“It’s your wife we need to talk about,” Maggie said.
Cullen’s gaze came back to her. “Well, I can tell you categorically Dana’s lying. She has an overactive imagination. Makes things up. Whatever she’s saying I did, I didn’t.”
“We’re with Homicide,” Loomis said. “Your wife’s dead, Mr. Cullen. Are you going to let us in or do I have to put you in bracelets right here on your doorstep?”
He’s faking it, Loomis mouthed to Maggie as they stood in the bathroom doorway, listening to Cullen throwing up.
Maggie made a cut-throat gesture. “You okay, Mr. Cullen?” she said without taking her eyes off of Loomis.
Faking it, Loomis mouthed again.
Cullen was hunched over the toilet, retching. He raised a wobbly hand above his head, then bent over and retched again.
When presented with such life-altering news, everyone reacted differently. In Cullen’s case, the moment he had put two and two together, his face had turned a sickly shade of gray, and the seriousness of the moment had sent him rushing to the bathroom. Maggie and Loomis had followed him down the hall, partly to offer their support, but mostly to make sure that he didn’t make a bolt for the back door.
Cullen flushed the toilet and then stooped over to the sink, splashing his face with water and rinsing his mouth before drying off on a towel.
“Let’s go sit,” Maggie said when he was done. She waggled her fingers, indicating he should come out of the bathroom.
Shoulders slumped, Cullen shuffled past them, one hand maintaining his balance against the wall as he headed for the living room. As they fell in behind, Loomis made a face at Maggie. She knew what he was thinking: that Cullen’s behavior was too spontaneously theatrical to be genuine. From dispassionate to emotional wreck in the space of a second. Later, she knew, Loomis would confirm her suspicions by saying something along the lines of Real men don’t react that way.
The living room looked like an explosion in a paint factory. Everything mismatching chintz and clashing colors. Handmade crocheted blankets draped over the furniture, and more accent cushions than a home decor center. Maggie wasn’t sure if it was the overkill of good taste, or an attempt to brighten up an overcast life.
Cullen sank into a floral-print easy chair. “What happened? Was she in an accident?”
Maggie cleared a crumpled heap of blankets off a couch and sat down. “Mr. Cullen, before we go down that road, I need you to confirm a few things for me first. I appreciate this is difficult for you. Can you do that for me?”
He nodded, but didn’t look sure. He looked like he wanted to shrink into himself and never come out again.
Maggie signed into Major Case’s cloud storage on her phone and brought up the first of three close-up photographs. She showed him the first. “Mr. Cullen, is this your wife’s purse?”
He looked at the screen. “Could be,” he said, his voice sounding small and tight. “She has one just like it. Bought it from an outlet mall in the city a couple weeks ago.”
“How’d she afford it?” Loomis said. He’d remained standing, fingers hooked loosely in his back pockets.
“She works hard. It was her birthday. She treated herself.”
Maggie brought up another photo. “Mr. Cullen, does your wife drive a Chevy?”
He nodded.
“Is this hers?” She showed him the image of the electronic key fob with its Minnie Mouse sticker that she’d found in Dana’s purse.
A tremor twitched his lips. “She puts those stickers on everything. It’s her thing. Dana loves Disney.” He looked up at Maggie, his gaze suddenly racked with concern. “Was she in a car crash?” “No, Mr. Cullen. As yet, we haven’t located your wife’s car. Do you know where it might be at?”
He shook his head. “She left in it yesterday. That was the last I saw of it . . . and her.”
Maggie brought up a photo of the wedding band that Loomis had taken at the coroner’s office, specifically a close-up of the DC + TJC FOREVER inscription on the inside of the ring, confirming, at least in Maggie’s mind, the victim’s identity once and for all.
She saw Cullen gulp, his eyes filling with tears.
“Mr. Cullen,” she said, “I know this is hard for you. But please try and stay strong. You’re doing great.” She held the phone closer to him. “For the record, is this your wife’s wedding band?”
He made a single sharp nod. “Those are our initials. But this must be some kind of mistake.”
“I’m afraid it’s real. Your wife is dead, Mr. Cullen. The Sheriff’s Office extends its sincerest condolences. We are very sorry for your loss.”
Maggie hated saying those words. They sounded so clinical and scripted, cold. But it was always best to be direct, leaving no room for uncertainty, because when it came to news of a death, the best way to convey it was directly and to the point. Easing into it, or beating around the bush could lead to confusion, and confusion only led to doubt. And that was the last thing any police officer wanted the next of kin or other concerned party to feel, because doubt raised false hope and could even make identifying a body tricky.
For a second, Cullen stared at her, the first of his tears beginning to roll out onto his cheeks. A whimper leaked from his lips. His head dropped, and a quiver ran through his frame. Maggie knew that the brain took time to process news of this immensity, stumbling through various stages of refusal, dismissal, denial, sometimes causing people to behave erratically. She suspected if he’d been given the choice of popping out of existence right here, right now, Cullen would have jumped at the chance.
“How . . . ,” he began shakily, “how did it happen?”
“Your wife died from a gunshot wound.”
“What?”
“Someone shot her,” Loomis said. “Do you own a gun, Mr. Cullen?”
Cullen stared at Loomis, a mixture of fear and disbelief interchanging on his face. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You think I killed my wife? That’s crazy! We loved each other.”
“So why was she leaving you?”
Cullen’s stricken eyes swung back to Maggie.
“The carry-on in the hall,” she said. “Was Dana planning on leaving you, Mr. Cullen? Did you try and stop her? Is that what happened here last night?”
“No!” Now his eyes flicked from her to Loomis and back again. “Look, you’ve got this all wrong. It wasn’t like that. Sure, we were going through a rough patch. Who doesn’t? But Dana said she just needed some space, is all. Time to sort out her head. I was cool with that. I didn’t kill her.” He said the word as though it was poison on his tongue.
Loomis loomed, which was something he did without trying. “You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Cullen. Do you own a gun?”
“No! Of course I don’t! Take a look around if you don’t believe me. You won’t find one. I’ve nothing to hide.”
“You’re consenting to a search of your property?”
“Sure,” he said to Loomis. “Have at it. Tear the place apart if you have to. You’ll see I’m not lying. You’ve got to believe me,” he said to Maggie as Loomis headed into the adjoining kitchenette. “I didn’t kill my wife.”
“And I believe you.” She didn’t. Not yet, anyway. It was a device to elicit cooperation. “But somebody did,” she said. “And right now that somebody is still out there. That’s why I need your help, Mr. Cullen. Because the more information you provide right now while things are still fresh in your mind, the better picture we have of your wife and who might have wanted her dead. Do you understand?”
He nodded. “I’ll try.”
Maggie activated the voice recorder on her phone. “How long have you guys been married?”
He let out a tremulous breath. “Four, no, five years. Time flies.”
“And you’ve known Dana for . . . ?”
“Six years. We ran into each other in a Walmart parking lot. Literally. She reversed right out into the side of my truck. We exchanged numbers, and we’ve been together since.”
“And you’ve been here eighteen months, right?”
He nodded. “Dana loves this place. She says it’s her little gingerbread house.”
“And before here, you guys lived where?”
“Kingman.”
Maggie hid her surprise. “In Arizona?”
“Yeah.”
She was familiar with the city. Located on a section of the historic Route 66, Kingman was the gateway to Nevada’s gambling destinations. Years ago, she and a friend had driven the Main Street of America, from Chicago to Los Angeles, staying in Kingman overnight. The thought that Rita had been living there at the time, maybe within reach of where Maggie had roomed, was incredible.
“Mr. Cullen, what’s your wife’s maiden name?”
“Burnside.”
“Not Grigoryan?”
“No. Why would you say that?”
“It’s just another lead we’re following. She grew up in Kingman?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have any pictures of her when she was young?”
“Maybe. Somewhere. I don’t know. Dana keeps stuff stowed all over the place. You’d have to look.”
“I will, thanks.”
“She has selfies on her phone, if that’s any good.”
“Okay. Can I ask why you relocated to Florida?”
“Dana got her dream job down here.”
“Doing?”
“Guidance counseling.”
“Where at?”
“Crown Pointe.”
Maggie’s heart missed a beat. “The high school?”
“Yeah.” He reached for a cell phone on the arm of the chair. “You know, I really need to call the principal. Tell her Dana won’t be coming in.”
Maggie put out a hand. “Please. Mr. Cullen. It’s Sunday. No one’s there. Besides, you don’t need to do that. We’ll inform the school on your behalf, tomorrow.”
With a thud, his hand fell back to his lap.
“Did she like her job, at the high school?”
“Dana loves working with kids. It’s all she’s ever done. We couldn’t have any of our own. She said being a guidance counselor was her way of giving back.”
When they were young, Maggie and Rita had talked about their futures, tweaking their aspirations as they’d grown older. While Maggie had contemplated a career in education, Rita had dreamed of becoming an actor. But a few razor-edged words from one of their friends had cut Rita’s hopes to shreds, and not long after, an inferno had razed her dreams.
“Mr. Cullen,” Maggie said, “does your wife have any enemies?”
Cullen’s mouth twisted, as though the thought was unsavory. “No way. Everybody likes Dana. She’s the best thing to happen to that school. We’re all so proud of her. Me, her parents.”
Maggie’s heart missed another beat. “Her mom and dad—they’re alive?”
“Cullen says Dana’s parents are still live alive,” Maggie told Loomis as she joined him in a small windowless room at the back of the house. The cramped space was being used as a pantry. Floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with cans and containers, and various bottles and packs of dried foodstuffs.
Loomis was rummaging through the shelves, inspecting inside anything big enough to hide a handgun. “They are?” he said. “Where?”
“Arizona. Not only that. They have two other children as well, both of them sons, both younger than Dana.”
“Relevance?”
“Rita had two younger brothers.”
“Who all burned to death in the house fire, right?”
“Supposedly.”
“Factually.”
“Or they didn’t.”
“Only because you’re convinced Dana is Rita.”
“She is.”
“Which means the ME—and basically everyone else who would’ve reported the Grigoryans being burned to death—they’re all a bunch of liars?”
“You’re right. It sounds totally implausible.”
“And sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Novak.” He shook a jar of dried peas. “What’ve you done with Cullen?”
“Right now, he’s being consoled out on the street by a pair of deputies.”
“Smart.”
“One of us has to be.”
Loomis smiled to himself. “Unless you turn over that rock, Novak, you have no way of knowing what creepy crawlies lurk beneath.”
Maggie bit her tongue. She didn’t want to get into it with Loomis right now. Given where they were and why they were here, she didn’t think it appropriate. Loomis had his reasons for being pushy with Cullen; far too often in situations like this, the “honest” word of grief-stricken husbands was the last thing that could be trusted. Even blissfully married couples kept secrets from each other. An innocent flirtation with a colleague at the office, a harmless little white lie, a fantasy unrealized. People were imperfect. Being secretive about personal feelings, thoughts, and even actions was human nature. But it was no excuse for rudeness.
“What do you think about Cullen?” Loomis said. “Do you think he’s good for this?”
“My gut says no. What does yours say?”
“That it needs more doughnuts.” He lifted the lid on a plastic container with what looked like flour inside.
“Guess where Dana worked?” Maggie said.
“NASA?” He stuck a finger in the white powder, stirring it around.
“Crown Pointe.”
“Interesting.”
“She’s their guidance counselor. Which means it’s likely she knew Tyler and Lindy.”
“The plot thickens. You think this murder is connected with the high school?”
“I think it’s something we need to look at. The killer just happening to choose that location to do his dirty deed can’t be coincidence. It’s possible Dana poked around a little too deeply in some kid’s head and dug up something she wasn’t supposed to find.”
“Tyler’s the perfect candidate. I told you he’s serial-killer material.” He replaced the lid and put the container back on the shelf. “Where were the Cullens eighteen months ago?”
“Arizona. Cullen says they lived in Kingman and that Dana’s maiden name is Burnside.”
“So . . . Dana Burnside. Not Rita Grigoryan.”
“Don’t,” she said, choosing not to get into the whole name debate again. “The Polaroid picture proves all.”
Loomis paused his searching. “To be honest, Novak, Smits nailed it on that one. It’s impossible to make out who’s in that photo. I know you’re convinced it’s you and Rita. But it was twenty years ago. How many other girls have taken similar photos in the meantime?” He popped the lid on a jar and sniffed, screwing up his eyes and recoiling from the smell. He put the lid back on. “Even so, I’ve got to hand it to you. As conspiracy theories go, it’s up there with the best.”
“I can’t believe you still think I’m mistaken. What about the missing pinky?”
“Coincidence?” He rattled bottles. “Look, Novak, we’ve all got a doppelgänger somewhere. A double. Take me as an example. Everywhere I go, people mistake me for Alexander Skarsgård.”
“Alex who?”
“Eric Northman, the vampire in True Blood.” He saw Maggie’s rising bafflement and added, “Never mind. I know you’re not big on TV. The point is, Dana and Rita being look-alikes is pretty much all you’ve got to go on right now. You said it yourself. Dana is from Arizona. Her mom and dad are still alive. The names don’t match. If she really is Rita, how do you even begin explaining any of that?”
“Aside from a face-to-face meeting with her parents—”
“Something that the department is never going to fund.”
“—I need to interview first responders from the night of the fire.”
Loomis smiled to himself again. “You want to interrogate retired detectives over a twenty-year-old incident? Good luck with Smits signing off on that one.” He stuffed the jar back on the shelf, clanking bottles. “Now, are you going to help me search this place?
It’s not every day we get free rein.”
At least in that respect, Loomis was right.
Usually, there were two reasons why people consented to their homes being searched by police: innocence, in which they believed they had nothing to hide; and arrogance, in which they believed they had hidden their secret so well that it would remain undetected.
It was important to treat both cases with equal scrutiny, because all too often, both cases turned up more than expected.
Maggie paused as she turned to leave. “By the way,” she said, “did you happen to come across a file box or a bunch of documents?”
“Why?”
“Dana’s birth certificate. I want to see it with my own eyes.”
Loomis shrugged. “I haven’t searched the master bedroom yet.”
“I’m right about Dana,” she said as she left the pantry.
“So prove it beyond reasonable doubt,” he called after her.
The master bedroom occupied the rear left quarter of the house, and seemed to be populated by a hundred plush Disney characters.
Rita hated Disney.
Maggie paused in the doorway, an all-too-familiar coolness returning to her belly. It struck her, suddenly, that this wasn’t just Dana’s house; it was Rita’s house, too. Rita’s private domain. Home to the grown-up version of the girl she had once shared her own intimate secrets with, and in another bedroom of similar proportions. The last time she’d been inside Rita’s bedroom—albeit the one on Oak Street—both the language and the air had been heated, and their relationship had never been the same again.
Was it any surprise that she felt slightly weird just standing here?
Maggie could still picture Rita’s other bedroom, with its film noir movie posters and gothic art prints pinned to the walls. The black bedding and the bloodred bulb dangling from a wire in the middle of the ceiling.
This bedroom reminded her of the Disney Store.
Feeling like an intruder, Maggie stepped inside.
Even though the decor bordered on sensory overload, the room itself was neat and tidy, if a little claustrophobic. That was the thing about small houses: A finite amount of space could go one of two ways—either cluttered and messy, or organized in such a way as to maximize the best of every square inch. In this case, everything had its place.
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