A wide-angle view of the area indicated movement and Bree watched Graham enter the staging garage, headed to Gordon’s office. She should have used one of her cameras inside the glassed-in enclosure, instead of relying on the computer’s built-in camera.
Graham leaned on the doorframe, his stance relaxed, his face not visible from any angle. He chatted for a few minutes, then raised a hand in farewell and left the area. Bree’s nerves tingled in a way they hadn’t since the team had pulled off the Project Isomer switch-a-roo. Why?
Five men, only one of whom had a possible alibi for the night of the murder. Men who—except for Juan and Magnus—hadn’t appeared overly friendly with one another during the days she’d worked at the emporium.
It could be typical male bonding, the kind of thing that happened every morning before the rest of the crew arrived. Nothing to be jumpy about. Except… Her mind spun, formulating and discarding hypotheses—James called them educated guesses—as she compared them to a mental checklist.
She pulled her crime notebook from her backpack and made a few notations. Her com crackled to life again. “Watson?”
“Here.”
“We’re in place.”
Bree watched the garage until Mrs. Telligio entered. She held a whispered conversation with Bill Jr. and the two of them walked out. Before he left his desk, Bree saw him palm the EA medallion.
She switched the view to the cameras in the interview room and froze. James sat behind the desk, flanked by two men. Her gaze flitted over and ignored the African American man she’d dubbed Agent One from Homeland Security and landed on Matthew, resplendent in full military dress uniform. Official. Formidable. And unlike any other guise she’d seen him in. Her mouth went dry. Hot damn.
The words must have slipped out, because simultaneously James’s lips flattened, Matthew’s eyelid twitched, and she could swear she saw a smile tug at the Homeland agent’s lips, making him memorable for a fleeting second. Memorable and…
She peered at him, but before she could follow the train of thought, Bill Jr. entered the room. The hand holding the medallion remained fisted at his side.
“James, during the interview, try to work in the phrases just for today, keep it simple, and I have a choice. They’re all from the EA program and might trigger Bill to be more open with you. Keep it nonthreatening if possible.” His nod indicated he’d heard her, although it would take a miracle for the room to appear nonthreatening with Matthew and the Homeland guy bookending him.
James stood. “Bill, have a seat.” He glanced behind him as if intimidated by the two other men and then sat when Bill did. He leaned in, trying to shut Matthew and Homeland out while confiding in Bill. James quickly advised Bill of his Miranda rights then added, “your father’s death has raised some questions.”
Silence met his words, but the knuckles on Bill’s fist turned white. The belligerence that followed his prior interview with James was absent.
“Tell me about your relationship with your father,” James said. “Keep it simple.”
Bill nodded. “I didn’t like him. But I didn’t kill him.”
“So you’ve said. The thing is you haven’t given me anything to go on. And these guys,” he glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice “these guys are leaning on me. So could you, please, just today, help me out. Give me an alibi.”
“Mr. Bandergas, what is your connection with the SoyoChi terror cell?” the Homeland agent asked in a voice deeper and more resonant than the tones he’d employed with Zed. Bree found herself wondering what his real name was.
“I don’t…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Are you certain, Mr. Bandergas?” At the agent’s persistent questioning, Bill’s eyes flew wildly to James, as if he offered a lifeline. “Because our intel indicates otherwise.”
Sweat popped out on Bill’s brow and he shoved his chair back, pacing the cramped space. He brought his fisted hand to his temple and ran the other through his hair. “I don’t know anything about a terror cell. I fix cars for a living. My dad fixes—I mean, fixed—my dad fixed cars for a living.”
“That isn’t all he did.”
Even Bree shivered at the menace in that deep voice.
“I don’t know,” Bill insisted. “My dad didn’t confide in me. He was always here. Doing…stuff. I don’t know what. And he didn’t tell me.” Bill collapsed back into his chair.
At a motion from the Homeland agent, Matthew stepped forward and placed a folder on James’s desk. James opened the file. “Your family’s finances have improved markedly over the last year and a half or so,” he said, looking up from the file. “Any idea why that would be?”
“Look, I don’t know. I work here. Draw a salary. Maybe dad got bonuses or something from the rental car business. I just work here. Fixing cars.”
“And does that include fixing the ’09 Mustang?”
“Dad’s car? No. Are you kidding? He didn’t let anyone touch it. Unless it was for a damn rental car. Cared more about that car than he did me.”
James waited.
“The only time he ever let me touch it was when he asked me to… Oh God.” Bill slumped in his seat, his face in his hands. “I didn’t know,” he said, his voice muffled. “I didn’t know he was…inside. He called. I swear he called. Here, I’ll show you.”
Bill removed a phone from his pocket and pulled up something out of Bree’s line of vision. “Here’s the text. I swear. He asked me to start the car. Run the gas down ‘cause some renter had put crap gas in it. I was supposed to fill it up with the good stuff. That’s all.”
James took the phone and scrolled through the messages, taking notes and photos of the screen. After a moment, he gave the phone to Matthew and returned his attention to Bill. “Mr. Bandergas, we’ll need to keep your phone for a while. Meanwhile, can you tell me why you left the Mustang running?”
Bill looked at James, his face ashen. “I started the car then, got distracted.” He motioned to the phone. “My girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend that is. Called to harass me about something stupid. I lost it. Forgot about everything but how angry she made me. Before I knew it, I was at a meeting, trying to calm down. Trying to go through the steps. You know?”
He tossed the medallion onto the desk and transitioned into a rambling dialogue about court-mandated anger management classes and the EA meetings his therapist had discussed, spilling everything and more, just as Matthew had predicted.
Raw grief and guilt permeated the meandering confession until Bree wondered how the Homeland agent and Matthew could remain stoic in the face of it.
“We have what we need,” she said quietly into the com when Bill finally wound down. “Watson out.”
Chapter 26
“Everything Bill told us checks out,” James said when they met later that night at Bree’s apartment.
“I knew he’d crumple under pressure. The cocky ones always do.” Matthew ambled from the table to where Bree worked in the kitchen. “What smells so good in here?”
“A little of everything,” Bree said. After the interview, she’d called in sick to Jack’s and retreated to her kitchen to make Paleo Seven-Layer Bars, Irish Crème Cheesecake Balls, and meatballs with a marina sauce.
Unlike her usual kitchen experiments of modifying recipes, today’s cooking bout had been mostly by-the-book. Cautious. Measured. An attempt to reset her creative mind after the emotional drain of watching Bill’s meltdown.
“I thought I’d try out these recipes on you while we discussed the case. You should have invited your friend from Homeland,” she ventured, her eyes on Matthew’s face trying to see if she’d guessed correctly. Not so much as a flicker of emotion crossed it. Unreadable as always.
Bree handed him a serving bowl of sauce and sent him to the table. Next, she arranged spaghetti noodles on a platter and pulled out her meatball creation. Perfect oval bodies with carrot ears, pea eyes and spaghetti whiskers and tails sat
on the pan, ready to be transferred to the platter. She placed the meatball mice on top of the noodles and headed to the table.
“Gentlemen, I present to you, bloody rats.”
“Whoa!” James hid his surprise quickly. “You go all out for Halloween. Now I wish I had an excuse to visit the chemistry lab for your party.”
“Her food will definitely be a hit,” Matthew said as he took a bite of the meatball. “At least these taste better than the real thing.”
“Eew. Tell me you’re making that up.”
“Okay. I’m making it up.”
“Really?” The question popped out before her better instincts could sensor it.
“Need to know,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.
“I definitely don’t need—or want—to know.”
“So,” interrupted James, “back to the case. The leader of the EA group confirmed Bill attended the night his father died. His phone records tell an interesting story.”
He twirled spaghetti on his fork and ate the bite before continuing. “The texts look as if they came from Billy Sr., but we know that isn’t possible. Take a look and see if you find something Matthew and I missed.” He slid a transcript of the texts over to Bree.
Billy: Son, start the Mustang, run the tank down, add dry gas, and fill her up with premium.
Bill: Where are the keys? Did you take them?
Billy: Yeah. Do what you have to and start the car.
Bill: You sure, Dad?
Billy: Just do it.
“So, based on this, Bill thought his dad wanted him to start the car? Given his relationship with his dad, he would have taken the request as a sign that he was gaining his dad’s respect and jumped to do what was asked.”
“Agreed,” James confirmed. “The timing is still within the window of when Billy died, so I can’t fully dismiss Bill. But the texts were likely sent when Billy was in the trunk of the car. If he was alive and able to use the phone, this isn’t the message he would send.”
“Text spoofing is easy enough for anyone with a computer and basic search skills,” Matthew said. “This message either exonerates Bill Jr., or it shows him to be one helluva liar.”
“Meaning Bill could have faked the text himself? It’s consistent with him not turning the car off.” Bree thought about what she’d seen that day. “I could swear he was genuinely upset today. The question is why? Because he thought he’d accidentally killed his dad? Or failed to rescue him? Or because he actually did the deed and was caught?”
“Exactly where Matthew and I ended our analysis. I can confirm that Bill received a call shortly after the texts came through. The call lasted about six minutes, then fifteen minutes later he was at the EA meeting.” James turned to her. “It helps, but not a lot.”
Bree closed her eyes and summoned the image of the suspects table in her crime notebook. “By my count, we have flimsy alibis for Bill Jr. and Magnus, and no alibis for Margie, Graham, Gordon, and Juan. Right?” Both men nodded. “They all had—or could've had—access to Billy. They all had—or could've had—the means to poison him. And at least half of them have motive that we can point to. That leaves between four and six suspects. Too many.”
Bree pushed her plate away, barely touched, annoyed at not having a clear means of sorting her data. “Something’s missing. Something…”
“If this was a lab problem, what kind of experiment would you do?” Matthew asked.
She shook her head in frustration. “I’d run more tests. Repeat data points. Things that you can’t do with people.” Sherlock head butted her ankles, demanding attention. Bree reached down to absently scratch the cat’s head. “What would you do, Sherlock?”
A second later, she was on her feet, the cat zooming from the room at her sudden movement. “That’s where we start. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
A smile tugged at James’s lips. “If that cat is channeling his namesake, I want him on every case.”
“Can’t have him. He’s mine.” Bree paced the kitchen, fueled by creative energy. “Assumption number one. The person who killed Billy committed the deed themselves. No hiring anyone else to do it. We can review and revise that assumption later if we need to. Let’s limit ourselves to the four without alibis and the two with flimsy alibis.”
“Still six suspects.”
“Right. I’m going to try to prioritize them. Build a case for each and knock it down. The problem is we don’t know how Billy died—carbon monoxide, alcohol, or nicotine poisoning. Since Bill admits to starting the car, if the cause of death is carbon monoxide, he’s the logical killer.”
“It becomes a case of homicide or manslaughter. Whether it was deliberate or accidental,” James added.
“Right. His guilt, the texts, and his alibi all point—in my mind at least—to accidental death. But,” she whirled on the men before they could interrupt, “in that case, there would be no need to mix in alcohol or tobacco.”
Matthew pushed his chair aside and took his dish to the sink. “True, but Billy was a known alcoholic. You witnessed it yourself.”
“He could have been a closet smoker,” James added.
“Margie smokes. Constantly. But I’m not ready to move on to other suspects just yet. Assumption number two. Billy did not die of carbon monoxide poisoning. It may have been an aggravating factor, but not the primary cause of death.”
She looked at the men for confirmation. When they nodded their agreement, she continued. “Assumption number three. Billy probably drank himself into a stupor, as was his habit. Coupled with the alcoholic gummy bears, I’m inclined to say alcohol poisoning was not the murder weapon.”
“It could still be the means of death,” James said.
“Yes. But he didn’t lock himself in the trunk. He threw up, maybe bending over the trunk but… Wait. What did the analysis say about the contents of his stomach?”
“Why…”
“Toxicity of poisons depends on the means of entry into the body. Ingested toxins are different from injected ones and so forth.”
Matthew dug a laptop out of his backpack and began opening reports, overlaying them, and cross referencing them. James flipped through his phone, searching for the same records. For a moment, silence—except for the clicking of the keyboard—reigned in the kitchen.
“Here it is,” James said. “Stomach contents included alcohol, sugar, small amounts of protein. Pretty much consistent with gummy bears and Jack Daniels, as you observed.” He shrugged. “Not much new to learn.”
“He didn’t ingest nicotine. No snuff, no chewing tobacco, no nicotine doped into the alcohol, whatever. What about his lungs? Any evidence he was a smoker?”
“Honestly, I don’t think that was analyzed,” James said.
Matthew shook his head. “Not something I can influence.”
“You mean not something you want to influence.” James glared at the other man. “And not something I’m asking you to do either.”
Tension ratcheted up in the kitchen and the two men traded insults, more like in the early days of their association than in the recent ones.
“What is wrong with you two?” Bree slammed the door on the dishwasher and raised her voice to be heard above the noise. “We’re supposed to be a team. Instead you’re both acting like children who think they’re too good to work together.”
Matthew froze, one hand on his laptop, the other holding his backpack as if she’d slapped him. “I should leave,” he said quietly, making quick work of packing up. “I’ll see you at the Sci-PHi complex tomorrow.” The words hung in the air, half question, half statement, fully confusing.
“Sure.”
A short time later, after bidding James goodnight, Bree closed the door on both the men and her restless analysis of the crime data.
Bree finished cleaning her kitchen and packaged up tomorrow’s party treats. Once everything was ready, she
gathered a pair of rat meatballs for Horace and Wendy and walked to The Barkery. It was after hours, but Wendy opened the door shortly after Bree texted her.
“I brought samples of my latest creation,” she said, waving the container of food.
“Horace will be thrilled,” Wendy said, ushering her into the cramped area where the couple lived behind the storefront. The smell of baking permeated the space and several pairs of wet noses snuffled at her ankles.
While Horace unwrapped the food, Bree bent to pet Krupke, Mrs. Krupke, and Rookie, the three resident dogs. “How are my babies doing?” she crooned to the delight of the dogs.
“Will you look at this!” Horace burst into laughter and Wendy came to the table.
“Bree these turned out perfectly! Adorable. Where’s my camera? Horace don’t you dare take a bite until I get a picture.” Once she took a few shots, she turned to Bree. “The Barkery is starting an Instagram page. I’d love to post your bloody rats and Jack-O-Lantern peppers.”
“Here, take another.” Horace had coaxed some strands of spaghetti to spill out of the mouth of one of the peppers, creating a truly gory illusion. Wendy squealed in delight.
“Got it. Now let me have a bite of these meatballs.” She cut off the head of a rat. “Yummy. Good job, Bree. They not only look good, they taste good. Did you make the brain shooters?”
Bree smacked her head. “I completely forgot. Although I’d probably get fired if I brought Jell-O shots into work.” Bailey’s booze balls don’t count, she told herself.
“Too bad,” Wendy said. “Maybe just make them with plain Jell-O then.”
“Speaking of making things, what are you baking? I can’t decide from the smell if it’s cookies or bread. I must be losing my edge.”
“You’re not.” Wendy smiled at her then hustled to the oven. “I’m making Snickerpoodles.” She pulled a silicon pan with dog paw shaped wells from the oven and turned it out onto a cooling rack before sprinkling the treats with a few crystals of raw sugar and a dusting of cinnamon.
Studying Scarlett the Grey Page 19