“I need you to come with me to the station,” Hensley said. “I need to ask you some questions.”
I was wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and I looked no better than I had the first time Hensley had seen me. The officer seemed to be considering whether or not I was crazy. At the moment, I wasn’t sure, either.
I spun around and headed for the stairs. I heard both men hurry into the house then thunder down the stairs behind me.
“Where are you going?” Hensley asked sharply.
“Can I get my keys and some shoes before you drag me off to jail?”
I went into my room and grabbed my bag and tennis shoes from the floor.
“I’m not taking you to jail.”
“You mean that’s not our first stop,” I corrected.
I shut my bedroom door then went into the bathroom down the hall.
“What are you doing?” Hensley asked.
“Relax, Detective,” I said, walking in and setting my stuff on the counter. “You’ll give yourself a stroke.”
I caught sight of myself in the mirror and cringed. Bad was an understatement.
I grabbed a band from the drawer and tied my hair up. Pieces stuck out all over, but it was fine for an early morning interrogation and jail. I fished out a pin from the drawer and pinned my bangs out of my face, both cops looking on carefully, as if waiting for me to pull out a weapon I kept stored there.
A minute later we were piled in two cars, the officer in a marked Crown Vic, and Hensley and me in an unmarked Crown Vic. I sat in the back while Hensley drove. We were separated by a metal grate. The backseat smelled like urine and vomit, and there was a suspicious-looking stain on the floor behind the passenger seat. The only highlight was Hensley had refrained from using handcuffs. Technically, I wasn’t under arrest. But I had no doubt that was his intent after a bit of questioning.
The officer went his own way while Hensley drove me to the police station located on Timberline Road, just north of Drake. The building was new and characteristically modern, with lots of pointy angles, metal, and glass. I think the tax dollars could have been put to better use, but I’m not in charge of making those decisions.
Hensley parked in the back and led me in through a rear door. We rode the elevator to the second floor then made our way down a long hallway. We arrived at a door marked crimes against property and went in, coming to a small lobby of sorts. The desk in front of the door was empty, the secretary having gone home for the day, or the weekend, and only a few of the desks and offices in the space beyond were busy with activity. Offices and conference rooms lined the perimeter of the space. Black letters painted on the glass doors identified each one. In the middle, a dozen mismatched desks were crammed together, with narrow walkways snaking between them. Hensley led me to the far wall and into a room marked interrogation.
These rooms are intentionally cold and intimidating, and this one was no different. There was a single metal table bolted to the floor with a large steel ring welded to the middle of it, used for securing handcuffs. There were two plain metal chairs on either side of the table, and Hensley deposited me in one of them. He called to someone nearby and told him to watch the door then stepped away. The guard, a plainclothes man in his forties, remained outside and paid me little attention, instead continuing to read through the thick file he held.
Hensley returned a few minutes later with a stack of files in his hands, which he arranged over the opposite side of the table. Then he sat and pulled his notepad from his pocket, flipping to the page he wanted. A business card fell out and he held it up.
“Want to call your lawyer?”
The card I’d given him yesterday.
“No. Not yet.” No sense racking up a huge legal bill if I could clear things up myself.
“You have the right to legal counsel.”
“I can invoke at any time.”
He set the card aside and consulted this notepad.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Do I get three guesses?”
“You’re in enough trouble as it is. You might want to cooperate, make things a little easier for yourself.”
“I’m not going to make it any easier for you to put me in prison,” I said seriously.
“One step at a time.”
“Don’t you want to arrest me?” I asked. Then it hit me. “Sandra called you.”
“Yes,” he said. “She’s filing charges against you for breaking and entering. She says you broke into her house last night. Do you know anything about that?”
I had to admit, I liked her style. Always on the offense.
“Breaking and entering?” I smiled. “We work together. She told me about the key she keeps under a pot. I went by to see her last night, but she wasn’t home. I wanted to wait for her, but it started raining. I used the key to let myself in.”
“She claims she doesn’t leave keys lying around, and that she wouldn’t have told you about them if she did.”
“I’m not surprised. I went to ask her about the twenty thousand dollars missing from White Real Estate.”
“Why ask her about the money?”
“Because I didn’t steal it. I thought she might know something.”
“Did she?”
I reached into my bag and withdrew the recorder. I set it on the table between us and pressed play. We listened as the conversation replayed. Nothing in his expression changed, but he began shifting in his seat when Sandra finally confessed. I hit the stop button and looked at him.
“See, she’s using her little report to keep you guys busy, focused on me.”
He sighed and set the notepad aside. “Did you put the key back?”
“Yep. Wasn’t there, huh?”
“She’s saying it never was.”
“See the concrete?” I asked, remembering the mark the key had left.
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.
“Okay, so what now?” I asked. “Can I go?”
The detective reached forward and picked up the recorder. “I’m sure this will help clear up a few things,” he said, slipping it into his jacket pocket.
“I made a copy of that,” I said, pointing to his jacket. “In case it ‘disappears’ or anything.”
He shot me a dark look.
I wasn’t long on trust for Hensley. If left up to him, I would have been arrested and charged with a felony. That didn’t give me a whole lot of faith in the system.
“I’m just saying,” I said, raising my hands. “I told you I didn’t know anything about the missing money, but you didn’t believe me.”
“Everyone who sits on that side of the table says that,” he shot back.
“But you didn’t even bother to look past the nice, neat package Paige handed you. A little extra effort seems worth it for that one person who is actually telling the truth.”
“I’ll have someone give you a ride home,” he said, gathering his things.
“What about that breaking and entering bit?”
He stood. “Filing a false police report is a crime. It’s something I will take up with Ms. York when next I see her.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
_______________
Hensley called an officer to drive me home, but no one could pick me up for fifteen or twenty minutes. I agreed to meet the officer in the lobby then decided to look up Ellmann. I still needed to sign paperwork, and since I was already there, I couldn’t find any good reason to put it off. Even though I did look for one.
Ellmann had instructed me to call him when I arrived, but so far I hadn’t done anything else he’d told me to do, so I didn’t see any reason to start now. I wandered out of Hensley’s division then stopped a middle-aged guy dressed in jeans and polo shirt in the hallway. He gave me directions, his quintessential mustache dancing as he spoke.
I thanked him then moved away, finding the door marked crimes against persons. It stood open, so I walked in. As I passed another empty receptionist’s des
k and entered another bullpen, I experienced déjà vu. This space was a mirror image of the one Hensley worked in. The differences were the number of desks and the level of activity. While property crimes had simply been occupied, this division was busy. More than twice as many people were at work in here, and there were possibly twice as many desks. The arrangement of working spaces crowded together seemed to defy the physical laws of science; so many desks could not possibly fit into the allotted space.
The directions I’d been given turned my attention to the far corner. There, with his back to me, I spied the figure of the detective I sought, his size making him hard to miss. He was sitting at his desk, a smaller man in a suit standing beside him, both of them intently watching the computer screen. I slipped quietly through the maze of desks and stopped behind them, watching over Ellmann’s shoulder. The computer screen was split in half, the scene playing out from opposite angles.
I knew what this video was. This was the security camera footage from Elizabeth Tower.
Stacy Karnes stood at the counter browsing through a brochure she’d found there, her purse sitting where I’d later found it. The time readout on the screen said 1813. After reaching the back of the brochure, she put it down and looked around. She pulled her phone from her back pocket and glanced at it, possibly checking the time since she wasn’t wearing a watch.
Why hadn’t she answered the phone? I thought, my guilt weighing heavily on me.
Stacy tucked the phone back into her pocket then picked up another pamphlet. Behind her, the lobby door opened and the masked assailant walked in.
The person in the mask seemed to speak to Stacy. Stacy put the pamphlet down and turned around. I was no expert, but she didn’t seem overly concerned until she laid eyes on the figure, and then I could only guess it was the ski mask that upset her. Did that mean she knew the person? Had she recognized the person’s voice? I didn’t know yet, but I was more determined than ever to find out.
After turning around and seeing the mask, Stacy lifted her free hand and clamped it over her mouth, taking a step backward. The figure withdrew a gloved right hand from the front pocket of the hooded sweatshirt, holding a knife. The knife I’d seen covered in blood. The assailant stepped forward, pursuing Stacy. Unexpectedly, Stacy raised her right foot and thrust it forward, connecting with the assailant’s belly. It wasn’t a move born of skill or practice, but of an instinct to survive. The figure doubled over and stumbled back momentarily. Stacy sprinted for the door. The assailant recovered quickly, however, and grabbed the hood of Stacy’s sweatshirt, pulling her backward.
Stacy spun around to face the attacker, attempted to fight the attacker off, but the attacker sunk the knife into her belly once, then twice. I saw her mouth open and knew she was screaming. It was the scream I’d heard in the parking lot, the scream that reverberated in my dreams, and the scream echoing inside my head now. The assailant stabbed her a third time and she collapsed. When she was down, the assailant squatted, raising the knife above Stacy’s chest. Then suddenly the assailant stopped and spun around toward the door. I knew the assailant was seeing me.
On-screen, I walked into the lobby and stopped. For a beat, my eyes were locked with the assailant’s. Then the assailant jumped up and ran toward me. I watched as I dropped back into a defensive stance and brought my arms up. My physical encounter with the figure was brief. I blocked the blow, landed one of my own, then the stairwell and elevator doors burst open. The attacker stumbled for the door then out into the night.
I watched myself issue the order for the blonde to dial 911 and cross the lobby to Stacy. I knelt beside her then reach out to check for a pulse. The newcomers on scene fell in around us and pretty much blocked Stacy from view. A moment later a guy peeled off his shirt then pushed through the crowd, dropping out of sight. I knew he was pressing his shirt against Stacy’s abdomen at my direction. After another minute, the EMT-kid shot out of the stairwell and barreled through the crowd, dropping out of sight as he knelt beside Stacy. I remembered well what he was doing.
Then the crowd shuffled, and I emerged near the elevators. I seemed to be looking for something, thinking. I moved around toward the counter, having spied Stacy’s purse. There, I proceeded to rummage through it, pulling items out of her wallet and snapping photos. After a brief search, in which I clearly looked for something I didn’t find, I pushed my way back into the crowd and return a minute later with Stacy’s phone. My every movement was in plain sight of the camera. There was very little question about what I had been doing.
I wondered if this was the first time the police were watching the footage. I guessed it was. If Ellmann had seen any of this before, he would have been down my throat demanding to know why I’d been snapping photos of a dying girl’s ID. I could pretty much guarantee that was about to happen now. Although, Ellmann hadn’t spotted me yet; there was still time to turn around and leave, delay the interrogation by another few hours. Then a man in jeans and a shoulder holster stepped up next to me, and I knew any chance of escape had just been squashed.
“Hey, Ellmann, looks like you’ve got a visitor,” Shoulder Holster said, obviously amused.
Ellmann and the man in the suit spun around, instantly assessing the situation. It was about that long before I saw the anger and annoyance fill Ellmann’s eyes. For whatever reason, I didn’t find him as difficult to read as Hensley, though they both did the neutral cop-mask thing well.
Instinctively, I took a small step back. I felt my leg bump against something hard, solid, and knew it was another desk; they were crammed in here like freaking sardines. Quick escapes were severely hindered by this poor arrangement.
“This looks like a bad time,” I said lightly. “You seem busy. I’ll come back later.”
“You were supposed to call me,” he said, standing.
I shrugged. “I was right around the corner, literally. I thought I’d drop by, see if you were in.”
I took a step to the left, the way I’d come, squeezing past Shoulder Holster, who was laughing out loud now.
“I’ll come back when you’re not so busy,” I said again, taking a couple more steps. “I can see you’re busy.”
Without taking a step, Ellmann reached out a long arm and closed his enormous hand around my entire upper arm. His grip wasn’t tight, but I could feel the strength in it. It’d be a chore to get free unless he released me.
“You’re here now,” he said. “I’d hate for you to have come down here for nothing.”
“I assure you the trip wasn’t wasted. I had other business to take care of.”
“We’ll talk now.”
He began steering me back out of the maze and then to the right, instead of the left and toward the door. In the far corner, I saw two rooms with interrogation stenciled on the glass and felt myself break out in a light sweat at the thought this was where I was being dragged now. One interrogation room per day was my limit. I let out the breath I’d been unknowingly holding when we sailed past those rooms and through a door marked break room.
It was essentially a kitchen. Counters and cupboards lined two walls and there were a dozen small round tables spread throughout the rest of the space, each with two or three chairs. I could see standard kitchen appliances, making the kitchen fully operational. There were three coffee pots on one end of the counter, all three of which had dark brown liquid in them, and at least one was on; the smell of burnt coffee filled the room. Two tables were currently occupied.
“I need the room,” Ellmann said.
Without a word of question or protest, the others cleared their tables and left. Ellmann released me then went to the door and threw the bolt, locking us in, or everyone else out—I wasn’t sure which. And I didn’t know which I preferred. He turned back to me and stood with his hands on his hips. I crossed my arms over my chest defiantly.
“What the hell were you doing?”
I’d done a lot of things for which he was likely to demand an explanation and didn’t know
to which he was referring now. And, while I’m no expert in surviving police interrogation, I have a handle on the basics. I never offer more information than asked for, lest I give away information previously unknown.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Sadly, it’s true; you’ve done so many things.” He took a breath. “I don’t know how long you were standing behind me, but you know I saw the footage; I saw what happened in that lobby. Can you please explain to me what you were doing in her purse and with her phone? At first glance, it appears you’re rifling through a dying girl’s belongings, searching for something worth pocketing.”
“Maybe you should have taken my clothes that night, then. I took nothing from her.”
Except a bit of information.
“You don’t strike me as the aimless type, so I don’t think you weren’t snooping without reason. You were looking for something. What?”
I shrugged. “Emergency contacts. You know, I thought maybe I could find the numbers so EMS could just pass them along to the ER staff.”
This was the first answer that popped into my head. I ran with it.
“And then you took pictures? Why? If you found the numbers, ER staff would have found them, too.”
“I noticed the battery light flashing. I only took pictures so the information would be accessible after her phone died. I was only trying to help. There was so much excitement, and everything happened so fast after the ambulance got there, I just forgot about the photos.”
I’ve become a good liar. Better than good, actually. Sometimes I scare myself.
What surprised me, though, was that I almost felt bad lying to Ellmann. I was actually starting to like the guy.
He walked forward toward the nearest table, shaking his head the way a person might do after explaining something simple to someone else who just didn’t get it. It wasn’t the first time I’d had that effect on someone. Usually I see that expression on my boss or supervisor’s face.
The Trouble With Murder Page 9