Cold Justice (7 page)

He spent several minutes taking in everything in the room,
and then into the kitchen, looking for anything out of place. He looked in the
fridge, in the garbage bin, checked the door to the back yard. Locked and
bolted from inside. He noticed the nearly full pot of coffee. He scrutinized
everything, taking in all he saw.

He went upstairs and took a look around the guest room,
checking in drawers, in the closet, under the bed, on the floor. The room had
already been fingerprinted, leaving traces of dust on the stand and the
doorknob.

The upstairs bathroom got the same inspection. In the
medicine cabinet. In the bathtub. Towels are dry, window closed and locked.

Back downstairs he examined the rest of the main floor,
checking windows, doors, studying the floor, even the walls and ceiling.

There was a small office off the living room. He peeked
inside and saw a desk, a few bookcases half full of books, a printer, computer,
a couple of chairs, some other office furniture. He rummaged through the desk,
looking for a note. Nothing. The computer was off. He left it.

Finally, he approached Jameson. “You can clean up here now,”
he said.

They bagged and tagged, and in a few minutes, the
investigators were gone.

Hank found Philip still waiting. They went into the living
room and sat on the couch. Hank had a notepad in his hand, his pen ready.
Philip slouched back, his eyes closed.

Hank turned sideways and looked at Philip. “I realize how
hard this is, Mr. Macy, but I need to ask you some questions, if you are up to
it.” Hank hated this part. Hated questioning someone who was obviously grieving
so much. They just want someone to share their pain, or perhaps just be left
alone, not to be interrogated. He had seen so much grief in the almost twenty
years as a cop, and it never got any easier for him, or for them.

“Mr. Macy, I’m sorry, but I must ask, did your wife ever
talk about ending her life?”

Philip opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. “No, no.
Never.” He seemed to be pleading. “She never would. She may have had problems
lately, but she wasn’t suicidal.” He turned and looked earnestly at Hank. “I
know she didn’t kill herself. She just wouldn’t.” His voice shook, his hands
working nervously.

Hank nodded. He didn’t know what to say to that. He was
thinking about the murder Abigail had stated she witnessed. “Did your wife ever
tell you if she had any idea who was involved in the murder she saw? Who the
killer is, or the victim?”

Philip shook his head. “No, I don’t think she saw them
clearly. She didn’t like to talk about it, but she was obviously fearful.”

“Mr. Macy, when you came home and first found your wife, did
you touch anything? Or move anything?”

“Nothing. I just tried to revive her, and then called 9-1-1.”
He glanced over to the chair where he had found his wife’s body, and looked
away quickly.

“Had you been in any contact with her throughout the day? On
the phone, or otherwise?”

“I had called and talked with her briefly this morning. She
appeared to be fine. I tried again a few times this afternoon, but got no
answer.”

“When was the last time you spoke to her?”

Philip looked up and thought a minute before answering. “Probably
around noon. Maybe twelve-thirty.”

Hank scribbled in the notepad. He needed to ask for an
alibi, but wanted to be careful how he framed the question. “And you were in
the office all day?”

Philip nodded. “Yes, all day. My assistant, Samantha, was
there. She left for lunch about twelve, and came back a few minutes after one.
Other than that, she was there all day.”

“And until recently, your wife worked at the office with
you?”

“Yes.”

“So, I take it she knew Samantha?”

“Yes, very well. They didn’t socialize outside the office,
but they went to lunch together a lot. Things like that.”

Hank nodded, scribbled, and then, “What’s Samantha’s last
name?”

“Riggs. Samantha Riggs. I can get you her address and phone
number if you’d like.”

“Yes, I would appreciate that. I need to talk to anyone who
knows Abigail.”

“I’ll make you a list as soon as I can and get it to you,”
Philip said.

Hank consulted his pad, made a couple of quick notes and
then stood. “I think that’s all for now Mr. Macy, but I may have more questions
later.”

Philip stood, and they shook hands. As he showed Hank to the
door, he stopped and looked earnestly at him. “Detective, my wife would never
kill herself. I know she’s been murdered. Please find out who did this,” he
asked, pleading.

“I’ll do everything I can,” Hank said, as he left and made
his way down the steps to his vehicle. He climbed in and sat there for a
moment. He would have to wait for the autopsy report, but it sure looks like
suicide.

Chapter 12

Wednesday, August 17th, 6:28 PM

JAKE SWUNG the Firebird into the guests’ parking lot of
North Richmond Public School. In the three years Matty had been attending, they
had been here several times for parent/teacher meetings and special occasions,
but never before had they been called in because of a problem with Matty.

As they crawled from the vehicle, Jake looked up at the
sprawling school. When he had been a student here uncountable years ago, it was
just a small square cube of ugly red brick, but now had wormed its way around
the lot with three additions jutting out at awkward angles, threatening to
devour the entire property.

Jake and Annie followed Matty down the weathered concrete
walkway to the front of the building, and through the doorway of the latest
wing. The drab green walls were covered with posters and announcements. Except
for the odd teacher, or perhaps a parent or two scurrying to appointments, the
place was deserted and quiet.

Around the next corner, a pair of teachers overloaded with
books and teaching manuals were huddled in urgent conversation. A student
scurried by, a violin case tucked under his arm. As he slid through a door at
the end of the hallway, the uncertain sound of a student orchestra wafted out.

Matty stopped in front of room 104 and looked at his father.
Jake opened the door and went in first. The far wall of windows let the early
evening sun in, flashing off the rows of deserted desks. The square room was
colorfully decorated with student masterpieces. A+ test results of accomplished
students were tacked proudly onto a corkboard.

Miss Cobblestone looked up from her overloaded desk at the
front of the room. She appeared to be in her late thirties, nice enough
looking, but more dedicated to her students than to a social life, and by
choice, destined to be called Miss Cobblestone forever. Her tight black hair
culminated in a stern bun at the back of her head, her reading glasses slouched
on her nose, contrasting with her smiling eyes peeking out above the black
frames.

She stood and smiled as they approached, motioning to a
group of three hardback chairs to the right of her desk, strategically placed a
safe distance away from the three to her left.

“The Jordans should be here momentarily,” she said.

They sat down and waited, discussing the weather and
exchanging mandatory pleasantries. Matty fidgeted with his hands. He didn’t
appear to be nervous, maybe just bored.

The schoolroom door opened again. Jake looked up. Mr. Jordan
was in his early thirties, short scruffy hair, with a round face and a body
that had consumed a few too many calories. He held a smaller carbon copy of
himself firmly by the wrist as he blustered into the room. They were followed
by a more sedated Mrs. Jordan. The teacher greeted them and motioned toward the
remaining chairs.

“Let’s get on with this,” Jordan said. The feet of his chair
squealed on the tile floor as he pulled it a few inches closer, dropping his
bulk into the seat. He leaned forward as Kevin and his mother took a seat
beside him. He stared at Matty, his eyes small, and then at Jake, sizing him
up.

Jake stared back.

Annie crossed her legs and looked at Miss Cobblestone.

Mrs. Jordan sat timidly, her hands quietly in her lap.

“Thank you all for coming.” The teacher spread her smile
around. She seemed at ease. Probably done this many times before.

Jake and Annie acknowledged her with a smile and a nod.
Jordan grunted.

“We’ll keep this short,” the teacher said. “As you know, we
have a no fighting policy in this school. We like to encourage our students to
get along together, and to understand each other’s differences. We also realize
at times things can get out of hand. Tempers flare, and children argue on
occasion...”

“This was more than an argument,” Jordan interrupted, “Look
at Kevin’s face.” The side of his face had a dark spot, a welt forming below
his left eye. Jordan waved a finger at Matty. “That little brat over there did
that.”

Jake moved forward in his seat. He glared at Jordan and
opened his mouth. Annie cleared her throat. Jake leaned back again and crossed
his arms.

Annie spoke, “Mr. Jordan, apparently, your son started the
fight.” Her voice was calm, polite. “Matty was protecting a friend your son was
bullying.”

“He punched my boy!”

“Yes, and your boy tried to punch my son.”

Jordan pointed at Matty again. “It’s hard to believe that. Look
at him. Not a mark on him.”

Jake had to speak. “Look Jordan, just because your son can’t
land a punch doesn’t mean he didn’t try. It just means he’s a lousy fighter.”

Jordan’s eyes narrowed.

Kevin looked at his father. “Dad, you can’t let him say that
to you.”

Jordan waved him off. “Hush,” he said. Kevin sat back and
folded his arms, a hostile look on his face.

“We’re not here to cast any blame,” Miss Cobblestone said. “But
rather to ensure this doesn’t happen again in the future.”

Jordan’s finger waggled again. “It wouldn’t happen if that
boy would stay away from my son.”

“Mr. Jordan,” the teacher spoke sharply. “Can we please keep
this civil?”

Jake held back a smile as Jordan sat back and grunted,
folding his arms.

“Miss Cobblestone," Annie said. “We have had a talk
with Matty about this, and you can be sure we will talk to him again. If Mr.
Jordan would do the same with his son, I’m sure this can be prevented in the
future.”

The teacher looked at Jordan and raised her brows, waiting
for his response.

“I’ll talk with him,” he said reluctantly.

Jake doubted it would be much of a talk.

Miss Cobblestone looked back and forth from the two boys. “From
now on, if there is any bullying or fighting, you must tell one of the teachers
and let them handle it. No more fighting, understood?”

“Yes, Miss Cobblestone,” Matty said.

Kevin glared at Matty. “Yeah, ok.”

“Will the two of you shake hands, please?”

Matty slid off his chair and approached Kevin, offering his
hand. Kevin reluctantly shook hands, and crossed his arms again.

Jake stood and offered his hand to Jordan, who ignored him
and stood and turned toward the door. As the three of them bustled out, Mrs.
Jordan looked back at Annie, a faint smile of apology on her face, and then turned
and followed her husband.

“I think that went well,” Jake said.

Chapter 13

Wednesday, August 17th, 7:22 PM

WHEN THE LINCOLNS arrived home there was a message waiting
on the answering machine. Annie sat in the swivel chair and touched the ‘Play’
button. It was Philip Macy. Could they please call him? He would like to speak
to them urgently.

Jake dropped into the guest chair. Annie returned the call
and put it on speaker.

“It’s my wife,” Philip said. He sounded broken. “She’s dead.”

Annie’s mouth dropped open. She stared at the phone, not
knowing what to say. She said, “Ohhh.”

Jake looked at Annie, and then at the phone. “What happened?”
he asked.

“I... I don’t really know... they say suicide, but I don’t
think so. Can you drop over here this evening?”

“We can come right now,” Jake said.

Annie ran from the office and called Matty. She would ask
Chrissy to watch him for a while. She ran next door, Matty followed. Chrissy
was home and eager to help.

“We shouldn’t be long,” Annie said.

“Any time. We love having him here.”

Annie hurried back. Jake tossed her handbag to her and they
jumped into the already running car.

The tires smoked a bit as Jake swung from the driveway and
roared down Carver Street.

Annie found a brush in her purse and touched up her hair,
freshened her light pink lipstick, and then sat back as Jake steered onto
Silverpine and approached the Macy home.

They spun into the driveway, stopped behind Philip’s Lexus
and stepped out, hurrying up the steps to the front door. As Jake reached for
the doorbell, the door swung open.

Philip greeted them and showed them to the living room. He
motioned toward the couch by the front window. They sat as Philip pulled up a
chair that seemed to have been brought from the kitchen. The overstuffed armchair
remained conspicuously empty.

Annie crossed her legs and studied Philip. His young face
was haggard and appeared ten years older. She could see he had been crying.

His voice was hoarse. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

Jake nodded and forced a polite smile.

“We’re very sorry to hear about Mrs. Macy,” Annie said.

Philip sighed. “I realize you didn’t have a chance to talk
to my wife,” he said. “But she would never have... done this to herself.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” Jake asked.