Carolyn Arnold - McKinley 01 - The Day Job is Murder

by Carolyn Arnold

“Of course?”

  “How did it go with Burton today?” He took another draw on the beer bottle.

  “He swears he didn’t do it. He asked me how he could kill someone when he was so nervous with cops that he vomited.” She paused to laugh. “That’s a valid point.”

  “I guess it is. Maybe we’ll have to open up our suspect pool.”

  “Well, we had to let him go. We can’t prove he did it. It also turns out he had a solid alibi.”

  “Back to the start, then.”

  “Yeah, exactly what I was thinking.”

  “Did you want to head over to the house now, see if there’s something we missed?”

  “Oh, Sean, you’ve had a rough day. It can wait until tomorrow.” Sara let out a yawn.

  Even over the telephone, it was contagious, and she laughed when she noticed he caught it.

  He could listen to the sound of her voice, and her laughter, for a lifetime. It was too bad that the job got in the way, but he didn’t want to sacrifice having her as a partner either. He just believed someday, when it was meant to happen, Sara would be his wife. Some days he had more faith in that outcome than others.

  “So, if I’m taking it easy tonight, I hope you are.” Sean watched the images play out on the muted TV.

  “I’m actually writing.”

  He sat up straighter and returned the empty bottle to the side table. “Are you finally making progress with that thing?”

  She laughed again. “That thing, as you put it, will be a best-seller one day.”

  “Well, first, don’t you have to finish it?” If he had to find one fault with Sara, it was her tendency to procrastinate. She dreamed big, but failed to keep focused and see things through to the end.

  “Sean, it’s a good thing you’re not standing next to me—”

  “I could be.”

  The words slipped out and they fell to a silent line.

  Sean took responsibility for that and spoke first. “I guess Quinn left me something. I have an appointment with his estate lawyer, who is also his executor, tomorrow.”

  “He left you money?”

  “I doubt it’s money. I don’t think he had any.” For a second he paused, giving in to the dream. All that he could do with a bunch of cash, and he knew what he’d do first, but he shook the thought. There was no sense getting sentimentally attached to something that wasn’t going to happen. The fantasy came to an abrupt halt with a realization. “He lived in the same house he grew up in.”

  “Isn’t that adorable.”

  “He was a great man.”

  “I remember you saying he reminded you of your dad.”

  “I said all that?” He tried to think back on it, but couldn’t pry that memory into the light.

  “Yeah, you mentioned it at the Christmas party, two months ago. You drank a little too much cheer, don’t you remember? We were sitting, talking with Officer Bridges and he had just lost his mother-in-law the week before. His father-in-law was living with them. He was really low, but you told him he wasn’t alone and that a lot of people miss their lost loved ones at this time of the year. If he needed anything, you told him to call you.”

  He listened to each word she said, savoring not just the sound of her voice, but what a terrific person she was. How could he go on simply being friends with the woman he loved?

  “Do you remember when we first met?” He broached the sanctioned territory.

  “Yes, I do.” Her voice held a defensive barrier, as if by discussing this she might lose her willpower.

  Sometimes he felt like to heck with it, this romance was worth risking everything. He’d find another job, maybe not one he cared for as much, but he’d always pay the bills.

  “You were writing that book then.” He attempted to steer the direction to safer ground—off their unexplored love and back to her hobby.

  “Yeah.”

  “But it was your smile that had me. You weren’t pushy or sickly flirtatious.”

  “Well, thanks.” Sara laughed. “Why are we talking about this? You know how things have to be.”

  “I know.” He hated his life for that simple reason. “I think it’s just because of my day.”

  “Understandable. Death always has a way of making us think deeper. It also helps us appreciate how precious life is and that we have to live while we’re alive. Are you going to be all right, Sean?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay then, I’ll see you tomorrow? What time’s your appointment with the lawyer?”

  “One thirty.”

  “See you in the morning then. Night, Sean.”

  “Night, Sara.” He wanted to say, goodnight beautiful.

  He went to bed that night thinking back to the first time they met. Sara had been sitting under a tree on the lawn of the capital building, feeding peanuts to squirrels and scribbling in a journal. From her smile and her cheerful greeting, he knew she was an amazing person. She had even agreed to have a coffee with him. Everything would have turned out great if she hadn’t shown up at the police department the next day, as a transfer, and been announced as his new partner.

  Dead Man Talking

  CUNNINGHAM’S HOUSE WAS A MODEST two-story, located in a sketchy part of the city. It remained cordoned off and a seal was intact across the front door.

  “What do you expect to find?” Sean asked, having a hard time looking Sara in the eye. There were days like that, when he was afraid that if he did, he would kiss her.

  “Hopefully something that will lead us to his killer, Sean.” She laughed, and looked over at him.

  “You know what I mean. Any way that you’re leaning?”

  “At this point no.”

  They broke the seal and made the appropriate notes in the record. Everything would follow precise protocol to ensure that if they found anything, the evidence would be admissible.

  Sean scanned the main floor of the house, concentrating on the entry where Cunningham was found, and the great room off to the right. French doors led into the space from the foyer.

  Sara pulled out photos of the scene. In the first, Cunningham lay on the front runner, one arm to his side, the other over his abdomen. His eyes held the blank stare of death and his face was shocked, more than relaxed. It wasn’t his time to die.

  “I can tell by that look that you’re onto something. What is it?” Sara asked.

  “Okay, see him in this picture.” As he angled the photo for her to see better, their arms brushed and it sent his heart into a thumping fit. Instinctively, his eyes went to hers. Big mistake. He had to breathe. Focus.

  A few seconds later, composed, he shared his observation. “All right, we’re used to seeing people’s eyes like this, but look at his facial expression.”

  She glanced at the photo for a second. “He didn’t see this coming.”

  “Yeah, exactly what I thought. He found the fact he was going to die hard to accept, if not impossible. He was confused.”

  “So he didn’t know his killer.”

  He shook his head, a negative movement, but in this case, confirmation. “I don’t think he did.”

  “I’d even say he looks perplexed.”

  “We think alike.” He dared to glance at her again and she smiled.

  “All right, so what do we know about this guy?”

  “Our killer or our victim?”

  She batted Sean’s arm. “Our victim.”

  “Hey, fair question. Well, our victim hijacked his neighbor’s cable.”

  “That lead has been exhausted. Next.”

  “He was single, didn’t smoke, and he wasn’t involved with drugs. He held a decent full-time job.”

  “Then why steal the cable?”

  “Good question.”

  “I’m afraid the only one who would know the answer to that is in the city morgue right now.”

  “I have a feeling you’re right.”

  Sean stepped through to the great room. Crime Scene had been over everything. They
had collected all the evidence in relation to the stolen cable and had even taken in Cunningham’s laptop.

  Sara took a few steps toward Sean. “If we think his killer was a stranger to him then—”

  “It opens up a lot of possibilities. All right. So the guy never saw it coming. Here he is just having a nice evening, watching his stolen pay-per-view and there’s a knock at his door.”

  “Or maybe they rang the doorbell.”

  He smiled. “Yes, they could have. Anyway, Cunningham gets up to answer and is met with a bullet for his troubles.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing. There were muddy boot prints on the runner. They were facing inside the house and forensics haven’t been able to match the tread to any footwear belonging to Cunningham.”

  “Sometimes, I wish I was Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

  “You are, Sean, and I’m your handy sidekick.”

  “Was Watson a sidekick per se? Anyway, you are more than a sidekick.”

  Again, the words slipped without thought. The fact they were only friends always had a way of stamping conversation. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue like this.

  Seconds passed in a tangible silence. He should have been thinking about the murder, but he reviewed the what-ifs of their relationship.

  What if things were different? What if they weren’t partners? What if they knew each other under different circumstances? What if they met at a different point in their lives?

  Even though he sensed she was considering the same things, he had to shake the thoughts. Cunningham deserved his attention.

  “When investigators showed up where was the furniture positioned?”

  Sara pulled some more photos from the file and extended the appropriate one.

  He compared it to what was before them now.

  There was one couch and two loveseats. A large screen television was straight across from the french doors with a square coffee table positioned in front.

  He kept his eyes on the layout as he spoke. “It doesn’t match. Look. In the photo, the loveseat is positioned in front of the window. Now, it’s—”

  “Over there.” She nodded to the left.

  “Yeah, kind of what I was thinking. It would be very easy to move furniture around in here to suit whatever purpose Cunningham had.”

  “Okay, well, it was close to the television area. It was probably moved by Crime Scene Investigators so they could have better access.”

  “You might think I’m crazy for saying what I’m thinking.”

  “Sean, say it.”

  “Let me see the picture of Cunningham again.”

  “You still have it.”

  “Some days.” He shuffled the order of the photos to place Cunningham on top. “His left arm is the one to his side. See, how it’s slightly curled?”

  “Well, that’s not strange, really, is it? The hand, in a relaxed state, normally is.”

  “Yes, but what is even more interesting is the direction his arm is lying in.”

  Sara looked across the floor. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll get there. Crime Scene found fur on the floor, correct?”

  “That’s right. Results show it was fake fur used in making coats,” she said. “Another thing that didn’t line up with Burton. He didn’t have one. But what does this have to do with Cunningham’s hands?”

  “You’ve been shot. You’re in shock. You don’t know your assailant. You would try to appeal to them. The autopsy showed that even though Cunningham took the bullet to his chest, he didn’t die instantly.” Sean paced the entrance area and stopped for a second in the frame of the french doors. “Say you were shot, you would stumble backward. Your assailant wouldn’t want to be seen in an open doorway that faces the street—even if his back was to it. The boot prints tell us the killer came inside.”

  “Sean?”

  He held up his hand. If he stopped now, he’d lose his line of thought.

  “As the killer comes in, you back up, but your steps are unbalanced. You reach out, instinctively, to the person who shot you, to help hold yourself up.”

  “I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Sean.”

  He walked over to the window.

  “I’m still not following,” she repeated.

  “The way his hand is curled, and the direction his arm is facing, Cunningham did come into contact with the shooter. He would have been just outside the doorway of the great room. Picture it in your mind. As Cunningham’s crumpling down, his fingers hook onto a coat pocket.” He paused, letting the imagery sink in. “By the way his hand is also palm up, Cunningham took something with him in the motion.”

  “You can tell all that from the way his hand looks and the direction of his arm?” Her eyes were electric when he met her gaze.

  “If the loveseat was here at the time, based on the way he fell,” his eyes went to where the mat would have been, right outside the french doors, “whatever came out of his assailant’s pocket could have slid across the floor.”

  “It would have gone underneath the loveseat.”

  “Exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “As we’ve noted, it’s been moved. If there was anything there, investigators would have found it.”

  “Not necessarily.” He pointed to the vent beneath the window. “When they moved it, whatever Cunningham may have pulled from the pocket could have fallen in there.”

  “Sean.” Sara rushed over and got down on her knees. She pulled off the grate and felt inside. She came out with a packet of white powder. “Damn, you’re good. You are Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but okay, I’ll take it.” He laughed.

  “We’re looking for a killer who is also a drug addict.”

  “And we know that Cunningham didn’t do drugs.”

  “This was a case of mistaken identity.”

  “I believe so.”

  “Wow, Sean, you did it again.”

  “We did it, Sara.”

  “Not sure what I did to help this time.”

  “You listen.”

  “Well, I’m going to do better than that. You’ve got that appointment. I’m going to look into drug dealers in the area and see if anything stands out.”

  “What a great team we are.”

  The Estate Attorney

  THIS WAS THE SECOND TIME in Sean’s life that he’d sat in the waiting room of an estate lawyer’s office. The first came when his dad passed away, but he didn’t get much of an inheritance, if viewed in the monetary form. What his dad did provide was a solid base for Sean to become an independent adult who knew how to work for a living—but that foundation was well established before his father was put into his final resting place. It was due to his upbringing that Sean learned to respect his elders, and to utilize etiquette in a world that had almost forgotten of its existence.

  He had no idea what was in store today, and it didn’t matter if all he got was a package of embroidered handkerchiefs. Quinn had passed on a legacy that wasn’t measurable by fiscal return and he was certain the appointment would be brief, allowing him time to get a birthday gift for Sara.

  The receptionist, a trim redhead, glanced over every forty-five seconds, pretty much like clockwork. Every time, her cheeks blushed a shade brighter, until finally she smiled.

  He returned the smile, to be polite, hoping she wouldn’t read anything more into it. Maybe he was too nice to women, and that was the problem.

  He ran his hands down his thighs and then pulled down on his suit jacket. He’d shaved before coming and had put on another nice suit that he had paid too much for, based on his salary. Was it his fault he liked to dress up when he could? It was an unfortunate aspect, with his line of work, that he rarely had the opportunity. It still didn’t stop him from browsing the fine clothiers in the area or from making random purchases.

  “Mr. McKinley, Ms. Graham is ready for you now.” The redhead, who went by Clarissa, as noted on her nameplate, was now s
tanding a few feet away. She smiled warmly.

  “Thank you, Mrs.?”

  “Miss Scott.” Another polite smile.

  He didn’t overlook the emphasis she’d placed on her marital status. She didn’t want the translation to be lost—she was available and interested.

  He nodded and walked past her, to the office she had pointed out.

  Inside, Daphne Graham stood up from the end of the conference table and walked over, hand extended. “Mr. McKinley, glad you could make it. Please, have a seat.”

  He took in the room. There were another four people besides Ms. Graham—two women, and two men—a pair of each on either side of the table. Everyone was smiling politely.

  Sean dropped in the chair at the end, and she shut the door.

  Daphne went back to her seat and gestured toward the two on her right. “This is Anita and Peter. They are my brother and sister. We run this firm.”

  On second glance, the family resemblance was hard to miss.

  “Guess it must be another brother who is the cop,” Sean said.

  Daphne smiled. “Good memory, Mr. McKinley.”

  “Would you like some water? Coffee? A donut?” Peter asked.

  “No, thank you.” Sean’s eyes glanced over the spread in the middle of the table, but the purpose for being here made any appetite disappear.

  He did reach for a glass and fill it with ice water, though, as he watched the other two on Daphne’s left. They were both mid-sixties and looked familiar—maybe from the funeral? Why hadn’t they been introduced as of yet? They kept smiling at him, and at each other.

  “I see you found no problem getting here,” Anita said.

  “No. As a cop, I know the city pretty well.” He clasped his hands on the table, but the movement struck him as too formal. He opted for wrapping his hands around the glass and taking a sip.

  Daphne’s eyes went from his hands, to his glass. With his rough swallow of liquid, there was the trace of a smile on her lips. She read his discomfort.

  “I will get to the point of why you’re here. Being a detective with Albany PD, you probably already have a good idea.”

  “Mr. Quinn left me something.” It felt so strange to verbalize the situation. His eyes kept drifting to the older man. His style of dress was interesting to say the least. Who wore bowties outside of a wedding party? Sean’s eyes went back to the others around the table.