She set the brown bag with the muffin on her desk, not brave enough to try it just yet, and did a reverse-address search for 4438 Wedgewood Crescent through a website. Nada. She repeated the query in a police database. There she had a result in a second, not that it meant anything to her at face value. There were no names associated with the address, just a numbered business. The hairs rose on her arms. The Mafia set up dummy companies to manage their dealings.
She opened another database and keyed in the business number. Technically, it was a corporation, so the board members should be public knowledge, but there was only one associated name, and it wasn’t a woman’s. Staring back at her were two words that shook her to the core: Roman Petrov.
That was the name of Dimitre Petrov’s biological father. But Roman was dead, wasn’t he? Had the record not been updated, or had it been a mistake to think he was dead? If he was alive, did he have any physical tie to that house in the north end of the city? Did the woman live there, or was she visiting? Parking in the garage could indicate the former, but regardless, who was she to Roman: business associate, friend, or…relation?
Madison rubbed her arms, trying to fend off the chill in her veins.
“Hey.”
She looked up to see Terry, but she was more looking through him, her mind so full of what she’d just uncovered.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I—”
“You vomited at least a couple times yesterday.”
Too much to hope he would have forgotten. “So far, everything’s staying down.” Not that she’d put anything in there—yet. She glanced at the brown bag. She’d try it later.
“Good. You ready to pull Carl Long into an interview room?”
She glanced at the wall clock: 8:20 AM.
“Sounds like a plan,” she said.
Neither of them made an immediate move to make that happen. Finally, Terry started to walk.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Yep. That’s what I’m here for, your Royal Highness,” he teased and tossed out a smile.
She tried to return the expression but couldn’t form one. Roman’s name was still on her screen. It was a good thing Terry hadn’t noticed, because she wouldn’t even have known how to start explaining why.
After Terry had arranged to have Carl Long brought up from holding, Madison filled him in about Long’s employment history and her visit to Chassis Worx yesterday. She also told him about his self-employed status, whatever that meant. She made a stop on the way to the interrogation room, but she and Terry entered together.
Long leaned forward with his head in his hands. He slowly lowered them and raised his eyes to glare at her. They were bloodshot, and his hair was sticking up. It was clear that he hadn’t slept very well last night, and it was something she had counted on. Unless a person was drunk or high—and passed out as a result—most people in the tank never slept. She was expecting it would make him more forthcoming in the hopes he’d get out of there.
“You like coffee I assume?” She put a cup filled with bullpen brew in front of him.
Long scanned her face, glanced at the offering like it was a poisonous snake that would bite him. He peeled the plastic lid off and took a sip, obviously willing to take on any potential risk.
“It’s not the best stuff, but it’s better than nothing,” she said.
Long closed his eyes as he took another sip.
“Just wondering if you feel more like talking today,” she started.
He held the cup in both hands, cradling it, claiming it, owning it. “I said all I had to say yesterday.”
Behind her, Terry started jingling his change. She glanced at him over a shoulder and said, “Huh. I thought for sure…” She swiveled and reached for Long’s coffee and moved to stand.
“Stop!” Long cried out.
She did as he requested. He rolled his eyes. She raised her eyebrows, ticking off the passing seconds in her head.
“Fine, let’s talk,” he huffed.
“I visited your old employer, Luke Landers, yesterday,” she started. “He told me that Saul showed up on occasion, that he was a friend of yours. What we don’t know is how you know each other.”
Long spun his cup. “Met him on the inside.”
She thought of her call to the prison, but maybe that had been unnecessary. Though they still didn’t have Abbott’s real name. One thing at a time. “You were cellmates?” she wagered a guess.
Long slowly nodded.
Now she really wanted that list, but prison administrative offices didn’t move fast, and they weren’t easily motivated. “So…Saul’s how old?” As she and Terry had touched on before, Abbott couldn’t be twenty-five and have served at the same time as Long. Straight math—which she could do—told her that Abbott would have been at least fifteen as Long was getting out. Abbott had lied about his name and his age and withheld his past.
“No clue. We didn’t exactly talk about that.”
“What about real names?” she asked, trying again. Maybe Long would come clean today.
Terry paused the change jingling briefly, then restarted.
“He introduced himself to me as Saul Abbott.” He hitched his shoulders. “If that’s not his real name, I can’t help you.”
Surely, a guard would have called Abbott by his real name at some point, and Long would have overheard. But it was apparent that Long wasn’t going to share that information if he had it. “When were you guys bunked together?”
Long’s gaze snapped to hers as if taking insult at her comparing prison to a friendly sleepover. “For six months during the last year of my sentence. He got out before me.” He paused there as if expecting Madison to interject with something, but she wasn’t going to discourage him from talking. He drank some coffee, then continued. “I looked him up when I got out and we reunited.”
Madison studied him. “Kind of hard to look up someone when you don’t know their real name.”
Long took a deep sigh. “Fine, he looked me up.”
“Let’s say I take your word,” she said, not trusting him at all. “Why did he reach out to you?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Is his business a big source of your income?” She had her suspicions that was the case, as well as performing legitimate marriages.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your record says you’ve been self-employed the last few years, but it doesn’t say what you do, and there’s no company registered to you.” She clasped her hands on the table and leaned forward. “Do you report your earnings to the IRS?”
“Of course, I…” Long took a drink of his coffee, leaving the rest of his sentence unfinished.
“Uh-huh. They’d probably be interested to hear—”
Long held up his hands. “Fine. You want to know what I did for Saul? I married him to these women he’d meet. Not legally, though. But they had my valid license to see, and they’d feel hitched.”
Madison was failing to see how a sham wedding would get Abbott access to these women’s money, but how often did people inspect their marriage license to prove its authenticity? Usually people who took vows were in love, blinded. Like Carson, even without a “wedding,” they’d sign over their money. “What happened when these women found out the marriage was fake?”
Long looked away and blush crept into his cheeks. He damn well should be ashamed—and held accountable.
“You are just as much part of the con and the fraud as Saul Abbott. You deserve to go back to prison.”
“Please no.”
She shrugged. “I don’t see what other choice you’re leaving us.” She glanced back at Terry, and he shook his head in a way that communicated bad news for Long.
“I can tell you where you might find him.”
“He moves around.”
I wonder why…
“When did you last see him?”
“Last week.”
She peered into his eyes; he seemed to be telling the truth. She sat back. At least Saul was still in the area or had been a week ago. “Where did you see him?”
“He came to my house.”
“For what purpose?” she asked, though she had a feeling she knew the reason.
“He was talking to me about staging another wedding.”
Madison took a few seconds to cool her temper. Long didn’t seem to have any qualms about playing his role in a crime. “Now Saul’s with another woman?” He hadn’t answered so much in words yesterday.
Long drank some of his coffee, then said, “Yeah.”
He and Carson had only split up three months ago. Saul’s proposals were plentiful but meaningless. All she wanted was one from Troy—one truly meaningful proposal. She pushed the thought from her mind and placed a hand over her stomach. “Do you know her name?”
He shook his head. “And I didn’t meet her.”
“You said you know where we might find him.”
“I don’t know if I should say.”
“Way I see it, you best be telling us, because you’re looking at prison time for your role in conning these women—”
“You can’t prove that.”
“Give her time,” Terry said, pushing off the wall and coming over to the table.
Long’s gaze flicked to Terry, back to Madison.
“What’s it gonna be? As I’ve already said, I’m sure the IRS would be interested in you.”
Long took a deep, heaving sigh.
“Need I also remind you that we’re interested in speaking with Saul because one of the women he conned was murdered.”
Long swallowed audibly. “I can’t help you with that.”
She leaned across the table. “Maybe you can’t, but I feel you can. Where can we find Saul? And don’t make me ask again.”
Long worried his lip, spun his cup, met her gaze, and then gave her the location.
“Do you have a phone number for him?”
Long shook his head. “He’d just drop by.”
She and Terry headed for the door.
“Wait,” Long called out. “Can I go now?”
Madison looked at Terry, back to Long. “For now, but if Saul comes to you, you call me.” She slapped her card on the table in front of him.
-
Twenty-Five
Maddy.”
Madison turned to see Troy. “Oh, hey there.”
“I’ll sign out a car and wait for you outside,” Terry told her and carried on his way.
Troy shortened the distance between them, stopping so close she could feel his breath on her face.
“How’s your day goin’?” she asked.
“Just getting started. Missed you this morning.”
“Yeah, sorry, I just thought I’d get an early start.”
“I know. You have that murder case.”
“Uh-huh.” And the Mafia and corrupt cops to bring down…
“And it’s going all right?”
“We just caught another lead. That’s where Terry and I are headed.”
“And how are you feeling today?”
She hadn’t puked yet. “Much better, but I really should get go—”
He leaned in and kissed her.
“Knight!” It was Sergeant Winston, and his bellow echoed down the hall.
Troy slowly pulled back, mischievousness painted all over his expression.
She shoved him in the chest. “Happy you’re amused.”
“Very.” He laughed and left.
“I’d like a word,” Winston said, “if you’re not too busy with Romeo.”
Troy saluted Winston and kept walking. She wished she had more leash to treat Winston that way. She spoke back enough and stood her ground when needed, but Troy didn’t have to fear any professional repercussions. He didn’t report to Winston, and his sister was the police chief. The fact Madison was dating the chief’s brother didn’t seem to carry the same weight.
Winston snarled, his gaze going past her. He must have caught Troy’s gesture. “Where’s Grant?”
“We’re about to head out,” she said. “Something I could do for you?”
“What do you think? You haven’t filled me in on your current case.”
“I haven’t seen you around.”
“Come with me.” He led the way to his office, and she felt like a captive would have walking the plank on a pirate ship.
He parked behind his desk. She remained standing. “I really need to go. Terry’s—”
“Sit,” Winston barked, “and fill me in.”
“Not much to say.”
“Unbelievable.” He shot bright red from his chin to the top of his balding head. “I thought I’d step back, let you roll with the case, figured you’d fill me in when you had something.”
Since when did the man ever “step back”? Micromanaging was in his blood—for better or worse. And that trait was always worse when it was directed at her. “You sure that’s what it was?”
“Excuse me?” Winston leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his eyebrows pointing up like arrows.
“Never mind.” She was dying to ask him where he’d been. Weekend or not, a fresh murder case should have had him in the office.
“That’s what I thought. Fill me in.”
“Female victim. Chantelle Carson, age forty-eight—”
“Yadda, yadda. Suspects? Leads?”
She glanced up to the ceiling, summoning a greater being for the patience to put up with this man. She’d heard her grandmother say no one was tested beyond what they could bear, but Winston was pushing the limits.
“Knight,” he prompted.
“We’re currently trying to track down her ex-boyfriend.”
“You have reason to believe he killed her?”
“That part’s not affirmative yet, but he’s certainly a person of interest. We’ve found out he was a con man. He took Carson for everything, destroyed her life financially.”
“And his motive for killing her?”
“Still trying to piece that together. But as I said, he’s more a person of interest at this point.”
“Okay, and that guy you held overnight?”
She filled him in on Carl Long and his working relationship with who they knew as Saul Abbott. “Guy’s still bound for prison. Only a matter of time.”
Winston scoffed. “Once proof is lined up maybe, but that would be for fraud. Not your department last I checked. But it would seem you have time on your hands.” He leveled a look on her that didn’t need words but got the message across. He was making a dig at her kissing Troy. She knew it wasn’t appropriate to show displays of affection at work, and typically they didn’t. Before she could say anything, he continued. “Clear this guy—the ex-boyfriend—or book him, but don’t concern yourself with him being some con man.”
Her earlobes sizzled with anger, and she balled her hands into fists behind her back. Winston had a way of operating within certain lines, and if any crime fell out of the purview, he could ignore it. But not her. “If he did this to Carson, he’s taken other women’s money and is apparently working one right—”
“No.” He held up a hand. “Your job’s to solve murder, Knight.”
It took every bit of her willpower not to roll her eyes. As if she needed him to remind her what her job was!
Winston added, “You have concerns about fraud, forward his information to that department. Do we have an understanding?”
She turned, looked at the clock on the wall above the door, and started to leave.
“Knight, where are you—”
She stopped but didn’t face him. “I have someplace I need to be.”
-
Twenty-Six
The address that Long have given them for Abbott led them to a middle-class neighborhood where most houses were rented out. It was a redbrick structure that could handle a fresh coat of paint to the trim, and the eaves were in desperate need of replacement.
Madison knocked and footsteps padded toward the door. It creaked loudly as it was opened.
“Yes?” A woman in her late sixties, a head of white hair, stood there watching them with marked curiosity.
Madison held up her badge, and so did Terry. “We’re Detectives Knight and Grant,” she said. “We’re looking for Saul Abbott. Would he be home?”
The woman clutched the fabric at the bosom of her shirt and looked past them. “I don’t know… Who did you say you were looking for?”
There was faraway look in her eyes that spoke to possible Alzheimer’s, but she seemed to be home alone—at least no caretaker had come to the door behind her—and she was dressed in a floral-pattern buttoned shirt and blue pants with an elastic waistband.
“Saul Abbott,” Madison repeated.
“No one here by that name.”
“And you are?”
“Mary Smith.”
“How long have you lived here?” Madison asked.
“A while.” The woman gave them a pleasant smile. “Time has a way of passing by.”
“It does,” Madison agreed, “but it could be helpful if you answered my question.”
“I moved in last November.”
Abbott would have moved into Carson’s house… She flipped the pages of a calendar in her mind. It was March now, and Carson and Abbott started dating eight months ago; he moved in about a month after that. So seven months ago. That would make it August. It was possible the rental remained empty for a bit. First, they needed to confirm that Abbott had even lived there and Long hadn’t lied to them. “Do you know who was here before you?”
Smith shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear.”
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