Before She Dies

by Mary Burton

  “This is ground zero for the city’s tourist industry,” Sinclair said. “The press is going to eat this up.”

  Rokov glanced back at the murder scene. “They’ll be here within the hour, and the story will be on the news by lunch.” He worked hard to push aside circumstances that he could not control. But when it came to the press, his success rate was mixed. “The only way to diffuse the story is to solve the case as quickly as possible.”

  “A closed case would be a great way to start the week.”

  Rokov glanced inside O’Malley’s, and when he saw the flicker of movement in the back, he pounded on the front door with his fist. For a moment, the bar’s interior went silent, and then footsteps sounded inside.

  A tall, lean man, sporting a black five o’clock shadow, stopped about twenty feet short of the door. He wore a white apron over T-shirt and jeans. A bar towel hung carelessly over his right shoulder.

  “We’re closed until three,” he shouted.

  The man was already turning toward the kitchen when Rokov tapped on the glass and held up his badge. The barman turned, his face dark with frustration.

  “We have a few questions,” Rokov said.

  The man hesitated and shook his head, as if the cops were the last complication he’d expected or needed. Finally, he moved toward the door and unlatched the deadbolt. Bells jingled above as the door opened, and the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke rushed out to greet them. “Someone filing a complaint?”

  “Should they?” Sinclair said.

  The barman shifted his gaze to her and let it roam slowly and freely up her frame. He didn’t smile, or leer, just absorbed every detail of her. Sinclair arched a brow but didn’t flinch.

  “You got a name?” Rokov said.

  “Richardson,” he said, pulling his gaze from Sinclair. “Duke Richardson. I own O’Malley’s.”

  “So is there a reason someone would file a complaint?” Sinclair repeated.

  “And you are?” Richardson said.

  Sinclair pulled out her badge. “Detective Sinclair. This is my partner, Detective Rokov.”

  “Big guns,” Richardson said. “I’m guessing you’re not here for me, then.”

  “Why’s that?” Ten years on the force had taught Rokov never to trust anything at face value. He’d solved more than a couple of crimes by pure chance. Once as a traffic cop he’d pulled an SUV because of a broken taillight. The driver, a thin man with a plaid shirt, had been nervous and unable to stop fidgeting. Rokov had called the plates into dispatch, learned there’d been no priors, but the guy had just been too damn squirrelly. He’d asked the guy to get out of his car. The man had opened the door abruptly, trying to drive it into Rokov and knock him into traffic. Rokov had dodged the assault, stumbled, and righted himself just as the guy pulled a gun. Rokov fired and killed the man with the first shot. Turns out, the assailant had murdered his wife and was fleeing the state.

  Rokov still had moments when those tense seconds came back to him in a flash. He could recall each detail as if the film had been put in slow motion. The way the guy’s eyes had shifted to the left. The way his own hands had trembled very slightly as he’d gripped the handle of his gun tighter. The way the assailant had reached under a newspaper on the front seat and pulled out a Berretta. Rokov could remember the sound of a horn blaring as a car passed behind him, the rust-colored stain on the man’s jeans and the sweat beading on his upper lip. It had felt like a lifetime but in reality was mere seconds.

  Without realizing it, he had already eased his hand to his belt and draped his fingers over his gun handle.

  Duke glanced at Rokov’s hand and then held up his own. “Hey, I don’t want trouble.”

  Rokov’s own heart raced and for a moment he said nothing. He’d not been shot but he still had lingering moments of stress related to the incident. Charlotte had been shot, and yet she insisted she was just fine. No fucking way she’d walked away unscathed.

  Rokov cleared his throat and lowered his hand. “We have a few questions. There was a problem across the street last night.”

  Duke folded his arms over his chest. “I was open until midnight. Slammed until a half hour after that. I never got more than a few feet from the bar. What happened?”

  Rokov let the question pass. “See any customers that might have aroused your suspicions?”

  “Yeah, a lot of them.”

  “Particulars?” Sinclair said.

  Duke shrugged. “A couple. One dude had to be cut off, and I called a cab for him. He didn’t appreciate either gesture and told me so in so many four-letter words. And a gal, tall, dark. She sat at the corner of the bar and drank until about midnight. She didn’t say much, but just sat and stared.”

  “Either of them use a credit card?” Rokov said.

  Duke shrugged. “The chick paid cash. Twenties. But the dude used plastic. Name was Matt Lowery.”

  “You remember the name?”

  “Sure. I took his keys. I tried to take his license, but he screamed identity theft. So I wrote down his address and gave the license back to him. Planned to mail the keys back to him this morning with a note telling him to stay clear of O’Malley’s.”

  “You take keys often?”

  “When I have to be sure. I don’t mind anyone coming here and enjoying a few drinks, but no one is going out of here hammered with car keys. I don’t need that kind of trouble.”

  “You said you got an address for Mr. Lowery?” Sinclair said.

  “Sure.” He turned and moved toward the bar and retrieved a padded envelope. “You can deliver his keys. Chances are he’s still sleeping it off.”

  Whoever had positioned the victim had not been drunk, but that didn’t mean he’d seen the killer. A long shot, but a shot. “Just give me his address.”

  The bartender scribbled down the address on an order pad and handed it to Rokov.

  “He give you any other reason to remember him?” Sinclair said.

  “Talked to himself. Was a real pain in the ass. But he didn’t break any laws.”

  Rokov took the slip of paper. “Queen Street. Just a few blocks from here. What time did he leave?”

  “He arrived an hour before closing and the cab picked him up about twelve thirty.”

  “Where’s his car?”

  “Parked on the street, I guess. Judging by the keys it’s a Toyota.”

  Rokov made a note. If they found the car, they couldn’t search it without a warrant, but they certainly could have a look inside from the sidewalk. “See anything across the street in the old restaurant?”

  “The Wharf? That’s been closed for a decade. The city owns it now. No one goes there.”

  “Someone did last night,” Rokov said.

  Duke shrugged. “Sometimes I see homeless people hanging around. The city keeps the place locked up pretty tight, but sometimes someone gets inside. Someone overdose?”

  “No overdose, but we had trouble in the building.”

  Duke stared at Rokov expectantly, waiting for more of an explanation, but when none came, he said, “Like I said, I didn’t see anything. Way too slammed. But this Lowery guy might have a word or two for you. I put him outside around midnight to cool off and sober up while he waited for the cab. There was a mix-up on my end and my waitress didn’t call the cab, so Mr. Lowery sat outside for almost an hour. He might have seen something if he didn’t pass out.”

  “How drunk was he?” Rokov said.

  “Stinking drunk. Too drunk to stand. Even if he had his keys, he wouldn’t have been able to get back to his car. I doubt he’ll be much of a witness.”

  Eyewitness testimony was sketchy even under the best of circumstances. “What about waitresses or waiters?”

  “Can’t help you with that. If anyone saw anything, they didn’t tell me. Come back this evening and ask them if you like. We’ll have the same crew on for tonight.”

  “Right,” Rokov said. “What other stores would have been open last night after midnight?�
�

  Duke’s gaze narrowed. “What happened across the street?”

  Rokov pushed out a breath. It would be all over the news soon enough. “A woman’s body was found in the building.”

  “I’m judging by your expression that it wasn’t drugs.”

  “It was not.”

  Duke pushed long fingers through dark shoulder-length hair. “Damn. You got an ID on the woman?”

  “No. Not yet. She was wearing a red jacket with the word Magic on the back. See anything like that?”

  Duke shook his head. “No. Can’t say. But who the hell knows? Like I said, last night I was slammed.” He rested his hands on his hips. “Check with Just Java across the street. They’re open to midnight. Stella runs that place at night and she keeps an eye on all.”

  Rokov glanced through the front window to the little coffee shop in the town house building painted a bright yellow. “Thanks.” He pulled out a card and handed it to Duke. “Call me if you think of anything.”

  “Yeah, sure. Will do.”

  They moved toward the door and Rokov opened it for Sinclair.

  “Do you think it’ll take long to solve this one?” Duke asked.

  “We’ll try,” Rokov said.

  “News is going to be all over it,” Duke said.

  “That they will.”

  Duke shook his head. “Shit, first it’s the economy and now a body. Karma does not like this place.”

  Rokov let the door close behind him. The sun had risen high in the sky, prompting him to pull Ray-Ban sunglasses from his breast pocket. “Let’s check out coffee lady. See what she knows.”

  “I hate the door-to-door knocking, the endless questions and the endless vague answers. It’s amazing how much crap we have to wade through to get a few nuggets of gold.”

  He shook his head. “Beats sitting in court and having an attorney railing on my ass.”

  “Ah, let’s face it, Rokov, you want Ms. Wellington to rail on you.”

  They paused as a minicooper buzzed past and then crossed to the coffee shop. “You’re like a dog with a bone, Sinclair. What set you off today?”

  “The new suit for court. Super fancy, even for you.”

  “Dad made the suit for me for my birthday.”

  “Your birthday was in February.”

  “So, maybe it was just time to dust it off.”

  “Right.”

  “Get it through your head, Sinclair. The suit ain’t about Charlotte Wellington.”

  As Rokov opened the coffee shop door, the rich scents of coffee and pastries greeted them. Three customers waited at the register as a kid working behind the counter looking frazzled hustled to fill drink orders. They held back.

  “And just for the record,” Sinclair said, “if Samantha White’s husband really beat her as the witnesses during the trial testified, I can’t say I’m against her. Wellington wins points in my book for taking the case on pro bono.”

  He pulled off his sunglasses. “I’m sure the good attorney will be relieved to know you approve.”

  She chuckled. “She doesn’t give a crap about what anyone thinks about her. She is pure ice.”

  Charlotte had been cool and reserved when they’d first met at a cancer fund-raiser a month ago. Her law associate, Angie Carlson, who was married to homicide detective Malcolm Kier, had hosted the event. Rokov had gone as a show of support to a fellow cop’s wife and the cause. Charlotte Wellington was there to support Angie as well. They’d been fish out of water at the festive event and had struck up a casual conversation. At the event she’d been reserved and cool. He’d suggested coffee and somewhere along the way they’d ended up naked in a motel room.

  “So you gonna see her again?” Sinclair said.

  “There can’t be an again if there wasn’t a first.”

  Sinclair nudged him with her elbow. “Come clean.”

  “Buzz off.”

  The morning crowd at Just Java had cleared, and Rokov reached in his pocket for his badge. He flashed it as the kid looked up at them. “Five-O. What’s the deal?”

  “Stella here?”

  “Yeah, just a second.” The kid vanished in the back and seconds later returned with an older woman in tow.

  She tucked stray strands of gray curly hair behind her ear. “Figured when I saw the cops down the road earlier there was trouble. Kids using drugs this time or vandals? We’ve had trouble with both since that building was abandoned.”

  “A woman was found murdered,” Sinclair said. “Her body was left in the building.”

  “And you are?” Rokov said.

  “Stella Morris. I own the place.”

  “Were you here last night?”

  “Normally I have Monday nights off but I got a call from the kid who was working the last shift. He was sick and had to go home, so I came in to work the last couple of hours and close up.”

  “You see anything? Odd customers? Trouble. A car that didn’t belong?”

  Stella rested her hands on her hips. “A few buzzed guys from O’Malley’s wandered in before midnight. And there was a homeless guy who stops by when he can scrap together enough coins.” She raised a finger. “I was closing up around twelve thirty, and I did hear someone shouting.”

  “Shouting what?”

  “Couldn’t make out the words, but it kinda sounded like howling. Like a wild animal. I figured it was a drunk.”

  “What direction was the sound coming from?” Sinclair said.

  “By The Wharf. That’s why I thought to mention it.”

  “And that was about twelve thirty?” Rokov said.

  “Twelve thirty-six as a matter of fact. The sound kind of spooked me. Sent chills up and down my spine and I glanced at my watch because I wanted to remember the time.”

  “See anything?”

  “Nope. Saw nothing.”

  Rokov pulled out his card and handed it to her. “Ever seen a woman around here with a red leather jacket that says Magic?”

  “That sounds like Diane.”

  “Diane?”

  “I don’t know her last name. She used to come in here a lot but I haven’t seen much of her the last six months. She does something with computers.”

  “She ever use a credit card?”

  “Sure, I guess, but it’s been a while since she’s been here. I’m gonna have to dig.”

  “Would you do that?” Rokov said.

  “Yeah, sure. Why not.” She flicked the edge of the card. “I’ll call you.”

  They thanked the woman and moved back down the street toward the car. “Let’s stroll down the street and see if we can find Lowery’s car.”

  “The Toyota?”

  “Sure.” Sinclair took the north side of the street and Rokov the south side. They walked a block and a half when Rokov spotted the silver Camry. Sinclair crossed the street. “This the car?”

  “Could be.” On the front seat was a briefcase. The cup holders between the seats held two empty cups. “He’s lucky no one smashed the window to get the briefcase.”

  “Maybe he was in a hurry to get to the bar.”

  “Let’s pay him a quick visit.”

  “Will do.”

  The detectives walked back to their car and for an instant Rokov nearly cut to Sinclair’s door.

  “If you go for my door, Danny-boy, I’m breaking your fingers,” Sinclair said.

  Rokov held up his hands. “I learned my lesson.” When the two had first started working together, Rokov had opened Sinclair’s car door. She’d demanded to know which medieval century he’d just returned from. He’d laughed, blaming the door-opening habit on his parents’ old country manners. They’d settled on a compromise. He’d not open the car doors, but she’d allow the occasional shop door.

  Sinclair slid into the passenger side seat and Rokov behind the driver’s wheel. As he fired up the engine, the first television news van pulled up outside the crime scene. “The media is going to love this one.”

  “I’m afraid you’re rig
ht.”

  The drive to Lowery’s took minutes and soon the two were standing on the doorstep of his town house. Painted white with black shutters, the town house was modern but fashioned to look colonial. A planter on the front porch sported drooping marigolds and several cigarette butts.

  Rokov rang the bell once. After a pause he hit it again, and when that didn’t produce results, he banged with his fist. Finally, they heard shouts and the stumble of footsteps. The door snapped open.

  A man wincing against the sunlight greeted them with an angry glare. Dressed in suit pants and V-neck T-shirt, he had greasy dark hair that stuck up in the back and a dark beard shadowing his lantern jaw. A thick cross hung from a thick gold chain around his neck. “What the hell do you want?”

  Rokov held up his badge. “You Matt Lowery?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You at O’Malley’s last night?”

  “Sure. And if you’re here to ask, I didn’t drive home drunk. I took a cab.”

  “So we hear,” said Sinclair. She glanced beyond him to a foyer warmed with Oriental rugs and a landscape on the wall.

  “The bartender tells us he parked you outside on a bench last night.”

  He rubbed a bloodshot eye with his knuckle. “Damn near froze my nuts off while I was waiting.”

  “You see anything?” Rokov said.

  “I was pretty hammered.”

  “Unusual people? Odd sounds,” Sinclair prompted.

  Lowery shoved out a sigh as if pushing through the fog of his hangover. “I thought I saw someone at the old restaurant across the street.”

  Rokov tensed. “What did you see?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. It was late and dark, and like I said, I was hammered. I just figured it was a couple getting busy.”

  “A couple.”

  “Saw a man with a woman at his side on the top floor. They went in and a light came on.”

  “You see the guy or the woman?”

  “No. Just their outlines. He was holding her close and kissing her like he couldn’t wait to get her alone.” He sniffed. “So what’s their deal?”

  “She’s dead. And we think he killed her.”

  Chapter 3