices of the Sunshine Foundation in a section of Old Town.

  Belichek, who had met him in the parking garage, didn’t bother to make Landis define there. They both knew he meant Jamison Chancellor’s house. He grunted confirmation.

  Landis hadn’t guessed from his clothes, because he’d changed from the kit in his trunk, the one all smart detectives kept for the unexpected.

  “Anything?”

  “Background. Victimology.”

  “Tell.”

  “The sunshine’s not an act for her.”

  Landis considered that for half a block. “Could’ve made her more vulnerable. A saint?”

  “No. Not entirely blind to the dark, either. But she fights — fought it.”

  “Anyone specific lurking in that dark?”

  Belichek drew in a long breath and sighed out. “Not that I’ve cracked yet. Either she was worried about someone else reading it or she knew so clearly what she was writing about she didn’t need to make it clear. Think there were a couple guys who made her uneasy. No names.”

  “Statement from the neighbor — the one who found her — says she’d been dating a guy named Carl Arbendroth, but broke it off. First half of August, somewhere in there. That matches what Mags said last night.” Though she hadn’t known the name.

  “Any idea of the identity of the second guy?”

  “No. Someone she sees regularly. One entry she wonders about the guy, the next she dismisses her concerns.”

  “Could be somebody a
t the foundation, a neighbor, another boyfriend. Or somebody she encounters on a regular basis in her daily life, a coffee guy, a restaurant worker, or anybody. We’ll check.”

  Concerns… Jamie Chancellor had deep concern for the two cousins she’d spent a big chunk of her childhood with and — even more defining — shared a tragedy with. Knowing Maggie as he did, Belichek had no trouble separating her thread from Ally’s in the journal, despite Jamie’s elliptical references.

  But neither Maggie Frye nor Ally Northcutt was a hot suspect for showing up on Jamie’s doorstep and putting a shotgun blast into her face.

  “Where’d you go to, Belichek? Not like you to go all unfocused when we’re talking a case, like you’re worried about Jamison Chancellor.” His grin disappeared when he looked at his passenger. “Oh, God, you are. She’s dead, Bel. Dead. Too late to worry about her. You can only do what we’re doing for her — trying to find who made her dead. You are not falling for a victim. You talk about me getting involved with the wrong women? How much wronger can it get than dead?”

  “You’re full of it, Landis.”

  “I see your face. Looks exactly like that obsessed detective in that old movie.”

  Belichek shot his partner a look. “Do not start again on that. Never should have told you.”

  “That’s what partners do. Tell their deepest, darkest secrets. You’re challenged in that area because you’re boring as hell. That’s why you resorted to telling me about your grandfather and how obsessed he got with an old movie.”

  Not exactly what his grandfather had been obsessed with, but Belichek had veered off from telling Landis that complete truth. Looked like a real smart move now.

  “And you have driven it into the ground ever since, going on and on about — who is that actor? Dana Andrews? — and—”

  “Gene Tierney. Now there’s a woman.” Predictable that Landis knew the name of a good-looking woman. Even one old enough to be his grandmother. “But this time I got a better one to tell you about. Carol Burnett.”

  That got Belichek to look at him. “I follow most of your loop-da-loop non sequiturs, but what are you talking about Carol Burnett for?”

  “Saw her show on one of the cable stations that specializes in old TV shows. Love those. Old westerns. Perry Mason. Twilight Zone.”

  “That’s the one I’m living in right now.”

  Partner ignored that. “So, on Carol Burnett, they were doing a skit based on an old movie, like their classic on Gone With the Wind, where she wears the curtains. Only this one was on—”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Laura. Will you ever let that go?”

  “No. Not after I watched it. The scene with the spotlight in her eyes — those were the days, huh, when men were men and detectives were detectives.”

  “I told you that wasn’t the part—”

  “Side issue. The core was the detective falling in love with the dead victim.”

  “Landis—”

  “Not that your grandfather did, since it was always your grandmother for him. But you? Spending a lot of time inside the journals of Jamison Chancellor…? Dangerous. Real dangerous.”

  “Victimology. Like always.”

  Landis’ voice sharpened. “Not like always.” He smoothed it out as he continued, “Anyway, this Carol Burnett skit was Flora instead of Laura, and it fits you even better. The detective’s falling for the portrait of the woman killed. The live one shows up, like in the real movie. And she and the detective get it on. But it turns out the detective prefers the portrait to the woman. Makes his life a whole lot simpler. And I can see, with your personality, that a woman who’s dead might be perfect.”

  “I’m working the case, Landis. Reading to know the victim’s life. I’ll see if I can pin down who the guys are. It would help to confirm one is this Carl Arbendroth. In the meantime, what’s happening on your end?”

  Belichek’s phone rang. “Mags,” he informed his partner.

  “Hi, Maggie—”

  “You’re with Landis? Put me on speaker. We’re on our way to the cabin where Jamie was supposed to go to. Just… Just in case there’s any evidence here.”

  The knowledge that her real just in case was that her cousin was at some cabin this moment, alive, writing away, banded around Belichek’s heart.

  “How do you know where?” Landis asked.

  “Ally — my cousin Ally — came to Jamie’s parents’ house first thing and she knew where Jamie had gone before. She got us close enough on the map and—”

  “You need to call law enforcement.”

  “I did, Landis. I haven’t turned into an idiot. They’re meeting us there. They’re the ones who knew the precise location. Should be there in under three hours. I’ll call back.”

  After she ended the call, they remained silent a moment. As if that could stop Maggie’s hopes from being crushed.

  After a sigh, Landis ticked off what was happening, as the medical examiner, trace scientists, computer forensics, and the rest processed evidence. Routine unwound at a pace dictated by the facts of the case, the necessity of covering bases, the demands of workload and staffing, and the vagaries of luck.

  Never fast enough for the media. Never dramatic enough for the public.

  “No such thing as an eyewitness on this thing. The closest thing — that neighbor who found the body — hasn’t provided exactly case-breaking details.”

  “We haven’t talked to her yet.”

  “Yeah. You want to bet if she comes up with something when we do?” Landis was deep into his grumble. “Worse, no official identity. How is that even possible in this day and age? Fine, DNA takes a couple decades because the lab’s backed up and we can’t even try to wheedle lab help from the FBI with them up to their gonads with that serial killer, but no medical records? How does that happen?”

  Obligingly, Belichek told his partner what he already knew. “Fire at her doctor’s office consumed the records and the server that was supposed to be the backup.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean — what sort of idiot stores his backup onsite? That’s the whole fucking idea behind backup. The asshole never heard of the cloud?”

  “Guess not. How about the neighborhood canvass?”

  Landis snorted. “Two-thirds of those people were off to the Eastern Shore or the Outer Banks or Bora Bora over Labor Day weekend. And that doesn’t count the ones who were gone all of August and don’t rush back.”

  “Their security cameras don’t leave.”

  “Yeah, but a lot of them record over, the cheap bastards. The tech guys are still gathering, cleaning up, cross-checking, but so far all they’ve got of interest is someone going up to Jamison Chancellor’s front door the week before Labor Day. Possibly ringing the doorbell. No way to tell for sure because it’s a blurry image of a figure in a big rain poncho with a hood — couldn’t even determine male or female. Pretty sure nobody answered the door. How’s that for case-breaking?”

  “Week before?”

  “I know. Jamison Chancellor was still alive. The figure goes to her front door, lingers a moment. Does the same thing next door, though. Could’ve been selling something. Useless. In fact, the only item added to my store of non-knowledge this morning is that the house’s AC wasn’t turned off using the app. I was hoping that would give us a time to build around. The killer — or whoever — turned it off manually. No fingerprints, of course.”

  Belichek watched his partner’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.

  Landis felt the weight of Maggie’s connection to this, too. But, beyond that, he had a sharply honed sense of when a case was going to be a bitch, with a strong tendency to go sideways from the start.

  “Anything from the ME’s office?” Belichek asked, though Landis would have said if there was something important. Trying to distract his partner? Himself?

  “Dragged a prelim out of them. Pretty much what we expected. Shotgun, two barrels, compounded by the AC being turned off and decomp.”


  “AC turned off by someone who was there, since it wasn’t done remotely, unless — power cut off at any point?” Belichek asked.

  “Danolin’s covering that ground with the power company.”

  “So, for now, we say the AC’s turned off deliberately. The killer—”

  “No guarantee it was the killer. If she was about to leave—”

  “Even if the murderer showed up at that precise instant, who turns off their AC when they leave? It was hot the last week she was alive and forecasted to be hot most of the time she was supposed to be gone.”

  “It’s not like winter when pipes can freeze. Turning it off wouldn’t do damage.”

  “It’s not normal.”

  “Any sign in her diaries she’s a cheapskate?”

  “They aren’t diaries. But, no. Still… Something to check with Mags.”

  “How is she related to Maggie? Cousins, I know. But cousins how?”

  “Maggie’s father and Jamie’s father were brothers. The other cousin they talk about — Ally — her mother’s their sister.”

  “Shouldn’t Jamie be a Frye, then?”

  “Jamie’s father died when she was a baby. Cancer. Her mother remarried Wade Chancellor. He adopted her. But they didn’t want to cut Jamie off from her Frye relations. All three girls spent time with the fourth Frye sibling, Vivian.”

  “Maggie’s aunt who was murdered.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, I admit it. Your reading the journals hasn’t been a complete waste of time.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Except none of that came from Jamison Chancellor’s journals. Not from Maggie, either.

  Navigation software announced their imminent arrival at the Sunshine Foundation.

  Without interrupting a string of red-brick buildings, it stood out — discreetly. Like the wealthiest matron among a bevy of peers, displaying her impeccable pearls, this building presented its pediments with assurance. A large pointed one over the main door on the first floor, rectangular ones above the tall windows on the first and second floors, then smaller fan windows under the largest of all the pediments forming the roof’s profile.