Drown Her Sorrows (Bree Taggert)

by Melinda Leigh

  “OK,” Matt said. “What are you going to do this morning?”

  “Nothing.” She sighed.

  “Wow.”

  “I know,” she said in a wry tone. “I promised Kayla I’d rest this morning. I’m only allowed to go into the office, and I have to sit down the whole time I’m there.”

  Matt held back a laugh. The only person who could control Bree was eight years old.

  “I’m glad,” he said when he could trust his voice. “Do you need a ride?”

  “Adam will drop me off at the station. I’ll see you at eleven. Would you bring my vehicle to the station?” She had left it at his house the night before when they’d decided to use his Suburban for the stakeout at Paul’s.

  “I will. Take it easy.”

  “I don’t have much of a choice.” Bree didn’t sound happy about that.

  Matt called Todd and arranged to meet him at Paul Beckett’s house. When he left, his sister’s minivan was parked near the kennel, and the lights were on. Matt drove to Beckett’s place, where Todd was waiting in his vehicle in the driveway. He climbed out as Matt pulled in.

  “How’s the sheriff?” Todd squeezed the bridge of his nose.

  “Doing OK. She’ll be in later this morning.”

  “I’m surprised she isn’t here already.”

  “So is she,” Matt said.

  On the other side of the parking area, crime scene tape barred entrance to the garage and cordoned off the area where Bree had been shot.

  “Forensic techs are on the way,” Todd said. “Interesting piece of info: Paul Beckett has a Sig Sauer P226 registered in his name.”

  “Let’s see if we find it.”

  “I sent the pictures of Paul handing off that envelope in the parking lot over to forensics. They’re going to brighten the photos and see if they can get the license plate of the other vehicle.”

  “Great,” Matt said.

  The forensic team arrived. Everyone put on gloves and shoe covers before going in through the front door.

  Matt and Bree had already toured the inside of the house the previous evening, but they’d been focused on finding a potentially armed suspect and/or additional victims, not evidence. This time, Matt made his way through the rooms slowly, taking pictures and making notes of things he wanted seized as evidence. The forensic techs started with photos.

  Todd opened the fridge. “Not much in here but beer and Chinese takeout. There are four half-eaten containers, though. Seems like a lot of food for one guy.”

  “Maybe he planned to eat it for multiple nights.” Matt peered in the sink. “But then, there are two wineglasses in the sink, so maybe he had company.”

  Todd checked a recycling container. “A half dozen beer bottles and an empty bottle of wine.”

  An undercounter wine cooler held a few dozen bottles. Portraits of twin boys from infancy to high school graduation lined the hallway. A framed snapshot of Paul and the boys on a fishing boat sat on a table behind the sofa. In the photo, the boys looked to be about ten. Matt scanned the soft gray walls. There were empty places where it seemed pictures had been removed. He walked closer. Small holes in the drywall confirmed his suspicion.

  Todd joined him. “Someone took down a bunch of photos.”

  “I haven’t seen a single picture of Angela Beckett.”

  “They were separated.” Todd turned toward a short hallway.

  “Now she doesn’t need one.” Matt followed him into the home office.

  Todd thumbed through a pile of mail stacked on the credenza. “Looks like household bills.”

  “We’ll take them.” The desktop was clear except for a laptop perfectly centered on the leather desk protector. Matt used a pen to open the desk drawers. Surfaces were free of clutter and dust. “Everything looks pretty normal. We’ll take the computer and iPad too.”

  He walked out of the office. The guest room looked as if it hadn’t been used in some time. They finished searching the downstairs before heading for the stairway.

  “The place is so clean. It almost looks like no one lived here.” Todd followed Matt upstairs. Two kids’ bedrooms were on one side of the landing. Half-empty closets held neat rows of hanging pants and shirts. Shelves held stacks of folded jeans and sweaters. Every item in the drawers was precisely organized, even the socks and underwear. Soccer and tennis trophies lined the bookshelves in the first room. They went into the second room, where they found lacrosse and tennis trophies.

  “Both boys played tennis. Remember the green clay from both Holly’s and Paul’s crime scenes?”

  “Yes.” Matt dropped to his knees to check under a twin bed. Standing, he scanned the walls. “There are pennants from a school in North Carolina in here and ones from Michigan in the other room. I’ll get the boys’ cell phone numbers from Paul’s phone. We’ll verify the boys were at their respective schools yesterday.”

  “You can drive here from either North Carolina or Michigan in ten or twelve hours.” Todd closed a closet door. “Why would one of the sons kill his own dad?”

  “Anger at the way Paul treated his mother? We don’t know anything about the boys’ relationships with their father.”

  “True.” Todd pivoted one hundred eighty degrees, his gaze sweeping over the room. “Nothing in either of their rooms looks like it’s been touched in months.”

  “Doesn’t mean much,” Matt said. “Beckett clearly has a regular cleaning service. This is a big house, and it’s spotless.”

  “I can’t see a man like Paul Beckett mopping floors and scrubbing toilets after work,” Todd agreed.

  “We’ll get the contact information for the cleaning service. The people who empty trash cans and clean bathrooms know a lot about their employers’ private life.”

  They moved on. A huge bedroom suite occupied the rest of the second floor.

  Matt paused in the doorway. “At least it looks like someone has actually been in this room.”

  A king-size bed stood between two windows, and two matching chairs faced a wall-mounted TV. One nightstand held only a bedside lamp. On the other, earbuds and an iPad sat next to an alarm clock and an empty coffee cup on a coaster.

  “I live alone,” Todd said. “The only room that looks occupied is my bedroom. I rarely use the kitchen. Most nights, I eat takeout standing over the sink, shower, sleep, and go back to work. I watch football in my recliner Sunday afternoons and Monday nights.” The chief deputy glanced at Matt. “It’s not as pathetic as it sounds.”

  Matt raised his gloved hands. “I’m not judging. Replace watching football with training dogs and add Sunday brunch with my parents to that mix, and you have my life.” At least that had been his life before Bree returned to Grey’s Hollow. Now, Matt spent at least one night a week with her. Most of the time, they had dinner with her family. Occasionally, they managed a real date. He had to admit that he liked the change.

  He went to the nightstand that clearly belonged to the victim and opened it with his pen. A framed photo lay facedown next to an economy box of condoms. He turned over the frame. “He removed his wedding photo from view and stocked up on condoms.”

  “Not surprising.” Todd walked into the bathroom. A few minutes later, he emerged. “There are several used condoms in the trash can and a recently filled bottle of Viagra in the medicine chest.” He walked closer and eyed the sheets. “I see a long dark hair on that extra pillow.”

  “We’ll get a forensic tech to collect the biological evidence for possible DNA comparisons. I don’t want any chain-of-command issues that can be challenged in court.” Matt checked the other drawers in the nightstand and found another full box of condoms. He pulled a camera out of his pocket and took photos.

  “Mrs. Beckett hasn’t lived here for a couple of months.” Todd straightened. “Did the cheating drive their separation, or did the separation prompt the cheating?”

  “She told the sheriff he always cheated, but he recently stopped being discreet.”

  “That’s fuc
ked up.”

  “Yep. But anger, jealousy, and social humiliation all give Mrs. Beckett motive to kill him.” Matt moved to the nightstand on the other side of the bed. Empty. He opened a walk-in closet. Two-thirds of the hanging space and shelves were empty. He checked the pockets of pants and jackets and looked inside shoes and handbags. He spotted several large cardboard boxes on the top shelf. Glass rattled as he took one down. He opened the lid. It was full of framed photos of the whole family, the glass broken as if someone had thrown the photos into the box with force. Careful of the shards, he set down the box and began lifting the pictures to view each one.

  Todd peered in the doorway. “What did you find?”

  “The missing photos.” Matt turned one so Todd could see it. “Mrs. Beckett on the tennis court with the boys.” A short white skirt and sleeveless blue shirt showed muscled arms and legs. Both sons looked very much like Angela, tall and naturally lean. Their father was heavyset. “Do you remember seeing any pictures of Paul playing tennis?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither.” Matt replaced the lid and reached for a second box. It was filled with tennis trophies engraved with Angela Beckett’s name. He added the photos and trophies to his list of evidence. “I have to get back to the station to review with the sheriff before Angela Beckett’s interview.”

  “I’ll bag and tag the evidence and secure the scene after the forensic team leaves.”

  “Keep looking for Paul’s gun.”

  “I will,” Todd said. “But we’ve looked in every place large enough to hold a handgun. Unless he had some kind of super-secret hidey-hole, it isn’t here.”

  Matt made a few calls on his way back to the station. One was to the deputy who’d been assigned to examine Paul’s cell phone. From him, Matt obtained the phone numbers for the Beckett twins.

  Then he called Timothy Beckett and introduced himself.

  “This is about my father, isn’t it?” Timothy’s voice was sharp, almost angry.

  “Yes. Do you know what happened?”

  “My mom called last night and said someone killed him.”

  “That’s correct. Where are you right now?” Matt asked.

  “I’m still in Michigan. My last exam is scheduled for next week, but my professor agreed to let me take it later today. I’ll pack tonight and leave early tomorrow. Should be there by dinnertime.”

  “Do you intend to go to the house?”

  “No.” Timothy’s response was immediate. “Mom said he was killed there. I’ll stay with a friend.”

  “Where were you yesterday evening?”

  “I was taking an exam from four to six. I had to sign in with my ID. There’ll be a record, if you want confirmation.”

  “I do. Thanks,” Matt said. “Were you aware of the difficulties in your parents’ marriage?”

  Timothy hesitated, then said in a guarded tone, “You’d better ask my mom about that.”

  “But you were aware they had problems.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Timothy replied.

  “Were you close to your dad?” Matt thought about the number of pics of the boys with their mom and the single photograph of the twins with their dad.

  “Dad was always working.” Timothy evaded the actual question and said in a final tone, “Look, I have to go.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Matt let him go. Timothy had an alibi, and Matt could follow up with an in-person interview when he’d returned.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  The line went dead.

  Matt called Noah Beckett next. “I’m Matt Flynn, a criminal investigator with the Randolph County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “I assume this is about my dad.” Noah’s voice sounded shaky. “My mom called last night.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Matt said. “Are you at school?”

  Noah sighed. “I didn’t tell my mom when I talked to her, but I finished the term early. I’m in Grey’s Hollow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bree stared out the passenger window of her brother’s ancient Bronco. Several news crews clustered in the sheriff’s station parking lot. “Drive around the building and drop me at the back door.”

  Adam followed her instructions, driving into the fenced rear lot. He pulled to the curb.

  Bree slid out of the vehicle. “Thanks, Adam.”

  “Let me know if you need a ride home.”

  “I will, but I intend to drive my own unit home tonight,” Bree said. Then she closed the passenger door.

  Adam waited until she had the back door open before he pulled away.

  She entered the station, headed into her office, and settled at her desk. Despite her tough words, she felt like she’d been beaten with a stick. She also felt partially naked without the weapons she’d left with Matt the night before. But weapons and pain meds did not mix. She would not carry guns if she was incapacitated.

  A knock sounded on her doorframe. She looked up to see Matt and was glad no one else was there to see the automatic smile she couldn’t suppress. “Come in.”

  He set her duty belt and backup piece on her desk. “I thought you’d be missing these.”

  “Definitely.” With her arm in a sling, Bree struggled to strap on the belt one-handed.

  “Let me help.” Matt stood in front of her. He fastened the belt around her waist. “The parking lot is full of press.”

  “I’m giving a statement this afternoon.” Bree adjusted the belt, then sat in her chair and lifted her foot onto the desk. Resigned to not being able to dress herself, she asked, “Would you help me?”

  “Sure.” Matt tugged up the hem of her cargo pants and wrapped her second holster around her ankle. He adjusted her pant leg back into place over her black athletic shoe.

  She swung her foot under the desk. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He leaned over her for a few seconds before settling into one of the two chairs that faced her desk. He smelled nice, like citrus and cedar.

  She rolled her eyes at herself. The heavy ache weighting her arm told her the drugs had fully worn off, yet she was still punchy. Normally, she was all business in the office. But then, she hadn’t slept well. Maybe exhaustion and pain had weakened her normal barriers. Feeling extraordinarily vulnerable, she did what she always did: returned to the case. “How was the search of Paul Beckett’s residence?”

  “We took the usual electronics and paperwork. A few interesting notes.” Matt ticked off the items on his fingers. “Mrs. Beckett is a serious tennis player, as are both of their sons. We found signs that suggest Paul had recent female companionship—someone with long dark hair. Paul owns a handgun, which we did not find. This morning, forensics confirmed that the green smear from the garage floor is the same green clay found in Holly Thorpe’s trunk. The clay also matched the type used on the Becketts’ tennis court. Last, I spoke with the twins, Timothy and Noah. Timothy is still in Michigan. I assigned a deputy to verify his alibi, but it seems strong.”

  “I sense a but coming.” Bree settled back in her chair.

  Matt’s eyes gleamed, not unlike a cat that had spotted a mouse. “Noah is here in Grey’s Hollow.”

  “Angela Beckett thinks he’s in North Carolina.”

  “He says he finished the term early. He didn’t want to get in the middle of his parents’ separation, so he’s staying with a friend. He has no alibi.”

  “Interesting.” Bree hated to think of a son killing his own father, but she’d seen family kill family many times before. High emotions, personal histories, and conflicting loyalties often blurred the line between love and hate. “Did you get any sense of the boys’ relationship with their dad?”

  “Paul worked a lot. They both seem closer to their mother, but neither one would talk about their parents’ relationship over the phone.”

  “Let’s get Noah in for an interview.”

  “He’s on his way.” Matt grinned. “I wanted to get a statement from him ASAP. Once his mother
finds out he was in town and has no alibi for his father’s death, she’ll lawyer him up and shut us down.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. She’ll do whatever it takes to protect her kids.”

  Marge buzzed in with an armload of paperwork. Sharp eyes assessed Bree. “You look awful.”

  “Thanks,” Bree said. “Don’t worry. I’ll put on makeup before the press con.”

  “Don’t.” Marge shook her head. “Let them see how much you’re sacrificing. Everyone rallies behind a wounded hero.”

  Bree bristled. “I’m not acting here.”

  “I know, and that’s why people trust you. But like it or not, you’re a politician now.” Marge set down the papers and pointed to a line marked with a blue sticky tab. “You want money for renovations to the station?”

  “Yes.” Bree scanned the paper and signed her name.

  Marge flipped the page. “The more popular you are with the public, the more leverage you have with the county board of supervisors. They’ll be less able to put you off if you have public support.”

  Bree signed several more papers. “I don’t like playing games.”

  “I’m not suggesting you be anything other than genuine. You don’t need to be. But you can use circumstances to your advantage.” Marge collected her papers and hugged them to her body. “Remember, the games are there whether you like them or not. The only choice you have is to try to beat them or let them win.”

  “I don’t like to lose,” Bree admitted.

  “Then you have to stay ahead of those cagey bastards that control our budget. You need to anticipate how they’re going to try to screw this department out of money. They will only support you if it’s in their own best interests. You have to make that so. Remember, they’ve been at this a very long time. They know how the game works, and they are always thinking a few moves ahead.”

  A bright spot of anger bloomed in Bree’s chest. She hated politics, but Marge was right. She had to play chess, not Candy Land. “I want that damned locker room.”

  “That’s better.” Marge raised a penciled eyebrow. “Now, Angela Beckett is here. Where do you want her?”