The Witness

by Dee Henderson

  “The car. The VIN numbers show the Lincoln is New York registered, and the plates have been proven to be stolen. So the car is his, but the drop spot—maybe he paid someone in town to do his work for him, because either by pure luck or help, he chose one of the three spots in town I would dump it if I wanted it to be an interesting find for the cops. There is enough come-and-go housing in those blocks to make it a plausible area he might have settled.”

  “They towed the car in last night.”

  “Yes. The crime-lab guys found nothing, not even a partial print. He’d cleaned it out and left it for us.”

  “He was probably watching the car too, to see who would come and watch it before it got hauled away,” Luke added. “He’ll have made you and Connor for sure.”

  “A bother, but not so unexpected,” Marsh replied with a shrug. “We’re already all over the news thanks to that pack of reporters, and he could get our photos off a search of the newspaper archives if he wished. You’ve got to assume this guy stayed in town.”

  “Sam’s place got slipped into—neatly, but files ruffled. So he’s searching for information wherever he can get it.”

  “Okay, that’s news. Sam want us to take a look?”

  Luke smiled at Connor and his detective grimaced. “Forget I asked. Did he get any prints?”

  “He would have remarked if he had. You’ve got the recent photos on this guy that New York sent down?”

  “Copies taped to the visor in all the vehicles and an extra copy in my wallet. We’ll know him on sight, Boss.”

  “Let word slide down through the ranks that I’ll personally thank the guy that radios in a confirmed sighting. I don’t want an officer out on his own trying to stop this guy without backup, but I want him off the streets as a priority.”

  “I think Marsh and I have already passed that message out,” Connor replied. “It’s going to cost us a couple nice game tickets, but that kind of offer tends to get some guys willing to work some overtime off the books. If there is something to hear—or see—out there, I expect we’ll have it.”

  “Good.” Luke looked between the men. “Anything else catching your interest in the lab reports? I’ve seen the results coming in. Pretty thin so far.”

  “A few hairs they haven’t been able to identify pulled from a blood spot on the bookkeeper’s body and a couple partial smudge marks from the bathrooms that might be sweat. It’s not a lot of evidence to match to a killer. The knife is consistent to both victims, including the busted tip on the blade. We’re back at both scenes this afternoon to give Caroline a look at them.”

  “Keep it toned down a bit, okay? You two having nightmares is enough.”

  “I’m not pushing photos her way,” Marsh concurred. “You want to hear her thoughts?”

  “Anything glimmers at all, call me. This guy got both victims to let him inside, and they apparently didn’t sense danger until it was too late. I’d love to know how he managed that.”

  “We’re talking to the neighbors for a third time tomorrow, hoping to get something new, and we’re going back through the interviews of people who knew the two of them, looking for someone they had in common recently. To just arrive, meet them, and kill them—he’s using quite a story.”

  “Or someone they both already trusted had made the introductions,” Connor offered, “not realizing what was being set up.”

  “Yeah, that fits. If you get an idea for how you want to try and push this guy, let me know. I’ll do the press work for you.”

  “Appreciate it, Boss. I had a reporter leaning against my car this morning, waiting for me at 5 a.m. That’s not the way to start the day.”

  Luke smiled. “Tell me about it. Tell Caroline hi for me and that I still want her back on the job. She’s going to get tired of being away one of these days.”

  “I might even weave her a story or two about how much she’s missed,” Marsh said, smiling back. He nodded his partner toward the door. “We’ll call in.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE MOON WAS FAR enough up in the sky that looking out her studio window Marie could see it rising between buildings, bright in the clear night sky. She hummed to herself as she worked on the painting before her and listened to the apartment for sounds of Tracey and Marsh leaving. Tracey was on the way back to campus for a Thursday night lecture, and Marsh had promised to take her back and forth. Marie would go say good night, but she’d already said it once and thought giving the two of them some privacy was a better idea. Tracey had been too subdued lately with everything going on, and she needed Marsh around to smooth that out again.

  “Daniel?”

  “I’m still here.” The phone on the table was set to speaker mode; they were keeping each other company long distance tonight.

  “Why don’t you call it a night and get back to work on the problem tomorrow?”

  “I counted boxes, and there are another thirty-eight to go through. My uncle’s bookkeeper kept everything; I haven’t got to the boxes my uncle filed himself. I’m sure they are here too.”

  “I could help out.”

  “It’s just methodical work, scanning every page for something that might be important and marking the rest to be shredded once this settles down again. How’s the painting coming?”

  “About done. I like this one.” She was trying hard to capture from a photograph a walk path and bridge she had visited last summer. It had been a good day with her sister, and she could remember the day well enough to try and get it onto canvas.

  “I liked the last attempt.”

  “Too many shadows in the trees; they looked sinister rather than peaceful.”

  “Did Tracey leave for school?”

  “Just.” She’d heard the distinctive sound of the outer door closing. “She needs the drive time with Marsh to shake away a few cobwebs. It’s been gloomy around here the last few days.”

  “Same here. I talked the housekeeper into taking a couple days off; she’d known the two guys for years. This age of life you expect to hear heart attack not murder.”

  “I know.” Marie didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to talk about it. Especially didn’t want to reflect too long on the fact it was Connor who had stood over the bodies, worked the scenes, and now led the search with Marsh to find the killer. “Would you like to come over to the gallery tomorrow and take a look at that seascape that came in? It’s pretty special.”

  “Lunchtime? I’ve got an appointment out your way.”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s a date then. Any more thoughts on what the lawyer sent over?”

  “Tracey already has her will signed and notarized. I’ll read the final copy on mine tomorrow. Shifting everything to Amy is a simple step, but if Amy and Tracey have both passed away—I’m not sure who should get asked to absorb this stress. Being wealthy is nice when it comes to living easier, but the rest of it—”

  “Leave it to be paid out over time to your church; it’s got to go somewhere since you won’t be taking it with you.”

  “Very true. Why do you talk so easily about heaven for others, Daniel, and yet not believe in God?”

  “Do I have to answer that?”

  “I already know your uncle was not exactly a good role model for what being a Christian is like. But the chief—he lives the same way he believes.”

  “I know. Luke and I have talked a lot about God over the years; he can be persuasive when he needs to be.”

  “But you still don’t believe.”

  “I think God lets people in power do too much damage, that He cares about the big picture and bringing down nations and raising up others; but get down to a finer level where intervention would matter in justice between people and He doesn’t do enough. The Bible talks a lot about taking care of the poor and the widows, and God doesn’t seem to be that interested in changing the fact the poor just get poorer and the powerful more abusive in societies. God should be the cop walking the block, not a supreme court justice where it t
akes a decade for a legitimate grievance to get heard.”

  “Maybe Christians are supposed to be doing the work to lift up the poor and oppressed.”

  “Then God inspires very little loyalty to His cause. When was the last time you gave a gift to someone who was poor?”

  The question caught her off guard. “The church missions group gives a lot and part of that would be my gifts, but that dodges your question. I don’t know anyone who is really poor; that’s sad, isn’t it? I’m in a downtown that used to be the run-down part of town, and now it’s too wealthy for those who used to live here.”

  “We’re too comfortable in our own little worlds to actually connect with those who might need some help.”

  “So that’s God’s fault?”

  “I’d like to think someone was taking responsibility for the problem, and He says He sees it and feels their hurt.”

  She thought about it and painted some more. “You feel guilty being rich.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, some.” She sighed. “Not enough to go back to not having money. Identifying with the poor by being one of them may make it easier to connect and empathize, but it’s a lousy way to help.”

  “So we’ll give away a few checks to try and feel better about ourselves and share some of the money around. I don’t want a religion that hopes for heaven because it’s the wealthy, prosperous place to be in the future. I want heaven to mean something more than a place; I want it to be a relationship. And so far the God I see and hear about—let’s just say He and I haven’t squared away what kind of relationship He’s talking about.”

  “A love one, Daniel. Jesus looks at you and sees you and loves you. For all your money and things you worry and care about.”

  “Henry sure didn’t see Christianity as that; he viewed it as a tithe to the penny and an appearance of the right actions, and the rest of life’s decisions—that was just business.”

  “I’m sad for him now and the coldness of that and for you. It doesn’t have to be that.”

  “So I’ll think about it some more in my own fashion, but not enough to believe like you do yet. It’s not a taboo topic, Marie, just one I see differently than you.”

  “Okay.” Marie bit her paintbrush handle and studied the scene before her. Too dark again. “Remember God is looking for a love relationship next time you ponder it: trust, loyalty, discipline, closeness—all that a love relationship implies. I don’t model that all that well, but I know it’s what He wants.” She set aside the canvas to start another one. “Change of subject—I was thinking more about the wedding gift for Tracey and Marsh.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Maybe.” She flipped through the notebook on the table. “They are planning to add on to the house to give them more space, and Tracey is a better decorator than I am. But they aren’t going to be around the house all their lives, and while I can’t plan trips for them, I could find out some things they would enjoy getting out to do together. Marsh loves to ski, and Connor mentioned Marsh is also a pretty avid fisherman. If the family had access to a boat and launch slip at the lake, it’s something Mandy could even join us to do, spending a day out on the water, that kind of thing.”

  “It’s got possibilities.”

  “Marsh would never accept it outright as a wedding gift, I don’t think, but as a gift that is part of a larger something else? Maybe.”

  “You want me to find you a house to buy on the lake? It shouldn’t be that hard.”

  “I was thinking more about you,” she admitted.

  He laughed. “You really didn’t like my apartment, did you?”

  “It’s nice enough and all, but you live inside the office all day and go home to live inside an apartment at night. There’s no outdoors in your life beyond your spectacular rose-filled walkway. You need a real house in the city, not some place outside of town you go to stay once every couple months. You ought to think about it, Daniel. You’ve got family now to help you mess up more space. And the thought of your moving into your uncle’s place—it gives me the shudders. It’s beautiful if you like a museum feel, but it’s not somewhere for you.”

  “I’ll admit I’d enjoy having a boat.”

  “See? The idea is already growing on you.”

  “Have they set a date for the wedding yet?”

  Marie picked up the phone and walked out of the studio and into the kitchen to get herself something to drink. “They’re talking about April, I think. Tracey likes the thought of having her anniversaries in the decades to come during that month.” She eyed the closed garbage sack that reminded her it was garbage pickup in the morning, and she didn’t plan to have the flopped tuna salad she’d thrown away stinking up the house for another day. “Let’s talk more about a boat tomorrow. I think you should do that with me.”

  “You’ve got a deal.”

  “I’m going to go do chores and think about Connor maybe calling me later. You should stop working now.”

  “I’ll admit to feeling stiff enough it’s time to take a break from sitting at this table. I’ll finish this box and call it a night. It was good talking with you while I worked; the time passed quickly.”

  “I think so too. Good night, Daniel.”

  “Night, Marie.”

  She closed the phone and thought not for the first time that he was a really nice man. Not so easy to get to know, but nice. She picked up the trash bag and slid her keys into her pocket.

  The security cameras showed all was quiet out on the street, and the rain had thankfully eased off. Marie walked outside and put the trash into the Dumpster behind the building and went back into the gallery, turning on the low-track lighting and walking through to her office. Bryce was around—he was always around—but she was beginning to find that presence a background comfort rather than an intrusion.

  Her office was neat but the trash overflowed, and she gathered it together along with the trash from the front checkout desk. The new display of paintings looked sharp together, she thought with pleasure, doing a walk around to see what else could be dealt with tonight. The front window needed to be wiped down inside again; it collected dust from the overhead heating more than most of the other windows, and she liked it to sparkle. Another month and this gallery would have new heating and lighting and a brand-new drop ceiling. Peter had promised a showcase, and he had ideas to make the architecture of the place itself become a beautiful thing.

  She unlocked the door and took the last trash out. Maybe while Peter was working in the gallery she’d see if it was possible to refurbish the interior brick on the building and make it a rich, rough background for some of the more interesting pieces of art where the color contrast would be an asset. There was only so much that could be done with a white display wall.

  An arm grabbed tight around her throat, her hair tangled by a hand and yanked back, bringing her face to the sky, and something cold touched her skin. “Don’t move.” She felt a knife blade against her throat and didn’t try to even breathe. “They should have paid me; you’ll mention that to them. They should have paid me.”

  She felt something hot and wet swung into her hands, and he was gone. She struggled to blink away choking tears and looked down.

  The guy had eviscerated a cat.

  She dropped it. She didn’t throw up or stagger or faint. The rushing in her ears removed the present from her thoughts, and the next time she blinked Bryce was standing in front of her.

  “Saw him, couldn’t stop you, couldn’t reach him.” She could hear the anger in his quiet words and the tenseness in the man as he became the only thing in her world. The man had big hands, tough hands, and they were wiping junk off hers without appearing to be brisk about it, but the blood was going away. He was using his shirttails, she vaguely realized.

  “Take a breath.”

  The words settled inside deep enough she did so.

  “That’s the way.” His face looked like a boxer’s might about the time his eyes narrowed and
he punched straight into your face, but he still smiled at her. Not angry with her, incredibly, not angry with her for walking into this mess.

  “Sorry, Bryce. Taking the trash out was stupid,” she tried to whisper, only to find her voice hoarse.

  He ignored the words and finished with the basics of his task. “Good enough to get you under a hot tap to take care of the rest.” His arm settled around her waist before he let her try to take a step. “Remember the stairs.”

  “Yeah.”

  She wasn’t fully ready to be out of that shock, she realized as she misjudged the doorway and hit the doorpost.

  Bryce was punching in security codes behind her on the pad and then walking her toward the downstairs restroom. “Towels?”

  “The narrow closet, where we keep the cleaning supplies.”

  She didn’t look toward a mirror, nudging it open so as not to be able to see an image of herself afraid, nor did she look at her hands under a stream of hot water turning red with remaining traces of the cat. She just closed her eyes and used the soap.

  “Good. Use this.” Bryce pushed a washcloth into her hands, and while she soaped it, his rough hands pushed back her hair and wiped at traces of the tears. “Hold still, Marie. This will sting a bit.” He wiped something across her face that came as a cold shock and then a bitter smell.

  “What?”

  “All done.”

  The guy hadn’t cut her, she was sure of it, but something had been on his coat sleeve pressed in tight to her face. “Thanks.”

  “Connor’s coming.”

  She thought herself too shaky to want that attention but nodded. “Okay.”

  She wrapped her hands in another dry towel and tried to smile at Bryce. “I’m going to go change and drink some coffee and forget that just happened.”

  “You won’t, but it’s a good first few steps. You want me to come up?”

  “Better to know you’re down here making sure no one else does.”

  “I’m coding the doors so you can’t step outside on me again without an alarm blaring at you to rethink it.”

  “A good plan.”