Vaughn didn’t even blink. “Yep. He says he saw you. For about ten seconds. No one else remembers seeing you at the restaurant or the gallery. Sounds to me like you ran in and ran out of the party so you’d have an alibi. But that still leaves you a lot of time. More than enough.”
My nerves started to fray. I sent Maggie an anxious look.
“Got a weapon?” Maggie asked.
He turned to her. “Excuse me?”
“Got a murder weapon?”
“Yeah. She was choked with her scarf. No prints on it.”
“She was beaten, too, right? On the head? You find the weapon that did that?”
Vaughn looked uncomfortable for the first time that day. He scratched the side of his head. “Not yet.”
“Got a time of death?”
“Sometime between three and six p.m. on Monday. Same time that your client has no alibi.”
“Uh-huh.” Maggie closed the legal pad on the table in front of her. “Got any more questions, Detective?” she said.
He looked at her with a mildly amused expression. “I’ve got a lot. Because from what we can tell, from all the evidence we collected and the fact that there was no sign of a chase, a fight or a struggle, Jane Augustine was probably killed by someone she knew. The only thing that shows she might have fought back at the last minute was the stuff scattered all over the floor near her body.”
“What stuff?” Maggie asked.
He looked pointedly at me. “Your client’s lipstick, her credit cards, her checkbook-stuff she had in her purse that went flying when Jane realized what was happening and fought back.”
“I dropped my purse when I was trying to call for help!” I said. “After I found her lying there…”
Vaughn directed his gaze back at Maggie and continued on in a calm voice. “From what your client tells us about the scene and from what we found, Jane let someone into the house. Probably, from her positioning, she turned her back to someone because she trusted that person.”
“If you believe my client’s recollections about the scene, why didn’t you believe her when she says she didn’t do it?”
“Wait,” I interrupted, remembering something. “Jane told me on Monday that she was getting together with a friend before the party.”
Vaughn glanced at me. “Sure. That friend was you.”
“No, earlier. Like in the afternoon.”
Again, his attention went back to Maggie. “It seems to me that your girl here-” he jerked his head at me “-was one of the last people to see Jane that day, certainly the last person to talk to her in detail, and she was the person that Jane had made plans with before the party. She was very close with Jane that weekend. And that means that she had the opportunity and the means and hey, would you look at that? She just happens to land in Augustine’s anchor chair the next day.” He grinned and held up his hands. “Sounds like motive to me.”
I was trembling inside. I wanted to scream, Shut up! That’s crazy!
Maggie stood. “We’re done.”
“You’re pulling her out?”
“I’m pulling her.” She looked pointedly at me, and I got to my feet.
Vaughn gave Maggie a cold smile. “Sure, take her out. Doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m real sure you’ll be bringing her back sometime soon.” He stood along with her. “By the way, that little deal you struck with someone at headquarters in order to keep us quiet about the person of interest thing? It’s over.”
53
I could feel someone watching me. I could feel it even before I opened my eyes. I kept my eyes closed, trying to wake up, trying to make sense of the jumbled, jagged images in my dreams, all of them red-the blood on Jane’s body, her scarf. And the fear that tinged my sleep-that had an alarming red hue to it, too. And now someone was watching me. I knew it. I opened my eyes.
I yelped. “Sam!” I sucked in a lungful of refreshing air.
I was exhausted last night, and sleep had finally come so hard that I’d forgotten that Sam had skipped rugby practice and come to my place. Or maybe I’d forgotten because I was accustomed now to sleeping without him. Or maybe it was because I didn’t want to remember how odd it had been between us last night. Sam came over, and he’d listened to my tale of being questioned. We’d analyzed the situation from every angle possible. He comforted me. But there was a distance between us, as if we’d stumbled over something that night at North Pond Café, and we hadn’t been able to get to our feet yet.
Now, he scooped me into him, and I curled against his warm chest. “I was waiting until the last minute to wake you up,” he said.
“What time is it?”
“Five after five.”
“I have to go. I have to get to the studio for makeup.”
“Call in sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“You’ve got an unbelievable amount going on in your life, and you’re going to make yourself sick if you keep going like this.”
And he didn’t even know about Theo, about the fact that he was my alibi for the night the cops thought I was with Jane, about the fact that I still couldn’t reach him. “I have to keep going,” I said. “And this is my job, Sam. I really like it. And I’m also doing it for Jane, despite the fact that the cops seem to think that I killed her to get it.”
“I can’t believe they’ll stick with that theory for long. You’re the least violent person in the country.”
“I know!” I sat up. “Remember that bug in our room in Mexico?”
He laughed. “That wasn’t a bug. It was a small aircraft masquerading as a bug. And you still wanted me to get it out of the room instead of killing it.”
“Exactly. It’s crazy that they think I did something to Jane.”
Sam shook his head. “You know what? I’ve been thinking about this. You said Detective Vaughn was a jerk to you when he questioned you last year.”
I nodded. Neither of us mentioned that the reason I was questioned was because Sam had disappeared. We were both so tired of talking about it, of analyzing it, that somewhere along the way we’d both started pretending it hadn’t happened.
“He’s probably just being a jerk now,” Sam continued. “I mean, he hasn’t told anyone you’re a person of interest. Maybe you’re not. Maybe he’s doing this to a bunch of people. He’s just a jerk.”
I went with that sentiment. I got ready for work, and because it was still raining, I took a cab to Trial TV. All the while, I repeated in my mind, He’s just a jerk. He’s just a jerk. He’s just a jerk.
Meanwhile, I had to talk to someone about the guy I’d taken home Friday night, the guy who was my alibi for that night. I needed to talk to someone who would never judge me.
I called Q from my cell phone. “So, you remember Theo?”
“The twenty-one-year-old?”
“Yeah.”
“I think the brakes on the train might be screeching and I’m heading for a crash.”
“Oh, Jesus, tell me.”
“Promise not to say I told you so?”
“Never.”
I sighed. I told him about Vaughn’s questions about Friday night, how Theo was in Mexico and unreachable.
I expected Q to laugh, to be delighted, to hoot and holler and give me hell and somehow make me feel better.
Instead, I heard silence, then a soft, “Yeesh.”
“Yeesh? What’s that mean?”
“Yeesh, like this might not be the fun train wreck I expected. This sounds like a full-on plane crash. With two-hundred and fifty people on board. Into the Indian Ocean. Everyone dead.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“No. I mean, I’m sorry, but this detective could get you in some serious trouble here.”
“He’s just an asshole.” It felt good to swear.
Q said nothing-no quip words, no mocking jest.
I blinked. I looked out the cab window at a vacant lot on Clybourn, Q’s reaction making me feel even more vacant. And terrified.
/> The cab turned onto Webster. “I have to go.”
“Can I do anything?”
“Go to Mexico and find the train wreck?”
Still no laugh from him. Just a “Let me know.”
I walked through the halls of Trial TV, trying to focus on the day, trying not to think about Jane or Vaughn. I had nearly gotten myself out of the twist in my head when C.J. came running into the makeup room. We were only minutes from going on-air with the morning broadcast, and I’d been reading my script. I’d finally gotten the hang of reading it beforehand, making it sound fresh when I read it again on air.
C.J. wore dark jeans and a white blazer today. Her expression was stern under her dark glasses.
“I just wanted to give you the heads-up,” she said. “New script.” She handed it to me. “And one of the stories is about Jane.”
My breath caught in my lungs and seemed to come back up so that I felt as if I had choked on something invisible. “What about Jane?”
“We don’t know. The cops have called a press conference.”
“To say what?”
“They won’t give us anything.” C.J.’s stern expression turned to anguish. “Maybe they have a lead.”
Or maybe they have a person of interest.
“Izzy, we need you on set!” I heard someone call from outside the room.
C.J. followed me out while I left the room, the makeup artist scampering beside me, patting me with more powder. No one could forget my flop sweat attack a few days ago, and as a result, I was the most thoroughly powdered newscaster in the city.
I got settled on the desk-Jane’s desk, I always thought of it-my eyes reading over the new script. There was a notation I didn’t recognize in front of the story about the press conference.
“What does this mean?” I asked C.J., pointing to it.
“Means you’ll cut to that story whenever the cops start the meat of the conference. We don’t know exactly what time that will be. Just listen for your cue.”
Should I tell C.J. that the press conference might be about me?
“Clear set,” I heard. “Izzy, ready?”
“Uh…” There was no time.
They started the countdown.
“Good luck,” C.J. said, stepping away from the anchor desk.
I arranged my suit so I was sitting on the jacket to pull it straight. I arranged my face so it didn’t give the impression of utter panic. I tried to keep positive. I kept repeating my mantra, He’s just an asshole. He’s just an asshole.
And then we were on.
I read and I turned and I smiled and I cut to field reporters, but the whole time, I felt as if my skin was zinging with anticipation. I was almost relieved when I heard in my ear, “Go to the Augustine story,” and I spoke the words, “Let’s go live to Tom Bennett at Police Headquarters on South Michigan Avenue here in Chicago. Tom has the latest on the murder of our colleague, Jane Augustine.”
54
A t first it wasn’t as bad as I thought. There was Vaughn, in a sport coat and yellow tie, looking like the picture of efficiency, a flag to one side of him, the Chicago Police logo behind him. Mikes from at least fifteen different stations and networks were set up on the podium.
“We’re here today to ask the community for assistance,” he said. “We need that assistance to help find who is responsible for the murder of Jane Augustine. First we would like any information about the identity of a man named Mick, who might have spent time in the company of Ms. Augustine on Friday night. This man is believed to be a writer, living in the Chicago area.”
I took in a huge breath, sucking in air as if I’d been drowning for the last minute and had just noticed it.
But then Vaughn shuffled some papers, cleared his throat, and I felt the water flood over my head again.
“We’d also like to discuss today a person of interest,” he said.
At the anchor desk, I clutched the script in my hands, which had grown damp with sweat, watching Vaughn with growing terror. And because all the monitors-those behind my desk, those in the interview area, those for the producers-were showing Vaughn’s face, it felt as if he were surrounding me. His voice boomed into my earpiece.
I waited for Vaughn to say my name. I hoped to hear someone else’s. But instead he summarized the investigation-how they had sealed the Augustine residence for days; how they had collected evidence; how the Chicago Crime Lab had finished some analysis and was rushing to complete the rest.
“In terms of the person of interest…” He looked down, as if searching for the correct name. He paused. “Let me say that this person had been cooperative with the police until recently, which leads us to release her name in case anyone in the community can provide additional information which we haven’t been able to collect.”
Her. I’d heard it.
My eyes shot across the room to C.J., whose expression was stern, rapt.
My breath felt shallow. Why did I feel so guilty once again, when I’d done nothing?
“The person of interest,” Vaughn said, “is Isabel McNeil, a local attorney and now a newscaster on Trial TV, where Ms. Augustine had also worked.”
Every pair of eyes in the newsroom shot to mine. I felt a ferocious blush creeping over me.
“I’ve talked to them twice,” I said, with as much authority as I could muster. “I had nothing to do with it, and I’ve told them everything I know.”
C.J.’s mouth was hanging agape. She shook her head fiercely, then turned and stormed from the set.
I heard a producer in my ear. “They’re not taking questions. We’re going back to you in one… Uh, I guess.”
I saw Vaughn end the press conference. The reporters erupted with questions, but Vaughn shook his head and held up his hand, then left. The monitors shifted to a shot of Tom Bennett trying to hide his surprise while he wrapped up what had been said.
And then it was back to me. The person of interest.
I went to that spot I’d found a few days ago, when I’d first sat in the anchor chair. I saw the script in front of me. I heard words leaving my mouth. But it was as if someone else was speaking. I sank once again into a detached space in my mind, while I talked and read and talked some more.
No one looked at me during commercial breaks. No one seemed to know what to say. C.J. was gone from the set for the rest of the broadcast.
The minute it was over, she was next to the anchor desk, her face grim. “I need you in my office. Immediately.”
“I’ve been on the phone with Ari Adler,” C.J. said. “Discussing the fact that you’re a suspect in Jane’s death.”
“I am not a suspect! I’m a person of interest.” For some reason, the term came out with some pride. “It’s very different,” I rushed to explain. “It doesn’t mean anything. I’m not a suspect. I’m not even a witness except for after the fact.”
She straightened the lapel of her white jacket and squirmed a bit in her chair. “Tom Bennett has a source inside the CPD. It’s not official, and they don’t have enough yet to arrest you, but they’re looking at you as someone who could have killed Jane.”
I actually felt a falling sensation, as if I were tumbling backward into a gaping black hole. “C.J., I did not hurt Jane.”
“Of course you didn’t.” She didn’t sound convincing.
“I didn’t!” I said.
She held up two hands. “Izzy, we love you. You stepped up when this network needed you, when Jane needed you. And none of us will ever forget it. We think you’re great. You could have a career in broadcasting ahead of you. But it’s not at Trial TV.”
“What are you saying?”
“Look, for better or for worse, our ratings will probably skyrocket after this. From a business standpoint, I’d love to keep you, even for a few days. But from a human standpoint, we can’t have someone who’s a potential suspect in Jane’s murder sitting in Jane’s chair. Vanessa Bock, the afternoon anchor, is going to start headlining the morning, and we’re pulling
a reporter in to cover afternoons and evenings on the desk.” C.J. shook her head, as if she could barely get the words out. But she got them out all right. “Izzy, we have to let you go.”
My eyes swam around her office, looking for solid ground. Like yesterday, the place was still packed with boxes filled with office stuff, personal items, coffee mugs, awards.
“Izzy, I believe you,” C.J. said. “And I believe in whatever you want to do with yourself and your career.”
What would I do with my career now? With myself? Then I realized it didn’t matter. Little mattered compared to what had happened to Jane. And the fact that I was being questioned about it.
My eyes finally settled on one of C.J.’s boxes stuffed with broadcast awards, plaques, trophies. I pointed at them. “I guess I won’t get a chance to win any of those.”
C.J.’s eyes stayed on me. “You might be able to find another gig in the business. But I won’t kid you. It’ll be tough to get someone to take you on after this. I’ll be a reference, of course.”
There was a knock on C.J.’s door. One of the interns stuck his head in. “We’ve got a crowd outside.”
“Other press?” C.J. asked.
He nodded. “Lots.”
“Damn.” She stood. “Izzy, I don’t want to usher you out, but you should go. It will only get worse.”
I stood with her. I extended my hand to C.J. and shook hers. “By the way, this is freaking baloney.” Nope, the swear replacement campaign wasn’t going to cut it today. “No, let me tell you, this is fucking bullshit.”
55
O utside Trial TV, a small crowd of photographers sprang into action, their click, click, click reminding me of Vaughn’s ballpoint pen.
“Izzy!” a reporter yelled. “How are you?”
I recognized him as Andrew Trammel, whose contract I had negotiated two years ago. It was so strange to see him in this environment, to be on the other side of the microphone-not as an attorney or a reporter but as the story.
Andy put his mike close to my face. “What’s your reaction to the news that you’ve been named a person of interest in the Augustine case?”
Red Blooded Murder Page 25