by Lisa Aurello
He shook his head. “Not necessarily. But we need to look at everyone a little closer. Mostly her husband. Mace. Is it just me or is that nickname annoying?”
Not waiting for an answer, he went on, “In any murder investigation, the smart thing to do is look at family and friends first. A no-brainer if there’s no theft involved.”
“Wow,” Mel said, taking a sip of water, “the plot, as they say, thickens. Why do people even bother getting married?” When Rob just shook his head in disgusted agreement, she went on, “So who are the new suspects?”
“Not sure yet; we’re still digging. But your girl is definitely among that list since from all accounts she stalked him in high school. Every single person we spoke with was aware of it.”
“High school was a long time ago, Detective.” She finally braved another bite of the hot pizza. “So how long were the Caldwells married?”
“Little over a year. They met a few years ago through Mason’s cousin. Apparently, Mrs. Caldwell dated the cousin—Jake Emerson—in college. Jake moved on to another girl, and Mason took up with Cate. Cate Cobb.
“How long were they together exactly?”
“Uh… I guess three years? Why do you ask?”
“They’re recently wed. I mean…” she sighed. “Why do people off their spouses… generally?”
“All different reasons. Jealousy. Revenge. Money can be a primary factor—usually insurance money or alimony. All sorts of reasons.”
“OK, so is money on the table here?”
He shook his head. “Not so much. Both parties had their own money. There were insurance policies but they weren’t very impressive.”
“Then… are there any other possible motives?”
He inhaled deeply, blowing out the breath in a huff. “We have a few theories we’re bouncing around. I’m not at liberty to discuss them.”
Mel took a few minutes to eat her pizza and think about what he said. He was right: the pizza was excellent. She might even have to get another slice. She craned her neck around to see the counter—a long line had formed. Then again, maybe not. She turned back. “I would think if they truly married for love, it’s too soon for any other factor to become strong enough to want to kill each other. You know?”
His face flooded with amusement. “How long do you think a couple needs to want to kill each other enough to take out a hit?”
She pursed her lips in mock concentration. “I’d hazard to guess at least five years.”
“So by the time you finish that slice of pizza you may want to kill me?”
Mel looked over at his plate: there was nothing but an elbow of crust left of his two slices. She still had half of her single one. “You eat too fast. It’s not good for you.”
“Yeah, well, I was hungry. So, Ms. Bartholomew… is there anything you can tell me about your friend that may help us strike her off the suspect list? You know, like maybe she has a boyfriend she really fancies… or she’s now a dedicated lesbian?”
“No and no. But neither of those things would necessarily exclude her from your list, now would it?”
“It would help.” He flipped his wrist to look at his watch. “I suppose you need to get back to work. Shall I walk you back?”
“Sure.” She got up and slung her bag across her chest, then picked up the pizza. “Not leaving without this.”
Just before he left her at the front of her building, he grasper her arm. “Do me a favor and watch your six, OK?”
“What?”
“Be careful. Don’t be so trusting and so sure that friend of yours is safe. You can be in danger without even realizing it.”
“Danger from Jane?”
“Yes.” His tone was obstinate.
“Even if she was involved—which she’s definitely not—you said the killer was a hit man, right? That would mean that whoever was responsible paid someone else to do the killing. So is that person really technically a killer and therefore dangerous?”
His eyes held incredulity. “Are you kidding me? If someone is evil enough to contract a hit, that person is a killer. If a killer is cornered, he or she will kill again.” He wagged his finger in her face, causing her to pull away. “Make no mistake about it.
“So yes, danger from Jane. Watch your back, Melanie.”
Chapter 16
Mel gaped at the detective. “You found Jane’s photo where?”
Fitzgibbons had shown up unexpectedly at Jane’s house late Friday afternoon. Normally, Mel would be back at her place in Manhattan but when Jane learned that Mel was leaving work early today, she begged her to come to Riverdale. Not at all unhappy to see him, Mel couldn’t deny that she liked the detective but it was becoming weird being between him and Jane. He was starting to feel more and more like Jane’s adversary and was putting her right in the middle of a tug of war between them.
“In Caldwell’s dresser drawer,” he answered, his voice grim, and handed her the glossy photograph. “Why would he have a photo of her?”
“You’re asking me?” she said, staring intently at the photo for a long minute before her breath hitched audibly. “Does this mean he was stalking her… rather than the other way around?”
The big cop heaved a long sigh. “We’re not sure what it means at this point. Where is Ms. Jensen?”
“Doctor’s appointment.” Her eyes tracked down to the photo again. “Hold on a sec, I just realized something. I took this photo.”
“You took it?”
“I snapped it, I mean. Jane asked me to take a picture of her house in the morning sun. I took some photos of her at the same time—I thought they came out good.”
“Did Jane ever see the photos?”
“Yes, she loved them.”
“Do you know if she ever posted this one online anywhere? Maybe that’s how Mason got a copy?”
“I’m not sure but I can ask her.”
“Actually, I’d prefer to ask her myself. When did you say you expect her? Are you living with her now?”
“Uh, she should be home like really soon, actually. No, I don’t live with her. I’m only staying for a couple of weeks until she heals a little more. I help her with laundry and cooking and stuff.”
The detective stared at her for a protracted moment, distracting her with his good looks. But a cop, Melanie? Not your best idea. Even so, she wouldn’t mind seeing those muscled biceps in action…up close and personal. Mel would bet money that he could make her eyes spin in bed with that hunky body.
“Well,” he says, intruding into her dirty reverie, “you’re a good friend to Ms. Jensen. Would you mind if I wait for her?”
“Tell you what. If you help me cook, I won’t mind at all.” Mel couldn’t believe she just said that to a detective investigating a murder, but he was beginning to feel like a friend. And instead of getting pissy about it, the stony-faced cop cracked a grin, and Mel felt fluttering butterfly wings deep in her belly. Yes, she decided, he was most definitely handsome.
“I doubt I’ll be of much help. I can cook two things really ace and that’s about it.”
“Lemme guess,” she said, holding up her hand. “Barbecued anything and—”
“Wrong,” he interrupted, tsk-tsking. “Such a sexist remark. Actually, bacon is one. The other is marinara sauce, for your information.”
“Marinara? Hmmm. I’d like to try some sometime.”
“My mother is a paesan—I learned from the best. And bacon is a favorite of mine...”
Her turn to tsk-tsk. “Bacon is deadly on the body, and pigs are incredibly adorable. I can’t eat them, frankly.”
“Then don’t eat them frankly. Eat them well done.”
“Uh-uh. No way. I’m a dedicated vegetarian… mostly… I do wear leather,” she said, her tone apologetic. “Have a thing for shoes so it’s hard to avoid animal skin. Anyway… tonight I’m making chili con carne minus the carne for dinner and I bet you’d love it, carnivore and all.”
“A vegetarian?” he groaned. The disapp
ointment in his voice was so palpable that Mel had to chuckle. “And here I thought you were perfect.”
Whoa. That took Melanie aback for a moment. Even as a figure of speech it was unexpected coming from him. It meant he was thinking about her in that way. So maybe, just maybe, the attraction was a two-way street. “I am perfect,” she said lightly. “You’ll try it, and you’ll love it.”
His snicker said otherwise but he dutifully followed Mel into the kitchen and she handed him a paring knife, pointing to some carrots to peel.
Jane got home almost an hour later. Mel heard the door. “Be right back,” she said to Fitzgibbons and grabbing a towel to wipe off her hands, hurried out to her friend. “Hey, how’d it go?”
“Look.” Jane lifted her chin, grinning broadly. “Notice anything different?”
“Er… different?” Mel tilted her head. “Oh my God. Your nose. You got the bandage off. Jane, it looks amazing. Are you thrilled?”
Jane’s face split into a huge grin. “Yes, I love it. It’s my nose only better. That surgeon is phenomenal.”
Grasping Jane’s chin with her hand, she examined the new nose from various angles. “He truly did a fantastic job. It’s a beautiful nose. Listen, Jane,” she lowered her voice, “Detective Fitzgibbons is here—he needs to ask you a few more questions.”
Jane’s smile collapsed. “Why? I don’t remember anything more.”
“I’m here because of this photo, Ms. Jensen,” said Fitzgibbons, striding into the foyer and waving a manila envelope in his hand. He slid the photo from the envelope to hand to Jane, closely watching her reaction.
She studied it for what seemed like a long time before she looked back up at Fitzgibbons. “It’s a nice photo but I don’t remember taking it.”
“Do you remember posting any photos of yourself online at all?”
Jane’s eyes shifted back to the photo. “I don’t remember. Why do you want to know?”
He looked at Mel. “Was the photo always digital or did you have hard copies made?”
Mel shook her head. “I only made digital copies but I can’t speak for Jane.”
His eyes shifted to Jane. “And you don’t remember anything about the photo?”
“No, I honestly don’t. I may have had some printed but… I have no memory of it.”
“Have you recalled any other memory since we last spoke, Ms. Jensen? Maybe something about your next-door neighbor?” His attention was trained on her face with laser-like intensity.
Jane shook her head, her eyes unfocused. “No… I haven’t. I mean, I recover a memory here and there pretty much every day but nothing substantive.” She peered intently at the detective, trying to glean what was running through his head. “Why?”
Fitzgibbons was in the process of unrolling his shirtsleeves and refastening the cuffs. “Because, Ms. Jensen, we found this photo in a dresser drawer in Mr. Caldwell’s bedroom. He insists—vehemently—that he never placed it there.”
Paling, Jane reached for the side table and held onto it but her eyes never left the photo. The room got quiet for a protracted moment before Jane commented softly, “How odd. Why would he want a photo of me? Or my house for that matter?” She chuckled weakly. “He’s got one just like it.”
She finally glanced up at him though her reluctance to look him in the eye was obvious. “Detective, I apologize but with my memory issues, I don’t know what I knew or didn’t know.”
“Does it surprise you that Caldwell would have a photo of you in his drawer?”
“Yes.” She let the sibilant ess trail on her tongue. “I mean, why would he? He’s him and I’m me.”
The cop frowned and shook his head. “What does that mean, Ms. Jensen?”
“Just that…” she hesitated. “…He’s always been miles—universes—out of my league, Detective.”
Melanie slapped a hand to her forehead, dissipating the tense environment. “Shit, my chili! Detective, will you join us for dinner?” she asked as she hurried toward the kitchen and tossed over her shoulder, “It’s only fair since you helped prepare it.”
Fitzgibbons allowed her to distract him and smiled in her direction. “Now how can I decline that offer? Thank you.”
A half-hour later, the three of them sat around the long hand-hewn oak table—one of Jane’s recent acquisitions—and Mel waited until Fitzgibbons took his first bite, watching him expectantly. He chewed slowly and swallowed; she waited but got nothing. “Well?” she finally asked in exasperation.
He grinned. “It’s good. That stuff you put in it actually tastes like meat.”
“I know,” she said, beaming. “I’ve made my famous vegetarian chili for many a carnivore, and they all say the same.”
“I’m impressed. What is it, by the way?”
“Textured vegetable protein, whatever that might be. I try not to dwell on it too much.”
Jane broke into their conversation, changing the subject. “So… Detective Fitzgibbons… getting back to my photo… what do you think it means… and what’s the status of your murder investigation? Or aren’t you allowed to talk about it?”
“As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here…” he began, putting his fork down. “I need to ask a favor of you, Ms. Jensen.”
“Please call me Jane.”
He managed a tight smile. “Despite all evidence to the contrary, I do need to maintain some professional distance. The main reason for my visit this evening is to ask you to come to the station and get fingerprinted.” He saw her expression and talked faster. “Since we found your photo at the Caldwell house, we think it’s prudent to check your home for prints that don’t belong here and we need to be able to discount yours. Would you be so kind…?”
Jane flushed at his direct focus. “Of course, I will. Just tell me where and when, and I’ll be there, Detective.”
Chapter 17
Kendra Ortalano had finally replaced the burned-out bulbs in her bathroom and the harsh glare from four naked 100-watt bulbs above the mirror caused her to nearly gasp when she flipped on the unforgiving light. She leaned in over the vanity to get a closer look at her many imperfections.
“Shit. I’m supposed to look good and do it in less than an hour,” she complained to the sallow image in the mirror.
At twenty-five, Kendra had already clocked a lot of mileage on her face from living hard and fast. Poor complexion and yellowing teeth from smoking and eating sugary junk food, and loss of skin tone from drugs and tobacco smoke all conspired to ruin her looks.
“Ugh,” she growled aloud. Her natural hair color was a sort of light brown if she recalled correctly, but she went blond way back in middle school. Hair dye was sort of like narcotics: it had a diminishing-return factor. Soon going four shades lighter was not enough. She kept going lighter and blonder. Not satisfied until she was platinum, she realized that twelve years of bleaching her hair had taken a heavy toll: it had the texture and pliancy of straw. Even was sorta the same color.
It was ten to seven and she was meeting the old bastard at 7:45. She began the cosmetic routine that had become rote. Step one: slather on thick foundation to cover broken capillaries from drinking too much booze and the scars given her by that douche-bag pimp three years ago. Jingo Gonzalez had really done a number on her face that night he beat her. Hope the maggots are feasting on the piece of shit in a shallow fucking grave somewhere, she thought. She managed a small smile at the thought as she performed step two and lightly brushed on the mineral powder that filled in the large pores on her nose and cheeks, giving her skin a more even tone.
Step three was the eyes: carefully she applied bronze shadow on the lid with black liner in the corners extending out and added black mascara to lengthen her sparse fringe of light-brown lashes. The final step involved rouge and lipstick, both going on last, after she got dressed.
A half hour and heavy dipping into ninety dollars’ worth of cosmetics later, she thought she looked good. Being realistic, good came with a qualifier: she looked
good for her. She knew that lots of people fool themselves about their looks, somehow convincing themselves they’re better looking than they actually are. Expensive mirrors and lighting can help keep the fantasy on life support, but right now Kendra didn’t have the coin for such luxuries. She picked up the hairbrush with the puppy-chewed handle and began to aggressively stroke her hair, thinking that maybe a good brushing would restore some of the shine and bounce that all the dyes, bleaches, and ingested drugs had leached out of it. That was asking a lot out of a five-dollar hairbrush.
Rushing into her bedroom, she started yanking things out of drawers to find what she needed. She was running late. In her disorganized closet, she found a navy blue skintight sheath but all her stockings were buried, either in overstuffed dresser drawers or the laundry hamper. She finally found a pair stuffed way in the back of her underwear drawer.
Slipping on the spandex dress, Kendra discovered the dress was not as tight as it should be and used to be. She tried to remember the last time she wore it when it had fit her like a glove. Six or seven months ago? She attempted to smooth out the wrinkles with her bony fingers but ended up having to hike it up to pull on her stockings. Once she had on the nude hose, she searched out her five-inch blue suede heels and slipped her feet into them. Before she left the bedroom, she slipped on her silver bangles and four of her favorite rings then darted back into the bathroom to apply the final makeup touches.
Feeling as if she was forgetting something, she looked around the rundown apartment, finally going into the galley kitchen for a glass of water. Kendra had been pleading with Aaron to help her get a better place but he refused to fork over more money to upgrade, the tightwad. Two years of begging and superior blow jobs had gotten her nowhere. Still, things were looking up now. Maybe soon she’d have a nice place with a pretty stainless-steel dishwasher. It would be so nice to have one again—washing dishes was death on manicures, not to mention the look of the skin.