Under Suspicion

by Lee, Rachel

Newman rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. They were the only two people there.”

  “I want to see the scene.”

  Newman shook his head. “No need. We’re handling it.”

  “I want to see the scene,” Gil said, his voice taking on an edge. “Tebbins and I are working on a case together.”

  Newman looked about to argue, but after a moment gave in. “Sure, why not,” he said. “But I’m going with you.”

  It was like any other crime scene. Yellow tape cordoned off the yard. Bright lights poured out of the inside windows from the floodlights being used by the remaining criminologists. The work was almost done. For now, anyway.

  But this one was different for Gil. Because he’d been to this house before. As a guest. As a colleague. The familiar sight of the crime-scene activity jolted and scraped against the familiar sight of a house he knew.

  Markers were scattered on the lawn. A closer look showed that they indicated a blood trail leading to the hedge between Tebbins’s house and the neighbor’s. Gil followed the trail with his eyes up to the open front door of the house. God, she had been bleeding heavily.

  Inside the house there was more blood, and overturned furniture.

  The blood trail went down the hallway, but about midway it changed. Instead of the signature arterial spray, it lessened to a thinner trail, as if someone had crawled or dragged himself from the room at the end of the hall to this point.

  “This is where we found Tebbins,” Newman said. “And the gun and the butcher knife.”

  Gil nodded, studying the trails, reaching conclusions.

  “The way we figure it, she shot him back there in his office. Then she came out this way, probably to look for something. Maybe those videotapes in the living room. She’s a suspect in the museum robbery, right?”

  “Some think so.”

  “Well, there must have been something on the tapes to incriminate her, we figure. So she shot him back there, then came out here. Only Tebbins wasn’t out. He crawled down the hallway, she heard him, came back, he stabbed her.”

  Gil nodded slowly. “Where the hell did he get the butcher knife? And where was his gun?”

  “His gun was in the study where he was shot. It was fired once.”

  “And the knife?”

  Newman shrugged. “Maybe he’d carried it back there for some reason. People use knives for all kinds of things.”

  “True. But he had a gun. So why didn’t he bring it with him instead of a knife?”

  Newman shifted uneasily. “He’d been shot. He wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “Clearly enough to crawl down the hallway.”

  “Maybe she brought the knife with her when she heard him moving. Maybe she meant it for extra protection.”

  But she was the one who got stabbed. The scenario bothered Gil, but he was well aware that with a little polishing, it could play out in a courtroom, unless there was a stack of physical evidence to disprove it. And so far the stalker, whoever he was, had been damn good at not leaving useful evidence behind.

  “What about signs of forced entry?”

  Newman shook his head. “The French doors in the study were unlocked. No sign of forced entry.”

  “Somebody said a cop almost hit Anna when she ran out of the hedges.”

  “Yeah.” Newman pulled a pad out of his back pocket and consulted it. “Jeff Ingles. He was the one who brought Lundgren here from her house.”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  Jeff Ingles was still shaken. Paramedics had doused him all over with hydrogen peroxide and sent him home to shower and change. Roxie, of course, turned her ire from Vic to him. The whole time he showered, she stood outside the stall and ranted about the stupidity of him getting covered with some stranger’s blood, and how they weren’t going to have sex again for six months until she was sure he hadn’t caught anything. By the time he got out of the shower, he actually thought that sounded like a relief. His son Vic, much to his amazement, had decided Jeff was a real hero, and got into it with his mother over whether Jeff had done the noble thing by saving Anna Lundgren’s life.

  Jeff, who wasn’t used to his son considering him anything except a walking, talking squawk box, felt kind of good about that. But he felt pretty bad leaving Vic behind to deal with Roxie. Although Vic seemed less troubled by Roxie’s rants than Jeff.

  Back at the scene of the crime, he hung around, answering questions, waiting for someone to tell him what he was supposed to do next, other than fill out his reports. He was assigned to the Lundgren woman, but she was in the hospital. Maybe he ought to go down there and keep an eye on her, since he hadn’t managed to do a very good job of it earlier. He felt really bad about that.

  But just as he was deciding to go call in and find out what they wanted him to do, just as the crime-scene van was about to finish up, he was called over to talk to a detective from St. Pete.

  He recognized Vance Newman, although he’d never worked directly with him. The detective was a newcomer to the area, having come from Orlando about a year ago.

  He’d also recognized Garcia, whom he’d seen around the museum.

  “So what’s the story?” Garcia asked him.

  “I was assigned to bring Anna Lundgren to Detective Tebbins’s house this evening around six.”

  “Did anybody explain why?”

  “Yes, sir. Detective Tebbins explained that she was a material witness, and he needed her assistance reviewing some videotapes. He also explained that she had been threatened, and that I was to be extremely careful. Which I was. When I delivered Ms. Lundgren to his door, he said that she would be safe with him, and I should go get some supper. Which I did.”

  Garcia nodded. “And then?”

  “While I was eating, I heard about the alarm at Tebbins’s house. So I hurried back. I just came around the corner over there when I saw a woman jump out of the hedges and run toward the street. I jammed my brakes on so I wouldn’t hit her. Right about the time I stopped, she impacted the hood of my car.”

  “Impacted?”

  The memory was still too vivid in Jeff’s mind. It was a moment before he could continue in a properly detached tone. “Yes, sir. Impacted. I was stopped, and she ran right into me. Hard. Then she sank to the ground. I got out and did what I could to stop her bleeding.”

  “The woman was Ms. Lundgren?”

  Jeff nodded.

  “Was she trying to escape?”

  Jeff shook his head. “I assume she was trying to escape from an assailant.”

  “No, I mean, did she try to avoid you in any way.”

  Jeff was surprised. “No, sir. It was obvious she was running out to get help. She came out of the bushes as soon as my car was visible, and she came straight to me. No way was she trying to avoid me.”

  He noted the way Garcia looked at Vance, but it wasn’t his problem. All he wanted was for this damn shift to be over so he could go home. Or maybe go to a motel. All he knew was it was going to be a long time before he forgot the sound of Anna Lundgren running into the hood of his car. Or the sight of her blood in the dusk.

  “Forget it,” Gil said to Newman. “You can just forget it. You’re in too much of a hurry.”

  Newman flushed angrily. “I don’t buy into phantom assailants without proof.”

  “You’ve got proof. The phone lines were cut outside. Just when did Lundgren have time to do that? She was being watched constantly by police officers. Are you suggesting that when she arrived here Officer Ingles gave her a few minutes to run around the side of the house, shinny up the tree, and cut the phone? Or that Detective Tebbins let her run around outside while he stayed inside so she could do that?”

  Newman frowned. “That’s still not enough. There could be another reason the line was severed. An accident of some kind. Or, she could have an accomplice.”

  The word “accomplice” caused a twinge inside Gil. Nancy? Where was Nancy anyway? Then he dismissed the whole idea. Crazy or not, he didn’t believe Anna ca
pable of shooting Tebbins.

  “There’s a problem with this whole idea that Lundgren did this,” Gil said after a moment. “Apart from the telephone line.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s the whole idea that she shot him and didn’t run away. Why would she hang around long enough for him to crawl halfway down the hall? And if she did, why didn’t she just shoot him again? It’s not adding up, Newman. Let me give you my take.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The assailant came in by way of the French doors. Tebbins heard something and went to investigate. He was shot and returned fire once. Anna went to investigate with the only weapon she could find, a butcher knife. She met the assailant halfway down the hallway.”

  “So why didn’t the assailant shoot her?”

  Good question, Gil thought, staring off into the night. A damn good question. “I guess,” he said after a moment, “it’s because he needs her living heart.”

  Nancy never left Anna’s bedside from the moment she was moved into a room from recovery. Tebbins, on the other hand, went from recovery to ICU. The prognosis on both of them was good.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Nancy said when Gil told her. “I kinda like the little jerk.”

  “He’s not a jerk,” Gil said. “Weird, maybe.”

  “He’s a jerk. He knows someone’s after my sister but he sent the cop away. In my book, that makes him a jerk.”

  Gil couldn’t rightly argue with her. He let his gaze trail to Anna, who was almost white against the blue sheets, except for the brilliance of her hair. Over the years he’d questioned a lot of people who looked as bad or worse, but they weren’t people he cared about.

  “Is she waking up at all?”

  “In and out, she has spells of moaning. But she hasn’t been fully conscious yet. Why?”

  “We need to ask if she saw who did it.”

  “We?”

  “Detective Newman is outside.”

  Nancy scowled. “You mean they don’t think Anna did it? They’re not absolutely convinced that she shot Tebbins and stabbed herself? Those cops in the hallway have been looking at her like they’d like to kill her. I get the feeling they think she’s a serial killer. First Richter, now Tebbins.”

  “It does look suspicious,” Gil said, his voice heavy with reluctance. “You can see that, Nancy.”

  Her eyes were reddened as they rose to his. “I thought you were on her side.”

  “I am. And that’s why I need to ask her if she saw who did it.”

  Nancy looked down and twisted her fingers together. “What if she doesn’t know who it was? I mean, what if she saw someone but can’t identify him?”

  “Then maybe she can give us enough of a description to go on.”

  Nancy nodded slowly. “Just make sure those guys outside know that it’s as important to keep strangers out of this room as it is to keep Anna and me in here. God!” She shook her head and looked out the window. “As if she could get up and go anywhere on her own right now.”

  “I’ll make sure they know.” Walking to Anna’s bedside, he took her hand gently and held it. Memories of the afternoon, just a few short hours ago, seemed a long way away now, at once sharp and haunting, and far beyond reach.

  They should never have made love. Never. Not just because it violated his professional ethics, but because he sensed that in some way he had wounded them both. He didn’t really trust his own judgment now, and she probably felt… used. Taken advantage of by a man who might hold her future in his hands.

  It left a sour taste in his mouth.

  Too late now. Gathering his thoughts, he resisted an urge to bend over and kiss her. Instead he let go of her hand, nodded to Nancy, and returned to the hallway.

  He wasn’t going anywhere, he decided. This might not be his case, but he wasn’t going to leave it up to Vance Newman.

  Not as long as there was someone out there who wanted to kill Anna.

  Gil was on his way to the cafeteria to get some coffee the next morning when his boss called him. Finding a quiet corner, he put the cell phone to his ear. “What’s up, Ed?”

  Ed Sanchez’s voice dripped sarcasm. “And here I thought things would be quiet for a while since Seamus is away on vacation. Now I’m hearing rumbles that you’re sticking your nose too far into a Tampa PD case.”

  “I’m working my own case,” Gil said, silently cursing Vance Newman. “The Malacek homicide.”

  “Last I heard, that was looking like an O.D.”

  “The toxicology still isn’t in. And like I told you, it looks like it’s related to the museum robbery.”

  “Your name is becoming too familiar across the bay. You understand?”

  “I understand. I also understand I’m chasing a killer. I don’t have to cooperate, I can run my own investigation wherever it leads me.”

  “Within reason. As long as you’re not treading on the toes of other jurisdictions. And you apparently trod somewhere you shouldn’t.”

  Gil sighed, restraining his impatience. “Detective Tebbins suggested we join forces.”

  “Detective Tebbins, I hear, is now lying unconscious in ICU. That changes the players.”

  “Same case, same rules.”

  It was Sanchez’s turn to sigh. “Why are you so hot on this? If it really is connected to the museum robbery, they’ll catch the perp, and you’ll have your man.”

  “I’m hot on it because they’re looking at the wrong suspect. And if they don’t start looking in the right direction, someone else could get killed.”

  “I hear she’s pretty.”

  Damn Newman, Gil thought. Newman must have seen him take Anna’s hand last night in her hospital room. “She’s also going to be the perp’s next victim. I’m staying.”

  “I could yank you.”

  “Don’t. Don’t.”

  Sanchez was silent for a few moments. “I could propose an M.O.U.”

  “You could propose it,” Gil agreed. A memorandum of understanding—detailing the shared jurisdiction and setting out working arrangements—would put him on the case officially, even in Tampa. What he and Tebbins had done by mutual, informal agreement, he and Newman would do by order of their respective departments. “Of course, TPD might not accept it.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Sanchez said. He paused a moment. “Just don’t let me hear any more complaints.”

  Relieved, Gil disconnected and got his coffee. He had more time. And with any luck at all, Anna would wake up and be able to identify the perp.

  Any luck. And it was about damn time they had some.

  When he got back up to Anna’s floor he found Vance Newman had arrived. The guy looked fresh, as if he’d managed to get a shower and some sleep. He also looked a little surprised to see Gil.

  “You still here?” he asked.

  “I’m working a murder case, remember? Lundgren’s a material witness. My boss is going to write up the M.O.U. I’m sure it’ll fly with your boss.”

  After a moment, Newman shrugged. “Just don’t get in the way.”

  They entered the room together. Nancy was sitting on the edge of her sister’s bed, looking exhausted but much happier. “She’s waking up,” she said. “She spoke to me.”

  Newman nodded. “I need to ask her a few questions.”

  “Just don’t wear her out. The nurse said she needs to rest. She lost a lot of blood.”

  “I know.” Practiced sympathy. He turned to Anna. “Ms. Lundgren? Ms. Lundgren, do you hear me?”

  Anna’s eyes fluttered open, sleepy, pain-filled slits.

  “Ms. Lundgren? Who stabbed you?”

  “Lance Barro.”

  “Who shot Detective Tebbins?”

  “Lance.” A tear ran down her cheek. “Tebbins … okay?”

  “He’s going to be fine,” Gil said when Newman didn’t answer. “He’s going to be just fine.”

  “Lance,” she said groggily. “It was Lance. I liked him….”

  “Okay,” Nanc
y said. “That’s enough. You’ve got your name. Now get in gear and find the son of a bitch.”

  It wasn’t that easy. He hadn’t shown up for work or classes that morning, and he hadn’t been seen around his apartment for several days. By evening, it seemed as if he had disappeared from the planet.

  Worse, Gil found as he checked out the man’s academic record, Lance Barro very nearly was the Invisible Man. The transcripts were real enough, but that was it. None of his graduate program professors seemed to know more than that he was in their classes. His academic advisor recalled talking to the man, but couldn’t remember anything about him. The same held for Barro’s undergraduate work at the University of Minnesota. He was just a face in the classroom, a name in the grade books.

  His trail died at U of M. It was as if he’d invented his identity when he entered college. And had kept it a closely guarded secret. Even his ID photo said nothing about him. A face, neutral and wholly unremarkable, looking into the camera but devoid of any discernible feeling about having to do so. No forced smile. No distracted stare. Nothing.

  Lance Barro had practiced hiding for a long, long time. Gil had no illusions about the ease with which someone could disappear, especially in a large, transient, metropolitan jungle like the Tampa Bay area. With the right posture and body language, he could walk through a crowded mall with his picture posted on every door and shop window, and no one would give him a second glance.

  Now back at the hospital, looking down at Anna’s sleep-softened face, with Nancy curled uncomfortably in a chair across the room and fidgeting in a dream, Gil realized he’d learned more than he’d thought in the seemingly futile day’s work. Newman would continue the chase, Gil knew. But they wouldn’t find Barro. Somehow, Gil would have to get Barro to come to him.

  As he studied the veins visible under Anna’s pale skin, Gil knew what that “somehow” would be. And he didn’t like it one bit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Five days later, Tebbins was reasserting control of the case from his hospital bed. Newman didn’t like it, but Gil was grateful for it. Newman was singularly unimaginative, and while Tebbins could be overly so, his imagination was much more useful than Newman’s plodding, prosaic mind that could only see what was right before it.