Читать книгу All the Deadly Lies - Marian Lanouette - Страница 9

Chapter 3

It killed Jake to watched Cara fight through his request. She looked at Jacobson. Ron reached over and patted her knee. “He has to, Cara, to help catch her murderer,” Ron said.

“I need to lie down. I’m not watching you rifle through her things. She’d be mortified.” Cara turned to leave the room, then spun back to Jake. “Make sure, Lieutenant, you catch the bastard who did this to our mother.”

Seth chased after Cara, leaving them alone with Jacobson. “Are you staying, Ron?” Jake asked.

“Yes.”

Jake stood outside the door of Chelsea’s bedroom to get an impression of the woman while Louie went out to their car to grab the evidence kits and gloves. As soon as Louie came back they started their search. A neat woman with good quality clothes in muted colors, shoes, and furniture, nothing flashy for Chelsea. Not an overabundance of anything. It looked as if she lived within her means. All of Chelsea’s jewelry was fourteen-karat gold. Everything in the room was precise, organized to an inch of its life. Clothes were color coordinated in both the closet and the drawers. He hadn’t expected to get much and they didn’t.

The top drawer held her functional underwear. Jake discovered the sexy lingerie in the second drawer. He couldn’t tell if they were new or old. She took care of everything she owned. Her bathroom, free of clutter, was shined to a gloss. In her closet, her shoes were lined up under matching outfits. A high-end-looking fabric covered the bed without all the fuss of throw pillows. It told Jake a lot about Chelsea.

Chelsea Adams was a practical, confident, organized woman, who wasn’t afraid to show her feminine side. But who was she showing it to?

He didn’t get into details too much with the kids. They weren’t up to it. After the search, they headed over to Chelsea’s office.

* * * *

A social worker for the state, Chelsea had worked in an office on Thomaston Avenue in a long, gray concrete, unimaginative office building. The structure was divided in half. The unemployment office was situated on one side, social services occupied the other. Leaving the sunshine outside, he and Louie walked into the gray SS office. The receptionist didn’t bother to look up. She pointed to a sign-in sheet as she continued to talk into the phone. On principle, Jake didn’t sign in. He held his shield under her nose until she acknowledged him.

“What can I do for you, Officer?” she asked, after a couple of moments.

“That’s Lieutenant. I need to speak with Mrs. Adams’s supervisor.” Instead of calling the supervisor, the woman got up, walked to the back of the room, and disappeared around a gray partition.

“You sure got used to ‘Lieutenant’ fast.” Louie elbowed him.

“You bet,” Jake said.

The rest of his comment was cut off by a small man of about five-four with a rounded pot belly in, of all things, a gray suit. He looked as if he’d swallowed a basketball. His gray hair kept to the color scheme, or lack of it, and he was sporting a comb-over. It always amused Jake what people did for vanity.

“Lieutenant, I’m Angelo Torres, Chelsea’s supervisor. Please follow me to my office. It’s a terrible tragedy. We heard a little while ago she’d been found.”

He led the way through a maze of cubicles to an office the size of a postage stamp. The tight, small space told Jake Angelo’s status in the department—a low-level manager.

“How did you hear?” Jake asked.

“Her daughter called here to speak with Sara, who then told all of us. Please have a seat,” Angelo offered.

“Did Chelsea work for you, Mr. Torres?” Jake sat and jumped right in with his questions.

“Yes. I distribute the work load. I oversee everyone’s files, including Chelsea’s. If an employee has a problem or issue they can’t resolve, it’s handed over to me.”

“Did Chelsea routinely have problems?” Louie asked.

“No, her clients respected her and she was fair to everyone, no bias. Never ran out of patience, like some do. She didn’t make people feel uncomfortable or embarrassed for being here either. Chelsea had compassion for her clients. We’ll miss her,” Angelo concluded in a monotone voice.

“Did she ever have a client who wasn’t satisfied? Or felt they deserved more than what was offered?” Louie asked.

“Once, about two years ago, a man who was denied benefits. He wouldn’t leave her alone. In her best interest, we had her file a complaint with the police. After she filed, he didn’t bother her anymore. His intimidation didn’t work. Chelsea was a tough nut,” Angelo said.

“Anything else? Any other information about Chelsea you might have that would help us catch whoever did this to her, Angelo?” Jake used his first name, hoping for some personal input on Chelsea, but got none.

“No, Chelsea didn’t date anyone from the department. She did her job. I wish I had more workers like her. My life would be easier.”

“Okay, thanks. We’re going to need to interview her coworkers. Is there a place we can do the interviews in private? Here in your office or in a conference room?”

“Why don’t I show you to the break room? I’ll get you a list of employees who worked with Chelsea,” Angelo said.

* * * *

He and Louie interviewed ten coworkers. All were shocked or sickened over Chelsea’s death, but couldn’t offer a reason why someone would hurt her. Her friends—the ones she went out to dinner with on April sixteenth—weren’t at work. They left after being notified of her death, finding it too difficult to deal with their grief and their clients. Angelo gave Jake and Louie their home addresses and phone numbers. They started with the one closest to work. Jake wanted them interviewed as soon as possible.

First on the list was Sara Hurdle. She lived in the west end of town. Jake knocked on Hurdle’s door. It opened only a couple of inches. A swollen green eye surrounded by red peered out at them through heavy security chains. “Ms. Hurdle, can we come in?” Jake asked as they identified themselves and offered their badges.

She pushed the door closed. He heard the rattle of chains as the door reopened. Though it was eighty something degrees outside, Sara stood there in a ratty, terry cloth bathrobe, bathed in grief. A grief he understood too well. The woman also looked scared.

“Some of my questions will be difficult but your answers will help Chelsea. May I call you Sara?” Beforehand, he and Louie had agreed he’d start the questioning.

“Yes, Sara’s fine.” She wiped at her eyes with a crumpled up tissue.

“We need to ask you about Friday night,” Jake said still standing by the door.

“I’ve racked my brains for the last two hours trying to find answers. Nothing. I don’t have any.” Sara sobbed. “If we thought Chelsea was in any kind of trouble or someone was bothering her, we wouldn’t have let her leave by herself.” She wiped her tears. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no reason for you to be sorry, Sara. Chelsea’s death is a tragedy. Are those new locks on your door?” Jake asked, as they walked into the living room. Sara sat on the couch, Louie sat beside Sara on the burgundy sofa. Jake took a well-worn easy chair with a zig-zag print that dated back to the fifties.

“Yes, I changed them out last week when Chelsea went missing. It doesn’t make any sense, but her disappearance scared me. I thought the new locks would help put me at ease.”

“Why are you frightened, Sara?” Louie took over the questioning.

“This is something you read about in the newspapers, not something you expect to happen to you or anyone close to you. Deep down I knew something bad happened to her. Chelsea disappearing is out of character. When I say it out loud, it sounds stupid…”

“No, it doesn’t. What we need to do is go through the whole night piece by piece. Are up to it?” Louie gentled his voice.

“I’ll do anything I can to help. Chelsea was the best person in the whole world. We were friends as well as coworkers. I can’t believe she’s gone.” Sara started sobbing again. Louie took her hand and patted it gently.

Jake’s gaze roamed the room. Homey, but outdated. He wondered if she had continued living in the place where she was raised.

“Sara, I need you to pull yourself together. This is important. It will help Chelsea.” Louie’s voice held a firm gentleness, which seemed to bring the grieving woman around.

“I called her kids today. It was a difficult conversation. What can you say at a time like this? Everything seems trivial.”

“I’m sure they appreciated the call. What time did you both leave work on Friday?” Louie asked.

“We left at four-thirty.”

“What did you do when you left the office?” Jake listened, content to let Louie run the entire interview. Sara seemed more at ease with him.

“We went over to the Four Seasons for drinks before dinner. We’d decided last week to dine there.” She stopped, gathered her thoughts. “We were seated around six o’clock. Chelsea’s girlfriend joined us a little after six.”

“I thought you always ate at the Hills?” Jake interrupted.

“Most times we did, but that night we decided to change it up.”

“Who was the fourth woman who went to dinner with you?” Louie questioned.

“Jora Stein. She works with us.”

“How long were you at the Four Seasons?”

“Dinner took about an hour. We sat in the restaurant another hour and talked to kill time. We didn’t want to head out to the club too early. We were feeling no pain and enjoying each other’s company. We had cocktails before we ate and then switched to wine with dinner. I had a nice buzz on.”

“Was Chelsea also…flying?” Louie asked.

“No, she always paced herself. One drink lasted her the whole night. Our perpetual designated driver, we called her.”

“What time did you leave the restaurant and head over to the club?” Louie prodded.

“Around eight-thirty because we got to the golf course about eight forty-five and the band hadn’t started yet.”

“What did you do when you got there?” Louie asked.

“Well, we sat at the bar and ordered some drinks. I could tell we were losing Chelsea.”

“How do you mean, ‘losing her’?” Louie questioned.

“Well, she was bored. Chelsea wasn’t a clubber. She used to go out to dinner with us once a month when she was married but always headed right home afterward. After her divorce, she started to go out with us after we ate because Julie pushed her. Chelsea’s a real homebody.” Sara looked up, devastated. “I mean was a real homebody. Her bastard of an ex left her for a twenty-something bimbo.”

“What time did Chelsea leave the bar?” Jake took over.

“She left around ten o’clock. She didn’t even give the band a chance. Said she had a headache. We tried to talk her into staying. She wouldn’t hear of it.” Sara’s tears started again. “It was the last time we saw her.” Guilt washed over her face. Jake sympathized. You couldn’t change the past though he wished and prayed like a little kid when Eva had died that he could. “We should have walked her to her car,” Sara sobbed.

“Did you usually walk each other to your cars?” Jake asked.

“No, we didn’t unless the bar was in a crappy neighborhood.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Sara. Monday morning quarterbacking never accomplished anything. Did she mention whether she planned on meeting anyone after she left there?” Jake continued the questioning.

“No, not Chelsea. If she said she was going home, she went home.”

“Was she talking or flirting with anyone at the bar who she blew off when she left?”

“No, Julie hooked up with some loser from high school. I don’t know his name, Julie would. Chelsea would never ever hook up with someone.”

“Here’s my card if you remember anything else. We’re sorry for your loss,” Louie said.

Once outside of Sara’s apartment, Jake said, “The woman appears to have floated through life without a blemish.”

“Yeah, a quiet woman, one who’s admired, and now she’s dead. It’s pointing to someone she knew. Somewhere on her way home, she met her death—a practical woman doesn’t stop for a stranger.”

“Agreed, let’s reach out to the Neptune Police in Florida. We need to pin down her ex’s whereabouts last Friday night.”

“Next up is Jora Stein,” Louie said, making notes next to Sara’s name.

Stein’s phone continued to ring until an answering machine picked up. Louie left a message and stressed the importance of a return call. They got the same response, and left a similar message when they tried to call the victim’s friend, Julie Cahns.

* * * *

Jake returned to the station and placed a call to Neptune, Florida. A receptionist with a thick southern accent that was too southern for the area answered. He figured her for a transplant.

“This is Lieutenant Carrington, from the Wilkesbury, Connecticut, Police Department. May I speak with one of your detectives?”

“Hi, Lieutenant.” She stretched out the second part of lieutenant, adding a few n’s along the way.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Because I didn’t throw it—it’s Samantha, but most people call me Sammy.” Sammy’s infectious laugh lifted his spirits.

“Sammy, who would I speak with to get a follow-up on someone’s whereabouts last Friday?”

“I’ll give you to the chief. He can direct you to the right person.”

“What’s his name?”

“Beau Taylor. Hold please while I get him.” Sammy put him on hold.

He wasn’t kept waiting long. “Well hello, Connecticut, what can I do for you?”

“Chief, I have a homicide here. If it’s possible I need you to check on the whereabouts of the ex-husband,” Jake asked.

“It’s Beau, please, we’re not formal here. I’d be happy to. Give me the pertinent info on him and the times and dates you want checked out. I’ll do that today.”

Jake supplied the information.

“Do you also want to know the whereabouts of the new wife?” Chief Taylor asked.

“Yes, I hear she wasn’t happy with the alimony settlement.”

Jake’s radio crackled to life. “Any units in the vicinity of Highland Avenue and Chase Parkway respond to a two-one-one. Shots have been reported, along with hostages.” The next code put the fear of God into every cop. It was a ten-one-o-eight.

“Chief, I have to go. I’ll get you back later.” Jake ended the call without waiting for an answer.

He grabbed his jacket. Louie was already up and running as he slipped into his jacket. Jake caught up to him. The bullpen also emptied as every available officer rushed to the scene. A ten-one-o-eight or one-o-eight meant officer down. No matter what department they belonged to, the wall of blue would be there to protect their own.

The drive to the bank located on Highland Avenue took Jake a little over ten minutes with traffic. Not everyone bothered to pull over at the sound of his sirens. Louie checked his gun while Jake navigated traffic. Armed bank robberies had increased across the nation along with the violence used by the suspects in desperate attempts to secure the cash.

“When was the last time you checked your gun, Jake?”

He appreciated Louie’s concern though sometimes it baffled him when Louie asked an obvious question. He shrugged his shoulders. No matter what, Louie had his back. “This morning.”

“Loaded?”

“Yes.” Jake turned to Louie. “I load it every day. You?”

“Loaded.”

They both knew some cops who didn’t bother. Utter stupidity. Jake and Louie drove the rest of the way in silence, each putting his mind where it needed to be as they listened to the radio for updates.

* * * *

Chase Park, situated on five acres along the interstate, offered basketball courts, a sprinkler for kids in the summer, and a clubhouse for neighborhood meetings and gatherings. The lot looked as if it could accommodate up to fifty cars. Jake parked, and then he and Louie shrugged into their Kevlar vests. “Ready?” Jake asked.

“Ready.”

Jake checked in with Lieutenant Nick Longo from Robbery who was in charge of the scene. Longo had blocked off Highland Avenue from both directions. He’d set up his control post behind a parked cruiser at the edge of the intersection. It looked like the whole force had turned out.

“Hey, Longo, what’ve you got?” Jake asked.

“Our intel tells us there are two gunmen, three tellers, one manager, and several customers, including a police officer. It’s Tommy Sullivan,” Longo replied.

“Oh shit! Tommy? Didn’t his wife recently have a baby?” Louie said.

“Yep, two days ago. There were shots fired but we don’t know if anyone’s been hit. The ambulance is here and waiting. We’ve tried to contact the suspects, but they’re not responding or giving any demands yet. I’m going to try again.” Longo placed another call to the bank—it went unanswered.

Worse, Jake thought, when they don’t respond. You couldn’t get a bead on them.

Longo’s division, tension etched in each officer’s face, was equipped with long-range rifles. They were spread out around the building. The negotiator arrived.

Jake nodded to Jim Noones, an experienced negotiator, as he watched Noones slip on his vest. They both turned toward the bank to assess the situation. At five-nine, Noones had the stereotypical appearance of a jolly Irishman: a rounded belly, red nose, ruddy complexion, wheat-colored hair, and sky-blue eyes in a round, wide face. Always a joke on his lips, he went from casual to serious in less than a second when a situation called for it. Anyone who failed to take him seriously paid a dear price. Noones handled all his negotiations with a calm manner, trusting face, and a storyteller’s smooth voice and timing.

“Hey, Jake, I hear congratulations are in order,” Noones said as he tugged on the bottom of his vest.

“Thanks, Jim.”

He turned to Longo. “How do you want to handle this?”

“Whichever way ends this fast and with no injuries, if possible,” Longo said.

Noones grabbed the bullhorn and flipped the switch and started speaking to the suspects.

“This is Captain Noones of the Wilkesbury Police Department. I’d like to open communications with you. Please use the number on the display from your last call. It will come to my phone.”

Jake waited beside Noones and Longo. The rest of the department scattered around the block, circling the bank. Taking in the whole scene without moving an inch, Jake tensed for action. He nodded to Louie to protect his flank. He spotted the reporters from Channels Eight, Three, and Sixty-One with their live cams. Helicopters hovered overhead, and would be offering a dramatic televised view of the incident. If the suspects were watching, they had the whole view as well, including law enforcement’s tactical positions and the number of responding officers. The information age made these events even more difficult to manage, endangering countless lives.

“Have the schools been locked down?” Noones asked Longo.

“Yes, first thing.”

“Good. My kid’s at Kennedy,” Noones said.

“Mine too,” Longo responded.

“Mine are at Resurrection and Lord of the Cross, thank God,” Louie said.

Jake caught movement at the door to the bank. “Here we go.”

Noones lifted his bullhorn and waited.

The man used the bank manager as a shield as he brandished a gun and shouted. “Send over one unarmed officer. One. I’ll give him a letter I’ve written with what we want. We don’t need any heroes today. If our demands are met, everyone will go home healthy, understood?”

The suspect appeared to stand about six feet tall. He wore his black hair spiked on top, a red streak running down the center. When he turned, Jake saw a long, braided tail touching his shoulder blades. So eighties. He was dressed in all black and his wallet, secured with a chain, stuck out from his back pocket. Despite the day being warm, he also wore black gloves. His gun hand quivered—not a comforting sign. The gunman looked to be in his thirties, a solid hundred-eighty. He wore mirrored sunglasses; his bicep had a tattoo of a cross and skull. Jake memorized every detail for his report.

“Noones, who do you want to send over there?” Lieutenant Longo asked.

“I’ll go,” Jake spoke up.

“Any objections, Nick?”

“None,” Lieutenant Longo said.

“No heroics,” Louie said, as he leaned in and whispered in Jake’s ear. “You got your ankle holster?” Most cops never used maximum force during their careers, though were trained to if a situation required it. Jake never needed to but Louie had.

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll be back before you know it.” Jake tossed a smirk over his shoulder.

“We’re sending over Detective Carrington. He’s unarmed. In good faith, you release one of the hostages,” Jim Noones said. By procedure Noones didn’t use Jake’s rank.

“Send the detective over,” the gunman said, not agreeing to anything.

“Is anyone hurt?” Noones asked.

“We’ll talk after you read the letter.” The gunman never let loose his grip on the manager.

“He’s coming over now,” Noones replied.

The Kevlar vest created a furnace and had sweat pouring down Jake’s back as he got closer to the gunman. The gunman’s own sweat poured under his sunglasses. Jake wondered how the guy could see. The bank manager looked petrified. Jake held his hands up and away from his body as he approached. If things went wrong, his ankle holster—if he could get to it—would provide necessary protection.

“Okay, that’s far enough. I’m going back into the bank with this woman here. When I reach the door, you can pick up the letter. But not before I reach the door. Understood?”

Jake looked into the frightened eyes of the manager. “Yes.”

“Good.” The suspect whispered something in the manager’s ear then started backing up with her.

When gunman and hostage reached the door, Jake dropped to one knee to retrieve the note while keeping the bank robber in his line of sight. As he wrapped his fingers around it the gunman stepped inside and pushed the bank manager out onto the sidewalk. She fell to the ground. Jake ran forward to lift her up. He half carried, half dragged her back to the command post and safety.

The woman burst into tears when they reached Longo. Jake hoped no one could hear how fast and hard his heart pounded.

“I’m Lieutenant Longo,” Nick said. “I have to ask you to pull yourself together right now. Anything you give us will help the others come out of this alive. What’s your name?”

“Adeline Smith,” she replied, swiping at her tears.

“Adeline, you need to be exact. How many people are in there? Is anyone hurt? How many gunmen are there? Where are they located?” Longo shot questions at her.

Jake’s opinion of her went up as she composed herself.

“There are two tellers behind the counter. The assistant manager’s at the counter with the second guy, at least he was when I came out. There are two gunmen, three customers…oh, and one was shot in the leg. He’s a regular customer. Officer Tommy Sullivan. It isn’t bad. We were able to stop the bleeding by applying some pressure to it.” Jake appreciated how she tried to control her shaking.

“Adeline, you did great. Go with these detectives. We’re going to keep you away from the press until this is over. Are you going be okay?” Nick asked.

“Yes, is everyone else going to be?”

“We hope so. These detectives will take your statement,” Longo said.

Louie started to escort her to the ambulance. Adeline leaned over and thanked Jake for helping her.

“No problem. You sure you’re good? The EMT is going to check you anyway, to be sure,” Louie said

“I’ll be fine. But I’m worried about the others. If I’d known they were going to let me go, I would’ve let someone else go out. He put a gun to my head… I thought I was a goner.” She finished her statement, then leaned over and threw up.

Jake motioned for the EMT. Louie took the rest of her statement before he handed her off to a patrolman and then headed back to the command post.

“How is she?” Nick asked.

“She’ll be fine. The gun to the head freaked her out,” Louie said.

“That’ll do it.”

“What do they want?” Jake asked.

Louie added a question of his own. “Did they call Noones yet?”

“Yes. They want the usual,” Nick Longo replied to both.

“It’s not like they’re going to get away with it,” Jake said. Everyone’s radios crackled to life.

It seemed the Channel Eight News chopper had picked up a hot pursuit on Route 8, heading from Wilkesbury to Bridgeport. The state police had tried to pull over a car on a routine check when it took off. They were now closing down entrance ramps, rerouting any cars not involved in the pursuit. There is never a dull moment in this job.

After seven long hours, the bank robbery suspects gave themselves up. Both gunmen incurred layoffs and had run out of money, with no job prospects in their futures. When questioned, they said they had run out of food to feed their families and after a night of drinking the idea came to them. It never shocked Jake how stupid most criminals were, but these two took the cake

The pursuit on Route 8 ended fast. It had nothing to do with the bank robbery as first reported.

On their way home, Louie reminded him again about the party for Marisa the following week. Tomorrow they’d handle the paperwork for this incident. Though a long day, he’d put in time on Eva’s file tonight. He had to go into the meeting prepared. “What, do I look like I have no memory?” Jake asked. If Louie was setting him up again…he’d… Never mind, he thought, it isn’t worth it.

“No, Marisa said to remind you. Gigi keeps asking if you’re coming.” Louie fluttered his eyelashes.

“Great. Can’t you douse this before the party?”

“No, you can do it. It’ll give you a lesson in parenting.”

Jake shot him the snake eye. “For Marisa.” Jake changed the subject. “Does Sophia want me to bring anything?”

“No, we’re all set. Sophia hired the band and the bartender last week to lock them in. Good thing I’ve got a job.”

“You’re not fooling anyone. You get into this as much as Sophia.”

“You’re right, I love it.”

Jake dropped Louie off at his house before he headed home.

* * * *

Outside of struggling with his emotions all week, Jake focused his concentration on the cases at hand. Otherwise it was a quiet week as they fell into the routine of murder—following up with witnesses, the M.E., and the lab. Like Shanna Wagner, Chelsea Adams was well-liked, minded her own business, and hadn’t caused any ripples until her divorce. Taking a husband to the cleaners could gain a person an enemy, he mused.

A long, tedious day, had gotten longer when Jake stopped by the nursing home and visited his mother. She showed a few sparks when he walked into her room, but who knows? Long ago, she’d forgotten she had another child who needed her.

At home, he decided to continue to explore through Eva’s files in small increments. Small doses were all he could handle in his melancholy mood. Each crime scene photo stabbed him in the heart. His father’s neat print in the margins jumped off the pages. Jake bogged through his detectives’ incident reports and evaluations to make sure no details were overlooked. Again, it hit him how similar Eva’s and Shanna’s cases were. The third box he opened hit hard. A sampling of Spaulding’s stained shirt and jeans still held the coppery smell of blood. Eva’s blood. His father’s fellow officers had made sure he had all the evidence he’d need in the future if new evidence surfaced. Knuckling away a tear, he rummaged through the box. A sample of George Spaulding’s brand of cigarettes, along with a smoked one, were stored in sealed envelopes. Jake decided to give one of the samples to Burke to have it tested against the recent samples of DNA collected from George. Though he thought he wanted Louie here, he found this first time through was better alone. It had been years since he’d subjected himself to the trauma. Maybe when he got to the fiftieth time through the file he’d be able to control his emotions.

* * * *

The next day, Jake woke to a typical rainy New England April day. The temps dropped to the low fifties. His concession to the weather was a heavier sports jacket. When he got into the station and sat at his desk, he put a call into Chief Beau Taylor.

Jake got him on the first try. “Chief, it’s Jake Carrington from Wilkesbury, Connecticut.”

“Please call me Beau. How did your situation turn out?”

“We got the guys. The officer who got shot is doing great. Thanks for asking.”

“Good. I checked on Jeffrey Adams and his perky new bride Lola. I do need to tell you—she had quite the mouth on her. I thought I was talking to a trucker.” Beau laughed. “She wasn’t happy to see me.”

“No?”

“No. She started off telling me she wasn’t going talk to me without an attorney before I even explained why I was there. It got my eye a-twitching. Y’all understand my meaning, Connecticut?”

“I do, Chief. Who told her about the murder?”

“She said she got a call about the ex-wife’s murder. She knew someone would come and start bothering them with questions. I pointed out Mrs. Adams wasn’t happy about being dead, either.”

Jake let out a laugh. “Sorry to interrupt, I would’ve loved to have been there.”

“Oh yeah, a refreshing break in my routine. I told her to call her lawyer and we’d settle my questions at the police station. After a staring contest, the ex-husband said they’d be happy to answer any questions I have. Imagine that.”

“I’m imagining. Did they give you anything?” Jake laughed. He could see the scene play out.

“Well, the ex-husband worked all weekend at his second job. He’s an assistant manager at a small restaurant here in Neptune. His alibi checks out. Now his shy, delicate wife claimed to have spent the weekend with her girlfriend over in Miami while her husband worked. I called her girlfriend. She hemmed and hawed when I asked her to verify Lola’s visit on the sixteenth. At first, she agreed, until I told her that if she lied, she would face charges, including prison time. Understanding the severity of the situation, she immediately corrected her previous statement. Said she hasn’t seen Lola since her wedding. Connecticut, do you want me to verify flights on my end?”

“Thanks, Beau, I’ll check them out from here. Can I get the girlfriend’s information in Miami? I appreciate your time on this. If I run into any problems with the flights, I’ll give you a call back.”

“Anytime, Connecticut, I’ll fax over my report and the info on the friend.” Beau hung up.

“What’s that all about, Jake?” Louie asked.

“Well, we might have to head down south,” Jake said, pulling out the phone book.

“Awesome, I’ll pack the sunscreen for you. What have you got?”

“What I got is a liar.”

“Florida got good information for us?”

“Yep. The new, younger wife doesn’t have an alibi for the weekend. The ex-husband does. He needs to work two jobs to support the new and improved model.”

“The poor fellow, my heart bleeds,” Louie snorted. “Where was the current wife?”

“Lola said she spent the weekend in Miami with her girlfriend. Girlfriend gets all nervous when it’s explained to her that she could go to jail if she lies—she recants. She hasn’t seen the current wife since her wedding last year.”

“‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave…when first we practice to deceive.’ I love that quote by Walter Scott in ‘Marmion,’” Louie said.

“You have a quote for everything.”

“Hey, we can’t go down south until after Marisa’s party. She’d kill us. I’m already taking enough grief from her over the party we won’t let her go to.”

“Don’t worry. If we have to go, it wouldn’t be right away. We have other leads to pursue first.”

“Good, ’cause I’d hate to miss how you’re going to handle her friend Gigi who has, and I quote Marisa,” Louie brought his hands together and fluttered his lashes. “‘She has the world’s biggest crush on Uncle Jake.’”

“I owe you one for this.”

As promised, he walked into the conference room at three and updated Shamus, Burke, and Kraus on the evidence in Eva’s case. He held back his personal feelings as McGuire had asked. Though it wasn’t said, his men understood he’d be working the case too. While he was in the meeting Louie ran the airlines to see if Chelsea’s ex-husband or his new wife were in town on the weekend of April sixteenth. After updating Burke and Kraus, Jake left the meeting and turned his attention back to the Adams case.