I'm Watching You (6 page)

"My gut tells me that this killing was personal," Zack said.

Ayden shrugged off his coat and loosened his tie. "Turner pissed
off a lot of people. But none of them would be likely to stop and fix his tie
after they'd shot him."

"No. This murder has a different feel to it," Zack said.

The three were silent for a moment.

"You have anything else?" Warwick said.

"I talked to the shelter staff," Zack said. "Ruby
Dillon, an assistant to the director, was on call last night. She didn't
see anything until this morning when she found the body." Zack
didn't relish what he was about to say. "You might as well hear it
from me. The director of Sanctuary is Lindsay O'Neil. She's my
wife."

Warwick frowned. "I didn't realize you were married."

"I thought you were divorced," Ayden said.

"Not officially," Zack said.

Warwick's gaze sliced across him. "How long have you two
been separated?"

The question reiterated how little the two men knew about each other.
"About a year."

"You shouldn't have taken the call," Warwick said.

Zack refused to lock horns with his partner now. It was more important
that Ayden keep him on the case. "I want this case, Ayden."

Ayden frowned. "Why?"

Zack couldn't even explain his reasons to himself, let alone his
boss. "I just want in on it."

"The last damn thing I need is a conflict-of-interest
issue," Ayden said. "A body in the suburbs is going to generate a
lot of media coverage. And everyone in the county government is going to be all
over this by lunchtime."

"Where was O'Neil last night?" Warwick said.

Zack straightened. "She was home last night."

"Can she prove it?" Ayden said.

"She says she was home alone. No witnesses. She was also late this
morning, because a power outage shut off her alarm clock." He knew she
hadn't told him everything. There was more going on with her. But still
his gut told him she was no killer. One way or another, he'd find out the
truth. "There are a lot of people who could have killed Harold."

Warwick exhaled. "You're too close to this case."

Tension rose in Zack's body. He'd had about enough of
Warwick's attitude. "Are you questioning my judgment?"

Warwick met his gaze. There was no hint of apology. "Yes."

Ayden raised his hand. His expression allowed for no argument.
"Jesus, you two sound like my boys. Cut this crap out." He
tightened his jaw and released it. "Fight later. Solve this case now.
Turner may have been slime, but he got himself killed in a nice suburban
neighborhood. The public is not going to be happy. If you two can't work
this case, I'll get Vega and Ricker to handle it."

Zack didn't want to get pulled from the case. "We'll
be fine."

Warwick nodded in agreement. This was a case he didn't want to
lose either. "We've got it under control, sir."

"You'd better," Ayden warned. "Because if I get
even a whiff that you two aren't working well together, you're off
this case." Ayden ducked under the tape. "Keep me posted."
Without a good-bye to either officer, he disappeared around the side of the
house.

"As long as you stay sober, I'll be fine," Warwick
said.

"Don't be an ass."

Warwick shrugged and crossed the yard. He crouched in front of the
bloodstain and studied it. "Word is Ronnie T. and Turner fought after
court yesterday. I heard Turner presented a plea deal to him. The deal required
that he do five years in the state penitentiary."

Zack shifted his gaze to his partner with a measure of respect.
"How'd you hear that?"

"I box with guys in the Justice Department. We talk. Harold and
Ronnie T.'s argument caused quite a stir yesterday."

"What was said?"

Warwick pulled off his sunglasses and leaned closer to the stain.
"Ronnie T. apparently was paying Harold big bucks in exchange for a
promise that he wouldn't have to do jail time. Ronnie T. thinks of
himself as a family man. He wants to see his three kids grow up."

"The son of a bitch got his start selling drugs to kids and
he's worried about being away from his own.
Priceless."

A fat rain droplet fell and hit Zack on the shoulder.
"Damn." He glared at the sky and then at Sara. She nodded and
picked up her pace. "This doesn't look like Ronnie T.'s
work."

"I agree. A drive-by is more his style, but he's got to be
checked out." Warwick rose. "Do you have Turner's home
address?"

Harold's wife was at the top of Zack's list. "Yes. His
home is about twenty minutes from here."

More rain droplets started to cut through the leaves above and hit the
ground around their feet. "Let's go talk to Mrs. Turner and then
we'll have a chat with Ronnie T."

Monday, July 7, 12:02
P.M
.

Zack took off his suit jacket as he and Warwick
moved toward Zack's Impala. Several reporters and cameramen rushed toward
them but neither paused before getting into the car. Zack fired up the engine
and wove through the neighborhood and out onto the main road that fed into the
interstate. He gunned the engine and pulled onto the ramp into traffic.

Scattered rain droplets peppered the windshield. He flipped on the
windshield wipers. The rain came down harder.

A hand on the steering wheel, Zack glanced toward Warwick, who was
staring out his window. Zack had tried small talk with Warwick when
they'd first been partnered up, but the guy simply wasn't
interested, so he'd given up.

Craving a cigarette, Zack reached in his pocket and found gum instead.
He pulled out the pack,
unwrapped
a stick, and popped
it in his mouth. He offered one to Warwick, who declined.

Ten minutes later, Zack had gotten ahead of the rain, which was moving
in from the west. He maneuvered the Impala off the interstate and down River
Road. This was the high end of town where pedigree was just as important as a
fat wallet. Turner hadn't been born into the right family, but he'd
married into one of the oldest in the state.

Zack pulled onto a tree-lined side street and into Harold Turner's
circular driveway. The enormous brick Colonial was bordered by manicured beds
filled with boxwoods, daylilies, and a rainbow palette of annuals. The house,
like the man who'd remodeled it, screamed
money
.

Warwick whistled as his gaze traveled over the home's exterior.
"Look at this place. It's worth more than I'll make in five
lifetimes. This is a far cry from Harold's subsidized housing days at
Randolph Court."

Zack didn't feel envy, just a curiosity for the well-bred woman
who had married a man like Turner.

The fixer-upper he'd just bought could fit in one of
Turner's garages. However, this house was cold. His house, which Lindsay
had spotted shortly after they'd married, had character and was full of
possibilities. Yeah, it had dents and dings--just like their
marriage--but that's what made it interesting. Or so he kept telling
himself.

He stared at the ivy-covered house willing it to reveal its secrets.
"I called Ricker about an hour ago and had her do a quick rundown on Mrs.
Turner. She's a Georgetown grad and in her midthirties. She and Turner
married about five years ago. They have no children, but she's a member
of a children's hospital board and a member of several other
children's charities."

Warwick flexed his fingers. "How did those two hook up?"

"He was her father's attorney."

Warwick raised an eyebrow. "Her old man is not so squeaky
clean?"

"He was charged with investment fraud. Turner got him off."

"So he kept the old man out of jail and married the
daughter."

"So it seems." It was amazing how much dirt could be hidden
behind such regal walls.

Zack opened his door and was struck by the humidity, thick with the
promise of rain within minutes. As Warwick got out, Zack pulled on his suit
jacket. The worsted wool felt scratchy against his skin. The suit was
classified as a "nine months suit," and he'd bought it
figuring he'd get the most wear out of it. He now realized July was one
of the three months it was not intended to be worn. He straightened his tie.

Warwick studied a large iron planter filled with ivy. "If
she's such a class act why marry a shyster like Turner?"

"Love's a fickle thing." Crushed gravel crunched under
their feet as they walked up the walkway. Eight months in homicide and
he'd not gotten used to the grim task of delivering news of a death.

"Love ain't got
nothing
to do with
this union. It's all about the money." A shadow darkened
Warwick's face.

"Are you completely cynical?"

Warwick shrugged.
"Just calling 'em as I
seem 'em.
Women gravitate toward the coin. Saw it a million times
when I worked undercover. Go into a club dressed as a bum, and none of the
chicks talk to you. Return to the same club dressed as a player, and it's
like bees and honey."

Money didn't motivate Lindsay. She had walked away from their
marriage without a dime. In fact, she had given the money from their joint
savings account to his mother and asked her to put it toward Zack's
recovery. He'd used that money a month ago to put the down payment on
that fixer-upper that Lindsay had loved.

"When we get to the door," Warwick said, "let me do
most of the talking."

"No problem."

"Don't say we're from homicide. I don't want her
shutting down. Once anyone hears homicide, they start gauging their words
carefully."

"I know the drill." Irritated, Zack rang the front bell.

Within seconds footsteps sounded on the other side. The door opened to a
young Hispanic woman dressed in a maid's uniform. "Yes?"

Warwick held up his police badge. "We're here to see Mrs.
Jordan Turner."

The young woman frowned. "Just a moment, please." The front
door closed with a soft click.

"Do you think she'll show?" Zack said.

"I don't know."

The door opened a second time. This time a tall slim woman appeared at
the threshold. She was dressed in a simple black sheath that accentuated full
breasts and a narrow waist. A gold cross dangled from a chain around her neck.
Long black hair grazed the top of slender shoulders and framed a lovely oval
face that could have been classified as angelic if not for the sharpness behind
her violet eyes.

Behind her, polished wood floors gleamed. Walls papered in cream and
black stripes served as a backdrop to eighteenth-century portraits. A crystal
chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, twisting sunlight into rainbows.

"Mrs. Jordan Turner?" Warwick said.

"Yes?" A crease formed between neatly plucked eyebrows as
her gaze shifted between the two of men. "I understand you're with
the police department."

Both men reached in their pockets and pulled out badges.

"We're with Henrico County Police," Warwick said.

"What can I do for you?" Her tone turned cautious.

"Is there anyone else in the house with you?" They
didn't want her alone in case she took the news of her husband's
death badly.

She glanced behind her. Feminine laughter sounded from inside the house.
"I've a few ladies from the church here. What's this
about?"

"Have you seen your husband this morning?" Warwick said.

Answering a question with a question often led to more information.

"Harold and I had dinner together last night. After that we went
our separate ways. I had a late church meeting and didn't get home until
after eleven. I'm not sure what plans Harold had scheduled on his
calendar."

"What time did your husband come in last night?" Warwick
said.

She frowned. "What's this about?"

Warwick ignored her question. "I would appreciate it if you would
just confirm his arrival for me."

Jordan drew in a breath. "We have separate bedrooms." Color
rose in her cheeks as if she was embarrassed by the admission. Appearances were
clearly a priority for her. "Harold has terrible back problems and he
needs a special mattress."

Zack tucked the badge back in his pocket. "What time did you have
dinner with him last night?"

Her lips flattened. "Six. We left
La Mer
at seven. Is Harold in some kind of trouble?"

"May we come inside?" Warwick said.

Jordan stepped out onto the front porch, softly closing the door behind
her. "As I said, I've a group of women visiting from the church.
Now is not a good time to hear about Harold's latest indiscretion."

"It's more than an indiscretion, ma'am," Zack
said.

She fidgeted with her five-carat wedding ring with her thumb.
"What has my husband done this time?"

"This time?"
Zack said.

"A month ago he was arrested for drunk driving in the city."

Warwick's gaze didn't waver from Jordan's face.
"Mr. Turner was found dead this morning behind Sanctuary Women's
Shelter."

For a moment, she just stared at them, her eyes blinking slowly as if
her brain couldn't process. She raised her hand to her mouth. Finally,
she found her voice, which possessed surprising steel. "Are you sure it
was Harold?"

"Yes, ma'am," Warwick said. "We found his wallet
in his breast pocket."

Sudden tears glistened in her eyes. But Zack couldn't tell if they
were born in sadness or relief. "What happened to him? How did he
die?"

"He was shot." He wasn't telling her anything that
wouldn't appear on the six o'clock news. Details about the
mutilation and the caliber of the gun would remain confidential until the case
was solved.

She flexed her French-manicured fingers. "Where exactly did you
say you found Harold?"

"Behind Sanctuary Women's Shelter," Zack said. Shock
was natural, but this calm reaction wasn't. Normally, when a loved one
was reported dead, strong emotion followed.

But Jordan Turner didn't show much sign that she was upset. In
fact, she looked confused. "This doesn't make any sense. Harold
wouldn't ever go to a women's shelter."

"There's no reason Mr. Turner would be at Sanctuary
Women's Shelter?" Warwick said.

Amusement softened her features, as if he'd just said something
funny. "No, Harold would never go to a place like that."

"Why not?"
Warwick said.

"He doesn't support any charity unless it advances his
standing with the media. And even if Santuary was a media darling, he
wouldn't support it. He doesn't like quitters."

"Quitters?"
Zack said.

"Women who give up on their
marriages."

Zack's tempter rose. "They're abused women, Mrs.
Turner."

The censure in his voice had her shoulders stiffening. "Until
death do we part, detective. Those are the vows we all take when we marry in
the church. We may not like the way our marriages turn out but that doesn't
mean we abandon our promise before God."

"You don't believe in divorce," Warwick said.

She released the cross she had been holding. He could almost hear her
defenses slamming into place. "I don't. I also don't believe
in murder."

"No one says that you do," Zack said.

She raised a brow. "Please, I've been married to a defense
attorney for five years. I know how it works. The spouse is always at the top
of the suspect list when there is a murder."

"No one's a suspect yet," Warwick said. "These
questions are standard procedure. Right now we're just trying to
establish a time line."

A fat rain droplet leaked through the porch roof and landed on
Zack's shoulder. He didn't need to glance up to know the sky was
about to open up.

Jordan turned, dismissing them as she reached for the front door handle.
"I will contact my attorney and he'll be in touch with you. If you
have more questions, you can ask them of me in front of him."

"There a reason you need an attorney?" Zack said. More
droplets hit him on his broad shoulders.

She met his gaze head-on. "Harold said you always, always need an
attorney when cops are around. Now I must go."

Warwick stopped her retreat by asking, "Know of anybody who would
want to kill your husband?"

The question made her smile again. "I'll draw up a list. My
attorney will submit it." She opened the door,
then
closed it in their faces as she went inside.

Warwick planted long hands on his hips. "Smooth, controlled, and
not exactly torn up," he said, summing her up.

Zack turned up his collar as raindrops peppered the ground.
"I'll subpoena phone records and get a full background check on
her."

Rain greeted Lindsay's Jeep as she pulled out of the Mercy
Hospital parking garage. She flipped on her headlights and windshield wipers to
cut through the river of water falling from the sky. Slowly she merged into
traffic and followed the procession of red taillights onto I-64 West. The
downpour made drivers hesitant and slow. The trip back to shelter was going to
take longer than she'd planned.

Seeing Gail made her think of Jordan. Unable to resist, she picked up
her cell and dialed Jordan again. She doubted Jordan would pick up, but she
felt as if she had to try although she wasn't sure what she'd say
to Jordan when she got her on the phone.

After the third ring, the call connected.

"Jordan?"

"Yes. Why are you calling me, Lindsay?"

"Because we need to talk."