Death is in the Details

by Heather Sunseri

  I looked at him again. “Okay, Mr. Profiler. What do my eyes and body say?”

  “That you don’t think you should sleep with me, but that you’re pretty sure you will. Eventually.”

  “Want to know what your body language suggests to me?”

  “What?”

  “That your arrogance gets you into trouble.”

  He tilted his head side to side. “Or maybe it says my confidence will get me what I want.”

  “A fleeting desire. One that will deliver regret.”

  “Are you scared to find out?”

  “I don’t frighten that easily.” A lie.

  He threw back the rest of his bourbon, then stood and took a step toward me. Reaching down, he grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. He slid a hand to the back of my neck. “I’ve wanted to do this ever since you made the first move at Boone’s.” He leaned his head to one side, then the other.

  He was about to lean in and kiss me when I said, “That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “Mistake or not, I was sorry you didn’t stick around that night.” He covered my mouth with his, a gentle kiss that tasted of warm caramel and a hint of oak with a slight burn of alcohol. As he deepened the kiss, I felt the movement of his tongue against my lower lip, and I knew I was in trouble.

  My hand went to his side, and I squeezed a handful of his shirt in my fist.

  He broke the kiss first. “I’m a patient man,” he whispered with a voice that was fluid like smoke. He stood close, his face inches from mine. I could feel the heat of his breath against my face. I didn’t dare breathe. “Thanks for the bourbon.”

  And then he turned and left, leaving me questioning everything I’d ever learned about men.

  Ten

  I spent the first part of the next morning replaying Luke’s kiss. While I spent a lot of time reliving bad memories, it was nice to have something good to throw in the mix every once in a while. And the kiss had definitely been… mind-blowingly good.

  I’d skipped breakfast, and by eleven o’clock I was starving, craving caffeine, and needing some painkillers for the headache I was nursing. But I’d gotten hung up at the courthouse. It was day two of a trial to convict three men charged with selling drugs—crack cocaine, prescription narcotics, synthetic narcotics, and prefabricated fentanyl pills—within a thousand feet of a school. As a witness for the prosecution, I sat behind their bench, so I was able to overhear the attorneys remark that two of the accused had turned on the third, and the prosecutors were in the process of offering a plea deal to the two who were now cooperating. Unfortunately, until an agreement was reached, the trial would continue.

  I was called to the stand around eleven thirty. I testified to the validity of the photographs I’d taken of one of the accused’s cars, including pictures of the drugs and paraphernalia. My testimony was typically only a formality to validate what could be seen in the photographs. But in this case, the defense for one of the accused—the owner of the vehicle—was claiming that his client had been set up.

  “Miss Day, how soon after the arrest of my client were you called to the scene?”

  I leaned into the microphone. “According to the police report, I was called within thirty minutes of the arrest.”

  The attorney, who was not from Paynes Creek, held up a report and introduced it into evidence. Then he walked closer to me, smiled in a very condescending manner, and clasped his hands in front of him. “Miss Day,” he said, angling his head. “Would there have been time in those thirty minutes for someone to have planted the drugs and ‘evidence’ in my client’s vehicle?” He placed air quotes around the word “evidence.”

  I looked at the arresting officer, William Puckett, who was seated in the third row of the courtroom awaiting his turn to take the stand. He rubbed a hand over his bald head; the line of darker stubble in a crescent shape just beneath the skin suggested baldness was a choice he’d made when his hairline began to recede. He was an arrogant but well-respected officer who was hoping to make detective soon, and most likely would.

  I redirected my gaze back to the defense attorney. “No, sir.”

  “No?” The attorney acted surprised at my answer. “How can you be so sure?”

  “There wasn’t enough time, and it was broad daylight at a busy gas station.”

  “That sounds like your opinion, Miss Day.”

  I glanced uneasily at the prosecutor, then the judge, then back at the defense attorney. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought that was the reason I was on the stand. As an expert with an opinion.”

  A sprinkle of chuckles erupted in the courtroom followed by an “Order!” from the judge. “Miss Day, you’ll answer the question based on the facts.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I apologize.” It wasn’t a very sincere apology, seeing as I didn’t see what I had done wrong. I met the attorney’s gaze again. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”

  A few more chuckles could be heard. Officer Puckett ran his hand across his mouth, unable to fully hide a snicker.

  “Can you give us the exact timeline as it is detailed in the police report leading up to your arrival on the scene?”

  “The arresting officer pulled the three accused over at three fifteen in the afternoon, just after school had been let out. There was a steady flow of high school students driving and walking in and out of the gas station. I was on the scene by three forty-five, at which time witnesses were being interviewed. It is my expert opinion, based on the facts, that the vehicle holding evidence of the crimes had not been touched between the time of the arrest and when I arrived.”

  The questioning went on and on with the defense attorney trying to get me to suggest that I had photographed planted evidence.

  When I was finally excused from the stand, Officer Puckett watched me make my way from the courtroom. He seemed to want to make eye contact with me and communicate in some way, but I barely gave him a glance. He was one of the officers who’d taken my statement after the first fire on my property.

  In the hallway outside the courtroom, people gathered in corners, waiting on one thing or another. Attorneys paced with their cell phones to their ears. I could always pick out the attorneys by the suits they wore.

  Someone grabbed my hair and pulled me backward. “You stupid bitch!” a woman screamed.

  I stumbled backwards, my hand going to the back of my head, trying to lessen the pain. The woman was pulling hard.

  “That dirty cop has had it in for my Mickey for years.”

  I managed to look up at the woman. Frizzy hair in curlers framed her face, and thick wrinkles accentuated black eyes, darkened by furrowed, angry brows.

  “Your Mickey is an addict who sells drugs to children,” I said.

  She pulled harder, then punched me in the cheekbone.

  Puckett appeared behind the woman and wrapped his arms around her, forcing her to let go of my hair. In seconds he had her on the ground, a knee in her back and cuffs on her wrists.

  “You okay?” he asked me.

  I nodded, rubbing my jaw and feeling for any loose teeth.

  Reinforcements arrived, and he stood, reached out a hand, and helped me up. He shot me a look of respect—and maybe even gratitude—for backing him up in the courtroom. What he probably didn’t understand was that I had no idea if he was a dirty cop or not. I simply answered as honestly as I could.

  My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I took one look at it, then wiggled it at Officer Puckett. “The station. Gotta go.”

  “Put some ice on that cheek. It’s already starting to swell.”

  As I walked into the station, Matthew Lake was sitting outside one of the interview rooms. Luke exited the chief’s office and was headed in Matthew’s direction when he saw me. His eyes narrowed. He motioned for an officer and gave him an order I couldn’t hear. The officer turned and led Matthew into the interview room. Luke then walked over to me.

  His fingers went immediately to my cheekbone. They were
cool against my bruised skin. “What happened?”

  I pulled back, quickly looking around to see who was watching. Luke followed my gaze, then took a step back as realization set in.

  “Who did that to you?” Anger was in his voice this time.

  “A white trash woman in curlers, if you can believe it.” I did my best to let my lips curve into a smile as I grabbed my head. “She managed to pull hard on a chunk of my hair, too.”

  His lips tightened into a thin line before he spoke again. “Your face needs ice. Go get some, then go to the observation room. I’m about to question Matthew Lake.”

  “For what?”

  “For killing the Reynoldses and setting fire to the house to cover it up.”

  “You think he did that?”

  “He certainly has motive. Without the parents, there’s no one to pursue charges against him for statutory rape and inappropriate contact with a minor. The prosecutor won’t pursue it without a lot more evidence.”

  “I’m not buying it.”

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asked. An abrupt change of subject.

  I cocked my head. “Why?”

  He smiled. “I’d like to ask you out to dinner.”

  “No,” I said quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. “That’s a really bad idea.” I glanced around the station again.

  “Okay then. You think about it. I’m going to go question the idiot”—he thumbed over his shoulder—“and I’ll talk to you after.”

  I watched him go. He turned and gave me a look before he entered the interview room. I admired the way he looked in dress slacks, a button-down shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, and another silk tie, this one with tiny baby blue elephants. I suspected he had a sports jacket around here somewhere and could transform into looking one hundred percent professional if necessary, but this relaxed look told suspects that he was flustered and ready to throw the book at someone. It was intimidating.

  I felt someone slide up behind me. “So… what’s going on with you and Mr. Hot FBI Agent?”

  It was Penelope, of course, and I could hear the hopeful excitement in her voice.

  I was about to deny anything happening, but as I soon as I turned to face her, Penelope flinched at the sight of me. “Oh, honey!”

  “I know.” I grabbed her arm. “Help me find some ice.”

  I dragged her to the station kitchen and let her fill a sandwich bag with ice.

  “What are you doing tonight?” I asked.

  “I have no plans. Why?” She handed me the bag.

  I already felt guilty for using her. “Want to have dinner with me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, long and drawn out. “The last time you and I went out drinking, I was hung over for two days. And hubsy-wubsy was not happy with either of us.”

  “Hubsy-wubsy?” A smirk played at the corners of my lips. “Well, this time we’ll just have dinner. My treat. We need a girls’ night. It’s been a while.”

  She looked like she still needed convincing.

  I placed the ice bag against my face, wincing when it touched the fresh bruise. “Okay. The truth is, I need a reason to say no to Mr. Hot FBI Agent.”

  “Why would you say no to him?” She said this rather too loudly, then stretched her neck to see if anyone was outside the door. “Why don’t you want to go out with him?”

  “Why would I say yes? He’s in town for one case, then he’s gone. I’m not good for him. And I have no desire to feed the gossip train.”

  “Look, I’ve met him. And I’ve met all the other arrogant jerks of Paynes Creek. This guy is different. He might be just what you need.”

  I knew better. Luke Justice was looking for information to connect the death of my mom to the recent arsons and murders. Did I really want him using me to do that?

  “Please go out with me,” I pleaded. I gave Penelope a pouty face very uncharacteristic of me.

  “Fine. Boone’s. Six thirty. But for the record, I think you should go out with Mr. Hot FBI Agent.”

  Fifteen minutes later, armed with an ice pack, I walked into the observation room. Luke was already questioning Matthew on the other side of the one-way glass, and Chief Reid was standing on my side of the window, his arms crossed, watching the interview.

  Chief lifted a brow when he saw me. “I heard you got clobbered at the courthouse today. You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I didn’t elaborate, and Chief didn’t question further.

  Luke was leaning across a table, his back to us, staring into Matthew’s face. Matthew was sitting straight up in his chair, looking scared to death. His lawyer sat next to him, casually making notes on a legal pad.

  “So you’re telling me that you were with Bella Reynolds the night her parents were murdered,” Luke said. “But you’re denying that you and Bella are having any kind of physical relationship that would be construed as… inappropriate.”

  “You don’t have to answer that,” Matthew’s attorney said with barely a glance up. “Agent, Mr. Lake has already spoken to the nature of his purely platonic relationship with Ms. Reynolds. I’m tiring of this line of questioning. And when I tire completely, we leave.”

  “Fair enough.” Luke straightened. “Mr. Lake, tell me about the last time you were invited into the Reynoldses’ home.”

  I leaned forward, wincing when I knocked the ice against my bruise a little too hard.

  Matthew looked over at his attorney, who nodded his approval to answer the question.

  “The Reynoldses have had me to their home on numerous occasions. The last time I went, I gave Bella a piano lesson, and then Mrs. Reynolds fixed dinner.”

  “Did you drink while you were there?”

  Matthew again looked at his attorney before answering. “Only after Bella’s lesson. The Reynoldses were very kind to me.”

  “Did Bella drink?” Luke asked.

  “Yes, the Reynoldses believed that teaching their daughter to drink responsibly in a social situation was a good thing. If teens are going to drink anyway, they felt they should teach Bella the importance of moderation and drinking responsibly.”

  “Did you smoke marijuana while in the Reynoldses’ home?”

  Luke must have had reason to believe that Matthew smoked pot with the Reynoldses, or he wouldn’t have asked the question.

  The attorney’s eyebrows shot up. “Special Agent Justice, you’ve asked that my client cooperate. Asking him to confess to another crime does not help him, and pissing me off with this line of questioning won’t help you.”

  Luke changed tack. “You say the Reynoldses were kind to you,” he said. “I’m assuming you mean they were kind until they accused you of inappropriate behavior with their daughter.”

  The attorney lifted his head again. He appeared to be about to object when Matthew blurted out, “They wouldn’t have made those claims had others not pressured them. They were in the process of withdrawing their allegations when…” He trailed off.

  “When they were killed?” Luke asked—rather harshly.

  The attorney stood. “We are finished here. Don’t—”

  “I didn’t kill them,” Matthew said, his voice climbing.

  “But you did accept bribes from them. And marijuana, which is illegal in the state of Kentucky.”

  “If you call dinner and drinks bribes…”

  The attorney had lost control of his client. “Don’t answer any more—”

  “I do,” Luke said quickly, cutting off the lawyer. “They wined and dined you and provided you with marijuana, and you promised what? Scholarships for Bella? An audition at Juilliard? Did you promise other girls these kinds of things? What else did these girls give you in exchange for these empty promises?”

  When Matthew’s attorney slammed his pen against his legal pad, Luke backed up a step with his hands in the air. “Fine. I withdraw those questions for now.”

  Matthew was breathing hard, and his face was red.

  Could Matthew even deliver on such
promises? I wondered. Not that it mattered. All that would matter was whether Bella or her parents believed that he could.

  I analyzed Matthew’s body language. He linked and unlinked his hands. He leaned forward in the seat, then back. He was frustrated.

  “Who pressured the Reynoldses?” Luke asked. “You said someone pressured them. What did you mean by that? Who knew that you were ‘helping’ Bella?”

  Matthew stood suddenly, knocking his metal chair backward onto the tiled floor. “Bella will earn scholarships and an audition with Juilliard on her own merits. I—”

  “Say nothing further, Matthew!” The attorney practically yelled this time.

  “Who else have you promised this special attention?” Luke asked. “Isn’t it true that Alexandra Sims and Sadie Porter were both promised scholarships to your alma mater if they would send you pictures of themselves?”

  “What?” Matthew said. “I did no such thing. Those two girls—”

  “Matthew!” his attorney boomed. “Agent Justice, we are done here. If you have a reason to arrest my client, do it now. Otherwise, we are leaving.”

  Luke backed up and leaned against the wall. “You’re free to go any time you’d like. You always were.” But before Matthew could get the door open, Luke said, “Oh, just one more question: do you know the Siegelmans from Midland, Kentucky?”

  Matthew turned. “Who?”

  “Missy and Dave Siegelman? Or their daughter, Callie?”

  I studied Matthew’s face. There, etched in the lines that formed between his furrowed brows and in the hardness of his jaw, was the slightest hint of recognition.

  “Never heard of them.”

  And he walked out.

  Eleven

  I left the station without speaking to Luke. He was tied up in Chief Reid’s office, most likely discussing and analyzing the interview with Matthew.

  The Paynes Creek Police Department was adjacent to the Hopewell County Public Library. Across the street was a city park, and the high school was just a few blocks away. Back in my teen years, Ethan and I would usually walk from school straight to the library or the park, depending on the weather, where we would hang out and do homework until Mom could pick us up. Sometimes friends would join us, but often it was just the two of us.