He turned out his lower lip. “Doubt it.”
“Okay, so help me out here, Mr. Cullen. Let’s go over the basics again, just so that I get the time line right. Yesterday afternoon, you guys had a falling out, and then she left around four. Right?”
“Yup.”
“She wanted some breathing space. So she got into her car and drove away. Possibly to a beach hotel in Saint Pete’s for the weekend.”
“You got it.”
“So tell me this. Why did she leave the carry-on behind?”
Suddenly, Cullen looked confused, a deep ridge appearing on his forehead. He blinked several times in quick succession, picked up the water bottle, putting it to his lips before realizing it was empty. He placed it back on the table and rolled his gaze around to Maggie.
“You know,” he said, “Dana’s right. I go through my life wearing blinders. The truth is, I didn’t even notice it was still there until you guys pointed it out.”
Either Cullen was a good actor, Maggie thought, or incredibly superficial.
“Is it the same overnight bag Dana packs each time she leaves?”
He nodded.
“Don’t you think it strange she left it, right there in the hall like that? It’s not as though she could’ve missed it on her way out or anything.”
He shrugged. “Who knows what goes on in the female brain? Baffles the best scientists. All I know is that when one of those sulks of hers descends, she’s like a whole different person. All rational thinking jumps out the window. She probably forgot it in her rush to get as far away from me as possible.”
“And that’s the last time you saw your wife?”
“Slamming the door on her way out.”
“What did you do after she left?”
“I slept.”
“I thought you said you intended to play golf?”
“I did. But I was tired.”
“At four in the afternoon?”
Cullen’s frown stayed put. “Maybe I was exhausted from all the sparring with Dana. I curled up on the couch and didn’t wake up till this morning.”
“You’re saying you slept all evening and all night?”
“Right through. Like a baby.”
“Is that normal for you, Mr. Cullen?”
“I’ve always been a good sleeper. Dana says I could sleep through an earthquake. It infuriates the socks off of her. You see, she’s a light sleeper. Every little thing wakes her up. I swear, a neighbor only has to fart in his sleep and her eyelids spring open.” He smiled, seemingly pleased with his imagery.
“Mr. Cullen, has your wife ever had an affair?” She came right out and said it, principally to gauge his reaction.
And his reaction bordered on laughter.
“Dana having an affair? You’re kidding me, right?”
“Spouses cheat all the time. If Dana was having an affair, it could explain her frequent walking out.”
Maggie could tell from his trivializing response that the thought had never occurred to him.
“Let me be clear about this,” Cullen said quietly as he leaned forward again and prodded a blunt finger against the tabletop. “Dana gets everything she needs from me. Everything. She has a nice home. A good job. A husband who’s there for her, night and day. She doesn’t need to go looking anyplace else for sexual gratification.”
“What about you, Mr. Cullen?” she said, turning it around on him. “Have you ever been unfaithful?”
Now his laughter exploded out of him. “That’s ridiculous! Me? Sleep around? When would I get the time?”
“Business like yours,” she said, “you’re in and out of people’s homes every day of the week. All those bored and lonely housewives whose husbands are out at the office. You, steaming off sweat in their backyard. Them, fetching you cool homemade lemonade. Are you telling me no one has ever thrown themselves at your feet?”
Cullen’s laughter subsided, as though it had been sucked out of him, and he seemed to shrink away from Maggie’s question.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She glanced at the screen. It was a text message from Smits:
Show him the photos
Maggie picked up the manila envelope and shook out a bunch of 8 x 10 color prints, keeping them on her lap and out of Cullen’s line of sight. “Mr. Cullen,” she began, “do you own a pair of work boots?”
“Excuse me?”
She placed a photo on the table in front of him. “We found these when we searched your property.”
He glanced at the picture. “Sure. They look like mine. Same color laces and all.” He looked up at her. “Why?”
“Can you tell me when was the last time you wore them?”
“Friday. A job in Casselberry.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, all traces of his laughter filed away. “What have my boots got to do with any of this?”
“When was the last time you were at Lake Apopka?”
He thought about it. “A couple weeks ago. Maybe longer. My work takes me all over. I’d have to check my records.”
“Anywhere on the actual lakeshore itself?”
“Nope.”
Maggie placed another photo on the table. It showed the gasoline can standing beside the outdoor grill. “Can you tell me anything about this?”
Cullen glanced at it. “Looks like the gas I use to power my lawn mower.”
Maggie’s phone vibrated again, this time with a message from Loomis:
Ballistics confirm match
“Mr. Cullen, earlier, when Detective Loomis asked you if you own a gun, you said you don’t.”
“That’s right. Never have. No interest in owning one either. Those things kill.”
“Then how do you explain this?” She placed a photo of the revolver on the table, sliding it right up to Cullen’s manacled hands. She saw his eyes widen as she said, “This is a Smith and Wesson Model 36. It was recovered from your property this morning. Specifically, from inside your outdoor grill.”
She saw furrows break out on his brow. His mouth opened and closed, as though he didn’t know quite how to respond.
Maggie placed a finger on the photograph. “Is this your gun, Mr. Cullen?”
Cullen stared at the image, his brow knotted and his mouth working wordlessly.
“Mr. Cullen?” Maggie said a little louder. “Is this your gun?”
He looked up at her as if startled, his expression strained. He pushed the photo back across the table. “I told you. I don’t own a gun. Check your records if you don’t believe me.”
“We are doing so.”
But it wasn’t the whole truth, because unlike the popular perception usually garnered from TV shows, Maggie knew there was no national firearm database. Although some agencies did keep track of certain weapons and those retailing them, police couldn’t simply log in to a common registry and pull up the owner’s details from a handgun’s serial number.
Even so, Maggie had put a request through to the FBI’s National Crime Information Center on the slim chance that the revolver had been stolen before coming into Cullen’s possession. It happened frequently in gun-related crimes, and often the check yielded workable results. That said, she wasn’t expecting anything back from the NCIC before end of day.
“We found it hidden in your kettle grill,” she said, pushing the photo back toward him. “The work boots as well. How do you explain them being there?”
“You’re the detective. You tell me.” He stabbed a finger at the photo, his lips peeled back. “I swear I’ve never seen this in my life before.”
Maggie laid three of the remaining four photographs in front of him, spreading them out. She pointed at the first. “This is mud we found on your boots. It’s a particular type of lake mud, and an exact match to the mud we found at the death scene.” She drew his attention to the second picture. “And this is a comparison of the treads on your boots to the prints we also found at the scene. As you can see, they’re a perfect match.” She pointed to the third picture. “And
this is the bullet retrieved from your wife’s body, Mr. Cullen. Turns out it came from this gun right here. The gun we found hidden at your home.”
Cullen’s mouth was agape, his gaze switching from one photo to the next as the color drained from his face.
Maggie sat back, giving him a few seconds to digest the implications before making her closing statement. She glanced over her shoulder at the big mirror on the wall behind her, knowing that Loomis and Smits were watching on the other side, and that what she said next would be crucial in their bid to prove Cullen was the killer.
“Mr. Cullen,” she said as she turned back to face him. “I trust by now that you’re aware of what this evidence all means, and the seriousness of the situation you now find yourself in. Last evening, your wife was murdered on the shoreline of Lake Apopka. Her killer shot her in the belly, then doused her in gasoline and set her on fire. This morning, we recovered the murder weapon from your property, together with an empty gas can and footwear used at the crime scene. You admit to arguing with your wife yesterday afternoon, and you say no one can confirm your whereabouts during the time in which your wife was brutally murdered.” She placed the final photograph on the table, right in the center of the montage. It showed the burned corpse lying on the gurney in Elkin’s chilled examination room, the blackened flesh like cold lava in the sterile light. “Right now, all the evidence points to you having killed your wife. It’s time to man up, Mr. Cullen, and take responsibility for what you did to Dana. It will make things easier for you if you start by telling me why you killed her.”
For a moment, Cullen’s gaze remained on the colorful mosaic in front of him while a blood vessel throbbed on his temple. Then she saw him exhale slowly, his posture straighten, composing himself as his gaze rose to meet hers. And in it Maggie could detect no trace of fear. She had hoped the weight of evidence would crush him, squeeze a confession out of him. But Cullen didn’t seem fazed one bit by her accusation.
He was silent, his eyes cold and blank. Then he addressed the camera, saying, “These detectives made an illegal search of my property. I didn’t give them my permission. I was kept distracted with the terrible news about my wife’s murder while they went through my stuff. I didn’t give them my consent. I don’t own a gun. And I didn’t kill my wife. For all I know, these detectives planted that gun.” He looked beyond the camera to the one-way mirror. “I want my phone call now. I’ve said all I’m going to say without a lawyer present.”
Maggie gathered up the photos and left the room.
Chapter Thirteen
ALL YOU CAN EAT
The sun blazed down on Maggie as she crossed the parking lot toward the chain restaurant on West Colonial, her police badge swinging like a pendulum on its chain. In the bright afternoon light, the cheap Halloween decorations still strung around the restaurant’s entrance looked more jokey than scary.
It was a little after three in the afternoon, and despite the glorious sunshine, dark rain clouds bruised the western sky.
A storm was on its way.
Maggie pushed open the glass door, a welcome blast of icy air blowing the heat from her skin.
“I need to speak with Ronda Munson,” she said to the hostess responsible for assigning tables. She showed her badge. “I believe she works here.”
The hostess spoke into her headset—to the manager, Maggie assumed—and then told Maggie that Ronda would be right out.
Maggie nibbled at the insides of her cheek while she waited.
With Cullen now in custody, Smits had instructed her and Loomis to spend the rest of their shift tying up loose ends and finishing off their reports, so that he could present an airtight case to the state attorney come Monday morning. Maggie had left Loomis poring through E-PASS toll camera footage sent over from the Central Florida Expressway Authority, while she drove to the restaurant alone. As far as Smits was concerned, they’d caught Dana Cullen’s killer, and now it was a matter of demonstrating to the prosecutors that they had all their ducks in a row.
But Maggie had reservations.
She conceded that the evidence in favor of Cullen having killed his wife was solid. No one could dispute the fact that they had found the murder weapon on his property. Maggie had seen murderers convicted on far less circumstantial evidence. Even so, she knew that when it came to homicides and motives, not everything was black and white. Their finding the revolver squirreled away in Cullen’s backyard seemed a bit too easy for her liking. It stank of him being set up to take the fall for the murder. Ideally, she’d like to see more evidence to corroborate Cullen being the actual killer. But no case was perfect.
When she’d voiced her concerns to Smits, he’d told her that arrogance made people stupid, and that Cullen probably never thought for one minute they’d check the outdoor grill. She’d argued that a third party could be trying to frame Cullen. But he’d told her to take the win, and be grateful for the upturn in her conversion rate while it lasted. He’d gone on to dismiss Cullen’s closing statement as the words of a desperate man.
Still, Maggie was in conflict.
Granted, Cullen didn’t seem like the sharpest knife in the block, and he did exhibit conceited tendencies, but she wasn’t convinced he was naive to the point of allowing them to search his home, knowing full well that the murder weapon could be found with such ease.
As always, her gut told her to probe the gray areas.
Maggie wanted to explore other avenues before hammering the final nail in Cullen’s coffin. He’d mentioned a stalker back in Kingman, as well as a teacher here in Orlando who was obsessed with Dana. Both hinted at motive. Maggie needed to dig deeper, not only for her own peace of mind, but to make sure an innocent man didn’t go to jail.
Sometimes, the trail to the truth ran through a labyrinth of lies.
Case in point, before heading out to the diner, she’d called the number for Dana’s parents that Cullen had given to her in his interview. The number had gone to an answering machine. Maggie had let the machine activate a dozen times, each time listening closely to the recording of a man’s voice, saying, Hey there. You’ve reached Vince and Barb. Leave a message and we’ll get right back, convinced that the voice in the recording was identical to her memory of Big Bob Grigoryan’s from her childhood.
How was it possible for the whole family to survive that night, and yet no one knew that they did?
Maggie had chewed cud over that question on her drive down to the restaurant, knowing that there was a whole other history behind Dana that even her husband was unaware of.
Did the fact that Rita had cheated death twenty years ago have some bearing on her death this weekend?
Maggie stopped her prowling as a skinny woman with bleached-blonde hair and heavy makeup approached her from the bar area.
Too heavy for a Sunday afternoon, Maggie thought.
Ronda Munson—Lindy’s mother.
She looked to be in her midthirties, with acute angles where most women had curves. Sharp features that seemed to be drawn on, and eyes that might have been lost altogether if not for the thick black eyeliner. A purple hickey glowed darkly on the slant of her neck.
“Thanks for coming out here,” Maggie said. “I’m sorry to bother you at your place of work. I appreciate you’re busy and all.”
“It’s okay. I was about to take my break anyway. The manager said you’re police?”
Maggie flashed her badge. “Sheriff’s Office.”
The woman nodded without looking at it. “What’s this about?”
“Can we talk outside?”
“Sure.”
They made their way outside behind the restaurant, to a stand of trees in the corner of the parking lot, where the shade sucked a little of the oppression out of the heat.
“Storm’s brewing,” the woman said as she tapped a cigarette from a pack. “Do you mind?”
Maggie shook her head.
The woman lit the cigarette, taking a long drag before breathing out smoke like it was
pure euphoria. “I could get hit by a car tomorrow,” she said, as though feeling the need to justify her smoking. “What can I do for the Sheriff’s Office?”
“Mrs. Munson—”
“Ronda, honey. Please.” She pointed with a red-painted fingernail at a name tag pinned to her shirt. “Mrs. Munson is my mother-in-law. It’s strictly Ronda.”
Maggie smiled. “Okay, strictly Ronda. Can you tell me what happened? I was expecting both you and your daughter at noon.”
“Excuse me?”
“At the Sheriff’s Office. Lindy was supposed to provide a statement about last night’s events.”
Puzzlement pinched the woman’s face. “First I heard about it. Is Lindy in trouble? I can’t afford any bail money.”
“She witnessed an incident yesterday evening. She was instructed to come in at noon today. She didn’t mention it?”
Ronda sucked on the cigarette. “I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning.”
“A deputy dropped your daughter off at home around nine last night.”
“Sorry, hon. I was here, working the late shift.” She blew out smoke. “Somebody’s got to make ends meet.”
“What about your husband?”
“What about him?”
“Was he home last night?”
“Not unless somebody dug him up from Woodlawn Cemetery. He’s been dead going on ten years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
“Any other older children?”
The woman smirked. “Lindy’s my one mistake.” She tapped ash onto the pavement. “She told me she was staying out last night, and I knew better than to try and stop her. Lindy’s a free spirit. Just like her father. I’ve tried doing my best by her. Keep her grounded. But she’s a rebel, you know?”
Maggie did. Rebel was the same word her brother had used to describe her when they were kids, especially when she had pushed boundaries and ignored curfew times.
“Lindy was with a boy,” Maggie said.
“Doesn’t surprise me. She knows how to work that treadmill. Which one was it this time?”
“Tyler Pruitt.”
“Tyler Pruitt.” She seemed to think about it. “No. Never heard of him. Then again, she doesn’t exactly introduce them to Mommy.”
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