by Kelly Irvin
“That won’t happen until the murderer is caught and brought to justice, and probably not even then.”
Silence seemed the best response considering the Fischer code of ethics mixed with almost twenty years of regular church and Sunday school attendance that kept her from outright lying to a police officer—or anyone, for that matter.
King shot her a hard look, his lips pressed in a thin line. He jerked his head toward Trevor. “Go wait somewhere. You’re on my list of people to talk to today. Along with your mother.” King consulted a small notebook tucked in the same hand as the oversize envelope. “And a cook/cleaning lady named Pearl Safire and a gardener named Abel Martinez.”
At least he hadn’t mentioned Brooklyn.
“Can I get a cup of coffee?” Trevor sounded like a high school kid asking permission to go to the bathroom. “We haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“Yes. I need to speak with your sister alone.”
Trevor hightailed it out of sight before the sentence was finished. Nice of him to have her back. Nina folded her arms over her chest and waited, trying not to look toward the stairs.
Aaron would take care of the box.
And the letters. The letters her father hid from Jan and her. No matter the reason, it had been wrong. So wrong. She wanted her father back so she could ask him why he hid something so important from them. How could he let them go through life thinking their mother didn’t care enough to bother to write a simple letter? Or send a card? For eighteen years?
She would never have an answer to that question because someone had taken her father’s life before she could ask. That person needed to be held accountable.
She needed to know what Detective King knew. She focused on his perplexed face. He’d obviously been talking and she hadn’t been listening, to his irritation.
“You’re sure the person who hit you was a guy?”
“Yes.”
“How tall?”
“Tall. Taller than me.” She stuck her hand above her head. “Like that tall.”
“Right-handed or left-handed?”
“I don’t . . .” She stopped. “Why do you ask?”
“Your brother’s knuckles are raw. Like he hit someone.”
“Trevor has never hit anyone in his life. He’s a professor of philosophy. He spends his days thinking deep thoughts.”
“I’m sure your dad was very proud.”
“Not really, but then we all disappointed him.”
“Even your sister?”
“Women don’t become Army snipers.”
“She’s really good with guns.”
“What’s your point?”
“Just thinking out loud.” He smacked the study door with his boot. It swung wider. “What were you doing in there?”
“Looking for some paperwork.”
The truth. A half-truth, but the truth.
“And you’re a person of interest in a murder that occurred in this room.” King’s dark eyebrows drew up under a creased forehead. If he thought any harder his head would explode. “We have to connect some dots in order to get search warrants on some of these things, so don’t be messing with them until we do that. I can’t make you leave stuff alone, but I can ask you with great force.”
“Or you could ask nicely.”
“Not my style.”
“I noticed.” Better not to antagonize him any more than she already had. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry she’d been caught. Sorry her dad had died. Sorry Brooklyn’s grandpa was gone. Sorry he hadn’t been the man everyone thought he was. “Is there something we didn’t cover yesterday?”
“Come in here.”
She followed him into the study. Had he been in the closet the previous day? Would he realize a box was missing?
She turned her back on the closet door and focused her gaze on the bare desk. She felt like a child in a game of hide-and-seek. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
King dropped the envelope on the desk and strode around it to the gun cabinet. Remnants of a light-gray powder clouded numerous places on the glass doors that covered at least sixteen racks. At least ten of those racks had been full as long as she could remember. Her dad liked his hunting rifles and handguns as much as the next eighth-generation Texan.
“Do you remember how many weapons Judge Fischer kept in this case?”
“Ten maybe, I guess, more or less.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“I’m not a gun person. I didn’t pay any attention. In fact, I try not to pay attention.”
“You don’t like guns?”
Surely as a homicide detective, he could imagine why a person might not care for guns. “Do you?”
“When it’s on my hip or in my hands? Yes. Otherwise, not so much.” He took another long sip of coffee and set the cup on the corner of the desk. “You don’t have much of a social-media presence.”
“I don’t have the time or the inclination. Is that a crime?” Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and on and on. They sucked time out of the day in a way Nina couldn’t afford. She had opened accounts and then forgotten to visit them for days and weeks. “People are desperate to connect so they put all their private stuff online for strangers to read.”
“But not you.”
“I can see how it might be useful for families who are spread out around the country to stay in touch by posting photos and updates. Jan posts photos so her husband can see Brooklyn growing while he’s gone. And vice versa. But even they have to be careful because terrorists have threatened to target military families.”
“You have a mother somewhere.”
“Maybe.” Did he know something she didn’t? “I just can’t see myself putting a photo on Facebook and begging people to share it until poor little me finds my mommy.”
“You’re pretty cynical for someone so young.”
“Not much younger than you.”
“Even your mother is on Facebook. In fact, she’s all over social media: Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, you name it. She’s the Tweet-Tweet queen.”
“That’s marketing for her books. It’s her demographic. Women who read romances. She has a virtual assistant who takes care of a lot of that for her.”
“What about your adoptive brother? He’s all over social media. Is that marketing?”
Trevor had underdeveloped social skills. Connecting online might be easier for him. “Brother. I don’t think of him as an adoptive brother.”
“Sometimes Facebook helps us catch people in lies.”
“I suppose it does. According to the news, some people videotape themselves committing crimes or admit to it. I always assumed those people weren’t very bright.”
“Your brother said he was at a conference in Dallas.”
“He’s a professor. He goes to a lot of workshops and conferences. He’s trying to get published and get tenure.”
“He wasn’t in Dallas.”
“Okay.” Why would Trevor lie? Because he was an idiot. Because he was afraid of something. Trevor was always afraid. “So what?”
“He was tagged in a photo in a bar here in town. His girlfriend posted it.”
“He doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
“That’s not what the girlfriend says. She says they live together. Have for six months. She’s a tattoo artist. She has a beauty that runs from midcalf all the way to the top of her thigh. Nice work. She also has a rose on her collarbone that she had done in San Diego when she was in the Navy.”
“That’s not possible.” Of course it was. Trevor wouldn’t want Dad to know he was living with a woman. Especially a tattoo artist. He’d never had a girlfriend in his life. That she knew of. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“He lied. He wasn’t in Dallas. He was in San Antonio. He could have come over here and killed Judge Fischer. Your dad would’ve let him in. Or he had a key. The dogs know him. He could skip out scot-free.”
Her dad wouldn’t have to let him in. Trev
or had a key. “I thought you thought I did it?”
“Until I saw the scrapes on his knuckles. It looks like he hit somebody.”
His point hit home like the shot from a high-powered rifle. “He would never hurt Dad and certainly wouldn’t hurt me. Why would he?”
“Why lie about where he was? Why not come home immediately?”
“My dad would never approve of a tattoo artist. He already disapproved of Trevor’s career choice.”
“He aspired to be a tenured professor and your dad didn’t approve. I thought my parents set high standards.”
“A professor of philosophy. My dad wanted him to be a lawyer.” Nina studied the detective’s face. He hadn’t lived up to his parents’ standards either. “What did your parents want you to be?”
“My dad was hoping for doctor. My mom wanted anything but a police officer. Something safe and close to home. She wants grand-kids she can see every day.”
“You don’t have brothers and sisters who can fill that order?”
“I do. Five of them.” His tone said that subject had closed as quickly as it opened. He picked up the envelope and opened it. Nina shivered despite herself. She didn’t need to see photos of the crime scene. She remembered every aspect of it in vivid detail. “Come here, take a look.”
Reluctantly, she started around the desk. The sight of the dark, almost-black bloodstains on the carpet stopped her in her tracks. King followed her gaze. He shoved the photos to the front of the desk. “Sorry. I’m not usually this insensitive.” He stepped back to the other side of the desk. “At least I try not to be.”
“It’s fine. Really.” She tore her gaze from the stains and followed. “I want to help.”
“Check out the rack from here. Are any guns missing?”
She studied the gun case. Hunting rifles, handguns, they mostly seemed the same to her. Silently she counted. Eight weapons. More than any one person could ever need. They hadn’t done her dad an iota of good two nights ago. “I don’t know. I thought there were ten, but I could be wrong. I didn’t pay that much attention. Why? What does it matter?”
“Look closely. It matters.”
She followed his terse command. “I thought there were ten.” She pointed to the second row. “I think that empty spot had a little gun in it.”
“Like a handgun.”
“I suppose. What is this about?”
“Would there be an inventory, a record of the guns your father purchased over the years?”
“I suppose so. My dad never threw anything away. He kept lists of everything.”
“Would your mother or your brother know?”
“I doubt it. Grace has as much interest in guns as I do. Trevor is a pacifist and a vegan, so you can imagine what his thoughts are on Dad’s collection. Jan did some shooting with Dad. You should ask her. She’s the gun expert.”
“I’d rather not.”
The significance of King’s statement sank in. “Jan’s fingerprints are on the gun?”
“No.”
“Then why not ask her? You’ve got the murder weapon and she obviously didn’t fire it.”
“Turns out we don’t.”
“It was right there. I saw it. On the floor.”
“That’s called jumping to conclusions or making assumptions based on faulty observations.”
Nina backtracked, trying to understand. She’d seen the gun. A gun. “The gun wasn’t the murder weapon? Where is it?”
“You tell me.” His smile had a cold edge to it now. “The weapon recovered on the floor only had one person’s fingerprints on it. Geoffrey Fischer’s. It hadn’t been fired.”
“He was trying to defend himself?”
“Possibly. Maybe he intended to shoot someone and that person defended himself.” His grin broadened. “Or herself.”
“Are you suggesting I shot my father because he was trying to kill me?” She held up her hands. “You said yourself I didn’t have GSR on my hand or face.”
“Maybe you did a good job of washing up before the EMTs got to the house.”
“I still had blood under my fingernails.”
“You missed a spot.”
“What about my clothes?”
“Too much blood. Maybe the whole thing was a setup. You muddied the crime scene while your sister, the gun expert, slipped away with the murder weapon she fired.”
“That’s ridiculous. Neither one of us would hurt my father and he would never hurt us.”
“There has to be a gun missing and you were the only one in the house when EMTs and police arrived. There was time for your sister to get out and dispose of the murder weapon.”
“She was camping in Waring, almost an hour away.”
“We’ll need to talk to her daughter.”
“No.”
“That’s not up to you.” He shook one long index finger at her. “Let’s try this scenario. You grabbed a gun from this case, shot your father, and then disposed of it.”
“Before the EMTs arrived? Before I performed CPR? Before I called for help? While I was doing all that hand washing you think I did?”
He pulled opened the envelope and handed her the contents. A search warrant for the guns. “The crime scene folks are on their way to pick up the guns. I’ll have them revisit the scene to see if our intruder left any prints.”
“Fine. None of those guns have been fired recently.” She studied the gun. “What about DNA? Will you test for that?”
“If there is any. But it’s not like CSI. It’ll take six weeks, maybe longer to get those results.” Scowling, he chewed his lower lip. “I’d like to search the rest of the house and the garage.”
“Add that to the search warrant if you think you have probable cause.”
“Or you could give your consent to search the house.”
“This isn’t my house. You’ll have to ask my mother.”
Who’d been married to a judge far too long to do such a thing. She would make King jump through the legal hoops.
“A judge’s wife? I have to go to the . . .”
“What? You have to do what?”
“The autopsy is scheduled this morning. I sent the newbie, but I need to go make sure he doesn’t hurl on the . . . sorry.” His grin disappeared. He ducked his head and stared at his shiny black Ropers. “I’m not really as insensitive as I come off sometimes. It’s how we deal. Morgue humor.”
“Actually, I understand. That’s how journalists deal with it. Crispy Critters. DOTR, DRT, floaters.”
“Burn victims. Dead On The Road. Dead Right There. Drowning victims. Morgue humor.” His tone commiserated. “I’m sure you, as a photographer, use the camera to separate you from the images you’re shooting. You didn’t have that luxury the night of the murder.”
He didn’t want her imagining her dad’s body in the morgue. One point for the detective’s humanity. “Once that’s done, will they release his body so we can bury him?”
“As early as tomorrow. Once the autopsy is done, there’s no reason to hold the body.”
“I imagine you’re getting a lot of pressure to put this one to bed quickly.”
“Sure, but I want to do that every time, every case—not just one involving a well-known judge and pillar of the community.”
“Either way, I appreciate it.”
“You won’t by the time I’m done. I’ll ask for an officer to be posted outside so there’s no more funny business. We’ll also be subpoenaing all the judge’s bank, computer, and phone records.” He picked up the coffee cup and sipped. “Sure you don’t want to save me the hassle and tell me what you or your sister did with the murder weapon?”
Those records would most likely reveal her father’s trips to Las Vegas and the habit he’d tried so hard to conceal. “Do what you have to do.”
“Tell your brother I’ll circle back with him later today. As well as your mother and Brooklyn.”
“My mother was out of town when my father died. Brooklyn’s seven years old
. She was most likely asleep in a tent at a Girl Scout camp.”
“Your mother can afford to hire someone, and it was storming that night. Little girls don’t sleep through storms.
“And their mothers don’t abandon them in a tent in the middle of a storm.”
Of course they did. Liz Fischer had abandoned her two daughters in a tent city.
“I promise I won’t traumatize her. Mrs. Shelton will be permitted to stay with her throughout the interview.” King tapped the envelope on the desk, his gaze never leaving her face. “I hear your mother filed for divorce.”
He’d been waiting to drop that bomb on her at the perfect moment. Nina stuck her hand on the edge of the desk and held on, her sense of equilibrium gone. If the police knew, it was only a matter of time before the media got hold of it. “More than 50 percent of all marriages end in divorce. Usually folks just let their lawyers fight it out for them.”
“And sometimes, they don’t.” Detective King saluted her with the envelope. “There’s a thin line between love and hate.” He paused at the doorway. “Tell your buddy Aaron I’ll want to talk to him too.”
“What makes you think he’s here?”
“That’s his bucket of rust out back isn’t it? See you in a bit.”
“Why do you want to talk to Aaron?”
“You said the two of you talked not long before your dad was murdered.”
“And?”
“If the two of you were planning to kill him, that’s conspiracy to commit murder.”
Now the detective was delusional. He was grasping for straws. He had a million scenarios and not enough evidence to support any of them. “For what reason would Aaron possibly want my father dead?”
“There’s always a reason, Miss Fischer, not always a good one, but it’s there. Money, lust, revenge, for fun. I just have to find it. Wait here.”
The last two words were not a request.
She’d been ordered to stand down. She eased onto the step and propped her elbows on her knees.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
15
Grave robbers probably felt less guilty. Aaron paced the length of Nina’s apartment. Not much room for pacing. She had less space than he did, but he always found her place cozy. Daffy, who was curled up in a ball on the couch, obviously thought so too. And Peanuts, who’d been beside himself since finding the judge, had finally passed out in the sunshine that burst into the room from the two windows on the far wall. He’d gone as far from the study as he could.