Devil Sent the Rain

by Lisa Turner

  “I see what’s happening,” she said. “You’re reliving your own experiences, getting hung up on the human side of this case. We should hand this off to Kloss or Johnston.”

  “We’ll do a better job,” he said.

  “Not if you can’t let go of the Caroline you knew.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said and walked into the bedroom. She had no idea.

  “Detective Malone,” a voice called from down the hall.

  “That’s Snackbar,” Frankie said, coming out of the bathroom.

  “Who?”

  “The big cop on the porch. I call him Snackbar.” She went to the entry and came back.

  “He says there’s a woman outside. She wants to speak with you.”

  Snackbar was in the driveway, a young woman standing next to him with her hands jammed in the pockets of a lime green trench that she’d pulled on over a pink ankle-length nightgown. Her cloud of frizzy dark hair moved around her face in the breeze. As soon as she saw him, she started across the yard. Snackbar reached for her arm. She shrugged him off and kept coming, flip-flops slapping against her bare feet. Billy gave the cop a nod. He couldn’t place the woman but had a feeling he should know her.

  She bounded up the steps. “Where’s Caroline?” she asked, eyes dark and startling.

  She was taller than he expected. “Your name?”

  “Zelda Taylor. I got this weird text telling me to come to work immediately. I stopped here first. I had this feeling.” Her hand darted out to take his. “Was it a home invasion? Did those shits hurt Caroline?”

  This was the cousin Rosalyn had mentioned. He wondered what kind of person drives to work after an emergency call dressed in flip-flops and a nightgown. And why come here first? Her explanation didn’t cut it. “Let’s step inside,” he said.

  “Tell me now.”

  This was the hard part, telling someone that a person close to them has been murdered. Rosalyn Lee had been strangely stoic. A lot could happen with this one. She could start swinging, run away, or pass out.

  “I’m sorry to tell you that your cousin was murdered last night,” he said.

  Her lids fluttered, but she stayed on her feet.

  “Where? Here?”

  “At Shelby Farms.”

  “No way.”

  He kept a steady gaze on her.

  A breeze rippled the hem of her gown. “Caroline?” she said. Her color drained.

  He figured this time she’d go down, so he took her upper arm and guided her through the door. She made it to the sofa before her legs gave out. He pulled a chair close to the sofa to sit almost knee to knee with her. He wasn’t going to push. He’d let her work through the news first.

  She brushed hair from her face. “Murdered? How?”

  “Shot.”

  “Shot? Goddamned guns.” She wiped tears and sniffed. “I need a tissue.”

  Frankie, who’d been standing in the doorway, left and came back with tissues and a cup of water. She set them on the table and backed away to perch on the arm of a chair across the room.

  Zelda drank the water, her attention staying on Frankie. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Malone. We’re partners.”

  “Oh.” Zelda set the cup down. She pressed her palm to her forehead. “Wait a minute. What was Caroline doing at Shelby Farms at night?”

  “Maybe you can help us figure that out,” he said, taking out his memo book. “You up to it?”

  She held the cup out to Frankie. “May I have another?”

  With Frankie gone, Zelda leaned in. “I don’t like your partner hovering over us.”

  He shifted in his chair, wondering why Frankie made her uncomfortable, but it didn’t matter. He needed her confidence. “Detective Malone will be in and out. Let’s talk about your cousin. You got the text from your office and came here first. You said you had a feeling.”

  She dabbed her eyes. “Her life’s been pretty rocky since she called off that wedding. Raj flipped out. Big ego you know.”

  Frankie came back with the water. He inclined his head toward the door. She took the hint and went outside.

  “You were saying about the breakup?”

  “He sent flowers, begged. Called and called. Then he started showing up at her house in the middle of the night. She wouldn’t let him in. He was yelling at her in the parking lot at the office last week. Some attorneys went out there and made him leave.”

  “Any physical abuse you know of?” he asked, writing.

  “No. Raj is temperamental, but then Caroline’s no patsy. You know Southern belles—they’re dangerous when they’re being agreeable. She’s been meeting with an attorney named Highsmith, who’s opening a litigation department at the firm. He advised her to file a protective order against Raj.”

  “Did she?”

  “Last I heard she couldn’t decide. She didn’t want to damage Raj’s reputation.”

  Caroline had been right about his reputation. A deputy would slap Sharma with a warrant compelling him to appear in court. He would protest his innocence. Caroline’s attorney would produce records of phone calls, messages he’d left, snapshots of him parked in front of her house. He would be publicly humiliated, ordered not to call, harass, or visit Caroline’s workplace or be within a hundred feet of her. If he did he’d be arrested and held in contempt of court.

  Highsmith was the attorney Rosalyn had said was out of town. Billy would request Caroline’s file on the doctor’s harassment be sent over.

  Zelda frowned. “You think Raj did this?”

  “We’re not drawing conclusions.”

  “Sure, I understand why you won’t say. People can’t keep their mouths shut.” She ran both her palms down her nightgown. More tears. “My mother died a year ago. An accident. Now Caroline. She called last night to say she was leaving town for a couple of days. I can still hear her voice in my head.”

  He stopped writing. “Did she say where she was going or if someone was going with her?”

  “All she said was she had a lot to do to get ready. I asked what that meant, and she answered in that teasing way she used when we were kids, ‘Yooou’ll see.’ Maybe you remember her doing that.”

  She twisted a strand of hair, watching him. “Uncle Saunders used to take us to the diner on Saturdays. I remember you from there. You probably don’t remember me.”

  He flashed back to Caroline coming through the door with a dark-haired girl behind her.

  “You do remember. I see it in your face,” she said.

  “You would order a Dr Pepper with a squeeze of lime, lots of ice.”

  She smiled.

  “Did Caroline say whether she was meeting someone?” he asked.

  “Are you going to do that cop thing where you keep repeating questions?”

  She was more perceptive than she appeared. “You’ve had a shock. Sometimes it takes a couple of passes for details to come back.”

  She hunched forward, resting her forearms on her thighs. “Okay.”

  “When did Caroline have her locks changed?”

  “About two weeks ago. Raj had a key. He let himself in trying to find out if she’d been seeing another man. Stolen woman syndrome, you know? The woman walks away and the man goes nuts thinking it’s because she’s sleeping with someone else.”

  “Was she?”

  “I hope so. I hope Caroline was madly in love.” She sniffed.

  “Were the two of you close? Did you share confidences?”

  “Sure, we’re cousins. We talked.”

  “Did she ever talk about reconciling with Dr. Sharma?” he asked.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t think about it. Raj is a persuasive bastard. People trust him to cut into their brains.” She plucked a tissue. “What makes you think he shot her?”

  She’d put it so casually he almost responded. He flipped through pages. “Let’s go back. Did she say anything to you that might indicate how long she’d be gone?”

  “No.�
��

  “Where were you last evening?”

  “I went to bed early. Alone.”

  No alibi. He considered bringing up the argument she’d had with Caroline at the office but decided to wait. Frankie walked in.

  Zelda sat back. “Detective Malone. I saw you on YouTube last year taking down that thug at the library. You’re the big guns on the team.”

  Frankie gave her an enigmatic smile that he knew meant she wasn’t amused. “Sorry to interrupt. An officer wants to speak with you, Detective Able. Outside.”

  He wasn’t sure whether the interruption was real or if Frankie was making an excuse to get him out of the room so she could grill Zelda.

  On the porch, a young patrol officer with puffy eyelids and a sparse mustache came forward. “I thought you should know about the neighbor next door. She was sorry to hear about Miss Lee, but she said she was also tired of being kept awake at night by Miss Lee being in the backyard.”

  Billy wasn’t sure he’d heard that right. “Miss Lee was trespassing?”

  “No sir, in her own yard. Miss Lee took to gardening at night, digging, fertilizing, and watering the roses. The neighbor said roses get black spot if you water them at night. She thought it was creepy so she mentioned it.”

  “Thanks, Officer. Send your notes to me.”

  Billy was almost to the front door when his mobile broke into the ringtone “Hail to the Chief.” It was Deputy Chief Middlebrook calling from the crime scene.

  Chapter 10

  Billy went to the side porch to answer the call.

  “You made the Lee notification?” Chief Middlebrook asked.

  “Yes sir. Mrs. Lee was at her office. Mr. Lee is ill.” He heard the sound of chopper blades over the phone.

  The chief grunted. “Damned helicopters and their telephoto lenses. CSU is standing by while the tent goes up. Hang on.”

  Billy heard a car door slam and the chief’s clipped directions. He came back. “I’m told you interviewed a suspect.”

  “Roscoe Hanson, gated out of Turney Center four months ago. In for armed home invasion.”

  “Bastard,” the chief said. “I’d like to wring his neck. I didn’t know the victim, but I’ve served on a committee with her father, Saunders Lee. A real gentleman. Their firm represents most of the Old South families in the city. That circle of people won’t stand for the endangerment of their women. They’ll ring the director’s phone off the hook.”

  “Yes sir. That sentiment runs deep in the South.”

  “A woman murdered at Shelby Farms is going to spook the public,” the chief said.

  Now was the time to admit his connection to the Lee family. “Chief, I knew the Lees when I was a teenager. Saunders Lee drafted my uncle’s will. Caroline Lee, the victim, became the attorney of record. She called a couple of days ago to tell me a piece of property had sold, and she was closing out the file. I thought I should tell you.”

  “Are you a beneficiary under the will?” Middlebrook asked.

  “No sir.”

  “Have you had any other contact with the family … damn it. Hold on.”

  More voices in the background. He hoped the chief wouldn’t continue that line of questions. If he had to reveal his teenage relationship with Caroline, he’d be yanked off the case.

  “Copy me on that, Lieutenant,” Middlebrook said, coming back. “Sorry, Able. Where were we?”

  Billy waited, holding his breath.

  “Right,” the chief said. “Have you had other current dealings with the victim or her family?”

  “No sir.”

  Middlebrook paused, thinking. “If I have to replace you and Malone, I’d bring in Johnston.”

  “Johnston is a solid detective,” he said.

  The chief sighed. “Oh, hell. We both know those Old South whites aren’t going to accept a black detective investigating this murder. What’s your caseload?”

  “Four gang shootings, all related. We cleared two cases yesterday.”

  “I’ll have the others reassigned so you can concentrate on this.”

  They hung up. Billy scrolled through his contacts to a friend, a surgical nurse at the Baptist Hospital. A couple of months ago she’d asked him to lean on an amorous orderly who wouldn’t take no for an answer. She told Billy that she’d return the favor when she could. He texted, asking if she was working with Sharma today. If so, would she get in touch?

  He went to the living room expecting to see Zelda and Frankie but saw only Zelda’s crumpled tissue on the sofa. A sound drew him to the study. Zelda was there with her back turned, crouching beside the gift boxes on the floor. She picked up a small box and tore into the tissue then turned to stare at him like a fox that had been caught raiding a chicken coop. She stood holding the box in both hands as Frankie swung in the doorway.

  “I told you to stay put,” Frankie barked.

  Zelda’s hand tightened on the box. “Caroline didn’t return my gift. I want it back.”

  “Give me that,” Frankie said, and started toward her.

  Zelda dropped the box and pushed past them to go into the living room. They followed her there. Zelda turned and gave him an imploring look. He wasn’t buying it.

  “You had a disagreement with Caroline yesterday,” he said.

  “Who told you that? Caroline’s assistant?” She dug in her pocket and held up a key for them to see. “We had an argument. So what? She gave me this. I was to come by and feed her cat while she was out of town.”

  Frankie took the key and stepped into the entry. She came back. “It fits, but it doesn’t explain the fight.”

  “Where were you last night?” he asked.

  Zelda’s mouth pursed. “I told you I was at home, which is where I’m going now. You can save your questions for later.”

  “Now is better,” Frankie said.

  “Not for me,” Zelda snapped.

  “It’s better,” Billy said. “Trust me.”

  “Trust you!” She moved past him and held her hand out to Frankie. “Key, please.”

  “No one has access to a crime scene,” Frankie said.

  “Then you feed the cat.” Zelda cut her eyes at Billy. “I remembered you as a good guy. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “I’ll give that some thought,” he said. “I’ll call you to come downtown. We’ll continue this conversation.”

  She made sure to slam the door on the way out.

  Chapter 11

  “So you plan to put a positive spin on her murder,” Martin said with a smirk.

  “Knock it off,” Rosalyn snapped. Her son’s sense of humor had soured recently. His old lady clients might overlook it, but she wouldn’t. “Caroline didn’t die from a ruptured appendix. She cancelled the biggest wedding of the year then got herself murdered wearing the damned dress. Imagine what the media will do with that. We have to control the story.”

  She’d set this meeting in the privacy of the bank’s conference room so they could put together a strategy to protect themselves and reassure their clients. She’d seen this kind of PR disaster before, clients taking flight like startled pigeons. Other firms in their situation had spent hundreds of thousands trying to recover from scandal. Some didn’t make it.

  “Relax, Mother. Next week’s plane crash will wipe Caroline’s murder out of the public’s mind.”

  “Not out of our clients’ minds. Not the people at the club. I’ll be damned if I’ll let them pity me as that poor Rosalyn Lee with a sick husband and a dead daughter.”

  Martin thought for a moment. “You gave Raj’s name to the cops. Do you believe he did it?”

  “Who else?”

  “I don’t know. Was she seeing another man?”

  “Not a chance. Your sister was too transparent to hide a lover from me.”

  He tapped his nails on the table, thinking. “Instead of controlling the story we’ll change the conversation. If Raj is arrested, it will come out that he was stalking Caroline. We’ll write a fat check to some non-pr
ofit do-gooders who oppose violence against women. We’ll insist they create a fund in Caroline’s name. You show up at events and make a few speeches. People will focus on your humanitarian spirit rather than the murder.”

  She envisioned having to dress down and engage in sympathetic conversation with battered women at abuse shelters. How morbid. “And if Raj is cleared?”

  “The media will soon dredge up Finn’s disappearance. Our family will look like an episode on Law and Order.”

  The thought made her shudder. “Let’s stay with the present. I’ve hired a publicist to write Caroline’s obituary and a glowing bio for the media. Kitty Townsend is brilliant at handling events. She’ll take over the funeral arrangements.”

  She made notes, annoyed by Martin drumming his fingers on the table. A drop in business at the firm would cut the bank’s income and his paycheck. He was right to be anxious. Caroline’s murder was a threat to his lifestyle—his extravagant wardrobe, his expensive women, his home in Chickasaw Gardens, an apartment in Rome, his Ferrari, a Jaguar XKSS, a Bugatti Veyron, and all those other exotic sports cars. The art in this conference room alone cost more than most people’s houses.

  Four years ago, Martin had taken over the position as head of Airlee Bank and replaced his aunt Gracie Ella as senior trust officer. He had made it clear since then that he resented the tedium of overseeing day-to-day operations and creating annual reports for trusts. However, Martin understood the power of wealth and the pedigree of the Lee name. Combined they were formidable. He let it be known that he was making a bigger sacrifice for the family than Caroline and thought it was unfair for her to inherit an equal share of the Lee estate. Rosalyn didn’t believe Martin would hurt his sister over money, but he hadn’t responded when she’d texted last night, behavior that was very unlike him.

  She pushed the thought to the back of her mind and noticed he’d been studying himself in the mirror hanging on the wall across from the table. He adjusted his tie, practiced his smile. She had favored Martin over Caroline when they were children, recognizing his narcissism early, which made him the easier child to manipulate.

  “We need to discuss how to deal with Detective Able,” he said. “Do you remember him?”