by Trish Reeb
"Any idea what upset her?"
Jordan lifted his slight shoulders in a slow shrug. "Not really."
"Did Taryn mention being scared of anything or anyone?"
"No, but I can tell you she had no enemies. Everyone adored her."
Not everyone, Cole thought. "What about another man?"
Jordan’s eyes flashed. "No way." He sat back heavily in his seat. After pondering a bit, he said, "A guy from work asked her out."
"Got a name?"
Jordan rubbed his forehead. "Martin something. Martinson maybe?"
"Martindale sound familiar?"
Jordan snapped his fingers. "Yeah."
"She ever go out with him?"
"Nah." He shook his head. His eyes lost focus as if his mind had abandoned the conversation on its own. "We talked of marriage," he said after a few beats. "Four months isn’t long, but I knew when we met I'd found my future wife."
Cole could relate. "Martindale cause any trouble for her?"
"Not that I’m aware."
"Anyone else?"
As though he anticipated the question, Jordan answered immediately, "That ass-hole A.P. What’s his name?"
"Humbarger or McMullen?"
"McMullen. Can’t keep his prick in his pants."
"He come on to her?"
Jordan smiled. "Once. Taryn told him if he ever approached her again, she’d clap his ass in a sling. Far as I know, he never did."
"Would you call Taryn a risk-taker?"
Jordan rose and paced. "A risk-taker? Depends on what you mean. She liked white water rafting, bungee jumping, parasailing. Loved to get the adrenaline flowing. Lately, she talked about skydiving."
"What about drugs?"
Facing Cole, Jordan froze in his tracks. "Haven't you been listening? Taryn didn’t need them. She soared high on life."
"I'm trying to establish whether she'd been high risk for murder."
"You’re knocking on the wrong door, man." Jordan sank onto the sofa and dropped his head into his hands.
"Relax, these are routine questions," Cole said quietly. "You know that."
Jordan nodded.
After learning Taryn hadn’t had another boyfriend in over two years, and obtaining a promise from Jordan to fax him a list of her friends, Cole headed out.
Though most likely itching to question him, the reporters never overstepped the boundaries as he hurried to the car. Tooling to the city, he thought about the interview. Jordan had been cooperative when responding to the questions and revealed a vulnerable side, his pain almost palpable.
Statistics showed over fifty percent of murdered women met their demise at the hands of a significant other. Low in Cole’s estimation, but he lived in a city where domestic violence occurred as often as fender benders. A fifty-fifty chance Jordan killed Taryn— not bad odds. Interesting, Martindale asked her out. And worth investigating. If she went out with him on the QT, then he might have a motive for murder.
Lieutenant Lucas’s words echoed in his head. "Chief wants a quick resolution. Like yesterday. Taryn’s father, Raynard Richards, owns a string of restaurants around the country. He plans on opening several in Metro Detroit. You know we need the jobs. Chief’s getting pressure from the mayor and the governor."
As lead detective, Cole felt the combined force of their power pressing down on his shoulders. He grimaced. Second day half gone, and still no viable suspect.
CHAPTER 15
Sunday, February 11
"This case is kicking my butt, Des," Cole said, imagining her sitting on a stool at the island in the kitchen, a juicy tomato chunk between her thumb and forefinger.
Popping it into her luscious mouth, she smiled and leaned on an elbow, her chin propped in one hand. Loose curly tendrils escaped from her ponytail, framing her gamine-like face. Sighing, she grew impatient for his attention. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me about the case? Talk to me, babe.’
Cole browned the meat in butter and olive oil in a skillet twice his age. "More drama than usual and strange. Not to mention Darrel’s findings." Medical Examiner Darrel Mathis, a legend of his own making, could pick apart a body, literally and figuratively, to spot things others overlooked. Their friendship started in elementary school. This time, the case puzzled him as much as Cole.
‘What did he say?’
"It’s more what he couldn’t say."
‘Like what, Grant?’ Desi looks at him, her eyes wide.
Since their first meeting, she’d called him Grant, sending the message not to mistake her for a girly-girl or pushover. He transferred the meat to a pot, adding the diced aromatics—onion, green pepper, followed by the chili peppers and hefty chunks of garlic. He blended in the herbs he’d chopped while the meat browned. "The injection, for one. He thinks it's a barbiturate but lab results won't be in for at least three weeks."
Desiree shifts in her seat. ‘So what killed Taryn?’
"Stab wound to the heart. But that’s the problem, why inject her at all?"
‘My sweet naive husband, maybe the killer had something else on his mind before murdering her.’
"Naïve, you say? Watch your tongue, wench, or I’ll rub my garlic fingers all over you." Cole grinned at the memory of chasing her around the house.
"First you have to catch me."
"My pleasure." He drained the juice from the pan. "There’s no evidence of rape."
‘What about copping a feel or two?’
"You and Darrel are a couple of sickos."
‘Me a sicko? My dear, aren’t you the guy who said to get into the perp’s head?’
"That’s my job. You stick to yours."
‘Which is?’ Desi asks, raising her eyebrows.
Cole had counted on his wife to toss out her opinions, at the same time throwing in her woman’s intuition and female perspective. In her absence, the hardened ball of facts made it difficult to pick apart. "Giving your point of view. To say nothing of looking beautiful."
‘Pulease, keep your chauvinist attitude to yourself.’
"How’s that chauvinistic?"
She raises a stop sign hand, but her eyes twinkle. ‘If it requires explaining, you’re more hopeless than I thought.’
Cole went to the cupboard and picked out a variety of spices. "Okay, so you got me again."
‘What about this? There’re two accomplices,’ she says, after a long pause. ‘One administered an injection. The other stabbed her.’
"Still doesn’t explain why."
‘The first one screwed up. The second finished the job.’
He measured out each spice and added them to the pot.
‘Another idea,’ she says.
"I’m listening."
‘What about a conscience?’
"How so?"
‘What if fear, not anger, motivated him?’
"Baby, lay it out."
Desiree bounces up and down in her seat. ‘Let’s say the killer needed to shut her up to protect a secret and also send a message to anyone else who might think about squealing. But he didn’t want her to suffer. Hence, the injection before the stabbing.’ She folds her arms. ‘What do you think?’
"Honestly? It’s reaching. Why wouldn't he kill her with the injection?" With a deft twist, he lifted the lid off a jar of organic tomato sauce. "It proves premeditated murder. That Taryn knew her killer. Something I’ve already concluded."
‘Right!’
"Still no motive. Everyone I talked to said Taryn had no enemies, had been well-liked by students and staff, and didn't take risks," Cole said, pouring the contents from the jar into the pot.
‘Someone wanted her dead. We just don’t know who or why.’
"Exactly. Also, the defensive wounds weren’t defensive wounds at all. The killer carved them into her hands himself."
‘What? How do you know?’
"Darrel said they’re too precise, each cut the same size and depth." Cole adjusted the heat under the pot, going for simmer, and scrounged around in the cu
pboard for the lid. He set the timer for forty-five minutes. "Wait, I forgot something. Babe, get the red wine from the pantry for me."
He stared at the spot where he'd envisioned her sitting talking to him. Gone. The spell had vanished along with the wistful mental image of his wife.
Desi, I miss you, babe. He leaned on the counter and dropped his head. When his father died, his mother had known what he needed before he did and had been there for him in his darkest hours. Rocking, holding him, stroking his hair, talking about his dad, getting out the photo albums, praying, singing, encouraging him to cry if that’s what he needed. Although a grown man now, inside he felt like that six year old again—the pain excruciating, the loss devastating, the empty space in his life vast.
His spirits deflated, he inched his way to the cupboard and plucked the bottle of wine from the shelf. He measured out the amount and added it to the rest of the ingredients. His eyes skimmed the kitchen. While he talked to Desi, it had seemed bright, warm, and intimate. Now it felt chilly, bleak, and isolating. He turned to the task of cleaning up. The physical activity of scrubbing the pots and utensils, washing down the counters and island, and putting everything away helped take his mind off himself.
Afterward, he wandered down the hall, spotted his laptop on the landing of the stairs. Grabbing it enroute, he trotted up to the second floor and deposited the computer on the desk in his study. He logged online, clicked on his Favorites. Selecting Emeril’s website, he searched for a cooking contest. On a whim, he’d entered and won a competition last year for the chili recipe he had simmering on the stove. Cooking relaxed him. Desiree had been only too happy to surrender the job to him. She derived pleasure in gardening and searching flea markets for antiques, sometimes flat-out junk, that always seemed to work.
The only contest he found called for a Valentine’s Day breakfast-in-bed treat for a special someone. He groaned. A year ago, the contest might have earned him the title of two time winner. Today, it made him tired. As he shut down his computer, the phone rang. The caller was Chief of Police Tommy Dangerfield.
CHAPTER 16
Alex slept for fourteen hours and woke up at three Sunday afternoon. She almost felt human, following a hot shower and getting dressed, but discovered she needed to rest a good half hour afterward. Hungry, she slow-footed it to the kitchen but found the pickings slim—a can of chicken noodle soup and bologna. She opened the bread. Older than dirt. When had she last gone grocery shopping? Tossing the bread, she downed the soup and ate two slices of the lunchmeat.
Alex carried a mug of hot Chamomile tea to the library, placed it on the table and fired up the gas logs. She fetched to newspaper from the porch and returned to find Sid curled on top of the afghan on the sofa. Shrugging, she chose the chair and ottoman over disturbing the cat. Alex retrieved her cell phone and checked for messages. Bobbi gave an update on her mother-in-law's condition and expressed her concern about Alex. Gino called twice. She hadn’t thought about him since Friday.
Before, she'd been linked to people like art teacher Walt Drexel, assaulted by two kids in the cafeteria, and Lucy Unger of the business department, mugged for her purse in the school parking lot. Alex thought she had understood their feelings. She hadn’t. The dictionary’s definitions of helplessness, fear, anger, and violation didn’t come close to capturing the emotional impact of an attack. Empathy had been stressed over and over in her master’s program. Yes, she had compassion, but true understanding? Not even close. Until now. After she had to personally encounter someone who derived pleasure in inflicting pain. Had to experience how it felt to be treated like a non-person. Previously, she’d never fully grasped how the anguish and subsequent anger would connect the victim to the assailant forever.
Shaking off the memory, she found it difficult to relax in a place that should have soothed her wounded body and spirit. Hoping the hot tea would help, she swallowed and scalded her mouth. She eyed the Sunday paper on the table. Taryn’s murder covered the entire front page, but she didn't have the heart to read it now. Maybe later. People who’d never met Taryn would merely paint a caricature of the person she had been.
She laid her head back. I should call Gino. Feeling for the phone, her fingers found it between the cushions. If he came over, which seemed to be his intention, she couldn't keep from him what happened at Taryn’s. No way to hide the bruises or head wound or how she shambled along like an old woman. Even if she could, she’d never lied to her brother. Their parents had been clear about their stance on lying. If caught, she could expect the consequences to be twice as severe. She still couldn't lie to anyone in her family. With other people, however, she could stretch the truth a bit without feeling much remorse at all.
She found the phone and punched in Gino’s code, hoping to reach his voice mail again.
He answered on the first ring. "Alex! Where've you been? Are you okay?"
Here we go. "I’m fine, Gino."
"Open the door so I can see for myself."
"You’re here?"
"Three steps from the porch."
Alex rose from the chair and shuffled to the side panel adjacent to the door. She pushed the curtain aside. Gino stared at her, phone to his ear.
"Hurry, Lex. It’s colder than a titch’s wit out here." Despite Gino’s olive skin, his long Italian nose had reddened.
Alex opened the door. The alarm sounded in deafening wails. Waving her arms, she pivoted and quick-shuffled to shut it off.
Plodding back, she found Gino closing the closet door after hanging up his coat. He handed her a card. Stress lines formed on his brow. "What’s with the bandage?"
Alex placed the card on the table in the foyer without even glancing at it and stared up at her tall, wiry brother. She did her best to hide the pain but grimaced instead.
"You’re hurt," Gino said.
"It’s nothing."
"The heck it is! You better lie down." He guided her by the elbow to the library. "Mind if I take a look?" he asked, pushing her chin to the side.
Alex slapped his hand away. "Yes, I do."
After chasing Sid away and latching onto the afghan, Gino gestured to the sofa. Alex sat with her back against the armrest, legs stretched out across the cushions.
"What happened, are you all right?" Gino asked, shoving a pillow behind her back and throwing the afghan across her lower extremities.
"Oh, for goodness sake, Gino, sit. You’re all in my space."
"What can I get for you? Anything?"
"No, I’m fine. Chill out."
Gino backed away, his eyes wide. "Chill out? You look like you got run over by a bulldozer. I’ll sit if you tell." He sat on the chair next to the couch and perched on the edge.
"It’s a long story and I’m too tired to tell it."
Sami trotted into the room carrying a little green sponge ball in her mouth and dropped it at Gino’s feet.
"She wants to play," Alex said.
He grabbed the ball and threw it into the foyer. The black cat scampered after it and returned delivering the sponge ball in her mouth.
"Sami thinks she’s a dog. Where's that tape I made of her?" Gino asked.
Alex waved to the wall unit housing the TV. "In there somewhere."
"You should send it to America’s Funniest Videos."
"You do it. You’re the one harping about it."
"Maybe I wi—" he narrowed his eyes, "I see what you’re trying to do." He threw the ball again, this time further. "Let’s hear it."
"Okay, only because you’ll badger me back into the hospital just to get some peace. But promise you’ll listen and not go ballistic."
He raised his hands. "I’m cool."
Alex willed herself to stay calm. For the next ten minutes, she talked. To his credit, Gino listened without interrupting. A couple times, it seemed as if he started to say something but clamped his teeth on the fist he'd brought to his mouth. His expression changed from eyes going wide and jaw dropping to hard frowns and pressed lips.
When she finished, Gino sighed heavily.
She’d stayed objective and trembled only mildly, probably not enough for Gino to notice. She hoped.
Gino said softly, "Quite a story, Lex." He started to rise but paused midair. "Okay if I give you a hug?"
Alex nodded.
He moved to the sofa, sat facing her, and wrapped his arms around her. Alex rested her head on his shoulder, welcoming the embrace.
Gino whispered, "I’m sorry about Taryn," and hugged tighter.
Alex’s eyes watered. She squeezed them shut. I’m not crying, I’m not crying, I’m not crying. Besides, her tears would send Gino into orbit.
He reinstated himself in the chair. "I see why the alarm." He pounded his fists on the arms of the chair. "Dammit!" And bolted out to pace.
"Calm down. I’m okay. All stitched up." She gently patted the back of her head.
"You’re the only one I have, Lexie. Matt and Greg are . . . ." He shook his head. "If anything happens to you, I don’t know what I’ll do."
"Nothing’s going to happen to me. I promise."
"Ever since I was a kid, I’ve worried—"
"I know." And she did. The night came rushing back as if it were yesterday. She'd gone home after taking her last final exam before graduating from college. It had been the reason she couldn’t pick up her parents at the airport when they flew in from Hawaii. She'd had the option to reschedule the test for the next morning, but she wanted it over. Her folks had been fine with grabbing a cab. Her spirits soaring, she answered the doorbell expecting her fiancé. They’d planned to celebrate. Two police officers stood there instead. Though her wrist tried to warn her, she hadn't been alarmed. The week before, cops had appeared on their doorstep after twelve year old Gino had gotten caught riding his mo-ped on the highway. Had the fool gone and done it again? She noticed the cops’ expressions and her heart pumped harder, the itching grew more intense. Even when they announced her parents had been in an automobile accident, she figured they'd gone to the hospital to get patched up. The next words carried the finality of the end of a novel: Sorry, they died in the crash. Her life derailed and guilt became her companion.