by Andrew Grant
Standen looked from Garretty to Devereaux and back, his face clouded with confusion. “I don’t get it. Why are you telling me this? All I did was find the body.”
“OK.” Garretty closed his eyes for a second. “Let me tell you something else about murder investigations. When we find a dead woman, the first person we look at is her husband. Why? Because statistics tell us he’s the most likely to have killed her. But the girl lying outside, she’s not wearing a wedding ring. There’s not even an indentation on her finger, which there would be if her ring had been stolen. So we move down the list. And guess who’s in the number two spot?”
“I don’t know.” Deep wrinkles spread across Standen’s forehead. “I don’t know anything about murder.”
“The person who found the body.” Garretty spoke slowly, putting extra stress on every word.
“It’s nothing personal, Eddie.” Devereaux kept his voice soft and low. “But we have to ask you these questions. Can you tell me where you were yesterday afternoon?”
“I was here. Working.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“Yes. Two of my coworkers. I can give you their names.”
“That would be good. What time did you finish?”
“Around three.”
“And what about after that? Where did you go?”
“I had a doctor’s appointment. I have bursitis in my elbow, and I needed a shot.”
“OK. We’ll need your doctor’s details.”
“No problem. Her name’s—”
“Detectives?” Isringhausen appeared in the low doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got something. A hit on the victim’s fingerprints. We have her name and address. But this thing could be messier than we thought. If we’re right about the time of death being yesterday, it means she was killed on her twenty-first birthday.”
Friday. Morning.
Alexandra made sure that Nicole was making at least a little progress with her math problems, then quietly moved to the living room. She loved her daughter. She enjoyed homeschooling her—most of the time. But that morning she needed some quiet time alone, to think things through.
She wasn’t being reasonable. Alexandra knew that. After all, she was the one who’d asked Devereaux to give her some space. It wasn’t as if he just hadn’t bothered to come home because he was out getting drunk with his cop buddies, or sneaking off to sleazy strip clubs like a couple of her friends’ husbands did. He’d done exactly what she said she needed him to do, and yet she was still pissed with him. What was wrong with her?
Nothing was wrong with her, she decided, after an uncomfortable hour of introspection. It was the circumstances she was in. That they were in. Assuming there was still a they. The confusion she was feeling about Devereaux and his past was driving her crazy. It was no longer just a question of who he really was. Or what that meant for their relationship. Or even the implications there may be for their daughter. The uncertainty of the situation was changing who she was. Who was this indecisive, unstable, whining person she saw when she looked in the mirror? Not her old self. Not the woman who’d breezed through her undergrad at Notre Dame. Who’d crushed the LSAT. Who’d aced every law school assignment that had been thrown at her at Duke. No. Alexandra could feel the difference in herself. And that was completely unacceptable.
Enough of this emotional nonsense, she told herself. That’s not you. Time to put your professional head back on. Approach this problem dispassionately. Distill it to the basic facts and make a rational decision. And how do you do that? It’s easy. Just like you were taught. Do the research. And call on the experts.
Friday. Morning.
Ask ten cops what they love most about the job and you’ll get eleven different answers. But ask them which part they hate the most and there’s only one thing you’ll hear. Breaking the news that someone’s relative is dead. That goes double when the relative was the victim of a brutal murder. And triple when the victim was someone’s child.
Devereaux had been introduced to the concept of receiving bad news at an early age. He still had nightmares about the time when a pair of detectives had come to his house, dragged him out of the crawl space where he’d been hiding, and told him that his father was dead. The episode was playing again in his head as he pulled up outside the address that Isringhausen had given him. It was on 21st Avenue, between Arrington and Stephens. One of a row of older houses, set back a modest distance from the street. Tired-looking. A little shabby. Somehow feeling like it was set adrift from a previous era. And a stone’s throw from the giant cast-iron statue of Vulcan, god of the forge, standing guard over the city from his column on the side of the Red Mountain. The area around the statue had been Devereaux’s safe haven from a succession of foster homes in the years after he was orphaned. Cursing fate’s cruel sense of humor, he climbed out of the car and followed Garretty down the path to the front door.
The woman who answered Devereaux’s knock appeared exactly like he’d have expected the dead girl from the cemetery to look, if only she’d lived for another thirty years. The red of her hair was a little muted and a web of fine lines embraced each of her eyes, but there was no missing the family resemblance.
“Mrs. Holt?” Devereaux showed her his badge. “Are you Deborah Holt’s mother?”
“I am.” The color drained from Mrs. Holt’s face. “Why? Is my daughter OK? Is she in trouble?”
“Deborah’s not in any trouble.” Devereaux tried to smile reassuringly. He hated having to mislead someone whose life was about to be shattered, but he’d learned the hard way that if you need to gather information, you better do it before you drop your bombshell. “But we think she may have been involved in an accident. Would it be OK if we come in and ask you a couple of questions? We need to figure out what might have happened.”
“What kind of accident?” Fear added a brittle edge to Mrs. Holt’s voice as she led the detectives to her living room at the rear of the house. There was a tiled coffee table in the center of the space, surrounded by a pair of love seats and a well-worn armchair. Each piece of furniture was partly covered by a faded plaid blanket, and in the center of each blanket lay a cat. A tabby. A tortoiseshell. And a Manx. All three studiously ignored the detectives as they took in the TV in the far corner, which was small by modern standards. The bookcase to its right, which was filled with religious titles and social histories of Birmingham. And the carved stone mantelpiece, with two birthday cards propped up at the center. “Is it serious? Is Deborah hurt?”
The detectives paused in the doorway.
“Don’t mind Magnus and Sparky.” Mrs. Holt gestured to the cats, which were jealously guarding the love seats. “Please, sit. Tell me what’s happened to my daughter. Is she in the hospital?”
“I’d like to start with some background information, if that’s OK?” Devereaux lowered himself into the corner of the seat facing the window, keeping as much distance between his pants leg and the cat as possible. “Could you tell us a little about Deborah? It would help us if we could understand her better as a person.”
“Deborah’s a good girl.” Mrs. Holt perched on the front edge of the armchair’s sagging cushion. “Look, Detective, I won’t lie to you. She had her wild years, when she was in her teens. That’s no secret. After my husband left me and we had to move to the city she had a hard time adjusting. She carried a lot of anger around for a while back then. But she’s put all that behind her. She’s turned her life around. Ever since she came home, she’s made a massive effort. I’m so proud of her.”
“That’s good to hear,” Devereaux said. “What about work. Does she have a job?”
“She’s a facilities assistant at Invetrade Inc. At their main office, in the Empire building. But why does that matter? Did something bad happen at her work?”
“How long has she been with them?”
“Just over four months.”
“How’s that going?” Devereaux took out his notebook. “Has she had any problems w
ith coworkers or anyone else the job brings her in contact with?”
“Problems? No.” Mrs. Holt shook her head. “Nothing like that. She’s doing really well there. She fits in, she’s popular, she really likes it.”
“Has she had any arguments with friends, or anyone outside of work?” Garretty asked.
“Not that I know of. She lost contact with most of her high school friends when she moved away. There’s only one girlfriend she really talks about. Carrie Medders. She’s a nice girl. Deborah sleeps over at her place sometimes, after their girls’ nights out.”
Devereaux handed Mrs. Holt his notebook. “Could you write down Carrie’s details for me?”
Mrs. Holt wrote out the name and address and handed the book back to Devereaux. “You said Deborah had been in an accident. Now you’re asking about friends and arguments. I don’t understand. Did she get in a fight? Did someone hurt her? Please—just tell me what’s going on!”
“I’m getting to that.” Devereaux glanced down at the book to check that he could read Mrs. Holt’s handwriting. “What about family? Is Deborah close to any relatives?”
“The only family we have is each other.” Mrs. Holt started picking at the skin around her thumbnails. “And the cats. My parents have both passed. I’m an only child. She’s an only child.”
“What about her father?” Devereaux watched Mrs. Holt’s expression closely. “Does she have any contact with him?”
“Absolutely not.” Mrs. Holt’s nose wrinkled as if she’d smelled something bad. “We haven’t seen hide nor hair of that man for almost seven years. Not since he walked out and left me with a teenage daughter to raise.”
“Is there any chance he might have been in touch with Deborah without you knowing?”
“No. She’d have told me.”
“Could she have reached out to him?”
“Definitely not. She hated him.”
“OK. This is all really useful, Mrs. Holt. Thanks for helping us. What about the time before Deborah worked at Invetrade? What did she do then?”
“Invetrade’s her first real job, aside from a bit of waitressing during high school. She came back home about eight months before she started there, but she needed time to straighten a few things out. She couldn’t get a job right away.”
“Now I’m sorry to ask you this next question, Mrs. Holt, but it’s important. Has Deborah ever had any involvement with drugs?”
Mrs. Holt looked at the floor and took a minute to gather her thoughts. “In her teens? I couldn’t put my hand on my heart and swear that she hadn’t dabbled with things she shouldn’t have. Nothing serious, though, I’m sure. But since she came home? No way. Have you seen her lately? She’s in the best shape of her life. She’s really been taking care of herself. She goes to the gym four times a week. Watches what she eats. She’s even become a vegetarian.”
“That’s impressive.” Devereaux paused. “So, she’s been home with you for a year. What was she doing before that?”
“Not much.” Mrs. Holt frowned. “She was living up in Nashville. She went there when she was eighteen with her awful boyfriend from high school. They were going to become rock stars.”
“How did that work out for them?”
“Surprise, surprise, it didn’t. But it was something she was dead set on doing. She burned a lot of bridges getting there, so it took a lot of courage for her to admit she’d made a mistake and come back.”
“I’m sure it did. And what about this wannabe rock star boyfriend? Is she still seeing him?”
“Heavens, no. She left him behind in Nashville. Why? Has he come back to Birmingham? Did he do something to Deborah?”
“We don’t think so. We just need to be thorough. Can you tell us his name?”
“You might not believe this, but it’s Thor.”
“Thor?” Devereaux paused before writing anything down. “That was his real name?”
“I don’t think so. But Deborah never said either way. Maybe we should ask her? Where is she?”
“Do you have an address for where Deborah and Thor were living in Nashville?”
“Of course. I’ll write it down for you. I can’t guarantee he’ll still be there, though. He was always broke and conveniently unable to work for one reason or another, so he’s probably slumming it in some squat without Deborah to support him.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Devereaux paused, trying to gauge how much longer he could keep Mrs. Holt talking. “What about other boyfriends? Is Deborah seeing anyone at the moment?”
“Oh, yes.” A hint of a smile crept across Mrs. Holt’s face for the first time since the detectives arrived. “A guy named Ben Warren. He’s one of the top executives at Invetrade, where she works.”
“It sounds like you approve?”
“Well, it’s early days. They’ve only been seeing each other three months. But I’ve never seen her happier. He’s a little older than her. He’s doing well at the firm. He’s kind to her. Look, I know it’s up to Deb to decide who to spend the rest of her life with, but every mother wants her daughter to be happy. And I must confess, if I said I hadn’t daydreamed about the two of them walking down the aisle together one day, I’d be lying.”
“It was Deborah’s birthday yesterday, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Her twenty-first.”
“That’s quite a milestone. Did she go to work? Or take the day off to celebrate?”
“She took the day off. She was here all morning, then went out to do something with Ben. She left around lunchtime.”
“Did he pick her up?”
“No. She went to meet him.”
“Do you know where?”
“I don’t. Deb was moping around all morning because she hadn’t heard from him. She thought he’d forgotten, can you believe? Then the mail came. It was late for some reason. So she opened his card and her whole expression changed on the spot. She literally squealed with joy. Then she ran upstairs, changed, and bolted out of the house.”
“Is his card on the mantel?”
“Yes. It’s the one on the left.”
“Mind if I look?”
“Be my guest.”
Devereaux crossed to the fireplace, picked up the grander of the cards, and looked inside.
“It just says Happy Birthday.” He set it back down. “There’s nothing about meeting anywhere.”
“There was a note inside. I saw her take it out and read it. That was when she squealed and rushed upstairs.”
“Do you know what she did with the note?”
“She took it with her, I think.”
“Did she drive, or take a cab?”
“She drove.”
“What kind of car does she have?”
“A Chevy Nova. It’s green. A horrible old thing, but she loves it. She bought it after high school with the money she earned waitressing.”
“Could you write down the license number for me?”
“Oh my God!” Mrs. Holt got to her feet as if she’d been stung. “Did Deb get in a car wreck? Is she hurt?”
“We’re still trying to piece together exactly what happened.” Devereaux reclaimed his spot next to the cat and gestured for Mrs. Holt to sit again, too. “After Deborah read the note from Ben and left, did you hear from her again?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Holt closed her eyes, willing herself to focus. “Later in the afternoon. She sent me a text. It said something about her phone not connecting—I didn’t really understand what she meant—and that she might not be home till tomorrow—which is today—so not to wait up.”
“Can I see the message?”
Mrs. Holt produced her phone. Devereaux took a picture of the screen, including Deborah’s number and the time stamp, then showed it to Garretty.
“We’ll take a look at Deborah’s phone records, in case that throws up anything unusual.” Devereaux handed the phone back to Mrs. Holt. “In her message, Deborah said she might not come home last night, and I guess she didn’t. Was that kind of th
ing normal for her?”
“That’s a very loaded question, Detective.” Mrs. Holt crossed her arms, her fear beginning to turn into anger. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating about my daughter. And you’re making me worried. Now please. Stop stringing me along. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll tell you as much as we know, in just a second. But first I have to ask you one more thing. Would it be OK if I took a quick look in Deborah’s room?”
“Why?” Mrs. Holt’s voice jumped up an octave. “What’s happened to her?”
“Mrs. Holt, I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you.” Devereaux took a breath. “Sometime yesterday afternoon, or possibly evening, Deborah was assaulted. She was injured. The injury was very severe. By the time she was found, it was too late to do anything to save her. I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but your daughter didn’t survive. We’re truly sorry for your loss.”
—
Garretty stayed with Mrs. Holt while Devereaux went upstairs to find Deborah’s bedroom. It was at the front of the house, with a view over the street. The bed was neatly made, with a pink gingham comforter cover. A pair of soft toys—a monkey and a pig—were sitting on her pillow. Her clothes were hanging neatly in her wardrobe—dark, sober work outfits on the left; shorter, brighter weekend items on the right. There was a polished wooden jewelry box on the dresser, with a heap of cheap, costume pieces in its top level and a handful of more expensive items tucked away below. The bookcase held more CDs than books, and the few volumes that were there all related to music in some way. The only other item was a dog-eared shoe box in the center of the bottom shelf. Devereaux opened it. He found it was crammed with photographs. They were all of Deborah. At home. At school. In Nashville. Onstage, singing. On vacation. In clubs. Asleep. Drunk. The pictures were all loose and had been bundled together in no particular order. Except for a pair in one envelope Devereaux found tucked away at the bottom of the box.