Drown Her Sorrows (Bree Taggert)

by Melinda Leigh

  Todd can handle the scene after that, right?

  They reached the garage door. Bree stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room while Matt went inside. Careful not to step in the blood, he crouched next to the body. With some maneuvering, he worked Paul’s wallet from the rear pocket of his jeans and opened the billfold. “There’s money in his wallet. A few hundred dollars, and his credit cards are still here too.”

  “Not a robbery then,” Bree said.

  “Why did the killer want him dead?”

  She scanned the scene with new perspective. Beckett was lying next to his Maserati. “From the position of the body, it looks like he was shot as he got out of his car.”

  Matt put on gloves. “The only place the shooter could have hidden is behind one of the other vehicles.”

  Bree pictured Beckett climbing out of his Maserati. “He got out of his car and closed the vehicle door.” She studied the body. Paul’s hands were flung out toward the overhead doors. “Maybe the shooter stepped out from around the front of the truck and confronted him.”

  Matt assessed the position. “The angle seems right. The Porsche is too small to hide behind.”

  “Paul is separated, likely with an impending divorce.” Bree backed away from the body. “We need to talk to Mrs. Beckett.”

  “On it.” Todd headed for the door. “Someone’s here.”

  Bree walked out of the garage.

  A Mercedes sedan pulled up to the curb, and a woman emerged. She was in her early fifties. Her short blonde hair looked expensively tousled. Lean and tall, she wore dark jeans, ankle boots, and a trench coat like a fashion model. As she took in the sheriff’s vehicles, her gaze focused on Bree.

  The wife? What a coincidence.

  “Ma’am.” Bree introduced herself. “What is your name?”

  “Angela Beckett,” she said in a halting voice. “What’s going on?”

  Instead of answering, Bree asked, “What is your relationship to Paul Beckett?”

  “His wife.” Angela seemed like the sort of woman who always looked put together. Her appearance was her armor. Her clothes were pressed and her makeup perfectly applied. Delicate diamond studs decorated her earlobes, and a skinny bracelet winked in the light of the garage fixture. “What’s going on here?”

  Bree looked for a place to talk to the woman privately, but there wasn’t one.

  “What is going on?” Angela’s voice rose as she pointed a finger at Bree, and bright spots of color splotched her cheeks.

  Bree knew there was no way to soft-pedal the news. “We found Mr. Beckett inside the garage. He’s dead. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The woman’s face froze in stunned disbelief. “Paul is dead?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How?”

  “He was shot,” Bree said.

  Angela’s hand dropped to her side. Her perfect posture slumped. “I can’t believe it.”

  Bree waited, sensing there was more.

  “We didn’t get along very well, but Paul was . . . larger than life, to be cliché.” Angela’s brows knitted. “It doesn’t seem possible that he’s gone.”

  “Where were you this evening?” Bree asked.

  “Paul and I separated months ago.” Angela sighed. “I’m staying with a friend. I came here to get more of my things.” She stared at her ankle boots. “He changed the locks, so I can’t get in when he’s not here.”

  “Where are your kids?”

  “The boys are both away at college. One is in North Carolina. The other is in Michigan.” She chewed on her lip, smearing her lipstick onto her teeth. “I’ll have to call them.”

  “Why did you and Paul separate?” Bree asked.

  Angela’s mouth flattened. “It sounds stupid, but he was having a totally predictable midlife crisis. He bleached his hair. He bought cars. He chased younger women.” She humphed, seemingly exasperated. “He cheated throughout our marriage, but he never flaunted it in my face. I could ignore it as long as no one knew. He was always discreet until recently. I told him he was going to get old no matter what he did, but he continued to chase youth like he had nothing to lose.”

  But he had had something to lose—his life.

  “Though he no longer cared if he lost me,” Angela said. “Can I go inside and get my things?”

  “No, ma’am.” Bree checked the woman’s left hand for a wedding band. It was still there. “You’ll have to wait until the scene is released.”

  The ME’s van pulled into the parking area, interrupting the interview. Angela’s eyes widened. “This just happened? Paul is still in there?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Angela blinked several times, then her eyes refocused as she comprehended that her husband’s body was still on the premises. She started toward the garage. Bree stepped in front of her.

  “I want to see him.” Angela’s eyes filled with tears.

  No, you don’t.

  But since people rarely took Bree’s word on that, she said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. This is a crime scene. I can’t let you in.”

  Angela’s eyes widened as her gaze dropped to Bree’s arm. A large spot of blood was now visible as it began to soak through the bandage. “Oh, my God. What happened to your arm? You were shot too, weren’t you?”

  “I have to talk to the medical examiner now.” Bree signaled for a deputy. “Take Mrs. Beckett to the station.”

  “What?” Her mouth dropped open. “You can’t do that! Am I a suspect?”

  Of course you’re a suspect.

  Angela frowned at the patrol vehicle like it was a petri dish. But then, that was probably a fair comparison.

  “Mrs. Beckett,” Bree began. “I need to ask you some questions. There’s too much I don’t know about your husband’s death. You could be in danger. I’d feel much better if you would wait at the sheriff’s station while I get a handle on what happened here. I’ll come and talk with you later tonight. At this moment, everyone and no one is a suspect.”

  Angela’s forehead creased. “I won’t answer any questions without my lawyer present.”

  Did all rich people have a lawyer on speed dial? Bree reconsidered her night. She’d be spending part of it at the ER. There was no getting around that. She probably wouldn’t have the time or energy to conduct a proper interview tonight anyway. “I need your contact information to set up an interview for tomorrow morning.”

  “You can’t come to my friend’s house. She’ll be sleeping. She’s an ER nurse who works the night shift.”

  Frustrated, Bree forced her jaw to unclench. She preferred to question people in their own surroundings, where they were more relaxed and less wary. But she couldn’t force the issue. “We can do the interview at the sheriff’s station.”

  Angela pulled a cell phone from her pocket. “I’ll let you know if and when my attorney is available.”

  Short of arresting her, Bree could not force Angela to agree to an interview. Speaking to the police was voluntary. Most people just didn’t know that. Most people also wanted to appear cooperative because avoiding questions made them look guilty. Angela Beckett either thought she was better than most people, or she actually had something to hide.

  Paul had been uncooperative as well. Were the Becketts involved in something less than legal?

  Bree handed her a card. “Let my office know what time you’ll arrive.”

  Angela snatched the card and turned back toward her vehicle.

  “And be careful, Mrs. Beckett,” Bree called.

  Angela’s sure stride hesitated just for a second, then she strode on with slightly less confidence.

  Bree walked over to the ME’s van.

  “I’m seeing too much of you, Sheriff. Again.” The ME grabbed booties from her PPE container. She turned to face Bree, her gaze dropping to Bree’s arm. “What happened?”

  “It’s minor,” Bree said.

  Dr. Jones raised one eyebrow. “I didn’t ask you to assess your own injury. I asked you what hap
pened.”

  Bree had only ever heard two tones to the ME’s deep voice. One was soothing and compassionate, used to address the families of victims. The other was confident professional. But tonight, the doctor sounded like a pissed-off mother calling a teenager to the carpet.

  “I was . . . sort of . . . shot,” Bree admitted.

  Dr. Jones exhaled hard. “How long ago?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “I assume it was before you called me?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Jones muttered something under her breath. Bree caught the word stupid among the mumbling. Then the ME jabbed a finger in Bree’s face. “You have five minutes. If you’re not on your way to the ER at that time, I will call an ambulance myself.”

  “OK. OK.” Bree lifted her good hand in surrender.

  With a quick nod of agreement, the ME and her assistant followed Bree into the garage, where Matt was examining the pickup truck.

  Bree filled Dr. Jones in on the discovery of the body while the ME’s assistant took photographs, beginning at a distance and spiraling in for close-ups.

  Dr. Jones halted a few yards away and scanned the scene for a minute before moving closer and crouching next to the body. Bree showed her Paul’s wallet in the evidence bag, still open to show his driver’s license.

  Dr. Jones glanced at it. “No question as to his ID then.”

  “No.” Bree stood back and watched the ME work.

  Dr. Jones took temperature readings in the air, then cut open the corpse’s shirt. Without disturbing the gunshot wounds, she made an incision over the liver and inserted a thermometer to record core body temperature. A corpse loses heat at a rate of approximately 1.5 degrees Fahrenheit per hour until it reaches ambient temperature. The ME always needed to consider environmental conditions, but the fresher the corpse, the more accurate the estimated time of death.

  Bree already knew that Paul Beckett’s body was very fresh, but the ME had to confirm his time of death with scientific methods.

  Dr. Jones grasped the corpse’s head. It turned easily. “Rigor mortis hasn’t begun.” Chemical reactions in the body caused the muscles to contract or stiffen, a process that normally began about two to four hours after death and first presented in the jaw and neck. She pointed to the torso, the skin nearest the contact with the floor. “Lividity isn’t visible yet either.” Lividity started about thirty minutes after death and was generally visible within an hour or two. She rocked back on her heels. “Considering these factors, along with loss of body heat, he’s been dead thirty minutes to an hour.”

  Bree checked the time on her phone. Eight forty. She did the math. “I thought I heard gunshots at approximately eight o’clock.”

  The ME agreed with a nod, then glanced at Bree’s arm and tilted her head expectantly.

  Bree nodded. “I’ll head to the ER now.”

  She didn’t ask about cause of death. The ME wouldn’t comment, but it was pretty clear what had killed Paul: three bullet wounds in his chest.

  Bree headed for the door. She looked down at a dusty green smear on the concrete. “What’s that?”

  Matt crouched over it. “That looks like green clay.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Paul has a tennis court, so finding green clay here does not seem unusual, but it’s still a strong link between this crime scene and Holly’s.” Matt straightened. He noticed marks on Paul’s truck and walked closer to inspect them. Scratches marred the black paint between the front and rear windows.

  Bree approached, her expression pained. “Did you find something?”

  Matt pointed to the marks. “Looks like someone tried to break into the vehicle. If you insert a long instrument behind the rubber seal right here, you can manipulate the door handle.”

  Bree dropped her hands to her sides. “We don’t know where or when that happened.”

  “True.” Matt stepped away.

  “Sheriff,” Todd called from the garage doorway. “The forensics team is here.”

  “Did you take photos?” Bree asked Matt.

  “I did.” He pointed out the scratches on the truck to Todd. Then Matt handed over the camera. “There are also photos of Paul’s activities earlier this evening that need to be brightened.”

  “I’ll send the pics to forensics and have the truck fingerprinted.” Todd pulled his notepad out of his pocket and wrote in it.

  The medical examiner’s assistant wheeled a gurney loaded with a body bag into the garage. They were preparing to transport Paul’s body to the morgue.

  “Then let’s leave the scene to the forensics team.” Bree led the way out of the garage and took a few minutes to speak with the crime scene techs as they suited up.

  “Let’s go.” Matt gestured toward his vehicle.

  “All right.” She looked reluctant to leave the scene, but she was also pale as chalk. Blood saturated the bandage.

  “Todd can handle the scene.” Matt herded Bree away without touching her.

  “You’re right.” She walked toward the SUV. Her body curled over her cradled arm. She was hurting much more than she would admit. “Or you could stay and supervise.”

  “No.” Matt was not leaving her side.

  She didn’t argue, another sign she was faking being OK. Yet she managed to sum up her quick talk with Angela Beckett while they walked.

  On the road, a news crew was setting up. The cameraman turned toward Bree, and the reporter called, “Sheriff Taggert.”

  Nick West.

  Matt wanted to hustle her by. “Keep walking. Ignore him.”

  “I can’t. The camera is on.” She paused, and he watched her lower her arm to her side and force her body upright. She stepped sideways to hide her arm behind Matt as she turned to the reporter. “Mr. West.”

  “We’re live with Sheriff Bree Taggert. What can you tell us about the shooting?” Nick West was young and local and had a good reputation.

  But right now, Matt had to resist punching him as he shoved the microphone in Bree’s face.

  “I can’t comment yet, not before the family has been notified,” she said.

  “The medical examiner is here, so this was a fatal shooting?” West craned his head around Matt. The reporter’s eyes tracked to Bree’s arm and widened. “What happened to your arm, Sheriff?”

  “Just a minor injury. I’m fine.” Bree shifted her feet in a wider stance, as if her balance was off. “One person died, and we are investigating the shooting. We believe the shooter is still at large. After family members have been notified, the sheriff’s department will issue an official statement.”

  “The man who lives at this address is the employer of the woman whose body was found on Monday. Are the two crimes related?” Nick had done his homework—and fast.

  “We cannot assume that this early in the investigation, but it is possible,” Bree said.

  “Is the public at risk?” the reporter asked.

  “At this time, we have no reason to believe there is any increased risk to the general public.” The muscles of Bree’s jaw tensed, like she was grinding her molars.

  “The crime was personal?”

  “I’ll issue a statement in the morning.” Bree turned away, her I’m fine mask dissolving as soon as the camera was on her back.

  Matt resisted taking her elbow. She wouldn’t like to appear weak. He glanced over his shoulder. The reporter was doing a sound bite with the house and law enforcement vehicles as a backdrop. Matt helped her remove her Kevlar vest. Then he tugged off his own and tossed them both into the back of the SUV. He opened the passenger door and helped Bree into the vehicle. When she settled into the seat, she closed her eyes.

  “You OK?”

  “Please drive,” she said through clenched teeth.

  He started the engine and drove onto the road. “Damned reporters.”

  “West is all right. He’s just doing his job, and you have to admit, he’s good. He connected Holly’s death and Beckett’s address toge
ther faster than I would have expected.”

  “Or someone leaked the connection.” Matt turned at an intersection.

  “Doesn’t matter. Are we out of sight?”

  Matt glanced in the rearview mirror. The flashing lights of emergency vehicles disappeared as he drove through a bend in the road. “Yes.”

  “Pull over.”

  He guided the SUV onto the shoulder.

  As soon as the vehicle came to a stop, she threw open the door, slid out, and vomited.

  Matt jumped out and ran around to her side.

  She held up a hand. “It’s OK. All done.”

  “Stop saying you’re OK. You’re not. Know why? Because you were shot.” Matt found a bottle of water in the vehicle. “Rinse your mouth but don’t drink any.”

  She obeyed, spitting water into the roadside grass. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? Being human? Bree, you need to relax with the hero complex.”

  “Do I have a hero complex?” She tried to smile, but the twitch of her mouth was more of a grimace. “I thought I was just a control freak.”

  He snorted. “That too.”

  She turned toward the SUV. Wobbly, she stumbled. Matt caught her elbow. She paused and leaned into him for a minute. A shudder passed through her. He wrapped his arms around her, careful of her injury, and held her close. Protectiveness rushed through him, and Matt scanned the road to make sure they were alone. Bree didn’t deserve to have a moment of vulnerability recorded.

  A minute later, she lifted her head. “Thanks.”

  “You’re not going to apologize, are you?”

  “No.”

  Progress.

  She walked toward the SUV, and Matt helped her back into the vehicle. Then he slid behind the wheel.

  “I have to call home. That was a live report. I don’t want the family to see it before I tell them I’m injured.” She pulled out her phone. “Adam? First of all, go out onto the porch.” A minute later, she said, “I was injured at the scene. But I’m OK. Probably just need a few stitches. Matt is taking me to the ER. Please keep the news off. There was a reporter there, and I don’t want the kids to see the segment before I get home and they see with their own eyes that I’m fine.”