by Ally Shields
“Then you won’t mind showing me your hands and having a tech swab them for blood.”
“Geez, Brandt.” She held them out.
He called a tech over and watched while samples were taken. “We’ll need your clothes too. I’ll have an officer take you home so you can change.” He cocked his head. “How do you know who Pardson is?”
“Coridan just told me he was the sniper who shot me. Before then, I only suspected he was involved.”
“And how’d you figure that? Did someone in the lab contact you?”
“No.” She frowned up at him. “Are you talking about the rifle casing? Is that how you ID’d him?”
“The breech and firing pin marks matched a prior shooting traced to Pardson. He ratted out the guy who hired him, served eighteen months for assault with intent, then out. I deliberately didn’t call you, because I didn’t want you involved in the arrest. So, how’d you get his name?”
“I had a tip.”
“Uh-huh. The same confidential informant who gave you Hurst’s address?”
“As a matter of fact, it was.”
He cleared his throat. “York, I understand wanting to get even with these guys, but you’re the one in trouble now. I’d like to help you. I can’t, if you aren’t straight with me. When did you learn Pardson was the shooter?”
“Five minutes ago. Right here when Ray Coridan told me.”
Brandt closed his eyes and shook his head.
Was that frustration or disbelief? She couldn’t be sure. And it mattered…beyond the confines of this case.
The tech returned holding a vial. “Nothing on the field test, Detective Brandt. No trace of blood on her hands except a small scratch.”
Brandt looked at Maggie. “Go home and stay there while we finish processing the scene. One of my officers will take you and bring back your clothes.”
“There’ll be blood on the bottom of my shoes.”
Brandt swore and looked away. “Noted. I’ll take a formal statement from you later. I want to see what the ME says about time of death. Stay where I can reach you.”
By midnight Maggie was furious. How could Brandt leave her hanging like this? She’d changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, turned over her clothes to a patrol officer—who seemed embarrassed to be there—and then she’d waited. For three frigging hours. Where was he?
She considered going to bed, but she wouldn’t sleep anyway. She’d taken a bottle of beer from the fridge, then put it back. Not if she was going to be formally questioned. She needed her wits about her. The first thing he’d want was the name of her CI. What could she tell him?
Finally, a knock on the door. She checked the peephole. It was Brandt. She let him in, and four officers followed him. He held out a paper.
“What’s this?”
“Search warrant. You’re coming with me.” His hand closed around her arm. When she pulled back, he lifted an eyebrow. “You can come voluntarily…or be arrested.”
Her heart pounded. “For what?”
“The murder of Freddie Pardson.”
He didn’t believe her. Maggie was so stunned she allowed him to lead her down to his car. “I don’t understand any of this. You can’t have any proof, because I didn’t do it,” she said as he put her in his car.
“We’ll talk downtown.”
They rode in silence, the air vibrating with tension. Her mind clicked in double time. What had precipitated Brandt’s actions? He was a good detective. Careful. He wouldn’t do this without justification. But what? Being at the scene wasn’t good enough for a search warrant. No blood on her hands. And there couldn’t be any on her clothes either, except the bottom of her shoes. All that proved was she’d been inside.
Lucy. They’d discovered her call to dispatch to run Pardson’s plate. Still…
Upon arrival at the station, Brandt put her in an interrogation room and left. Typical treatment. He’d be back. Give the suspect time to get nervous but not long enough to get past that point and become comfortable. He needn’t have bothered. She was already nervous.
* * *
Brandt returned with two cups of coffee and set one in front of her. “I figured we both could use this.”
She gave him a wary, hunted look and ignored the offering. He hated this nearly as much as she did, but she had a good deal of explaining to do. Going easy on her wouldn’t benefit either of them. The captain had made it clear an hour ago he wanted everything by the book and that she should be treated like any other person of interest. Jenson pointed out what a media nightmare it would be if a PD officer turned out to be a triple murderer—insanity plea or not.
And she wasn’t insane. Brandt was sure of that. Even under extreme stress, those blue eyes were as intelligent, as compelling as ever.
He pulled up a chair and sat across from her. “Tell me where you were and what you were doing since five o’clock this evening.”
Her jawline tightened, but her voice was even. “I was at home until around 7:30. Then I met with a CI outside my building. He showed me the car he thought was involved in my shooting. I called dispatch to run the plate. They gave me Frederick Pardson’s name and address. I walked over there. When I got to his floor, a dead body was laying in the hallway. I heard a sound of someone on the back stairs, pulled my SIG, and ran after him. When I reached the side door and burst outside, he was gone. And you know the rest.”
“And you called Coridan. At least fifteen minutes before you called dispatch. You didn’t mention that.”
She leaned forward and frowned. “But I never talked to him. He didn’t call back. Why is that important?”
“Let me ask the questions.” His voice held a warning, and she leaned back, her gaze still on his face. “I need the name and a way to contact your confidential informant.”
Her eyes shuttered. “I can’t do it. He’s entitled to anonymity. You know how dangerous it is if someone’s tagged as a snitch.”
“You can’t get away with that, York. We’ll protect your contact, but you have to give us the name.”
She squared her shoulders, and his gut clenched. She wasn’t going to tell him.
“Is that all you wanted to ask me?” Her voice was strong yet resigned. “If so, I guess we’re done.”
“No, that isn’t all!” Brandt sat back and took a deep breath to control his rising frustration. “Where were you when you called Coridan?”
“Standing beside Pardson’s jeep.” She gave him the car’s location.
He used his cell phone to send a patrol car to verify and impound it. “And this informant told you the car’s owner had shot you?”
She appeared to hesitate. “Not exactly, but a connection was implied. So yes, I guess I suspected it at that point.”
She was hiding something, protecting this informant…or she was outright lying. Dammit, why wouldn’t she confide in him?
He ran her through her activities several more times, returning to the informant repeatedly, but she wouldn’t budge. He finally switched to a new topic. “Explain the bloody tissue in your pocket.”
“What?” Her eyes widened in apparent confusion, and he saw the wheels turning…and click into place. “It’s mine. My blood. Check it. I snagged a fingernail on his damaged license plate.” She held out her hand, showing him the small tear near her cuticle. “Come on, Brandt. You can’t honestly believe I murdered him.”
“It doesn’t make any difference what I believe. It’s what the evidence shows that matters.”
“You think it leads to me? Then who killed Hurst and his girlfriend?” She stared at him. “Oh my God. You think I killed them all.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Brandt couldn’t stand the pain and accusation in her eyes. He stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe you killed them. But you aren’t giving me much to go on. I know how hard it is to face an interrogation like this, but—”
“Yes, I guess you do, except you were guilty,”
she snapped.
He spun around, planted his hands on the table, and leaned toward her. “No, I wasn’t.” He straightened immediately and looked away. He hadn’t intended to tell her that. As the silence stretched, he wondered what she was thinking. Did she think him a liar? Or hadn’t his words even registered?
He turned and walked out. After pacing the length of the hall twice to wear off the excess tension, he entered the observation room. Captain Jenson was watching Maggie through the one-way mirror, and Brandt joined him.
Maggie sighed and flexed her fingers as if she’d been clutching them tightly during the last hour. What a nightmare, Brandt thought. Former star homicide detective turned triple murder suspect. And she wasn’t helping to clear herself. Why wouldn’t she give him the name of her informant? Her rigid back and the set of her chin said she was through talking. He expected her to demand an attorney and a union rep the moment he returned. As if she could hear his thoughts, she crossed her arms, turned her head to stare at the mirror, and gave them the kind of cop look they normally reserved for suspects. Brandt nearly laughed.
“Ballsy,” Captain Jenson murmured. He glanced at Brandt. “What do you think? Did you mean what you said in there? Not guilty or a hard nut to crack?”
“Both. She knows something she’s not telling me, but she didn’t kill any of them.” He turned to look at Jenson. “She isn’t mentally disturbed either. She’s a good cop. You should have reinstated her.”
“You might be right, but she wasn’t cleared to return by the psych people because she stopped going to her sessions. I obviously can’t reinstate her now. Not with this hanging over her head. If she’s cleared, we’ll do more psych testing, and I’ll consider her situation then.” He eyed the detective. “Why so concerned?”
“Need you ask? I understand getting a raw deal.”
“Sure it isn’t something more?”
“Can’t imagine what.” He knew exactly what Jenson was hinting and had no intention of discussing his attraction to Maggie with anyone. “So what’s next?”
“It’s your case, and I won’t interfere, except to get you some help. Your partner gets back from vacation tomorrow, but I’m also assigning Ross and Barclay to this series of cases. You have the lead. As for her…” Jenson waved a hand toward the window. “You can continue questioning if you like, but you won’t get anything. I’d keep her here pending the initial lab reports. I put a rush on them while you were in there. If the blood on the tissue is hers, as she claims, and the car and apartment are clean, we don’t have much, except blood on the bottom of her shoes—which fits her story. Even if we theorize she tossed the knife and cleaned up somewhere, why was she still on the scene—or back on the scene? In any case, the time frame doesn’t work. The ME says the vic hadn’t been dead more than a half hour, maybe less. How could she do all that?”
Brandt looked back at the woman on the other side of the mirror. “Yeah, timing’s definitely in her favor. I’ll take your advice and let her sit. I don’t want to trigger a demand for an attorney. Once lawyers are involved, it’s hard to keep things out of the press.”
* * *
Maggie had nearly dozed off sitting at the table when Brandt opened the door two hours later. She jerked her head up with a start. His eyes were hooded, and he looked almost as tired as she felt.
“Come on.” He gestured for her to get up.
She stood. “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you home.”
Maggie cut off an audible sigh as relief swept over her, followed moments later by a wave of bitterness. “If you’re really letting me go, I can take a cab. I’d prefer it.”
He shot her a black look. “I brought you. I’ll take you home. Don’t argue with me.”
What excuse did he have to be so testy? Was he disappointed she wasn’t guilty?
Tension bristled between them as they walked through the precinct and got into his car. Brandt shoved it into gear, and she slammed her door harder than necessary.
When they turned onto her street, Maggie turned her head to ask a question, but Brandt cut her off.
“Don’t start with me. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Yeah, you were only doing your job,” she snapped. “Right? I’ve said it a hundred times myself, but it feels a whole lot more personal on this end of the questioning. So, let’s just drop it, OK? I take it the lab results proved I was telling the truth.”
“The blood on the tissue was yours—
“Just like I told you.”
“Yes,” he said curtly. “And we found nothing incriminating in your apartment or car.” He paused as if he might add something, then compressed his lips.
Maggie frowned at his hesitation. What wasn’t he saying? Aw, hell. The witchy stuff in her closet. She shot another look at his closed face. Well, better he thought she was crazy than a murderer.
“I hope you’re satisfied and will spend your time from now on finding the real killer.” Her voice was sharp, unfriendly. She didn’t care. Not tonight. “Let me out right here,” she said, as he pulled up to her building. “I don’t need an escort…or any more of your help.” She looked back at him as she got out. “Don’t call me again unless you find the killer.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brandt swore as the icy chill of his morning shower hit his shoulders, and he spun the dial to hot. Was everything in his life off the rails?
He couldn’t get that last sight of Maggie out of his head as she marched stiff-spined toward her apartment building. He’d suppressed the same urge he’d had all evening—to take her in his arms and shelter her from the shock, the anger, and the humiliation of the investigation. At least he’d spared her the indignity of a jail cell. The unexplained inconsistencies made her look guilty, but slashing a man’s throat and killing Hurst’s innocent girlfriend simply didn’t fit the code Maggie lived by.
She’d stopped at her building’s door and looked back, her face pale, drained…her eyes too big, too dark. She’d bounce back, but last night would have changed her. He knew that from experience. Just as he’d been changed by one night in January. When she’d gone inside, he’d stayed until the lights went on in her apartment…still tempted to follow, to try to talk to her, but knowing it was too late.
He shook the water from his hair, stepped out of the shower, and grabbed a towel. His personal cell phone rang, the one reserved for family only, and he crossed the room in two steps. “Harry? Is something wrong? Is it Mom?”
“She’s doing OK,” his brother said. “But I may have made a mistake last night.”
Not again. Brandt’s shoulders slumped. His younger brother had made a career of making mistakes. “What now?”
“There was this girl. We talked a while in the waiting room—just ordinary stuff, you know. But now I find she’d been asking about mother. Before she, uh, accidentally met me.”
Brandt’s fingers tightened on the phone. “Hell, Harry. What did you say to her?”
“I don’t remember exactly. She was cute, really hot, in fact, and—”
“Yeah, I get it. Where are you now?”
“The center. Mom’s asleep.”
Brandt wiped away a trickle of water running down his face and glanced at his stainless steel watch on the counter. “I’ll meet you in the cafeteria in half an hour. Try to remember everything about this woman and what was said.”
Silently cursing Harry for his carelessness, he dressed rapidly in the required slacks, shirt, and tie, letting the tie hang loose. It wasn’t regulation, but deep down he’d never been a regulation kind of guy. Besides, he was more concerned about Harry this morning…or rather how to fix any damage Harry had already done.
Fifteen minutes later, Brandt pulled into the care center’s parking lot, got out, and started up the main walk. The one-story, sprawling brick building seemed relatively quiet this morning, spacious lawns with well-tended flower beds, stately trees, and empty paths. The center provided comfortable long and short-
term care…and discretion.
When his mother was diagnosed with lung cancer almost two years ago, they’d sought the best treatment in Boston, and the disease had gone into remission. Last December it grew resistant to the drugs, and the grim prognosis was twelve to eighteen months. Then January happened. When he and Harry both needed to get out of Boston, their mother wanted to go with them, but her condition already required special care. Finding the kind of facility they needed in New Orleans had been a combination of research and a stroke of luck. But his mother was happy there.
Especially when both of her sons could visit. Brandt made it a priority every evening. Harry’s presence was a calculated risk. The Federal Marshal handling his case for witness protection had thrown up his hands.
Harry gave him a sheepish look when Brandt set down his tray with coffee, eggs, and toast. Although Harry was only four years younger, at twenty-eight he still looked barely past his teens. Sometimes he acted it too. Frustrating, but part of his charm.
“You look tired,” Harry said.
“Bad night, bad case, and I don’t have much time. Tell me what happened.”
“Sorry about this, but looking back it seemed fishy.” Harry looked around the cafeteria, clearly worried. “I was in the waiting room while they were getting Mom ready for bed. This woman came in—a real hottie—talked to the desk clerk a few minutes—while I admired her tight jeans—then sat down. She looked up and smiled at me a couple of times, so when I got coffee from the waiting room dispenser, I naturally asked if she wanted some, and we started talking.”
“Naturally,” Brandt murmured. He already didn’t like the sound of this. The woman had made the first move and reeled Harry in. “I hope you didn’t confide your real name.”
Harry rolled his eyes and frowned. “I’m not that stupid. I told her I was Harold Willowby, formerly of Seattle, Washington.”