Hanson frowned. “Single stab wound?”
“Probably hit the abdominal aorta.”
“What do you estimate time of death to be?”
“Rigor hasn’t set in yet, so within the last few hours at the most.”
“Where’s the weapon?”
“Right here.” The tech pulled out a bloody knife already sheathed in a plastic evidence bag. Hanson’s head swiveled from the victim to the rather long, rather thick, rather sharp kitchen knife, and he shook his head again. The tech handed the knife to Hanson, who scanned the rest of the room. There was a bottle of red wine on the counter that had been knocked over, its contents splashed across the surface and onto the now-sticky floor. The knife block was missing one knife. Trails of blood had oozed out of the poor fool and co-mingled with all the red wine. He could also see bits of glass strewn in every direction. He continued his survey of the room. The kitchen was larger than his living room and bedroom put together. Marble countertops, huge pots and pans hanging in a rack over the butcher-block table in the center of the room, maple cabinetry with frosted glass inserts and pewter cabinet pulls. Hanson began to walk around the table, careful to sidestep the bits of glass. He opened some of the cabinet doors. Well-stocked with an abundance of plates and glasses, and he noticed one missing wine goblet. The one scattered across the kitchen floor. A wine rack stood majestically in the corner opposite the pantry. He walked over to examine it. It was about half-full. He began to amble back to where the tech was still taking photos.
“I’m gonna have a look around. Don’t go anywhere.”
The tech let out a snort. “Riiight.”
Hanson walked back out into the living room, taking in the scene. So, the guy was having an affair, the wife found out, and boom—she sliced him up. Hanson continued to look around. This place was really something, like a page out of a magazine. He still couldn’t get over how huge it was. It was the kind place his wife was always yammering about: “sleek,” “modern,” “nice.” There were vases of fresh cut flowers on the glass tabletops, a lot of funny looking sculptures—artistic, he supposed—and a sweeping view of Lake Michigan. It was the kind of place he would live in if he had three other jobs and had won the lottery.
He noticed a black cell phone resting on top of the small maple wood table next to the door. Hanson picked it up and flipped it open, scrolling down the list in the address book. He let out a low whistle over the amount of women’s numbers. He’d only gotten to the “F’s” when something started to bug him. He put the phone down and pulled his notebook out of his pocket. Mark Monroe. Where did he know that name?
Hanson spotted a picture of Kelly Ross on one of the bookshelves. It was some dramatic black and white headshot. He looked at the photo more closely. She was an absolute knockout. He saw her in another photo with an older man and woman he guessed were her parents. The whole family had taken a dip in the good gene pool. Like Monroe, he knew he knew her; he just couldn’t place from where.
He toured the rest of the house. There was a library/den and a formal dining room. There were four bedrooms total: the master, one as an office for her, the other for him, and the fourth a guest room. He wandered into the master bedroom, taking note of the king-sized ebony wood sleigh bed, a series of three black and white framed prints along one wall and a black chaise lounge with burgundy throw pillows along another. The bed was made, but one closet looked like a twister had blown through it. There were more shards of glass on the bathroom floor. Two shopping bags were sitting abandoned on the floor. Hanson walked over and picked them up. In one bag, a woman’s blouse—at least that’s what he guessed it was. Women wore such crazy things these days. A skirt in the second bag. He rooted around each bag, looking for receipts. They were dated from earlier today and crazy expensive to boot. Hanson put the bags back down.
With the exception of the master bedroom, the remaining three bedrooms were neat as a pin. He strolled into Mark Monroe’s office. The wall boasted a few framed photos of the deceased with some pretty famous athletes, and they were all autographed. There was assorted sports memorabilia and a stack of sports magazines neatly arranged next to his laptop computer. Hanson sat down at Mark’s desk. He thumbed through a few files, but nothing jumped out at him. Sighing, he walked across the hall to Kelly Ross’ office.
One of her walls was also covered with a bunch of framed magazine covers, and upon closer inspection, Hanson realized it was her face staring out from them in either scantily clad poses or lots of makeup or really artistic looking. So, she’d been a model. She also had several pictures of herself with obviously famous people, although he didn’t know who the hell any of them were. She had a similar stack of magazines on her desk, though they looked to be fashion rags, and one table was filled with various makeup bottles and tubes. They’d pore over everything over the next few days, but for now, he wanted to start making the rounds of the neighbors. Hanson shuffled back out into the living room.
“Does anyone know who these people are?” he called out to no one in particular.
A female tech answered him. “He’s a big time sports agent, and she used to be a supermodel. I think she’s got a cosmetics company now. Everyone knows them.”
“I don’t,” Hanson mumbled as he walked back into the kitchen, where the tech was still working. “Did he have anything on him?”
The tech pointed to a plastic evidence bag lying on top of his evidence kit. “Yeah, a wallet, wedding ring.”
Hanson snorted and was about to look through Mark’s wallet when his partner, Didi Martin, bustled in out of breath.
“Sorry,” she said. “My kid is sick, and I had to wait for my mom to come and stay with him. What have we got?”
Hanson set the wallet down and thumbed through his notebook. “The victim, Mark Monroe, stabbed with a kitchen knife. I’d lay odds that his wife, Kelly Ross—a former supermodel, my friends tell me—found out he was having an affair, they fought, she killed him.”
Didi let out a low whistle. “Damn.” She paused. “Let’s make the rounds.”
The partners headed out the door and walked down the hall to talk to the neighbors. Didi rapped on the door to 5305. It took a few moments for the door to open and reveal a young blonde woman standing there.
“Yes?”
Didi and Hanson flashed their badges simultaneously.
“We’re with Chicago PD. May we ask you some questions?” Hanson said. The woman narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Ma’am, how well do you know your neighbors, the Monroes?” Didi asked.
The blonde cocked her head to the side. “Why?”
“Well, ma’am,” Didi continued, “Mr. Monroe is dead, and we’re looking for his wife so we can notify her. Have you seen her today?”
The blonde gulped. “You’re kidding. He’s dead?”
“Yes, ma’am. Did you know them?” Didi asked.
“Oh, um, yeah, yeah. I didn’t know them, know them. I mean we were friendly, rode the elevator down, that kind of thing.” She shook her head. “Wow.” She gave them a quizzical look. “Do you think she did it?”
Hanson cleared his throat slightly before he answered. “Ma’am, we’re just trying to find out more about them. Do you know if they ever fought?”
The blonde shook her head in slow shock. “No…no, I mean not that I could hear.”
“What about today. Hear anything today?” Didi pressed.
The blonde shook her head again. “No, well—I was out for most of the day. Truthfully, you can’t hear anything in this place. It’s really well-insulated. One of the many things you pay for. Anyway, Kelly and I did take the elevator down this morning. She mentioned she was going to her nail appointment—I was going to my office for a few hours. She seemed like she was fine. In fact, she seemed like she was in a great mood.”
Hanson nodded his head as he jotted down this information, the cap of his pen gnawed down to a sharp, blue point. “What time was that?”
; “Um…nine-fifteen.”
“How sure are you about the time?” Hanson asked.
“I looked at the kitchen clock as I was running out the door because I was leaving later than I had intended.”
“What was Mrs. Monroe wearing?” Hanson continued.
She screwed up her face. “Pink shirt, black pants.”
“Do you know how long they’ve lived here?” he asked.
“Um, well, I moved in here about a year ago, and I think at that time they’d been here about two years.”
“And no fights that you know of?” Didi interjected.
The blonde shook her head again and sighed. “I’m telling you—every time I ever saw them together, they always looked really happy. I mean it sounds kind of corny, but it almost gave you hope, ya know?”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, I don’t think we caught your name?” Didi said.
“Oh, Joan. Joan Stafford.”
“Ms. Stafford—” Didi pulled out one of her cards and handed it to Joan. “Please call me if you think of anything or hear from Mrs. Monroe. We’d appreciate it.”
Joan reluctantly took the card and nodded. “Sure, sure.”
“Thanks for your time,” Hanson said.
More Questions…
Didi thumped on 5303. She and Hanson looked at each other and waited. She knocked on the door a little bit louder before it flew open.
“What?!” the tall, burly man with close-cropped dark hair who opened the door sniped.
“Detective Hanson, Chicago PD,” Hanson said, flashing his badge.
“Jesus, what the hell is going on?”
“Need just a minute of your time, man,” Hanson said.
“Look, a minute is about all I have, because I was supposed to pick my girlfriend up twenty minutes ago and goddamned if she doesn’t bitch all night if I’m even thirty seconds late. What do you want?”
“You know the couple next door? The Monroes?” Hanson asked.
“Fucking everybody knows them.”
Hanson rolled his eyes, sick of hearing that refrain. “I’m not interested in everybody, Mr…?”
“Parsons. Nick Parsons. Yeah, I know them. Why?”
“Did you know them well?”
“Well enough. Look, is this gonna take long?”
“How well did you know them?”
“Mark and I see each other in the gym downstairs sometimes. I see Kelly around. We’re friendly, but not friends. What is this all about?”
“Have you seen Mrs. Monroe today?” Didi asked.
“No, I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning in the garage.”
“What about Mr. Monroe?” Didi continued.
“I haven’t seen him since last week sometime.”
“Ever heard them argue?”
“No. Are we done?”
“No arguments?”
“Look, either you’re gonna have to arrest me, or get out because if I gotta hear my girlfriend’s mouth for the rest of the night, I’m gonna fucking lose it.”
Hanson inwardly rolled his eyes and ignored the guy. “You said you were friendly. Did they seem happy to you?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So you never heard any fights?”
“Jesus, for the last time, no. Are we through?”
Hanson smiled and closed his notebook. “Well, Mr. Parsons, you’ve been very helpful. You see Mrs. Monroe, give me a call.” Hanson handed his card to Nick.
Nick Parsons let out a breath. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. Monroe is dead, and we’re trying to locate Mrs. Monroe to let her know.”
For the first time since the detectives had arrived, Nick Parsons had stopped fidgeting. “No shit? He’s dead? What the hell happened? Did she do it?”
“If you remember anything or see Mrs. Monroe, please call us,” Hanson responded.
Nick fingered the card. “Yeah, man, sure. Damn. That’s a shame.” Dejected, he closed his door and locked it. With his head hung low, he walked toward the service elevator.
“Hey, where does that elevator go?” Hanson called out.
Matt looked back at Hanson. “Lobby, then another elevator to the garage.”
“And do both Monroes have cars?”
“Yeah. Mark has—had—an Escalade and Kelly has a Mercedes. The spots correspond to your unit number.”
“You mind if we ride down with you?”
Nick shrugged. “Whatever.”
The trio began to walk over to the elevator, and Nick Parsons went to push the down button when Didi grabbed his arm.
“Wait a minute,” she said as she leaned in to take a closer look at the button. She motioned for Hanson to look too. They gave each other a knowing look.
“Blood,” they said in unison.
“Christ, I can’t believe they didn’t secure this,” Didi mumbled as she ran back down the hall to grab a tech, while Nick Parsons shifted his feet, ready to explode.
“What the hell is it now?” he asked, all his melancholy from moments before vanished.
“Just a minute, Mr. Parsons, this is evidence,” Hanson said.
Didi came running back down the hall with a tech. “There,” she said, pointing to the button. “Make sure to get this evidence.” Didi pulled a pen out of her pocket and hit the button with it.
“Hold on,” she muttered, waiting for the car to come up. When the door slid open, she ran in searching the panel of buttons. She saw a slight smudge of blood on the button indicating the garage. She waved the tech inside.
“Get this too,” she instructed. She looked up. “There another way to the garage? They’ve got to get this evidence now.”
Nick jerked his fingers through the thick, black mop of hair on his head. “Jesus H. Christ,” he mumbled. “Yeah, but you have to go out the front of the building and around the back. It’s a pain in the ass.”
“After you,” Hanson replied.
Continuing to curse under his breath, Nick stalked back down the hall to the main elevator and went to punch the down button for that elevator when he stopped and looked back up at Hanson and Didi.
“May I?” he asked.
Didi gave him a scathing look before she pulled out her pen and punched the button with it.
“Hey,” Hanson yelled down the hall to the tech working on the other elevator. “While I’m standing here, get one of the other techs over here to dust this elevator.”
“Yes, sir,” the tech replied and ran into 5304 to grab one more tech. They came running out and over to where the trio was standing. Hanson waved to the button.
“See if there’s any blood you can get off this thing. Jones here is gonna ride down with us to protect this evidence.”
The four of them trooped into the elevator, and Didi thumped the Lobby button with her pen.
“This is a pretty nice building. How long have you lived here?” Hanson asked.
Nick stared straight ahead. “About five years.”
“You know how long the Monroes have lived here?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“You like them?”
Nick Parsons shrugged. “Like I told you, man, I knew them, we were friendly, neighborly, whatever, but we didn’t hang out or anything like that.”
The elevator dinged, indicating it had reached the lobby. Nick took three long strides to the elevator for the garage. Hanson and Didi worked to match his pace.
When they got out, Nick pointed toward a black Escalade. “That’s Mark’s car.” He motioned to the empty space to the right of it. “Kelly’s car is usually parked in that spot.”
“Is this the first time you’ve been down here today?” Didi asked.
Nick shook his head. “No, I went out to run some errands about two this afternoon. Kelly’s car was here, but Mark’s wasn’t.”
Hanson nodded and flipped his notebook closed. “Alright man, go, be with your girlfriend, but hey—like we said, you see her, or you remember anything—no matter how small—give us a call
.”
Nick nodded. “Yeah…sure.”
He deactivated the alarm on his silver BMW and got in. Seconds later, he peeled out of the parking garage, racing toward what was sure to be a long and loud night with his by now incredibly pissed-off girlfriend.
Didi was walking around the Escalade. “Pretty nice ride, huh?”
“You kiddin’ me? All of this stuff is nice. Makes me wish I was a high-priced sports agent.”
Didi laughed. “And give up the glamour of being a Chicago police detective? Are you crazy, son?”
“Yeah, you’re right, what was I thinking,” Hanson muttered as he peered inside the Escalade.
Didi pulled out her cell phone and called upstairs for a uniform to come down and secure the car and grab the car keys while they were at it. Hanson and Didi waited until the team came down before making their way back upstairs to #5304.
“Okay, so we’ve got a husband messing around and a furious wife. She killed him and is on the run. If you were her, where would you go?” Hanson asked.
Didi screwed up her face. “First, I’m thinking family. Then again, I probably wouldn’t want to put them in danger. Friends are a different story. We don’t feel so bad about involving them in our crap. So, to answer your question, I’m probably going to a friend. I’ll need money.”
“I like the way you think. I’ll find out who Kelly Monroe would go to in her time of need. You get a make on her plates and a trace on all her bank and credit cards and make sure her picture is plastered all over this city. I want her found before morning.”
The Plan…
Seeing the knife slice into Mark played inside Kelly’s head on a continuous loop, strangling her dreams and making sleep impossible. What she really remembered more than anything about that moment was the look in his eyes as he realized what she’d done. It wasn’t that he was scared or shocked; he was disappointed. How could she do that to him?
Kelly still didn’t know herself.
She cringed as she turned over onto her side for the millionth time. She was never really someone who sweated. However, the papery sheets on the bed were plastered to her bra and panty-clad body.
Sleep wasn’t going to happen.
Sweet Little Lies Page 4