“Now what happens?” Kira looked at the artist. She was dressed in a gauzy peasant shirt and ripped jeans, but her manner was all business.
“Now I spray the fixative.” She shook a can of Clairol Maximum Hold hair spray. “And we’ll hand this off to the detectives.”
“Can you do it without me?” Kira checked her watch. “I’m late for something.”
“They’ll probably have questions.”
She was already reaching for the door. “They know how to reach me.”
Kira did her best to escape notice as she hurried for the elevator. She didn’t want to get dragged into another interview, so of course, her phone started chiming as she passed the detectives’ cubicles. She pulled out her cell, and her heart skittered when she saw the familiar number.
The elevator doors slid open, and Kira jumped inside as she answered the call.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m returning a message from Kira Vance?”
“Thanks for getting back to me,” Kira said. “I was calling on behalf of Oliver Kovak. I’m his business associate.”
“Yeah, Ollie mentioned you. What’s up?” The voice sounded curious but tentative. And young, too. Whoever this woman was, she was closer to Kira’s age than Ollie’s.
“I found your number in Ollie’s contacts. May I ask your name?”
“Shelly Chandler.”
“And do you work for a law firm?” It was a guess, but Kira went with her gut.
“I’m with Duffy and Hersch. Why? Is this about the package?”
“Package?”
“It should have arrived Tuesday afternoon. Ollie left me a message about it, so I looked up the tracking number, and it’s showing it was delivered.”
“So when you called Ollie yesterday morning, you were returning his call?” Kira asked.
“Yes. Why? And what’s this about?”
Kira took a deep breath. “Ollie was murdered Tuesday night.” Saying the words put a knot in her stomach.
“He—what?”
“He was killed. I’m sorry to have to tell you.”
The elevator doors opened, and Kira stepped off. She spied Jeremy waiting for her in the lobby instead of Trent, who’d driven her over here. In contrast to yesterday, Jeremy looked showered and rested, and he wore a dark suit.
“Ms. Chandler? You there?”
“I’m here.” She sounded even younger now. “I just can’t believe it.”
Jeremy watched as Kira crossed the lobby. She stopped in front of him, and he looked down at her with concern.
“Listen, I’d like to talk to you,” Kira told the woman. “I’m taking over Ollie’s cases, and I’m reaching out to everyone he was working with recently.”
“But . . . we weren’t working together.”
“Are you at your office?”
“I’m . . . no.” Clearly, she was rattled. “I’m on my way to the post office with a batch of certified mail.”
“Downtown post office?” Kira didn’t know Duffy & Hersch, but she guessed it was downtown.
“That’s right.”
“I’ll meet you at Café Lu in thirty minutes.”
“I really need to get back after—”
“No problem. This won’t take long.”
Charlotte’s crime scene was buzzing with people, but they weren’t the ones she’d expected to see here. A pair of workmen with face masks ripped up flooring in the foyer, while another crew was in the courtyard with a table saw, cutting tile for the kitchen.
Diaz walked through the front door, taking off his sunglasses. They’d spent the morning apart and arrived in separate cars.
“You coming from the station?” she asked him.
“Yeah.”
“How’d the sketch turn out?”
“Pretty good.” He shrugged. “Not that I recognize him or anything. He’s not one of our frequent flyers.”
“Yeah? And what does the witness think of it?”
“I don’t know. She took off before I could ask her about it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“That little sneak.”
Diaz glanced around. “He’s tearing everything out?”
“It’s tough to get blood out of tile grout. Or so I hear.” Charlotte sidestepped the workmen and walked into the breakfast room, where someone had cleaned up the mess that had been here on her last visit. Charlotte’s favorite CSI stood at the bar setting up a laptop computer.
“What have you got for us, Lacey?”
The blond CSI didn’t look up from her work. “Almost ready.” She tapped a few keys and pivoted her computer to face Charlotte and Diaz. “Okay, digital reenactment. I’ve been working on this since yesterday.”
They stepped closer. The screen showed a mannequin-like figure wearing a gray sweatshirt and a ski mask standing in the courtyard in front of Brock Logan’s front door. The figure had a black duffel bag on his shoulder, and he held a gun with a suppressor in his right hand. The scene featured details of the courtyard.
“You included the lions. Nice touch,” Charlotte said.
“Couldn’t resist. You ready? I’ve got about—”
The deafening buzz of a table saw drowned out whatever she’d been about to say, and Charlotte cringed. When the noise ceased, she looked at Lacey.
“You were saying?”
“It’s about four and a half minutes,” Lacey said. “Give or take a few seconds. That’s about how long I believe the attack lasted.”
“And that’s based on what?” Diaz asked.
“Witness accounts, the nine-one-one call. It’s a pretty solid estimate.”
“Okay, let’s roll it,” Charlotte said, and Lacey tapped a key.
The front door was opened by another mannequin-looking figure. Based on the size and build, this was Oliver Kovak.
“First shot,” Lacey narrated as the victim crumpled to the ground. The gunman stepped around him. He immediately pivoted left and ran into the dining room, where he ducked behind the dining table. A female-looking mannequin rushed through the archway leading from the kitchen to the foyer.
“Kira Vance,” Diaz said, watching the screen.
“She doesn’t see the shooter at first,” Lacey said. “That’s according to her statement.”
Kira dropped to her knees beside the victim.
“Okay, watch.” Lacey pointed at the screen. “The shooter waits until Logan enters the foyer, too, and then he rushes through this side door from the dining room into the kitchen. Logan sees him, goes after him.”
“Why would he go after a guy with a gun?” Diaz shook his head.
“Maybe he didn’t realize he had it,” Charlotte said. “Remember, the pistol had a suppressor.”
The video continued from the perspective of the shooter as he rushed into the kitchen and turned to confront Logan.
“Okay, two more shots,” Lacey said. “Now Logan’s down by the cooking island.”
The shooter then ran back into the foyer and fired another round.
“That shot was wild,” Lacey said. “Ended up embedded in the wall.”
“He’s in a hurry,” Diaz muttered.
The shooter rushed back to the kitchen, dropped his duffel beside the breakfast table, and grabbed items off the table: two cell phones, two laptops. He rummaged through files, snatching up folders and stacks of paper, and shoved everything into the bag.
“According to Logan, he was in the kitchen bleeding and pretending to be dead during this time,” Lacey said.
The shooter heaved the duffel onto his shoulder and took a quick look around before running through the back door. Charlotte recognized the patio beside Logan’s pool.
“He seems to know his way around,” Lacey said, as the animated figure rounded the pool and ran straight for a side yard. He passed some pool equipment and opened the gate, ran through, and then scaled the fence, landing in the neighbor’s backyard.
“What’s this based on?�
� Charlotte asked. “It was raining that night, so I heard we had trouble getting footprints. Do we know for a fact he took this route?”
“This is an educated guess,” Lacey said, “based on the door where he exited and the witness who saw him on Lark Street.”
“The delivery kid,” Diaz said.
“Correct. This would be the most likely route between Logan’s backyard and the BMW, but we have no witnesses to corroborate it, except for the delivery person who spotted him getting into the vehicle.”
Charlotte returned her attention to the screen as the gunman pulled off his ski mask and gloves, stuffed them in his duffel bag, and then emerged from a side yard onto a driveway. He walked briskly down the driveway to the street, where a black BMW was parked.
“What about security cams?” Charlotte looked at Diaz, who’d been responsible for following up with the neighbors.
“Nothing.”
The figure reached the getaway car, and the video stopped.
“And that’s it,” Lacey said.
“Nice work.” Charlotte stared at the screen. “If we had more corroboration, we might even be able to show it to a jury at some point.”
“Not happening,” Diaz said. “We’ve been by every house twice. Nobody saw him.”
“Lacey, thanks for this,” Charlotte said.
“Sure thing. Want me to stick around while you do a walk-through?”
“Yes.”
Charlotte dug her phone out and pulled up a crime-scene photo that she’d emailed herself to remind her of what the scene had looked like after the murder. She studied the mess in the photo, focusing on the empty spaces at the table where the two laptop computers had been. Charlotte turned to look at the breakfast table, which was empty now and smelled faintly of lemon furniture polish.
“He seems interested in the hardware,” Charlotte said. “Almost like the people were secondary.”
“Kovak didn’t seem secondary. Point-blank range in the chest like that? That’s brutal.”
“Okay, you’re right.” Charlotte walked to the back door, studying the lock there. It was a thumb latch, so the shooter wouldn’t have had to track down a key to get out, even if the door had been locked. She stepped onto the patio. She remembered the outdoor seating area from the night of the murder. A mop and bucket propped beside the door reinforced her impression that a maid had been here recently, probably yesterday.
Charlotte surveyed the backyard, envisioning the escape route. “What about dogs barking? Gates squeaking? Did anyone at least hear anything suspicious?”
“Not until Logan’s alarm went off loud enough to wake the dead,” Diaz said.
Charlotte walked around the pool, past the wrought-iron patio chair where she’d interviewed Kira Vance. She remembered the shell-shocked look on the woman’s face.
She studied the concrete apron, looking for any clues they’d missed around the pool.
“Shame about the rain,” Diaz said behind her. “Would have been good to get some footprints, at least.”
Charlotte walked through the side yard, where the pool pump hummed softly. The air conditioner was going, too, and she walked past it to the gate. She dug a latex glove from her pocket and tugged it on.
“No prints. We looked,” Diaz said. “And no footprints, either.”
“I like to double-check things.” Charlotte carefully opened the gate, studying the way it glided back without resistance or noise. It should have been locked, but evidently, Logan and his rich neighbors trusted one another too much to bother.
She walked into the neighbor’s side yard, where she heard the hum of more pool equipment. She peeked around the corner of some sort of side building, maybe a cabana, and caught a glimpse of a vast blue pool shimmering in the sunlight.
“Must be nice,” Diaz said.
“Bet they never swim in it.”
No security cameras that Charlotte could see. No vicious guard dog that might have run down their perp for them, saving them a big investigation. She followed the path from the animated video through the side yard to the fence the killer had scaled in the video. The fence was at least seven feet high and looked new.
“Tall fence,” she mused.
“So we know he’s athletic. Not everyone could get over this thing. Could you?”
“Not with a heavy duffel bag,” she said. “And not without falling on my ass.”
She scanned the length of fence, making sure there wasn’t a gate Lacey had missed seeing.
A scrap of yellow fluttered atop one of the fence boards.
“Well, shit,” she muttered, stepping closer.
“What is it?”
“No way.”
“What?”
Charlotte’s pulse quickened as she pulled out her phone and snapped a picture. And another. And another.
Diaz stepped closer. “What the hell is it?”
“I don’t know.” But she did know. Or at least, she hoped. She reached up and carefully tugged the scrap of material loose from the fence board.
“Is that latex? Like, from a glove?”
Charlotte held it up, smiling. “Look at that, Diaz. I told you it pays to double-check.”
CHAPTER
TEN
THE SIDEWALKS were eerily empty for a clear summer day. When Kira had started working downtown, it was the first thing she’d noticed as she zipped between courthouses and office buildings. Every street was choked with cars, but the sidewalks were nearly deserted, even during lunch hour. It had taken her a full week to figure out where everyone was, and she’d had to get off her bike to do it.
The downtown tunnels were one of the city’s best-kept secrets. The subterranean labyrinth included more than six miles of winding passageways connecting Houston’s soaring skyscrapers to a climate-controlled underworld of restaurants, shops, and theaters. When the air outside hit triple digits or a crackling thunderstorm rolled in from the Gulf, people took refuge under the city.
Kira and Jeremy reached Brock’s building, which had one of the few parking garages connected to the tunnels. “Pull in here,” she directed. “Get as close to the elevators as you can. We’re running late.”
Jeremy found a space and backed in his pickup, setting up a quick departure. “Where are we meeting her?”
“Café Lu. Best Vietnamese coffee in the city.”
He lifted an eyebrow at that but didn’t comment, and Kira headed straight for the elevator bank. Instead of tapping the call button, she pulled open an unmarked door leading to a long corridor that sloped down. Jeremy walked alongside her without a word.
She glanced at him, still struck by how different he looked from yesterday. His wide shoulders filled out the suit to perfection, and he could have passed for a GQ model or a high-priced lawyer. His face was touchably smooth now, but Kira missed the beard. She’d wanted to touch that, too.
He looked at her. “What?”
“You ever been down here?”
“No.”
“These tunnels connect everything downtown. Except the courts. That’s a separate system.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. Maybe security?”
They reached the juncture where the corridor emptied into a spacious lobby with a fountain at its center. People sat along the fountain’s concrete edge, munching snacks and scrolling through cell phones as traffic streamed around them. The occasional armed security guard scooted around on a Segway.
Kira led Jeremy through the lobby and into a tunnel. The lunch rush was over, but it was still busy with people running errands or grabbing an afternoon caffeine fix. Kira moved briskly, slicing through crowds, and Jeremy, with his long strides, had no trouble keeping up.
The tunnel branched in two directions. She veered right, then left again when they reached another fork. At every juncture, there were at least a few people standing stock-still, paralyzed with indecision as they tried to get their bearings. The tunnels weren’t laid out on a grid, and without street signs an
d landmarks, it was easy to get lost. Kira took another turn.
“You know your way around,” Jeremy said.
“I navigate by food.”
“How’s that?”
“Restaurant signs. And smells. That empanada place we just passed has amazing chimichurri sauce. And we’re coming up on a popular smoothie shop.”
Kira veered left at Juices Galore, where the whir of blenders echoed off the narrow walls. The next quarter mile was a straight shot. They passed a shoe-repair place, a drugstore, and multiple clothing shops before reaching a Mexican café, where piped-in mariachi music lured people for an early happy hour.
One last turn, and there it was. Café Lu had small tables out front, and Kira immediately noticed the woman scanning the crowd with a nervous gaze. Shelly Chandler? She had a coffee at her elbow and looked to be waiting for someone. The woman was young and petite, with long chestnut-colored hair and black-rimmed glasses. The glasses looked oddly out of place on her, like one of those eyewear commercials where you can tell all the models have twenty-twenty vision. Kira wondered if she wore the glasses to look older or smarter.
“You want me to hang out or disappear?” Jeremy asked.
Kira glanced at him. “Hang out. I want to get your impressions.” She approached the table. “Shelly Chandler?”
The woman nodded.
“I’m Kira Vance.” Kira turned to Jeremy, and Shelly’s eyes widened when she realized they were together. “This is Jeremy Owen, who works with me.” Kira pulled out a chair. “Mind if we . . .?”
“No, please.”
Kira took a seat as Jeremy asked a woman at a nearby table for a chair, snapping her out of her phone trance. She gave him a dazed nod as he commandeered the seat.
“Thanks for meeting with us,” Kira told Shelly.
“Sure.” She glanced at Jeremy, seeming to accept the coworker explanation, then turned to Kira with a worried look. “What happened to Ollie?”
Kira was prepared for the question, but she still got a knot in her stomach.
“He was working at a client’s house Tuesday evening. Brock Logan? I don’t know if you know him.”
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