Nathan was right. She lied like a rug. She’d been lying to him from the moment she first opened her mouth until she’d kissed him last night. And she was still doing it.
“I’m required to remind you that you can choose to have a lawyer present.”
She crossed her legs and tipped her head to the side. “I’m not a big fan of lawyers.”
“I’m advising you of your right to an attorney.”
“Look,” she said, glancing at her watch. “You’ve already made me late for work. Can we speed this along?”
He pulled out his tape recorder, activated it, and plunked it on the table. “Fine.”
The door opened, and Cernak strolled in. Perfect. Will’s new boss had been watching the interview on closed-circuit television. He’d probably just about had a heart attack watching Will encourage their suspect to lawyer up.
“Lieutenant Don Cernak,” he said, reaching for Courtney’s hand.
She took it. “Courtney Glass,” she said coolly.
Cernak settled into a chair across from her and looked at Will. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
Will cleared his throat. “Miss Glass, I have a few more questions related to our investigation.”
She raised her eyebrow at the formal tone. “Ask away, Detective.”
“Have you ever owned a gun?”
“Yes.”
“And when did you purchase it?”
Her ankle started to bounce. “I don’t remember exactly.”
“Try to estimate.”
More bouncing. “Last summer, maybe? August, I think.”
“Where did you purchase the weapon?”
“A sporting goods store off I-35. I forget the name.”
He eyed her ankle, and she stopped moving it.
“And what kind of gun is it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Shotgun? Handgun? Rifle?”
She hesitated a beat. “Handgun.”
“What type of handgun?”
Her attention moved from Will to Cernak. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?” Cernak asked, incredulous.
Courtney looked at Will. Then she glanced at the video camera behind him. Her breathing was shallow, and she seemed to be making an effort not to chew her lip.
“Miss Glass?” Cernak leaned forward on his elbows. “You don’t remember what type of gun you bought? Are you sure?”
She leaned back in her chair. Her gaze shifted to Will.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I want to talk to a lawyer.”
Apparently if you had a bad suit and a law degree, you could charge five hundred dollars to say this interview is over.
After a ten-minute meeting in a supposedly private room, and after Courtney had written a check that she prayed wouldn’t bounce, Ross Ackerman had delivered this simple message on her behalf to a stony-faced Lieutenant Cernak.
The two men had traded a few snippets of legalese, and then Ackerman had escorted Courtney out of the dimly lit police station into the blindingly bright sunlight.
They stood on the sidewalk now, facing each other.
“I’m late for court,” he said, checking his chunky plastic Ironman watch. Courtney had picked Ackerman’s name out of a grimy phone book, and even though his receptionist had called him “fast” and “affordable,” Courtney had waited nearly two hours for him to show up. Two nerve-racking hours.
“I’ll be busy all day.” He reached into his front suit pocket and pulled out a business card. “But let’s talk again tonight. Maybe five-thirty? I need to hear about your case.”
Courtney took the card he offered and looked him over. She put him at forty. He had male pattern baldness, but what he lacked hair-wise, he made up for with a trim build and a decent manicure.
“Is Ackerman your real name?” she asked, squinting at him under the broiling sun.
“Why?”
“It just seems really convenient. You know, in the phone book.”
He smiled. “I thought about going with ‘Aardvark’ but my wife put her foot down.”
Courtney tucked the card into her purse. He was truthful, and he was a family man. She could put up with his fashion limitations.
“I get off at six,” she said, as a familiar white Honda rolled up to the curb.
“Let’s meet then at my office.” He reached out his hand. “Nice meeting you, Miss Glass. I look forward to helping you.”
After he walked away, Courtney slid into the passenger seat of Fiona’s car.
“Who was that?” her sister asked, watching him go in the rearview mirror.
“My attorney.”
Fiona shot her a look. “You need a real attorney.”
“He’s affordable,” Courtney said, unzipping her purse. She rooted around for a Slim Fast bar but had to settle for a piece of Trident.
Fiona pulled away from the curb. “Forget affordable; you need effective. I’ll lend you the money. Where are we going?”
“The salon.”
Her sister gaped at her. “You’re going to work?”
“I’ve already lost half my morning. I can’t afford to get fired.”
Fiona shook her head as she pulled up to a stoplight. “You seem to be missing this. You’re in real trouble, Court. They recovered your gun.”
“Who told you that?” Courtney’s heart started to race. Hearing her sister say it made it feel all the more real.
“Nathan. How did your gun end up near a homicide scene in Zilker Park?”
“What else did he say?”
“He said it’s not looking good for you. He said the slug matches your Beretta, and they found gunshot residue on your fingers.”
Courtney could see the strain in her sister’s face. She was worried. And in typical Fiona fashion, she was trying to hide it under a matter-of-fact demeanor. “What else did he tell you?”
“That was pretty much it. What’s going on, Courtney?”
“What’s it look like? I was set up.” She rubbed her temples, trying to rub away the headache. She didn’t really want to play twenty questions with Fiona right now.
“I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, welcome to the club,” she snapped. “I don’t understand, either.”
“Why would someone set you up?”
“How do I know?”
“And how’d they get your gun?”
“I have no idea. It was in my nightstand.”
“Was your house broken into?”
Courtney sighed. “I don’t know. I mean, it was, obviously. But I didn’t realize it until after the murder.”
Fiona gave Courtney a doubtful look. “This seems farfetched.”
“Far-fetched? What, you don’t believe me?”
“That’s not what I meant. It just…I mean, I’m just saying. It sounds so improbable.”
A knot formed in Courtney’s chest—all the fear and nerves and anxiety of the past few days tangled together. “Believe what you want.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you. I just—”
“What else did Nathan say?”
“Not much.”
Courtney catalogued her problems. They had her gun. And her prints. And the gunshot residue on her fingers. Not to mention some witness who claimed to have seen her arguing in her car with David just before his death.
But someone else had been there. There had to be evidence of him. There had to be DNA, fibers, something.
“That was it?” Courtney asked. “That’s all he told you?”
“That was it, but…”
“But what?”
Fiona hung a left onto the upscale shopping strip where Bella Donna was located.
“Spill it, Fiona. I need to know!”
“It’s just that they must have something else. To back you up. Otherwise, you’d be under arrest right now.”
Tears sprang into Courtney’s eyes. They had something, something that supported her story. It was such a relief,
she wanted to cry.
Instead, she gazed out the window as Fiona’s car rolled to a stop.
“Courtney.”
She turned to face her sister.
“You need to tell me what happened.”
“I told you what happened.”
“You didn’t tell me about the gun.”
Courtney glanced away. She hadn’t been able to tell her. She hadn’t been able to tell Will, either. It was too scary. It made the nightmare too real. Someone, somehow, had gotten hold of her gun and forced her to kill David with it.
It sounded surreal. It felt surreal. And yet it had happened, and Courtney had no idea why.
And now the police had irrefutable evidence that pointed to her.
She needed air. She pushed open the door.
“Courtney?”
“I’ll call you after work.”
“We have to discuss this! Do they know about Walter?”
Courtney’s stomach clenched just hearing the name. “I have no idea,” she told Fiona.
“Well, did you tell them?”
Courtney scoffed. “What do you think?”
“They’re going to find out, you know.”
And this, of course, was part of Fiona’s stress. And Courtney’s. Walter was one of the two main reasons Courtney had lied to the police. If some cop did enough digging, he’d find out Courtney had been investigated for murder once before. She’d never been arrested or charged, so it wasn’t part of her record, but just the fact she’d been questioned in the suspicious death of her stepfather had to be in a file somewhere. A skilled investigator probably could track it down. Someone thorough and determined.
Someone like Will Hodges.
Courtney felt a rush of panic. “I can’t deal with this right now.”
“You’re avoiding it.”
Fiona the psychologist. Courtney didn’t want to hear it.
She glanced at Bella Donna’s ornate front door. She’d already missed two cuts and a color. And one of those appointments had been her best tipper.
“You need to talk to Jack,” Fiona said. “He can help you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Fiona’s fiancé was an ex-cop who now worked for the D.A.’s office, and he knew all about investigations and evidence and police procedure. He’d helped Courtney out of a few scrapes, just like Fiona and Nathan had. And each time, Courtney had felt like the messed-up kid sister who could never get her shit together.
“I’ll handle it,” she told Fiona now.
“Courtney, this is serious—”
“I know. That’s why I hired an attorney.”
Fiona gave her a “get-real” look, and Courtney knew she needed to escape. She grabbed her purse and scooted out.
“Please don’t go to work right now. We need to deal with this.”
“I’m dealing with it,” Courtney said with false confidence. “You can stop worrying.”
Will’s gaze scanned the array of cops seated around the conference table, all drinking stale coffee and hashing out theories in the Alvin homicide. Webb came across as competent, but overworked. Cernak was experienced, but he seemed more worried about the political ramifications of the case than anything else. And then there was Nathan Devereaux, who officially had been reassigned but who had logged more hours than Will running down leads in this case.
“It just doesn’t fit,” Devereaux said, stuck on the same point he’d been making all morning.
“It fits great,” Webb countered. “Her boyfriend dumps her to go back to his moneybags wife. She gets jealous and takes the guy out. Maybe she planned on killing herself, too, and lost her nerve at the last minute.”
“Their relationship ended six months ago,” Devereaux said. “And anyway, she dumped him. And vandalized his car.”
“That’s her version,” Cernak said pointedly. “We don’t have Alvin’s side, because there’s no report.”
Devereaux shook his head and stood up. He wandered to the window and shoved his hands in his pockets. Devereaux already had relayed what Alvin had told him that fateful night in January, and everything corroborated Courtney’s version of the relationship. But Cernak didn’t seem interested in anything that wouldn’t withstand the sunshine test.
Will didn’t blame him. If and when this thing ever went to trial, every detail would be scrutinized by the media, not to mention some defense attorney. That was why Will was most interested in the physical evidence.
He looked at Webb. “So explain the Mace. We’ve got traces of it all over the Buick’s ceiling and the backseat upholstery.”
“So she staged the scene,” Webb answered. “Maybe she hired the hit, and then made it look like a holdup.”
“And then planted her own gun?” Devereaux quipped from across the room.
“And what about the mucus?” Will added. “You’re saying she planted that, too?”
Webb guzzled coffee from his Styrofoam cup while Cernak squinted at the dry-erase board where investigators had listed the physical evidence they had so far.
Traces of mucus had been found on the back floorboard of the car, as well as the back door handle. It would be great to run the DNA, see what popped up in the database. But DNA testing was costly and didn’t typically happen until there was a suspect in custody to compare the sample against.
The mucus was key. It went a long way toward proving Courtney’s statement that someone else had been in the backseat and that she’d Maced the son of a bitch.
“Maybe the wife hired the hit,” Devereaux suggested. “You know, take out the cheating husband and the girlfriend at the same time. It’s not like she needed the guy’s income.”
This was a promising theory, one Will intended to pursue in the near future by driving out to Lakeway. He wanted to see how the grieving widow was getting along.
“Why not just divorce him, though?” Webb asked.
Devereaux shrugged. “Maybe she loves her kid. Doesn’t want to share custody.”
“Doesn’t add up,” Webb said. “She loves her kid, so she makes her go through her dad getting murdered? In a car with some bimbo?”
Will bristled at the description of Courtney. He glanced around, hoping no one had noticed, but Devereaux was watching him.
Will shifted his attention to the whiteboard, where their potential suspects were listed. “What about the partner?”
“Which one?” Devereaux asked.
“Any of them. Riley. Wilkers. Take your pick. None of his colleagues looked too broken up at the funeral.”
Devereaux shook his head. “I ran down Riley and Wilkers. They both have airtight alibis: one was on a plane, and the other was in a meeting with the state comptroller.”
Will gritted his teeth. No one—with the obvious exception of Courtney—looked good for this crime. They needed to track down this mystery gunman, assuming he existed. Will thought back to some of the tactics he’d used working narcotics in Fort Worth. Confidential informants, although slimy, had been one of his best resources.
“We need to hit up some of our CIs,” Will said. “See if there’s anything on the street about someone shopping for a triggerman.”
“You thinking Courtney Glass?” Cernak asked.
“Maybe,” Will said. “I was also thinking about the ex. Rachel Alvin. She still uses his name. Maybe she never got past their divorce. And maybe she hired a hit to get control over that ten million dollars that’s about to go to her son.”
“But how would she know about his estate plan?”
“Plenty of ways.” Will shrugged. “He could have just told her about it.”
“Or maybe Courtney was in cahoots with the ex,” Webb put in. “Two pissed-off women out for revenge.”
“We need to look up that dog walker,” Devereaux said, smoothly changing the subject. “What’s her name again?”
Will thumbed through his file. “Beatrice Moore. Twenty-eight. She’s a waitress.”
“Her timeline’s off,” Devereaux
said. “Let’s talk to her again. See if she remembers anything new about what she saw in that car.”
Cernak pushed his chair back and stood up. He took a few steps toward the whiteboard and surveyed it with crossed arms. “I want Courtney Glass back here, too. Hodges?”
“Sir.”
“You handle it.” He turned and glared at Devereaux. “And you butt out. She’s got some questions to answer.”
“She’s got a lawyer now,” Webb reminded everyone.
“I know.” The lieutenant’s glare shifted to Will. “Go through that weasel attorney, if you have to, but talk to her again. She needs to explain that gun.”
CHAPTER 5
Jordan poked her head into the employee lounge as Courtney was about to leave.
“Thank God. I thought you’d left already.”
“I have.” Courtney pulled a tiny bottle from her leather backpack and squeezed a droplet of oil onto her Japanese scissors. She rubbed lubricant into the screw.
“Baby. Please. This is a huge emergency. You’ve got to help me.”
Courtney tucked the scissors into their suede pouch and returned them to her backpack. “I’d love to, Jordan, but I’ve got a hot date.”
“At four-thirty in the afternoon?”
“We’re going rock climbing.”
“Girl, come on. This is my best client. You’ve got to help me out here—”
“I don’t do brides.” Courtney shouldered her backpack, carefully avoiding Jordan’s puppy-dog eyes.
“It’s not the bride. I’ve got that covered. It’s her sister—”
“I definitely don’t do bridesmaids.” She shot Jordan an irritated look and got her friend’s beagle impression in return, complete with head tilt and soft whimper.
Courtney sighed. “What’s the emergency? I really don’t have time for a cut—”
“Her hair’s done.” Jordan took her hand and pulled her back out toward the floor. “We’re dealing with a skin problem. It’ll take twenty minutes, max. I’d do it myself but I’ve got back-to-back clients until six.”
“I haven’t done makeup in nearly a year,” Courtney protested. “Get Erika to help you.”
“She left already. You’re my only hope.” Jordan led her past the shampoo chairs and into Bella Donna’s holy of holies, the gilded, sky-lit, granite-appointed studio where the salon’s top artists performed breathtaking miracles on a daily basis. Courtney spotted a trio of immaculately coiffed women awaiting their turn at the altar. It was a mother and two daughters. Bridezilla wore a gauzy white veil, along with a button-down shirt and jeans, which no doubt would be traded for a designer gown in a few hours. Her sister, who wore a pink rose tucked into her chignon, looked about fourteen. Courtney immediately saw the emergency. Besides having abysmal posture and about thirty excess pounds, the younger girl had a terrible case of acne.
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