by Leslie Nagel
“How likely is it that a total stranger just happened onto an open side door, went down those creaky stairs, and stabbed her at close range without a struggle?” Charley ticked points off on her fingers. “No defensive wounds, nothing disturbed. Apparently no one heard a scream, or Sarah’s body would’ve been discovered sooner. Mitch thinks—and Sharon agrees—that the killer stood on the bottom step. Sarah met him coming down and he dealt the killing blow before she could react. That means he brought the weapon with him.”
“Premeditation,” he murmured.
“Exactly. I suppose it’s possible she was ambushed by a stranger, but I think she knew her killer,” she concluded. “Several portable items of value in plain sight, which rules out robbery as a motive. And we both know it’s statistically more probable that it’s a family member. That house is brimming with tension. With all those stepchildren and half siblings under one roof, you’ve got pretty much the entire gamut of family-related homicide scenarios to choose from.”
“You think someone deleted something from her laptop? It needs to be processed immediately.” Marc pulled out his cellphone. “I’ve told you about the forensics wizards at the County Crime Lab, right? Those guys can retrieve—” He stopped abruptly, lowering his phone. “I’m sure Drummond will have all her electronics analyzed. I cannot get involved in this case.”
“Discussing is not involvement, and neither is reviewing Mitch’s report, which he promised to copy you on, by the way. And you know Sharon would give you the autopsy report if you asked nicely. She didn’t have a problem talking in front of me,” Charley added thoughtfully. “I think she did that on purpose, actually. She wants me on the case.”
“No kidding.” Marc looked skeptical. “Be that as it may, I’m not getting Sharon into trouble, either.”
Their debate was suspended by a firm knock. Lawrence stalked through the living room, muttering dire threats about launching reporters into the shrubbery. He yanked open the door, then smiled and stepped back to admit Mitch Cooper.
“I managed to reach Dr. Sharpe. He wants to know—” Mitch blushed deeply as he took in the two of them cuddling on the sofa. “Hi, Detective. Um, I didn’t have a chance to welcome you back earlier.”
“Coop,” Marc replied evenly. Charley slid off his lap, but he managed to keep an arm securely around her. “Did you need something?”
“Yes, sir.” He turned to Charley. “Dr. Sharpe drove straight to the hospital to see Mrs. Sharpe. With all the press outside, Sergeant Drummond is heading over to question both of them at the same time. Dr. Sharpe wants to know, can you keep the boys a bit longer?”
“Of course.” Charley glanced at Lawrence. “How are they?”
“Afiya’s feeding them cookies and reading some crazy story about a talking tree.” Lawrence smiled, then sobered. “They don’t seem to understand what’s happened, which is probably for the best.”
“I gave Dr. Sharpe your landline number. He said he’d try to get them before bedtime. I hope that’s okay?” Mitch looked inquiringly from Lawrence to Charley.
“In this neighborhood, we’re a family. We take care of our own,” Lawrence assured him. “Whatever we can do to help.”
“Sergeant Drummond spoke with Dr. Sharpe after I did.” Mitch shifted. “He, um, had him on speaker, so it was difficult to avoid hearing their conversation.” He hesitated until Marc sighed and flapped a hand for him to continue. “He’ll have to make the official identification, but with Charley’s statement, it seems clear the victim is Sarah Weller, age thirty-one. She was Judith’s daughter, but not his. Dr. Sharpe made a point of mentioning that twice.”
“Judith is forty-six, so she had that poor girl when she was just fifteen years old.” Everyone stared at Lawrence. He shrugged. “What? I talk to people.”
Mitch added, “Sharpe claims not to know where his son Brandon is. He hasn’t seen him since yesterday at dinner, about seven. He assumed the kid was in his room, sleeping or playing video games. Drummond told his deputy to call in an APB.”
“He doesn’t have a car,” Bobby offered, wheeling in from the kitchen. “Paxton picked him up from the airport.”
Charley snorted. “Fat lot of good an APB’s going to do. If he wants to track down a teenager on foot in Oakwood, he should ask me.” She grew thoughtful, and Marc hit her with his best cop stare.
“Don’t even think about it, Charley.” He glanced up at Mitch. “So, you’re working this case with Drummond?”
“He asked me to take statements from both of you about what you saw,” Mitch said to Charley and Lawrence. “Then I’m supposed to submit my report before end of shift. His team is securing the scene while the CSU guys process everything.” He glanced at Marc. “Detective, it’s not my place, but Sergeant Drummond doesn’t…that is, isn’t there any way you can—”
“None whatsoever. You will submit your report to Drummond and Chief Zehring as ordered.” Mitch’s face fell, and Marc softened his tone. “But I thank you for the vote of confidence, Officer.”
“Yes, sir,” Mitch said meekly. His tone indicated agreement, but Charley had the feeling it wouldn’t take much to get him to bend the rules, especially if the request came from Marc.
The home phone rang, and Lawrence picked up the extension. “Yes, Dr. Sharpe.” He listened a moment. “Of course, sir. Your boys are in safe hands. Tomorrow is fine. No, any time. Just let us know. Good night, sir.” He hung up. “Mrs. Sharpe’s been admitted for observation overnight. They can’t get back into the house tonight anyway, so I guess we’re having a sleepover.”
As if on cue, Afiya leaned her head in. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
She crooked a finger and Charley got up and tiptoed over to the family room doorway. The boys curled together like a couple of puppies on the love seat, tucked beneath a quilt, sound asleep. The smaller one—Pippo, Charley guessed—clutched a floppy blue and yellow toy dragon under his chin.
Afiya whispered, “Apparently they watch almost no TV, but they sure do know their fairy tales.” She indicated her electronic tablet. “They had me read ‘Three Billy Goats Gruff’ three times. From what I could gather from Hank, little Pippo thinks there’s a troll living in a tree in their backyard.”
“Thank you so much,” Charley murmured. “I’m in no condition to deal with two little ones tonight.”
“I’ll bunk in here in case they wake up.” Afiya smiled. “It’s honestly my pleasure.”
Lawrence wrapped an arm gently around Afiya’s shoulders. Charley watched them together, bonding over the twins, Lawrence touching his Fee as if she were the most precious object on earth. Charley sighed. Even though she was happy for them, she couldn’t help but think how this situation would affect her father.
Her gaze turned toward Bobby, the man to whom she owed everything. He sat in his wheelchair, chatting quietly with Mitch and Marc, and she was reminded of how dependent her father was on the care of others. She lifted her chin in silent resolve. Not a problem. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter 5
Marc slipped out the Carpenters’ side door and cut through the shadowed backyard to avoid the media, a few of whom still lingered, no doubt hoping for someone to harass into a quotable sound bite. Vultures.
As he moved silently into the alley running behind Hawthorn Boulevard, he wondered what to do about Charley. She looked exhausted, with deep-purple smudges beneath large gray eyes in a heart-shaped face that was too pale for his liking. She’d dodged his query, but she definitely hadn’t been sleeping well, something he intended to get to the bottom of in short order. After all, he considered solving the mystery that was Charley Carpenter to be the single most important case of his career. He had devoted many hours, most of them blissfully happy ones, to the pursuit of its secrets.
He wondered uneasily if her exhaustion had anything to do with how weird she’d been abou
t his Chicago trip, withdrawing in the days prior to his departure, almost as if she thought he wasn’t coming back. As if anything could keep him away.
Leaving her alone after what she’d just been through went against all his instincts. But when she’d cited the presence of the twins, as well as her father’s agitation over the murder, as reasons why they had to postpone a more…private reunion, he’d known the battle was lost. As if she wasn’t the one needing some major TLC tonight, and he wasn’t the perfect person to supply it.
She wasn’t the only needy one. After a week’s separation, alone time with Charley had been all he could think about. Unfortunately, that would have to wait.
He acknowledged he’d done a dodge of his own tonight when Charley asked about his father. Warren’s reaction had been typical: contemptuous dismissal of Charley as a plaything of convenience, a small-town loser beneath his son’s supposed station in life. This sight-unseen assessment had been followed by increasingly spectacular job offers from several of Warren’s cronies at City Hall and Police Headquarters, and even an attempt to fix him up with the mayor’s niece. Christ on a raft. He couldn’t get out of his father’s posh brownstone fast enough.
He halted at the sound of whispered voices up ahead. Melting into a pool of shadow created by a garage-mounted security light, Marc reached inside his windbreaker and touched his Glock in its leather holster. He held his breath, listening and watching. The glow from a tiny screen revealed the faces of two men huddled over a cellphone. With a spurt of anger, he recognized a field reporter from one of the local TV stations.
As he watched, the other man reached over a stockade fence and unlatched a gate. It swung open silently on oiled hinges. Marc realized the gate led into the Sharpes’ backyard. The man hoisted a video camera onto his shoulder and flipped a switch, pointing it at the reporter, who immediately began speaking in hushed, excited tones as he stepped through the opening. Marc waited until both men were out of sight before following them.
“…scene of violent death,” the reporter was saying in a breathless voice. “As you can see, this ordinary home in the heart of Oakwood hardly seems—” The reporter stopped abruptly, his eyes widening at the sight of a dark figure looming up behind his cameraman.
“Show’s over, asshole.” Marc grabbed the camera and switched it off. “Deputy!” He shouted toward the driveway, where several officers still stood guard. “You call this securing the scene?”
A deputy came hurrying into the backyard, fumbling with his nightstick. “Who the hell’s back here? On the ground, all of you!”
As the terrified newsmen dropped to their knees with hands raised, Marc displayed his gold shield. “Detective Trenault, Oakwood Safety Department. I’ll leave the processing of these two criminal trespassers to your…superior resources. Tell Drummond he might want to station someone at every entrance to this property, unless he wants his crime scene on the eleven o’clock news.”
Ignoring the sputtering deputy, Marc threw one final, worried glance toward the Carpenter home, then slipped back through the gate into the alley. Drummond had been too busy throwing his weight around as lead investigator to follow basic crime-scene procedures. If that idiot’s arrogant incompetence compromised Charley’s safety, Marc swore to himself, he would take it out of Drummond’s hide, Zehring be damned. Nothing on this earth was more important than her continued well-being. Nothing.
He’d left his Mustang at the end of the next block. Climbing in, he pulled out his cellphone and punched a number. His partner answered on the second ring. Marc could hear a TV sports announcer in the background, quickly muted.
“Everyone okay over there?” Paul Brixton’s voice was taut with concern.
“As okay as they can be with a stiff next door.” Marc shut his eyes. “Thanks again for the heads-up. It was pretty hairy. Media swarming like a pack of hungry jackals, our guys and sheriff’s deputies all over their property—” He stopped. “Paul, you aren’t going to believe who the lead investigator is. Just guess.”
Silence. “You are shitting me.”
“I wish I were. Zehring’s failure to give me so much as a courtesy call makes me wonder if he didn’t request to have Drummond assigned to this case,” Marc said bitterly. “That sounds paranoid, but Jesus. Why did it have to be Drummond?”
When Marc’s mother died two years ago, a brief conversation at her funeral between Marc and Mayor Cynthia Hyatt had led to her offering him the vacant detective’s job with the Oakwood Safety Department. Depressed and conflicted about his life choices, Marc had gratefully accepted, never dreaming that the mayor had acted without consulting his future boss. Or that Chief Zehring had already interviewed Sergeant George Drummond and essentially promised him the same job.
Drummond had not taken the lost opportunity gracefully. While even a low-level county command posting like Drummond’s outranked a city detective, at least jurisdictionally, the Oakwood Safety Department paid significantly better. Not only that, but it was easier work. Boring as hell, actually, at least in Marc’s opinion, but he guessed certain people preferred riding a desk to the rush of real police work.
Shortly after he’d moved home from Chicago, he’d let Paul drag him to a cop’s retirement party in the walnut-paneled bar of The Oakwood Club, the local steakhouse. An inebriated Drummond had accosted Marc in the men’s room, a ridiculous and humiliating encounter that had left Marc with a torn shirt and Drummond with his ass soaking in a urinal.
Since that night, Marc and Paul had both experienced mysterious roadblocks when trying to liaise with the Sheriff’s Department. Their requests for files were diverted, delayed, or lost altogether. Evidence they sent to the crime lab got shuffled to the bottom of the stack. While it was frustrating, none of it was provable, and frankly, it was all too petty to pursue. Fortunately, Marc had managed to avoid working directly with Drummond. Until now.
Zehring had seemed to accept Marc’s presence in his department with relative good grace, at least at first. After all, the job was mostly pushing papers, a low-stress environment that required little interaction between them. But with the Book Club Murders case, his first major investigation in Oakwood, their détente had come under siege. The Mulbridge House murders had strained their relationship even further. And if the Chief had, in fact, requested Drummond tonight, then it was clear to Marc that his boss’s resentment over having his command authority undercut by the mayor had only grown stronger.
He realized Paul had spoken. “Say again?”
“I asked you”—Paul’s voice radiated the patience of a teacher speaking to a slow-witted apprentice—“whether Nancy Drew had any insights into the crime.”
“When does she not?” Marc frowned into the darkness beyond his windshield. “In fact, she had a pretty damned good analysis of the crime scene and the suspect potential of the other residents of the house.” He quickly summarized Charley’s breakdown of the Sharpe family and her quite reasonable theory that one of them was the killer. “Her short list includes Dr. Sharpe, his wife Judith, and Sharpe’s son, Brandon. Who, by the by, is whereabouts unknown.”
“That’s our girl.” Paul’s tone was admiring.
“If we’re lucky, Drummond will find the kid and get a nice, quick confession.” Marc pinched the bridge of his nose. “Paul, how is it that…I mean, how does she always…” His sigh was a mix of anxiety and resignation. “I can’t protect her this time, and neither can you. She’s going to poke her nose in; that’s a given. But if either of us so much as looks at this case, Zehring’s going to have our asses. You know he’ll be watching. Not to mention the fact that Drummond would love nothing better than to squeal to my boss and watch me fry.”
“She’s not going to stop, pard. And unless I miss my guess,” Paul added, “you don’t really want her to. After all, you’re the one who gave her new ride that Scooby-Doo paint job.”
Marc smiled
ruefully. “This is true. Hang on; I’ve got another call.” He clicked to connect, but before he could speak, the caller launched right in.
“I don’t work for Dwight Zehring,” Sharon Krugh began, “and I certainly don’t answer to that idiot Drummond. What the hell is Zehring playing at?” Her voice rang with irritation.
Marc said mildly, “Hello, Sharon. I’m not sure why you’re calling me.”
“Don’t give me that.” She paused. “Is Charley all right? Did she tell you about the stench?”
“No,” Marc said slowly. “Did it smell bad down there?”
She laughed. “You could say that. I’ve had seasoned techs toss their cookies over less. That girl’s a keeper, Marc. Standing there with Cooper as cool as you please, ready to deliver an organized, highly detailed witness statement. Drummond tried to bulldoze her, and she bristled like a hedgehog. I think it’s high time she and I met for drinks. You’ll have my report by noon tomorrow, Detective.”
She disconnected, and Marc stared at his cellphone. Met for drinks? Perhaps Charley’s impression that Sharon wanted her on the case wasn’t so far-fetched.
He clicked back to Paul. “We can expect Dr. Krugh’s autopsy report tomorrow.”
“Outstanding.” Paul sounded delighted. “She knows not to tip off Zehring, right?”
“She knows. See you tomorrow.” Marc clicked off, wondering how the women in his life always seemed to ride roughshod over his best intentions.
She’s not going to stop.
With those five words, Paul had put his finger smack-dab on the central complication. Marc had half acknowledged its existence the moment he’d swept Charley into his arms tonight, the moment Paul had called him, in fact, a potential conflict that had now become a near certainty. Charley wouldn’t be able to leave this murder case alone. That meant neither would he, even if it cost him his job.
Chapter 6