He squinted at me. “I never asked.”
“I have no doubt you were here the night Trina Lynn died.” This was a lie. I thought it possible they had all collaborated on her death for some twisted reason. Not likely, but plausible. “But I need you to think back very carefully. I’m guessing an evening by the fire pit with your…group…that’s something you do frequently.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re all relaxed, drinking beer. It’s possible those evenings sort of blur together in your memories.”
“It’s possible, I guess, to some degree,” he said. “What are you getting at?”
“Are you certain all six of those women—Bailey, Camille, Finn, Jaelyn, Saige and Yeats—were here this past Monday night? When you dashed out that list, could you have written all those names because they’re all usually here, and not because of a specific memory of that particular night?”
He studied the ceiling. After a long moment he said, “Camille wasn’t there. She said she had a headache and was going to bed early. I had forgotten about that. But seriously, Camille isn’t capable of murder.”
“What does Camille do for a living?” I already knew the answer to this, but I wanted him to help me convince himself.
“She’s a production assistant at WCSC.”
“She worked with you and Trina?”
“Yes.”
“Who do you think will take Trina Lynn’s place?”
Auggie turned to me, paled a bit. Very softly he said. “Likely Camille.”
“So she stands to not only gain professionally, but also to take Trina’s place at your side every day. Working together, having dinner, coffee…How did she take the breakup?”
“Not well at first, but I thought we were past all that. I can’t believe she would…”
“I need some more time to look into this. It’s possible she didn’t. But if she did, I need proof.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Call her,” I said. “Get her to come over here. Keep her here until I text you, can you do that?”
He licked his lips, nodded, his face grim. “All right.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
With a quick look around to verify no one was around to see me, I took my pick set to Camille’s lock. Standard equipment for many apartment complexes, it was an easy task. Camille’s apartment was the same floorplan as Auggie’s, but was decorated in soft blues and creams with a beach vibe. I started in her bathroom.
Medicine cabinets are often a treasure trove of information. Camille’s told me she was on birth control, had allergies, and was likely being treated for either depression or bipolar disorder. The combination of Aripiprazole, Lexapro, Celexa, lithium, and Prozac could mean they were prescribed one at a time to try to combat depression. Or it could mean she was on a drug cocktail of some sort. I took photos of each bottle and moved on to the bathroom drawers.
The rest of the bathroom yielded nothing of interest, so I moved to the bedroom closet. It was a well-organized small walk-in, so well-organized it brought to mind my own closet. Sometimes tendencies were assets until they took over your life. I was self-aware enough to know I needed to watch myself. All the hat boxes and containers in Camille’s closet were labeled except for one. I slid it from the bottom of the stack and opened the lid.
She and Auggie must’ve dated for several years. The photos were all of the two of them, sometimes with others, but they all reflected happy memories. I felt bad for her. She’d had a happy relationship. Did she hold Trina Lynn responsible for its demise?
I took a photo of the box and its contents, then took a deeper pass at the rest of the closet. She owned black clothing, but then again, so did I. Nothing else in the closet seemed out of the ordinary.
I moved to the bedroom and started with the nightstand. Thirty minutes later I had gone through every drawer in the bedroom and found nothing of note. I went back to the living room and settled in at Camille’s desk. She didn’t have the password to her laptop in the top drawer. I attached a small silver microcomputer via the USB port and launched a sequence to open the laptop. It took less than five minutes.
Nothing remarkable was in her email. I opened her photos and started scanning the electronic images. It didn’t take long to figure out Camille had stalked Auggie and Trina Lynn. There were photos of them at work, closeups of their faces concentrating on something, laughing, perhaps arguing. Photos at dinner, in a bar, at a formal affair. Camille had clearly been obsessed with their relationship.
I checked the dates on a few of the photos. Some were older, up to two years ago. But some were much more recent.
I grabbed a hard drive from my bag and saved a sampling of the photos.
My phone dinged with a text from Auggie. She’s on her way back.
I packed up my things and got out of there. Outside the door, I dashed for the stairs just as the elevator arrived.
TWENTY-NINE
I called Nate and told him what I’d found. “The only thing I wasn’t able to patch together is how she knew about Darius’s connection to Trina Lynn. But she’s a journalist by trade. If she went digging into Trina Lynn, she would’ve found the marriage license.”
“And then Darius turns up at the wrong place at the wrong time and she improvises,” said Nate. “That fits. Are you ready for me to pick you up?”
“Not yet,” I said. “We need to figure out how to get proof. Right now we don’t have enough to exonerate Darius. I’m going to run by Carmella’s, see if I can get a receipt for the cannoli. If we don’t have proof it was Camille, if we can get Darius off the hook and try to get Sonny probable cause for a search warrant, he can likely find more in Camille’s apartment than I was able to find today. Maybe some of those black clothes have gunshot residue, but I couldn’t test them. The XCat was in the Explorer. That’ll be an expensive toy to replace.”
Nate was quiet for a few seconds. “We’ll work it out. Promise me you won’t stress over the money. The insurance will cover most of it. I have some money set aside. We’ll be fine. I promise you.”
“It’s not just the equipment,” I said. “It’s that on top of everything else. We’ve got to have a new roof—”
“Liz, do you trust me?”
“Of course, you know I do—”
“This is not something you need to be worrying your pretty head over.”
“Ooooh! Lookit. I am not a child—”
“Okay, I’m an idiot. That came out wrong. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise you.”
“I wish I could just turn off the part of me that can’t stop adding up the cost of all this, but I can’t.”
“Stress never helped anything,” said Nate. “Shall I pick you up in an hour?”
“I’ll call you. I want to do a run by Olympia Price’s neighborhood.”
“Why?”
“I want to know why she tried to railroad Darius.”
“We may never know that. It’s in her head, whatever it is. She’s a seasoned police captain. She’s not going to confide that to you.”
“I’m well aware of that.” I might have been the teensiest bit testy on account of I felt like he was patronizing me on the money issue.
He sighed. “I know better than to try to dissuade you from doing whatever you have your mind set on. Just give me a thirty minutes’ heads up and I’ll pick you up at the marina in Charleston.”
“Any news on a loaner ferry?”
“Yeah, Blake said they’d have that in place later this afternoon.”
“All right. I’ll call you.”
I had lunch at Carmella’s while the very cooperative lady behind the counter pulled the receipts from Sunday evening. There was a cash receipt for two cannoli at 10:15. Since no one was a hundred percent precise on the timeline, and there was nothing to tie Darius to the receipt, it didn’t exonerate him by itself
. But if the young lady who served him happened to recognize him, it would definitely help with reasonable doubt if it came down to it. She was due to come in at 3:00. I would pop back by for a cannolo and a chat.
Until then, I had a small slice of time on my hands and a nagging curiosity regarding Captain Olympia Price. It was a few minutes after one when I drove over to West Ashley. Captain Price lived in a large brick ranch on a shady corner lot in a well-established neighborhood. It had the feel of an old-fashioned community, as opposed to one of those with new houses, no trees, and people that moved in and out with a job change every few years.
On a Saturday, I expected someone of Captain Price’s rank to be home. I parked down the street and pulled out my binoculars, hoping to get a look at her. I had no plans to break and enter her house. That would’ve been beyond reckless. I was pondering another way to get inside…a pretext, maybe…when she came out with a large cardboard box.
Trim, with a no-nonsense short haircut, she was attractive. I watched as she put the box in the back of a white Chevrolet Tahoe. I laid down the binoculars and picked up my phone. I zoomed in as far as I could and snapped her picture. She scanned the neighborhood, the way I sometimes do when I’m up to something I’d rather not be seen doing. What was that all about? A switch tripped on my internal alarm panel.
She closed the lift gate and went back inside. Why was she hell-bent on rushing to arrest Darius? Yes, the gun was compelling evidence, but there was a witness who’d not even been interviewed. Vicki Turpitt’s account, when paired with that of the twins, made it virtually impossible for Trina Lynn’s killer to have been a black man. Was Captain Price over-compensating, trying to avoid any appearance of favoritism because Darius was a celebrity? Was this woman just a garden variety racist? It was hard to imagine how she’d risen as far as she had in rank if that were the case.
She came back twice more with boxes and put them in the back of the car. Then she went back inside and came out with a purse. She climbed in, started the car, and backed out of her driveway.
Naturally, I followed.
I followed her all the way to the Salvation Army Family Store and donation center on Rivers Avenue in North Charleston. She dropped off all her boxes, got her receipt and left.
What was in those boxes? Was there not a closer place to her home to drop them off?
“You need me to stage a distraction?” Colleen appeared beside me in the passenger seat.
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m not sure why, but my gut tells me it’d be a good idea to look in those boxes. I’m nosy like that. I’ll holler if I need you.” I climbed out of the car.
Two guys were collecting things at the donation center, both burly, with wide smiles and greying hair. I pulled out my ditzy blonde act. “Hey, y’all. My aunt just dropped off some things, and I’m afraid she donated my lime green cardigan by accident? Would it be all right if I had a look? Those are her boxes right there. I’m happy to pay for it.”
They shrugged, looked at each other. “Sure,” they said in unison.
I pulled on a pair of gloves. They looked at me sideways.
“I’m allergic to wool,” I said. “I think she’s got some wool things in here.”
The two men went about their business.
In the third box I opened, I found a black warmup suit with a hoodie.
Surely it couldn’t be the black warmup suit. Could it? Sonavabitch. My heart pounded in my ears. I tore open the last remaining box.
There was the white flouncy skirt and paisley jacket. I gasped, stared at it in disbelief for a moment. Why had I never considered it could be her? I felt sucker punched.
I stood back, photographed everything. Then I turned back to the men. “These were my mother’s things. She passed away recently. I can’t believe Aunt Jenny gave them away. Can I please have a copy of her receipt? I’ll take it inside. I’d like to buy these things back. Please.” I gave them my best distraught female look, which wasn’t difficult in the circumstances.
“Okay, fine.” The taller one pulled a yellow copy of a receipt from his book and handed it to me. “You need to talk to Carlene inside.”
Carlene was understanding. I paid four times what they would’ve made off the items and took them outside to my car. I put them in the back and closed the lift gate.
“She’s back,” said Colleen.
I scanned the area. The white Tahoe was back at the donation intake canopy. Why on earth had she come back? Had she circled back, watched to see the boxes opened and processed into inventory? Once their contents were part of the store’s inventory, there would’ve been no way to track where the items inside came from. Still…why hadn’t she burned those things? She was a veteran detective.
Oh dear heaven. This was a trap.
She’d worked with Sonny for years. She knew exactly who I was. She’d watched this case carefully from the beginning to see if he reached out to me. She’d probably been watching us.
God’s nightgown. The police captain had blown up our car.
The gentlemen were talking earnestly to Captain Price. One of them pointed to me. She turned to look.
“This isn’t good,” I said to Colleen.
“All the incriminating evidence is in the back of your car,” said Colleen. “And she’s a police captain. How do you want to play this?”
Olympia Price walked purposely in my direction. “Annie, I told you it’s time we part with those things. Your mother wouldn’t want you to hold on like this. The doctors agree.”
She was speaking loudly, to be overheard. What was her plan?
“She’s going to try to get you in her car,” said Colleen. “Whatever you do, don’t get in.”
“Why, Aunt Jenny,” I said, too loud, and too bright. “I’m so hurt you’d discard Mamma’s things when you know how much they mean to me.”
She was closing in. “Let’s talk privately, in my car.”
“I can’t right now, Aunt Jenny. I have a doctor’s appointment.” I hopped in the car, closed the door, and quickly locked it.
She stood right outside my window, trying to kill me with her eyes. I was certain she had more concrete plans.
“Drive,” hollered Colleen. She disappeared.
I started the car, put it in reverse, and hit the gas hard. Then I did a quick three-point turn and headed out Credit Union Drive towards Rivers Avenue.
I glanced in the rearview.
Captain Price was in her Tahoe, but it wasn’t moving.
Colleen had either swiped her keys or disabled the car.
My mind raced.
Nate.
Where was he?
At home.
He had to get out of the house.
I turned right on Rivers.
I couldn’t put any tool we’d ever used past Captain Price. I couldn’t call Nate on his phone or with mine. She could’ve installed software to let her listen to our calls. We were careful. It was unlikely. But I couldn’t bet our lives on it.
She knew we were on to her anyway. That had been the whole point of this afternoon’s charade.
Thank heaven we’d prepared for a situation just like this.
I hollered at Siri and voice texted Nate two words. Take cover.
Colleen would buy us time.
THIRTY
I turned off my phone, grabbed a burner, my laptop, a ball cap, and a few other items from the back of the rental car, and left it at a laundromat in North Charleston. Scanning constantly for Price, I walked to a grocery store a couple blocks away and called a cab. The driver dropped me off at a Walmart in Summerville and I paid him in cash. Then I waited inside the Walmart for a few minutes before walking across the parking lot to a Panera Bread. I bought a drink and settled into a back booth.
The burner wasn’t a smart phone. For the moment, I couldn’t use any of the technology
I’d come to rely on, because it could be traced. I had no way of tracking Nate, and it made me antsy. I calculated in my head how long it should take him to pick up our safe car and get to me. Probably a couple hours.
The 2009 Ford Expedition was registered to Starlight Enterprises, an LLC James Huger had helped us set up a while back. We’d met him while working a case around Christmas the year before. He was from Old Charleston money, and was well connected. If anyone checked into Starlight Enterprises, they’d find something akin to a Russian nesting doll—one company inside another, inside another, et cetera. Eventually, they would’ve led back to James Huger. The Expedition was parked in a lot James Huger owned in Charleston. He was a good friend to have.
At 5:15, Nate slid into the booth across from me. “Lockwood?” He wore a quizzical expression.
“Price.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly so.”
He glanced around the restaurant. “We’d best talk while we drive.”
We’d stashed the thirty-four-foot Airstream trailer at a storage lot near Summerville. The Airstream was also registered to Starlight Enterprises, as was the twenty-seven acres of land near Cottageville, a small town in Colleton County nestled in the V between I-95 and I-26. It was heavily wooded, secluded, and offered easy access to both interstates, yet it was only an hour outside of Charleston.
It took us a little more than an hour to move the trailer and get everything set up. The shiny silver tube was our escape pod. Starlight Enterprises had installed water, sewer, and electricity on the land, so we had all the modern conveniences. The stove in the compact but modern kitchen ran on propane. We had two full tanks. The trailer was stocked with clothes, toiletries, non-perishable food, and wine—a bit like a condo deep in the woods.
“When’s the last time you saw Colleen?” Nate asked when we were settled into the L-shaped cream leather built-in sofa inside the trailer. A dining-height table mounted to the floor provided workspace. We both opened our laptops.
“At the Salvation Army, with Olympia Price.”
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