Don't Be Afraid (20 page)

“Brilliant detective work, Juarez,” he said and then the smile vanished. “And quite a coincidence. It gives us something more to talk about down at the station. Let’s go, Ms. Moran. I’m taking you in for questioning.”

Black stepped forward and took Amy by the bicep. Mark put his hand out to stop him, but the older man shook him off without pausing.

“This is stupid,” Mark said, following them from the room. He saw the woman’s shoulders twitching and realized she was shaking. Black probably saw this as evidence of her guilt, but even innocent people were freaked out by the prospect of police interrogation.

“No, Juarez, stupid is taking a suspect back to a crime scene—”

“This isn’t a crime scene—”

“And letting her lead you around by the dick.”

“Jesus, Emmett, I brought her here to help us figure out how the pictures were taken—and she’s done that. You should be thanking her, not treating her like a criminal.”

Black didn’t respond, but he tightened his grip on Amy’s arm and picked up the pace.

“I have to call my babysitter,” she said, sounding panicked and looking from Mark to Black and back again.

“You can make a call when we get to the station,” Black said. Mark followed them from the room, still trying to make his point with his partner.

“She isn’t the perp,” he said. “If you’d stop and look at the evidence, you’d see that this has all the hallmarks of a sexual crime.”

Black hit his head like he was on one of the old V-8 commercials. “Oh, yeah, I forgot about the evidence of sexual assault we found at the scenes.”

“There doesn’t have to be assault for it to be sexual—”

“And it doesn’t have to be a serial killer just because there are two killings close together.”

Amy stumbled on the steps, but Black jerked her arm up to keep her from falling.

“What real evidence could you possibly have?”

Instead of answering him, Black addressed Amy. “What kind of printer do you have?”

“Printer?” She tried pulling her arm free without success.

“Computer printer. What kind do you have?”

“I don’t know, I think it’s an Epson.”

“Do you know the model number?”

“No.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?” Mark said. They’d reached the front hall and he saw a uniformed cop standing in the doorway, obviously waiting for them. Mark stepped in front of Black and caught the uniformed cop’s forward movement out of the corner of his eye. Black waved him to a stop.

“You have an Epson R2400 printer,” Black said, addressing Amy, but including Mark in his glare. “The same make and model used to print off the photos found with both victims.”

Mark opened his mouth to speak, but Amy beat him to it.

“Lots of photographers use this model.”

“Not lots of photographers who specialize in naked photos. Isn’t that your specialty, Ms. Moran?” He stepped forward again and this time Mark moved aside. The uniformed cop ran ahead of them and opened the door to a patrol car. Black ushered Amy inside, pushing his hand hard on the top of her head so she wouldn’t hit the frame. She grimaced, but got in the car without a word.

“Circumstantial evidence,” Juarez tried as Black slammed the car door shut.

Black laughed. “You sound like a defense attorney, Juarez. Maybe you should consider that, because after the boss gets done reaming your ass, you’re going to want a new job.”

 

 

“I need to call my babysitter,” Amy repeated in the patrol car as they sped in the direction of town. The uniformed cop, who was driving, didn’t respond, but Amy could see the corner of Black’s lips curve upward into a Grinchlike smile before he gave her a three-word reply, “At the station.”

It was like something out of one of those cop dramas that she and Chris used to watch on TV. They used to snuggle up together on the couch to watch them. It was funny she should think of that now, think of him now, except that Detective Black had mentioned her right to an attorney and what other attorney could she call?

She was grateful the car was going fast because the siren certainly called attention to them. She could feel the stares of pedestrians and motorists forced to pull onto the shoulder to let them pass. She ducked her head, letting her hair fall forward like a veil, and examined her feet.

The car smelled like sweat with a hint of vomit, as if someone had been sick in the backseat and the car had been scrubbed repeatedly to try to get rid of the scent. There was one of those small pine tree deodorizers hanging from the metal grille and the fact that it was dangling there, and not from the rearview mirror, seemed to signify the status of anyone traveling in the backseat: Animals. Zoo creatures. Human offal.

Black looked back at her once, that evil grin in place and he actually winked at her, the bastard, before turning his attention back to the road.

“Pull in the back,” he directed the uniformed cop, and the car turned off Selden Street and the front of the station, and pulled into the rear parking lot. Amy was relieved to be back here, anxious about being seen being taken into the station, though she was sure that wasn’t Black’s motive.

“Can’t let the press get wind of you before we’ve got this wrapped up,” Black said in a pleasant voice as he pulled her roughly from the backseat. She banged her knee against the doorframe, but he didn’t pause.

Amy had been in the station just that morning as well as two weeks ago, the morning of Sheila’s death. Then she’d been treated with a great deal of kindness. What followed her entry this time was anything but kind.

She was searched with far too much efficiency by a female cop who looked like a plus-size model and acted like she was playing a guard in a concentration camp film. Her purse was searched, too, before being returned to her.

To say it was humiliating was an understatement. Amy felt raw, not just embarrassed, but stripped of her dignity. Black pulled a chair next to the desk and urged her to sit down. He moved a phone in front of her.

“C’mon, Ms. Moran, you got a call to make, you’d better make it.”

She dialed her own home number, hands trembling over the buttons. “It’s busy,” she said, holding out the receiver so Black could listen.

“Tough luck.” He reached for the phone.

Amy put her hand over it. “I get a phone call, not a busy signal.”

Black sighed. “Look, you can try one more time, but that’s it.”

Chloe was probably online. Who else could she call? She thought of Ryan, but he was probably working and she didn’t have his number with her anyway. Her mother never stayed home during the day—she had a hundred different charitable organizations and clubs. Desperate, Amy suddenly thought of something.

“I need a number.”

“Do I look like the Yellow Pages?”

“I’ve got it in my coat. It’s in my car.” She held out her keys.

Black sighed again and pushed up from the desk. “All right, where in your coat?”

“One of the pockets. It’s a business card. It says Paul Marsh.”

A young, pudgy policeman was left to watch her and when she offered him a polite smile, he blushed and then glowered as if she’d crossed some line. Amy felt like she was in some Lifetime movie of the week, the one in which the innocent mother is locked up and changed by her prison experience, like a low-budget
Shawshank Redemption
.

“Here.” Black slapped the business card down on the edge of the desk along with her keys. “Make it quick.”

Paul answered on the third ring.

She explained what had happened with as few details as possible and at his insistence gave him a list of things to do: call Chloe and ask her to stay with Emma until she got home, call Braxton and ask Bev to cancel the two showings she had this afternoon and call Chris and explain the need for his help.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” she said when she finished explaining. “If you don’t think you can do it, I’ll understand—”

“Amy, stop,” Paul said. “Of course I’ll do it. I’m going to make the calls now. Try not to worry.”

Detective Black made no pretense of doing something else and allowing her privacy. He stared at her openly, taking large bites out of a meatball sub that another cop brought to him. All over the place, police officers were eating lunch. The pungent aroma of fried meat and tomato sauce mixed poorly with the sauerkraut from another cop’s reuben. Amy felt her stomach churning.

“Thanks,” she said to Paul. “I’ll be okay if I know Emma’s all right and Chris comes. Thank you so much.”

As soon as she hung up the phone, Black put down the sub. “All right, Ms. Moran, we’re going to have a talk,” he said, making a production out of wiping his hands on a napkin. He missed his mouth, where a trace amount of tomato sauce clung to the faint bristles of his mustache.

“I want a lawyer present,” Amy said quickly. There were some benefits to being married to an attorney. When they’d watched those cop dramas, Chris had always laughed when people allowed themselves to be questioned without a lawyer present.

“They’re just looking for someone to pin the crime on,” he’d said, “and you don’t want to be that person. No one should ever talk to cops without a lawyer in the room.”

Black didn’t seemed fazed by this request, nor did he seem particularly inclined to wait. “When did you meet Sheila Sylvester?” he said.

“I’d prefer to wait until my lawyer’s present,” Amy said.

“Well, your lawyer’s not going to be here for a while, so why don’t we get some stuff cleared up right now? That way we don’t have to waste time on it later.” He smiled in a way that was probably supposed to look sincere, but looked creepy instead, the tomato sauce coating the corners of his mustache like blood.

“I’d prefer to wait,” Amy repeated politely.

“Were you jealous of Sheila Sylvester’s success?”

Amy looked away, trying to appear unconcerned, though her pulse was doing double-time and she was clutching the sides of the chair tightly to hide her trembling hands.

“Meredith Chomsky was a bitch, wasn’t she?”

She looked down at the patterns in the polished tile floor, then over at another desk. The young, pudgy policeman was talking on the phone and sipping a can of Slim-Fast.

“It’s just you and your daughter, isn’t it, Ms. Moran? You’re separated from your husband?”

Anger crept into the fear, and Amy welcomed the distraction, but still she said nothing. She listened to his attempts to draw her out, mouthing silent prayers for Chris to make an appearance.

“If you didn’t make that sale, then someone else would get the money and you need that money, right? Because you’ve got to support your daughter and that medication she takes is expensive, right?”

Amy felt the anger rise beyond endurance, pushing her to speak. “Detective Black,” she said and he stopped immediately, looking attentive. “I am not going to tell you anything without a lawyer present—”

“I’m just talking—”

“And if you dare to mention my daughter or her health in my presence again, I will not speak to you at all.”

Five minutes later, she was being escorted to an interrogation room by the concentration camp guard, whose name, according to her badge, was Peaches LaRue.

 

 

Always ready for an audience, Lieutenant Farley cornered Mark in the entrance to the building. He gave Mark a public dressing-down about his “complete lack of judgment” and “piss-poor investigative techniques” for a full two minutes, allowing no interruption, before he collected himself enough to realize that such a public display was really beneath his dignity.

He ordered Juarez to his office like a child being summoned to see the principal and stalked off to that grand place, fully expecting Mark to follow. Which he did. Just not right away. Mark thought if he walked into the boss’s office at that moment he’d probably hit him. Instead he took the time to check for messages, faking a calm he didn’t feel, letting his fellow officers stare all they wanted. Then he got a bottle of water from the vending machine and took a few swallows before carrying it with him up the steps.

“You are completely out of line,” the lieutenant began the minute Mark entered. “And completely out of control. Perhaps your big-city experience has gone to your head, detective, or maybe you’ve forgotten all your academy training, but you do not take a crime suspect to a crime scene.”

“Excuse me, boss, but Sheila Sylvester’s house is not a crime scene and this isn’t a standard case.”

“You’re absolutely right, detective. This isn’t a standard case. This is a double homicide—”

“I know that, but I really think—”

“That is precisely the problem, detective.
You
think. Everything is not about what
you
think. There are rules.”

“Lieutenant, did you hear what Amy Moran found in the house?”

Farley shook his head as if that didn’t matter. “I think your partner’s right and you’re letting your dick rule your brain here. Did it even occur to you that she could have put that tripod on the roof?”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Is it? Why? Because you don’t want to think of her as a killer?”

“If she’s lying about this, she’s the best damn liar I’ve ever encountered.”

“Did you glove her before she touched things?”

Mark hesitated. Shit. “The house was already dusted and her prints weren’t found.”

“So the answer is no?”

“She isn’t the killer, boss.”

“Answer my question, detective!” It came out as a roar. Mark took a deep breath.

“No, sir.”

“You’re acting on instinct, Juarez, and instinct alone does not solve cases!”

Mark didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. The implications of what he’d done hit him like a massive weight. By touching the tripod, Amy Moran would eliminate herself as a suspect. What if her prints were already on that tripod from when she’d installed it? He thought he’d been so smart taking her to the house, but instead he’d nullified the importance of that evidence. He’d fucked up and fucked up royally.