The Only Suspect

by Jonnie Jacobs

  He caught her waist as she walked by, pulled her close and nibbled playfully on her ear. “You didn’t really think we were winding down, did you?”

  She glanced at the rose hues of the western sky, heard the evening song of the crickets outside her window. A six-pack of beer was cooling in the fridge, and Josh’s hands were warm against her skin. She knew the night had more to offer.

  By way of an answer, she turned and brushed his shoulder lightly with her lips then headed for the closet.

  Josh followed. He stood behind her and ran his hands over the contours of her body until she pulled away.

  “I did warn you that I might get called out.”

  He grunted.

  “Don’t be a spoilsport.”

  Josh sighed, reached for his own clothes. “They ought to have a support group for guys who get involved with cops.”

  Involved. As if a few hours of meaningless, though admittedly very good, sex was the same as a relationship.

  “You wouldn’t get much of a crowd,” Hannah told him. She pulled on a pair of tan slacks and the only clean white blouse in her closet. When she discovered a missing bottom button, she vowed anew to spend her next free day getting her wardrobe in order. Tonight she’d just have to make sure the blouse stayed tucked.

  Back in the bathroom, she toweled off a spot in the steamy mirror and made a swipe at working magic with lipstick and blush. The hair she couldn’t do much about.

  Josh watched from the doorway. He slipped an arm into his denim jacket, squinted in her direction. “How do I know this Dallas isn’t just some guy who’s made you a better offer for the night?”

  She grabbed her handbag and gun. “You don’t,” she told him with a grin.

  Dallas was waiting when she got to the street. He handed her a large Styrofoam cup of coffee. She popped the lid and took a sip. It was flavorless but hot.

  “So, who’s the guy?” he asked, halfway into the next block. “Anyone I know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Anyone I’m going to know?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Why all the secrecy?”

  “It’s called privacy, Dallas. Not secrecy.”

  He tapped a finger against the wheel. “You ever think about finding yourself one that’s a keeper?”

  “You’re hardly one to talk.” Dallas dated the way some people sampled chocolates—a quick taste and then on to the next offering. That’s the way it seemed to Hannah, at any rate. She hadn’t actually heard him mention anyone by name.

  The corners of his mouth caught somewhere between a scowl and a smirk. He kept his eyes on the road and said nothing. The double standard at play, Hannah thought. Different rules for men and women.

  “What do we know about cause of death?” she asked after a moment.

  “No apparent gunshot wounds—that’s all I know. The medical examiner is going to meet us there.”

  “Who’s in charge of securing the scene?”

  “Bauer.”

  Hannah groaned. “We might as well invite the whole town to tramp through.”

  “Give him a break, Hannah. He tries.”

  “Tries? That’s not good enough, and you know it.” Or maybe Dallas really didn’t know the difference. “You saw what happened with Singer.”

  “So the evidence wasn’t as rock solid as it could have been. The guy still ended up behind bars.”

  That was the difference between them, she thought. Dallas’s world was painted in broad brushstrokes. As long as the picture looked something like a cow, it was good enough. Never mind that it had five legs and wings. Never mind that Singer should have received a life sentence and now would likely be out in seven years because evidence collected from the crime scene had been too tainted to stand up in court.

  At least this time there would be no roommates trudging in and out. The damage Bauer could do here was more limited.

  Half a dozen cars occupied the wide circular driveway when they arrived. The medical examiner’s van was pulled in at an angle—the only way it could fit, given the crowded conditions. Two black-and-whites were parked on the street. Dallas pulled in behind them.

  “Looks like a party,” he said.

  Hannah had the sinking feeling he was right. Literally. The house was ablaze with lights, and she could hear the soft hum of voices from inside.

  Tony Bauer was at the door, speaking into his cell phone. He held up a finger as they approached, then hastily finished his conversation.

  “Body’s in the wine cellar,” he said.

  “A real wine cellar?” Dallas asked, sounding impressed.

  Bauer nodded. “As big as my dining room.”

  Hannah eyed the house. It was one of the new, Mediterranean-style minivillas that had begun springing up on the outskirts of town. They were marginally better, she conceded, than the faux French chateaus, which were also quite the rage. All were large to the point of pretentiousness. Not to her taste at all.

  “Who’s been in there so far?” she inquired.

  “The two of us who responded initially, plus Brian Murphy and Carla Adams, who are there now. And Joe Bones. I came out here to call the lieutenant. Can’t get a good signal from inside.”

  Her gaze snapped from the house to Bauer. “What’s Joe doing in there?”

  Bauer looked at her like she was nuts for asking. “He’s the medical examiner.”

  Joe Bones was his honest-to-God name. He was also staff physician at the Bellhaven Convalescent Hospital, where the patients he ministered to in life one week sometimes wound up on his steel autopsy table the next. Hannah wondered if the disconnect of his two roles didn’t bother him at times.

  “The detectives go in first,” she reminded him. “We run the investigation.”

  Bauer shrugged. “Joe knows his business.”

  His business wasn’t the same as theirs, however. It was a distinction that seemed lost on Bauer.

  “What’s with all the cars?” Dallas asked with a sweeping gesture of his arm.

  “The friend who’s staying here.” Bauer checked his notes. “Woman by the name of Season Connell. She had a few friends over for dinner.”

  Hannah winced at what she knew would be coming. “How many of them have been in the wine cellar?”

  “I’m not sure. I isolated them in the kitchen and told them they could go ahead with their dinner but they couldn’t leave. Marsh is with them.”

  “Okay,” Dallas said. “Better show us the body.”

  Bauer led Hannah and Dallas through the front door then down an interior stone stairway that descended from the left side of the foyer.

  Carla Adams and Brian Murphy were standing in the hallway on the lower level outside an open door leading to the wine cellar. Hannah immediately felt a draft of refrigerated air. The closer she got, the colder the temperature. It felt more like a meat locker than a wine cellar.

  Carla straightened her shirt and tucked a loose strand of hair into the clip at the back of her head. Her preening seemed lost on Dallas, who acknowledged her presence and Murphy’s with nothing more than a curt nod.

  “What have you got?” Hannah asked.

  “No sign of a struggle in the cellar,” Murphy replied.

  “What about the rest of the house?”

  It was Carla who answered. “The guests are upstairs in the kitchen-dining area. The woman who’s staying here is using the bedroom to the top left of the stairs. It’s a mess—all her stuff, she says. The rest of the house is neat as a pin.”

  Hannah stepped into the wine cellar. It was maybe twelve feet square, with a stone floor and lined with wine racks and bottles. The air was frigid and damp. Hannah ran her hands over her arms and wished she’d thought to bring a sweater.

  “Whew,” Dallas said. “This guy must like his wine chilled.”

  “It is colder than you’d expect, isn’t it? Let’s be sure to check the temperature setting.”

  Joe Bones was bent over the crumpled form of a woman
. She was on her side, propped against the far wall.

  “I haven’t moved her,” he said, turning to address Hannah and Dallas. “Haven’t done anything really, except take a first look.”

  “And?” Dallas asked.

  “From the ligature marks on her neck and the presence of petechial hemorrhages in the eyes, I’d say she was strangled.” He stood up to give them a better look. “There are stab wounds present on her neck and chest as well though. I won’t be able to say for sure what killed her until I get her on the table.”

  The body was female, fully clothed in cotton slacks, a gauzy blouse, and a boxy linen jacket. Her left foot was bare. On her right foot, she wore the sort of strappy, slingback sandal Hannah found impossibly uncomfortable. Height, build, and coloring were right for Maureen, but Hannah couldn’t be certain. Even in the cold cellar, the woman’s features had swollen and distorted with death. Her flesh was waxy, her eyes clouded. Hannah bit back the taste of bile. She’d never been good at this part.

  “Looks like it could be her, doesn’t it?” Dallas said.

  Hannah nodded. She turned to Carla. “You find any ID?”

  “Nothing. Not even any visible jewelry. I think Dallas is right though. The victim fits Maureen Russell’s description.”

  “How long do you think she’s been dead?” Dallas asked Bones.

  “Hard to say, especially given the cool temperature.”

  “More than twenty-four hours?”

  Bones nodded. “Definitely more.”

  Dallas turned to Hannah. “Doesn’t exactly work with Sam’s tale of a kidnapping, does it?”

  She didn’t like his tone, but neither did she like the fact that he was probably right. “We don’t even know that it’s Maureen Russell,” she pointed out.

  “Well, the sooner I get her out of here,” Bones said, “the sooner I can get some answers. Do what you need to do and let me know when I can move her.”

  Hannah kneeled and forced herself to take a closer look at the woman. Bones had already bagged her hands to preserve trace evidence, but he’d assured them he’d left the body otherwise as she’d been found. Despite the wounds to the woman’s chest and neck, there was relatively little blood. There was also dried blood near her temple and some scratches on her right arm.

  “Did you check her pockets for identification?” Hannah asked Carla.

  “Only the one I could reach without disturbing the body.”

  Hannah reached a gloved hand under the woman from the front and felt a scrap of paper in the obscured jacket pocket. She eased it out. Some kind of flyer on cheap yellow bond. A printed recipe for low-fat lasagna. On the back, someone had scribbled in pen:

  233—160B

  Dallas had been poking around the perimeter of the room. Now he peered over her shoulder. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Could be an identification code, a password, maybe a room number.” She placed the paper in an evidence bag, though she wasn’t sure how useful it would be.

  Hannah lifted the woman’s hair from her neck and noticed a purplish bruising along the back of her shoulders. “Lividity in the upper torso,” she said.

  Bones nodded. “Looks like the body was moved. Killed elsewhere and dumped here would be my guess.”

  Only not dumped in the usual sense, Hannah thought. If the killer had simply wanted to dispose of the body, there were many more-accessible places to choose from.

  She stood up, feeling the strain in her back as she did. She’d gotten lazy about exercise, and it showed.

  “Where’s the photographer?” Dallas asked.

  “Should be here any minute now,” said Bauer.

  Dallas bent down and, with a pair of tweezers, held up a piece of latex. Hannah first thought it might be a condom, but the shape was wrong.

  “Looks like it might have come from a glove,” Dallas said. He looked to Bauer. “Let’s bag it.”

  Hannah turned her attention from the body. It wasn’t going anywhere until they gave the word. The crime scene, on the other hand, was altered with every person who stepped near it. She pulled out her notebook and began recording her observations and impressions. If experience held, she’d end up ignoring most of it, but there was no telling which small detail might jog her memory or trigger a key thought later in the investigation.

  She noted the placement of the body, the smooth cement floor, the walls lined with row after row of what she could only assume was premium wine. Not a lot of places for the killer to leave prints, even if he hadn’t been wearing gloves. As crime scenes went, this one was practically antiseptic.

  Hannah could only hope the forensics team would turn up something. But if the victim had been killed elsewhere, the odds of that were slim.

  “Seen enough?” Dallas asked.

  Hannah nodded, and they pulled back into the hallway. “I wonder what happened to her shoe.”

  “Maybe Sam’s got a foot fetish.”

  Hannah glowered at him. “You’re ready to pin this on him already?”

  “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

  “We don’t even know the identity of the victim.”

  At the far end from the stairs they’d come down, there were two doors. “Where do those go?” she asked Carla.

  “The one to the left is storage. The door to the right leads outside to the carport.”

  “Anyone dusted for prints yet?”

  “Not yet, but we will.”

  Using a clean handkerchief, Hannah opened the door, revealing a wide, covered space that could hold three vehicles. There was a sports car parked in the far stall; the other two were vacant.

  “Whose car is that?” she asked.

  “Belongs to the guy who owns the house.”

  Hannah could see why the guests had chosen to park in the circular driveway. It was close to the front door, and it avoided having to climb stairs. She was thinking how inconvenient it would be to have to haul groceries in this back way.

  As she turned to head into the house, she noted a tread mark on the concrete step by the door. A man’s boot from the looks of it, and fairly fresh. She told Carla to be sure they got a photograph and measurements. Then she went back inside to find Dallas.

  “Come on, let’s go up and talk to Season Connell and her guests.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Hannah followed Dallas upstairs, where they found six subdued diners gathered in the kitchen, sipping wine. The meal, which smelled divine, was still on the stove. One of the men, tall and rail thin, had spooned what looked like chicken breast with mushrooms and wine sauce onto a plate and was busily shoveling it in while the others seemed to have lost their interest in food.

  The uniformed officer, Harry Marsh, stood at the door leading to the dining room, his hands near his weapon, as though the guests might be about to flee the scene. Marsh took his job seriously; Hannah gave him credit for that.

  “None of them have left the kitchen in the time I’ve been here,” Marsh said.

  Hannah nodded. “Thanks. We’ll take over here now. They might need you downstairs.”

  A heavyset redhead in a purple silk pantsuit stepped forward and introduced herself as Season, the hostess of the evening. “We decided to skip dinner,” she explained. “But, given what’s happened, we can clearly use the wine.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the others and a shift of eyes toward the man with the plate of chicken.

  “Hey, it’s not that I’m callous,” he protested. “Just hungry. I haven’t eaten all day, and this stuff is too good to waste.”

  Season gestured to the wine and addressed the detectives. “Would you like a glass? Or maybe some coq au vin?”

  “We’re fine,” Hannah said before Dallas had a chance to answer differently, “but thanks.” She eyed the kitchen, which looked like a cook’s dream. Two sinks, a big center island, granite countertops, professional Wolf range. “What’s your relation to the owner of the house?”

  “Ben and I have been friends
for years,” Season said. Her dangly silver earrings clinked melodically with each movement of her head. They reminded Hannah of fishing lures. “In fact, I sold him this house.”

  “It was yours?” Dallas asked.

  Season shook her head, setting off an accompanying jangle from the earrings. “No, I’m in real estate.”

  “And what does Ben do?”

  “He’s a doctor. Anesthesiology. But his real passion is food and wine. It’s a passion we share, only I’m not lucky enough to have a kitchen like this. Or a wine cellar like his.” She grimaced. No doubt finding a body there had dulled her envy somewhat. “That’s why he lets me use his place sometimes when he’s away.”

  “Where is he?” Dallas asked.

  “Italy. He’s been gone two weeks already.”

  “When’s he due back?”

  “Next Friday.” Season frowned. “I guess I should call him and tell him about this, shouldn’t I? It’s going to put a damper on his vacation.”

  Hannah pulled out her notebook. “It’ll be better if we talk to him first. Do you have a number when he can be reached?”

  While Season rummaged through the papers near the phone, a bearded man refilled everyone’s wine glass. Hannah took the printout Season handed her and copied the relevant part of Ben Albright’s itinerary.

  “Tell us about discovering the body,” she said, handing the paper back to Season.

  “We went down to get wine.”

  “We?”

  “Don and I.” She pointed to the man who’d been pouring wine. “We spotted her right away. At first we weren’t sure she was dead, though once we got a closer look, we could tell.”

  Don spoke up. “I felt for a pulse just to be sure. Then we called 911.”

  “Did you touch anything else? Take anything?”

  “Of course not,” Season huffed.

  “So you left the cellar and didn’t go back?”

  “We went back later for wine,” Don explained.

  “You and Season?”

  “Charlie and I.” He gestured to the man who’d been eating.

  “I wasn’t going back into that cellar for anything,” Season said, with a shiver. “One go-around with a dead body is enough for me.”