Her Deadly Secrets Page 12
Jeremy had watched her house from his truck as the sun came up, and for the first time since he’d started this career, he felt like a stalker.
Kira opened the door with a smile. “Morning.”
“You didn’t ask who it was.”
“Who else would it be? Trent told me you’d be here at nine.” She pulled the door back and ushered him inside. “Want coffee? Or a muffin?”
“I’m good.”
He stepped into her house and immediately regretted his answer. It smelled like a bakery. Better than a bakery—it smelled like his grandmother’s house on Easter morning.
He glanced around, and her kitchen was a wreck. Dishes filled the sink. A carton of eggshells sat on the stovetop. Tupperware bins and plates of banana muffins occupied every inch of counter space.
“Late-night snack attack?” he asked.
“I wish.” She poured coffee into a to-go mug. She was dressed nicer than usual today in black jeans and a silky white blouse, and she wore heeled sandals. “These are for Ollie’s daughter and her kids.”
“Lot of muffins.”
“What can I say? People die, we bring food. It’s a Southern thing.”
“I know.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re from Florida.”
She spooned sugar into her coffee, acting casual, but he could tell she’d mentioned that on purpose. She wanted him to know she’d been checking out his background. It was part of the chess game they had going.
She sipped her coffee. “You mind giving me a ride over?”
“No.”
“Or you could follow me, but this might be easier.”
“I’ll take you,” he said, glad not to have to argue about her car.
He surveyed her kitchen again. On the windowsill was a pitcher filled with water, and the goldfish from yesterday was swimming around. Her breakfast table was covered with paperwork and soft-drink cans, and it looked like she’d been up late working. Jeremy’s gaze caught on a pair of photographs pinned to the fridge with Snoopy magnets. One was a rosy-cheeked boy in a red wagon—maybe her nephew, he guessed. The other picture showed Kira on a deck with a group of people, half of them guys. He still didn’t know whether she had a boyfriend, and he wished he didn’t care.
Kira grabbed a file folder from the pile and slid it into her messenger bag.
“Okay, ready.” She looked him over. “You really don’t want one? I had a failed batch, so I’ve got lots of extras.”
Fuck it, he was hungry. “Sure, thanks.”
She plucked a fat golden-brown muffin from a plate and handed it to him, then stacked the Tupperware boxes and balanced her coffee cup on top.
He grabbed the cup off the stack. “Let’s go.”
Kira engaged her alarm and locked the door as Jeremy scanned the area around her house. He’d parked behind her Toyota in the center of the driveway.
“I understand your neighbor’s out of town.” He opened the door for her and tried not to stare at her ass as she leaned into the truck and stacked the muffin containers in back.
“She’s on vacation with her boyfriend.” Kira slid into the passenger seat, and he handed her the coffee. “I filled her in about everything over the phone.”
Jeremy went around and hitched himself behind the wheel. “Everything?”
“You know, the new alarm system, the surveillance. I don’t want her to get spooked when she comes home and you guys are lurking around here.”
“Good call. Where are we going?”
Instead of telling him, she reached over and tapped an address into his navigation system.
“Only twelve minutes away,” she informed him. “She lives just across the freeway.”
They got moving, and Jeremy glanced at her beside him. Her hair was in loose waves this morning. The bruise on her face had turned greenish-brown, and she’d tried to cover it with makeup.
She glanced at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Trent said you were up most of the night.”
“How would he know?”
“He had eyes on your house.”
She sipped her coffee, then put the cup in the holder. “I was doing research until three.”
“On what?”
“The trial Ollie was investigating.”
“Find anything?”
“A lot. The defendant has a sheet.”
“What’s his name?”
“Andre Markov,” she said. “And no, he’s not the shooter, in case you were wondering. I tracked down his mug shot.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Her voice was adamant. “His face is all wrong, and he’s too small. The man at Brock’s house was tall.”
“What about connections to Ollie or Brock? Or Gavin Quinn?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t find anything. It was an aggravated-assault case, pretty straightforward. Defendant was accused of pulling a knife during a brawl outside a bar. He was acquitted. I can’t figure out what it has to do with anything or why Ollie was so intent on getting the transcript the day he was killed.”
“But you haven’t actually read the transcript yet, right?”
“Only summaries. I should have an official copy by today.”
She sighed, and he could sense her frustration. She seemed tired, too, and he figured it was her third straight night without much sleep.
“How’d you get hold of this guy’s rap sheet?” he asked.
“Sources.” She gave him a sly look. “I made you a copy, if you’re interested.”
“I’m interested.”
“See, I knew that about you. You guys don’t just show up and look scary. You’re actually investigating this thing, aren’t you?”
“That’s correct.”
“How come? I mean, I’d expect you to leave it to the police. It’s not really part of your job description.”
“If it’s a threat to my client, it’s part of my job description.” He glanced at her. “How come you don’t leave it to the police?”
She looked surprised by the question. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“I guess . . . because I know how overworked and underfunded they are. And I know they make mistakes.”
“Ditto.”
“There’s also the time factor. The detectives are all over this right now. How could they not be? A murder in the heart of River Oaks is a headline grabber. But give it a few weeks, and some other crime will come along and demand their attention.”
She looked out the window, and he wondered if he’d made her uncomfortable talking about threats to her safety. Or maybe it was the prospect of visiting Ollie’s family that made her uncomfortable.
He broke off a piece of muffin and popped it into his mouth. Brown sugar melted on his tongue.
“Damn.” He glanced at her. “How are these the ‘failed’ ones?”
“I made the strudel too heavy, and it sank to the bottom.”
He shook his head.
“What?”
“You’ve never lived on MREs for a month. These are awesome.”
“It’s my grandmother’s recipe. Basically the only thing I cook.”
They reached the neighborhood, and Jeremy turned onto the street. Several cars were parked in the driveway and in front of the address.
“I hate wakes and funerals,” Kira muttered.
“I thought the funeral was Saturday.”
“Yeah, and this is worse. They’re going to be looking at photos and picking out Scripture.”
Jeremy rolled to a stop at the curb. The expression on Kira’s face made him feel a pang of sympathy for her. There were few things he dreaded more than talking to a grieving family. He’d done it way more than he cared to as a Marine, and he’d seen plenty of men shy away from the task or flat-out avoid it.
She rubbed her palms on her jeans.
“You okay?”
She glanced at him. “Yeah.”
“We can come back later, if you want.”
&n
bsp; “No, I need to do this.” She looked out the window at the house. “I held her dad’s hand right before he died. I need to talk to her.”
“I’ll walk you to the door. You want me to come in with you or wait outside?”
“Wait outside,” she said. “You look like a bodyguard. No offense, but it might be kind of distressing for the family.” She reached back and grabbed the muffin boxes. “All right, wish me luck.”
A cowbell announced their arrival as Charlotte stepped into the store, followed by Diaz. She took off her sunglasses and read the sign: POST PLACE. FAMILY OWNED FOR MORE THAN A DECADE!
A twentyish kid perched on a stool behind the cash register. He wore a green Post Place golf shirt and had his hair in a bun. He stayed hunched over his phone, oblivious to the cowbell, probably because of his earbuds.
Charlotte waited for him to look up. At last, he did.
“Help you?”
“I hope so.” She flashed her police ID, and the kid’s eyes widened. “I have a question about a package that was mailed from this location.”
He slid off the stool, stuffing his phone into his pocket, and Charlotte got a whiff of cigarettes as he stepped over.
“What package is that?” he asked.
“It was mailed from here Monday. Billed to the account of Duffy and Hersch.”
A woman came from the back carrying a stack of brown boxes so tall she could hardly see over them. She set the parcels on the counter and looked Charlotte over, frowning when she noticed her detective shield.
“May I help you?” she asked.
Charlotte once again held up her ID. “We have a question about a package mailed from here.” She took out a photocopy of the envelope, which had been strategically cropped to show the return address but not the bloody shoeprint.
“According to the tracking info, this package was picked up at four fifty on Monday and arrived at its destination Tuesday afternoon,” Charlotte said. “Were either of you working Monday at that time?”
The woman shot a concerned look at the clerk. “Jason?”
He shook his head. “Yeah, but I don’t remember it. We were busy.”
The woman’s brow furrowed at his answer, and Charlotte studied them side by side. Dark hair, heavyset, underbite. They had a strong resemblance.
“May I get your name?” Charlotte asked with a smile.
“Jean Colton. And this is my son, Jason.” She nodded at Charlotte’s paper. “May I have a look?”
Charlotte handed over the paper and shifted her focus to the clerk, who was now studiously weighing a padded envelope.
“This is from Duffy and Hersch, the law firm,” the woman said. “Have you tried them?”
“We spoke with them earlier,” Charlotte said. “The lawyer whose account this was billed to is out of town, so he couldn’t have mailed it from here. I’m thinking maybe it’s an administrative assistant or someone?”
“It’s probably the girl who’s always in here.” The woman looked at her son. “What’s her name? Shari?”
“Shelly.” The kid glanced up. “Yeah, it might have been her, now that you mention it. Like I said, we were busy.”
“Shelly’s one of their summer clerks,” the woman said. “She’s in here all the time mailing things.”
“But you don’t recall seeing her on Monday?”
“I wasn’t here in the afternoon. Jason, are you sure it was Shelly?”
“Yeah.”
“And do you know her last name?” Charlotte asked.
He shook his head without looking up.
Charlotte glanced at Diaz, who was checking out a display of office supplies while listening to every word.
Charlotte thanked them for their time and walked out with another clatter of cowbell. On the sidewalk, she put on her sunglasses.
“That was quick,” Diaz said, returning to the Taurus. They traded driving, and today was his turn.
“We’re not done yet. Pull around back.”
“Why?”
“I want to see something.”
Diaz drove around to the back of the strip center, which included a nail salon, a yoga studio, and a liquor store.
“Pull into that loading dock. Just behind the liquor store. See?”
Diaz pulled in and parked beside a dumpster. “Now what?”
“Now we wait.”
He cut the engine and looked at her. “The kid was lying. You know that, right?”
“Yep.”
“Why didn’t you lean on him?”
“I want him alone.”
“You’re going to wait for him to get off work? That could be hours.”
“He smelled like cigarettes, and we just put stress on him. Ten bucks says he’ll be out here for a smoke break in less than five minutes.”
Diaz eyed the row of back doors. Counting from the end, the mail shop would be the third one down.
“The mom seemed nice enough,” Diaz said.
“Yeah, but I don’t like ma-and-pop stores, not when they hire their own kids.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
She dug an emery board from her purse and filed a nail. “It’s a bad dynamic. The kids know they won’t get fired, so they can be lazy. Or worse, incompetent.”
Diaz looked at his watch and sighed.
“What?” Charlotte asked.
“Nothing.”
“Not nothing. That was your ‘I don’t like this plan’ sigh.”
“Okay, you’re right.” He tugged at the knot of his tie. “We’re on day three of this case, and still no suspects. Why are we wasting our time here? We don’t even know what this package has to do with anything, except that our perp happened to step on it at the murder scene. So what?”
“I don’t like the timing,” Charlotte said.
“What about it?”
“Someone overnighted the victim a package. That implies urgency. And he received that package less than two hours before his murder. That raises a red flag.”
“Guy worked for a lawyer. They probably get dozens of packages every week.”
“Okay, but whatever was in that package was stolen from the crime scene by the killer.”
“Along with laptops, cell phones, and a crapload of other paperwork.”
The third door opened, and Jason stepped out. Charlotte put her nail file away. “Ha. There he is.”
Diaz looked surprised. “Damn, Chuck.”
“That’ll be ten bucks.”
“I never took the bet.” He pushed open his door. “You coming?”
Jason spotted them approaching just as he took a drag. He cast a panicked look at the door but didn’t move.
“Hey, Jason. We have a few follow-ups.” Charlotte smiled and stopped in front of him.
“I told you everything I know.”
“I’m not really getting that impression.” She tipped her head to the side. “I think you left a few things out. And I think if I ask to take a look at the surveillance tape from inside your shop, there might be more to the story. What do you think?”
Jason swallowed. He looked at Diaz, and then his gaze flitted to Charlotte. “There was this guy.”
She freaking knew it. “Who?”
“I don’t know, all right? Just some guy who came in after she did.”
“After Shelly?” Diaz asked.
“Yeah.”
“Did he mail something?” Diaz eased closer, and the kid stepped back.
“No, man. He wasn’t a customer. Just some guy who came in and wanted to look at her tracking slip.”
“And you showed him?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“Is it your policy to share customers’ personal information with people who walk in off the street?” Charlotte asked.
“No.”
“How much did he pay you?” Diaz asked.
He cleared his throat. “Fifty bucks.”
Charlotte bit back a curse.
“It’s not like he wanted her home address.�
� Jason was defensive now. “She was mailing to some business, not like a person or anything.”
Diaz made a buzzing noise. “Wrong. That package did go to a person. And he’s dead now.”
Jason’s eyes bugged. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“But that’s got nothing to do with me!”
“That remains to be seen,” Charlotte said.
“What did this guy look like?” Diaz demanded.
“I don’t know, really. Ow! Fuck!” The cigarette had burned down to his fingers, and Jason flung it away.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, Jason.”
“I don’t know, okay? He had a hat and shades on.”
“Indoors?” Diaz sounded skeptical.
“Yeah, okay? I barely saw him. He came in right after Shelly and asked to see the tracking slip, and he paid me a fifty and then he left. That’s it.”
“Do you have the fifty?” Charlotte asked, even though fingerprinting money was about as useful as lifting DNA off a gas-station urinal.
Jason shook his head. “I spent it.”
Of course he did.
Charlotte gave him a cool stare, then looked at Diaz. She could read her partner’s mind. This was a good lead, but they were in for a long day. They were going to have to bring this guy in for a formal interview and also get access to the surveillance footage from inside the mail shop, which could require a warrant.
“Is that all?” Jason asked. “I have to get back to work now.”
Diaz laughed. “No, Jason, that’s not all. Not by a long shot.”
Kira worked off some of her tension at her gym while Trent waited in the lobby, attracting stares from every woman in the place and a few men. Jeremy’s promise of his team keeping a low profile was not panning out, but it was only the gym, so Kira let it go. For now, at least. She wasn’t footing the bill for her security, and their transportation was reliable, so that was a perk.
Kira gathered her gym bag off the floor of Trent’s SUV as he pulled into her driveway. Gina’s car was back in its customary spot, and Trent parked behind it.
“Thanks for the ride,” Kira said.
“No problem. Are you in for the night?”
“Think so.” Not exactly a yes. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
His gaze narrowed with suspicion as she grabbed her water bottle and jumped out. He walked her to her back step, scanning the surrounding area as she unlocked the door and tapped in her alarm code.