Conspiracy
Page 30
Hutchinson waved his hand in another direction. “I’m about done here.”
I stopped at the threshold of the bathroom and perused the scene. Marcy Taylor lay on the bathroom floor. A small hole in her temple still oozed blood. Her right arm was extended over her head, and she had a .22 pistol in that hand. Her fingernails and toenails looked freshly painted. When I bent over her body, the sulfur-like smell of hair relaxer backed me up a bit. Her hair was bone-straight. The white silk gown she wore flowed around her body as though staged. Her cocoa brown complexion looked ashen with a pasty, white film.
“Shame,” Laughton said to my back. “She was a beautiful woman.” I jerked around to see him standing in the doorway.
“Check this out,” I said, pointing to the lay of the nightgown over the floor.
“I already did the scene. We’ll talk later,” he said.
“Damn it, Laughton. Come here and check this out.” But when I turned my head, he was gone.
I finished checking out the scene and went outside for some fresh air. Laughton was on the front lawn talking to an officer. He beelined for his car when he saw me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I muttered, jogging to catch up with him. Louder. “Laughton, what the hell—”
He dropped anchor. Caught off guard, I plowed into him. He waited until I peeled myself off him and regained my footing, then said, “Nothing. Wade says they separated a few months ago and were trying to get it together, so he came over for some making up. He used his key to enter and found her dead on the bathroom floor.”
“No, he said he was bringing the little girl home because she was homesick.”
“Yeah, well, then you heard it all.”
He about-faced.
I grabbed his arm and attempted to spin him around. “You act like you know this one or something,” I practically screeched at him.
“I do.”
I cringed and softened my tone five octaves at least when I managed to speak again. “How?”
“I was married to her . . . a long time ago.”
He might as well have backhanded me upside the head. “You never—”
“I have an errand to run. I’ll see you back at the lab.”
I stared after him long after he got in his car and sped off.
The sun was rising by the time the scene was secured: body and evidence bagged, husband and daughter gone back home. It spewed warm tropical hues over the city. By the time I reached the station, the hues had turned cold metallic gray. I pulled into a parking spot and answered the persistent ring of my cell phone. It was Nareece.
“Hey, sis. My babies got you up this early?” I said, feigning a light mood. My babies were Nareece’s eight-year-old twin daughters.
Nareece groaned. “No. Everyone’s still sleeping.”
“You should be, too.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh, so you figured you’d wake me up at this ungodly hour in the morning. Sure, why not? We’re talkin’ sisterly love here, right?” I said. We chuckled. “I’ve been up since three anyway, working a case.” I waited for her to say something, but she stayed silent. “Reece?” More silence. “C’mon, Reecey, we’ve been through this so many times. Please don’t tell me you’re trippin’ again.”
“A bell goes off in my head every time this date rolls around. I believe I’ll die with it going off,” Nareece confessed.
“Therapy isn’t helping?”
“You mean the shrink? She ain’t worth the paper she prints her bills on. I get more from talking to you every day. It’s all you, Muriel. What would I do without you?”
“I’d say we’ve helped each other through, Reecey.”
Silence filled the space again. Meanwhile, Laughton pulled his Audi Quattro in next to my Bertha and got out. I knocked on the window to get his attention. He glanced in my direction and moved on with his gangster swagger as though he didn’t see me.
“I have to go to work, Reece. I just pulled into the parking lot after being at a scene.”
“Okay.”
“Reece, you’ve got a great husband, two beautiful daughters, and a gorgeous home, baby. Concentrate on all that and quit lookin’ behind you.”
Nareece and John had ten years of marriage. John is Vietnamese. The twins were striking, inheritors of almond-shaped eyes, “good” curly black hair, and amber skin. Rose and Helen, named after our mother and grandmother. John balked at their names because they did not reflect his heritage. But he was mush where Nareece was concerned.
“You’re right. I’m good except for two days out of the year, today and on Travis’s birthday. And you’re probably tired of hearing me.”
“I’ll listen as long as you need me to. It’s you and me, Reecey. Always has been, always will be. I’ll call you back later today. I promise.”
I clicked off and stayed put for a few minutes, bogged down by the realization of Reece’s growing obsession with my son, way more than in past years, which conjured up ugly scenes for me. I prayed for a quick passing, though a hint of guilt pierced my gut. Did I pray for her sake, my sake, or Travis’s? What scared me anyway?