Reluctantly, Will nodded. “I’ll be in the kitchen—just holler if you need anything.”
“Okay, Dad.”
Once the three were settled on the overstuffed floral-print sofas, Marilyn extracted her notepad from her jacket and repeated her previous question. “Ms. Taylor, why did you think Grant Madsen was dead?”
“Because his family is Mafia, and I thought they might hurt him,” Sophie responded. “They’re bad people. His brother is Logan Barberi.”
“Do you know where Logan Barberi is right now?”
“No,” Sophie said. “I wish I did, so I could tell the police where to find him. He needs to go down.”
Marilyn raised her eyebrows at Jerry.
Oblivious, Sophie sighed deeply, and then seemed to notice Jerry staring at her. “Oh, God!” she exclaimed. “Did I just get Grant in more trouble?”
“Relax,” Jerry said. “I already knew about his Mafia connections. Once I realized his brother Logan was the man who put you in prison, I told Madsen he should come clean with you about his identity.”
Sophie nodded sadly, remembering how Grant had needed to tell her something, but once again she’d thwarted his efforts at honesty, insisting on sharing her own story first. She wished she’d allowed Grant to tell her about his family—that would have been a much better way to discover the truth. Or would it? The news of the brothers’ connection was devastating no matter how she learned of it.
“And then Madsen came back to see me yesterday morning,” Jerry added.
“He talked to you?” Sophie asked.
“Yeah, he came to tell me about his brother showing up at his place. He was basically turning himself in for associating with a known criminal.” Jerry watched Sophie’s eyes widen with alarm. “But I didn’t have the heart to arrest him.” He paused and then added, “He was too torn up about losing you.”
Sophie looked down.
Marilyn took it all in and glanced skeptically at the parole officer. What the hell was going on here? Choosing not to dress down the PO in front of a suspect, Marilyn asked him, “What time was Mr. Madsen in your office yesterday, Officer Stone?”
“Let’s see, about eight-forty in the morning.”
“And what time did he leave?”
“A little before nine.”
“Why are you asking these questions, Detective?” Sophie butted in. “If Grant wasn’t the one who was murdered, who was?”
Marilyn finished writing, then trained her green eyes on Sophie. She gave the obligatory Miranda warnings, making Sophie’s expression even more frightened, and then ordered, “Ms. Taylor, please account for your whereabouts the past twenty-four hours.”
Sophie looked questioningly at her PO, who returned her stare. “Answer the detective’s question, Taylor.”
“Yes, sir,” she gulped, realizing she was being questioned as a suspect. This overwhelmed her so thoroughly that she was unable to figure out who the murder victim could be. One of her father’s associates? A former client?
Sophie took a deep breath. “I, um, Wednesday night I left Grant’s—”
“You left Grant’s?” Marilyn interrupted. “Was Logan there?”
“Yes,” Sophie confirmed. “I left Grant’s apartment, and I walked around downtown for a few hours until I landed on my dad’s doorstep.” A blush feathered her high cheekbones and she continued, “We hadn’t talked for over a year, but luckily he let me in. I spent the night here, and then we had some coffee the next morning.”
“What time did you wake up Thursday morning—yesterday morning?” Marilyn inquired.
“It was kind of late,” Sophie said. “Almost ten I think?”
“And what did you do then?”
“I came down to the kitchen and was surprised to find my dad still here. He took the morning off of work. We talked for a little bit”—she grimaced—”he told me yet again that my taste in men was horrible and I should have gone to work for him, blah, blah …” She met Marilyn’s gaze and cleared her throat. “Sorry, that’s probably irrelevant information. Anyway, I realized how late it was getting, and I needed to get to work to tell my boss I was quitting before, um, before …” Her voice drifted off and she looked at Jerry.
“Before what?” Marilyn prodded.
“Before Grant got there. I didn’t want to see him.”
“You and Grant work together?” Marilyn asked curiously.
“Yes, he got me a job on an architectural cruise.” She sighed fondly. “And then he got me another job teaching psychology at DePaul. I start in a couple of weeks. But after what happened …” She looked down at her hands, twisting them nervously in her lap. “After I found out he was Logan’s brother, well, I couldn’t work with Grant anymore. I just wanted to quit and leave and never see him again.”
“And did you manage to avoid Grant when you got to work?”
“No,” Sophie replied, feeling a pang of sadness. “He was there.”
Marilyn turned a page in her notebook. “What time was this?”
“Um, right around eleven, I think? The time our shift would normally start.”
“What happened when you saw him?”
Another sigh. “He begged me to talk to him, but I couldn’t. It, ah, hurt too much.” She looked away. “I told my boss, Roger, that I was resigning, then I got the hell out of there.”
“And what did Grant do?”
“Stayed on the ship, I guess. He had to work.”
Marilyn nodded. “Where did you go next?”
“I went to DePaul to try to work on the syllabus for one of my classes.”
“Can anyone verify that you were there?”
Sophie looked up, startled, and her heart rate increased. Anita was already in Spain—who could vouch for her? “Oh! Yes, the department secretary gave me the keys to the office I’m using. I was going to stay there all afternoon, but I wasn’t getting anything done.” Grant’s pleading crystal eyes had haunted her all day, mixed in with distracting images of his brother’s deep-blue gaze.
“So, I came back here. It was around three or so,” Sophie added.
“Was your father here?”
“No. He got home around six-thirty, I think.”
“So, you were here alone from three to six-thirty, then. What were you doing?”
Sophie looked down and bit her lip. She continued to wring her hands.
“Ms. Taylor?” Marilyn prompted. “What were you doing between three o’clock and six-thirty yesterday afternoon?”
Finally, Sophie lifted her eyes to meet the detective’s, revealing her tears. “I was in my mother’s room,” she confessed quietly. “I was looking through some of her clothes, her jewelry, remembering when I was a kid and she would dress up to go out with my dad …” Her voice faded and a tear dropped onto her cream-colored skirt.
Jerry fought the urge to place a consoling hand on her arm. “When Taylor was in prison, her mother died,” he explained.
Marilyn nodded, wondering how Sophie was going to take the news of yet another death.
“Ms. Taylor, I’m investigating the murder of someone you know, I’m afraid.”
Sophie stared at the detective and blinked rapidly, trying to clear her eyes of tears.
“Logan Barberi was killed yesterday.”
Sophie sat completely still. She thought of Logan’s head bowed in her office, tears falling as he related the awful tales of his father’s abuse. “What happened?” she managed.
“I can’t say anything more until I interview all the suspects,” Marilyn replied calmly. “Though the media is bound to get hold of this soon.”
Sophie’s muddled mind ticked through various thoughts and questions, one at a time. Quietly she asked, “Does Grant know?”
“I’m not sure. We’re headed there next.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Is Grant a suspect, Detective?”
“Do you think he should be, Ms. Taylor?”
“No! I—I—I don’t know.” Sophie shakily dre
w her hand to her face, placing the heel of her palm against her forehead. Logan was dead! Logan was dead, and all she could think about was Grant. How would he react? Did he have motive to kill his brother? Could he be capable of murder? No, never, she thought. Not the man she knew. But did she know him really? What else had he been hiding from her?
“We’ll need to interview your father now,” Detective Fox said. “Check his story against yours, see if your alibi pans out.”
Sophie sat up with a start. “Am I a suspect, Detective?”
“You certainly have motive, Ms. Taylor. The deceased’s actions led you to prison, as I understand it.”
“But I could never kill him!” she responded indignantly, then continued in a softer tone. “Logan was, well, he was trying to turn his life around. He was abused by his father—awful, horrible stuff—but he did everything he could to protect his little brother back then.” She sniffed, feeling a lump in her throat. “To protect Grant.”
Sophie stared off into the distance, thinking of Grant and how he would take the news—if it were indeed news.
“I’m an awful person,” she said. “I can’t believe I don’t even feel that badly about Logan dying. All I can think about is Grant.”
“You’re probably in shock,” Marilyn said. “You probably feel numb right now.”
Sophie nodded. “I guess you have to notify lots of people about loved ones dying, huh?”
Marilyn gave a faint smile. “Probably not as many up in Lake County as the Chicago detectives have to contend with.” Her green eyes pierced Sophie. “So, were you in love with Mr. Barberi, then?”
She had once thought so, but the man she truly loved was not Logan Barberi—she now knew that for sure.
“I’ll have to pass on that question, Detective,” Sophie said. “Just please find Logan’s killer.”
* * *
“Uh-oh, time for the PO’s surprise inspection again!” Roger boomed, his voice full of amusement.
Jerry looked down at Madsen’s boss. He was irritated with himself for forgetting the man’s name, but given the outrageous number of parolees he supervised, he guessed it would be unreasonable to expect to remember all the details. And then there was the murder investigation weighing on his mind …
“Parole Officer Jerry Stone,” he said formally, pumping Roger’s hand.
“Yeah, I remember you, but it looks like you have no fucking clue who I am. It’s Roger Eaton.” Peering behind the taller man to find a sharp-dressed woman about his height, Roger inquired, “And who do we have here?”
Jerry stepped to the side and swept his arm toward Marilyn. “Detective Marilyn Fox of the Great Lakes Police, this is Roger Eaton, Grant Madsen’s boss.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“A detective, eh?” He nodded appreciatively. “So, what’s Madsen done this time?”
Neither officer laughed at his joke, but Marilyn smiled pleasantly. “Where is Mr. Madsen, sir? We need to talk to him.”
“Well, get in line, then,” Roger brusquely retorted, gesturing to the bridge. “His uncle has been up there with him for awhile already.”
Roger then turned and looked up to the bridge, but saw only Joe’s silhouette outlined by the setting sun—no sign of Grant. “At least I thought Grant was up there with his uncle.”
Marilyn pursed her lips. Her key suspect better not have gotten away before she had the chance to question him. “Stay here, Mr. Eaton,” she commanded, heading up the stairs to the bridge. “We’ll need to talk to you next.”
Roger watched her scuttle up the stairs, admiring the alluring sway of her cute derriere before Jerry’s body blocked his sweet view. Roger was left on deck with the uniformed police officer. They stared at each other awkwardly.
“So,” Roger began, rocking back and forth on his heels. “What’s your fucking deal?”
Arriving at the bridge, Marilyn was relieved to find a man curled up on the floor, soft moans of despair emanating from his coiled form. That had to be Madsen. Another man wearing a decorated Navy uniform turned to her as she entered.
“Detective Fox?” the older man inquired. His striking blue eyes caught her off guard.
“Um, you must be the uncle, sir? Joe Madsen?”
“Yes, ma’am, Commander Joseph Madsen.” They grimly shook hands.
Hearing their voices, Grant looked up at the three adults blocking the doorway. A familiar man was shaking Joe’s hand … Grant stared for a moment before registering that his parole officer was onboard. Why was Jerry here? Grant’s fuzzy brain tried to understand what was happening.
“Thank you for looking after Grant, Officer Stone,” Joe said as they shook hands.
“It’s been my pleasure, sir,” Jerry answered.
Marilyn studied the suspect, noticing the multihued bruise on the left side of his face. He swiped wet trails from his cheeks, focusing on Jerry and Joe, then he rested his penetrating gaze on her, tilting his head to the side, failing to recognize her.
Grant finally placed his hands on the deck and pushed his body into a squat, then upward to his full height. Even Marilyn was taken in by his dazzling aquamarine gaze.
“Officer Stone?” Grant’s confused voice cut through the conversation.
“Madsen,” Jerry acknowledged. “I see your uncle already told you about Logan?”
Grant’s voice cracked. “Yes, sir.”
Jerry cleared his throat. “This is Detective Marilyn Fox from the Great Lakes PD. She needs to ask you some questions.”
Grant gave her a dumbfounded look. Joe watched him anxiously, wondering how he would react. Then Grant began nodding. “You think I did it,” he said, glaring at Marilyn and Jerry. “You think I killed him! My own brother!”
Jerry stepped forward. “Madsen—”
“Fuck you!” Grant snarled. “Fuck all of you!”
“Grant!” Joe sharply admonished.
Seeing his uncle’s disapproval, Grant felt the heat in his veins dissipate slightly, replaced by intense dread. His breaths came in panicked gasps, and he glanced back and forth from one appalled face to another. They were disgusted by him because he was part of them—the criminal element, the Mafia. He was born into evil. He knew it, and they knew it. It was in his blood.
“Just fucking arrest me and get it over with,” Grant muttered. “You’ve already made up your minds about me anyway!” His eyes flared. “It’s fucking useless to pretend I can make it out here. I clearly belong in there, with my father.”
Grant looked at Joe, the only family member he had left. “They’ve taken everything from me!” He suppressed a cry. “They’ve taken everything,” he continued, his raspy voice growing softer. “What’s the difference if they take my freedom again? It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Hey!” Joe crossed the bridge and grasped Grant’s biceps, forcing him to look at him. “It matters to me, damn it! It tore me up when you were in prison, and I’m not going to let it happen again. Now you sit your ass down and you talk to the detective, and she will figure out that you’re innocent—that you’re a good man despite your bad family.” Joe’s imploring eyes locked on the matching blue of his nephew’s, and he shook Grant with each word. “You stop this little pity party right now! You got it?”
Grant swallowed. Slowly he nodded, and his voice sounded more like himself as he replied, “Yes, sir.”
Realizing he had his nephew in a vice grip, Joe released his hold and stepped back, trying to regain his bearings. He pointed to the seat by the controls and ordered, “Find some leather.”
Grant quickly slid into the chair and folded his hands in his lap, his back perfectly straight, eyes forward.
He sat in his chair expectantly awaiting his interrogation, but Marilyn thought for a moment before she began. Madsen was probably furious with his brother for making him take the fall for the Great Lakes heist, but he also seemed devastated by his death.
“Mr. Madsen, um, Commander Madsen, I’d like you to wait down bel
ow while we question your nephew.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded.
“Just tell them the truth, Grant, and you’ll be okay.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Joe left, Marilyn sat on the console in order to be eye-level with the suspect. She wanted him to feel at ease, but he certainly looked anything but peaceful at the moment. After a perfunctory reading of his Miranda rights, she said, “Mr. Madsen, I’d like to ask you some questions. Are you capable of responding at this time?”
Surmising she must think he was a total wimp, he quickly nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then please account for your activities the past two days.”
Jerry watched Grant carefully as he responded.
“Starting when, ma’am?”
“How about Wednesday night?”
“Um, Wednesday night was when Sophie—Sophie Taylor? Do you know her?”
“Yes, Mr. Madsen. We were at her father’s questioning her before we came here.”
Grant was incredulous. “Questioning her? Surely you don’t believe Sophie killed Lo, ma’am.”
“I’ve learned not to rule out any possibilities too soon. But it surprises you that we questioned Sophie Taylor? You think she’s innocent?”
“Of course she’s innocent,” Grant said. “She’s one of the most honorable individuals I’ve ever met.”
Marilyn hesitated a second before continuing with the next statement that flowed naturally from her detective’s brain. It would be a potentially low blow to pit the two suspects against each other, but such a technique often worked to nail the killer. And Marilyn always got the killer. Taking a deep breath, she went for it. “Funny, she didn’t say the same thing about you, Mr. Madsen. In fact, when I asked Ms. Taylor if she thought you should be a suspect, she didn’t give me a clear answer. I think she believes you killed your brother.”
Grant’s face fell, and he dropped his head with hopelessness and shame. Sophie thought he was capable of murder?If he hadn’t realized it before, he now knew he’d lost her forever.
Jerry’s mouth tightened as Grant folded over in agony. Marilyn had taken some creative liberties with that last statement.
With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 35