Match Made in Court. Janice Kay JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Did they always come when the death wasn’t something obvious and expected, like an eighty-year-old with coronary disease having a heart attack?
Poor Hanna! Linnea adored her six-year-old niece, who—she sometimes swore—took after her more than either her mother or father. Not that Hanna was timid, exactly, but she was quiet and thoughtful. She often daydreamed, which annoyed her father no end. Finn was brilliant and ambitious, impatient with woolgathering and anyone whom he deemed “dense.” Tess, a successful interior designer, was creative but also tempestuous. in her own way, she had as strong a personality as Finn did. Hanna, it often seemed to Linnea, was a bit of a changeling.
Linnea saw the flashing lights when she was still a couple of blocks away from her brother’s house. The street was blocked at the corner, although officers were removing the barricade to let a fire truck lumber out. As she hesitated, the lights atop an ambulance went off, and it, too, started up and followed the fire truck.
Her heart constricted. Was Tess in the ambulance? But it definitely wasn’t speeding toward a hospital, which must mean Finn had been right. By the time he got home, it must have been too late to save her. Linnea hated the idea that he and Hanna had walked in the door and found Tess on the floor. She had a heartrending image of the little girl crying, “Mommy!” and running to her mother’s still, prone body.
People gathered in clusters on the sidewalks, all staring as if hypnotized toward Finn’s house. Neighbors? They were weirdly lit, seemingly by strobe lights—red, blue, white. Blink, blink, blink.
Linnea stopped at the barricade and rolled down her window when the uniformed officer walked up to her car.
“Ma’am, do you live on this street?”
“No, I’m Linnea Sorensen. That’s my brother’s house? Finn? He called me … well, really he called my mother …” He doesn’t care. More strongly, she finished, “I’m here to pick up my six-year-old niece. She shouldn’t be here with … with whatever’s happened.”
“One moment, Ms. Sorensen.” He stepped away and murmured into a walkie-talkie. When he came back, he said, “I’m going to let you through.”
She gave a jerky nod and rolled up her window. When he pulled the barricade aside, she drove through the opening. People’s heads turned as her car inched forward until she stopped behind one of—oh, God—five police cars. Why would there be so many, just because Tess tripped and hit her head?
With trepidation Linnea got out and went toward the house. Almost immediately, another uniformed officer stopped her, then passed her forward. She was walking up the driveway when the front door opened and her brother appeared, police officers on each side and behind him. With shock she realized that he was handcuffed.
Finn Sorensen was a big, fit, handsome man, his dark blond hair sun-streaked. He had such charisma other people tended to disappear in his presence.
Linnea most of all.
Still wearing dark dress pants and a white shirt, he’d shed the tie and suitcoat, probably when he got home earlier. He was in a towering rage, she saw, storming down the front steps as if he were dragging the two officers behind. In comparison, they were stolid and uninteresting, their faces very nearly expressionless.
Finn was halfway to the street when he saw Linnea. He stopped, his angry gaze making her feel about two feet tall.
“As you can see,” he said in an icy voice, “these idiots have jumped to conclusions. Tell Mom and Dad I’ll call Nunley as soon as I get to the jail. They don’t need to worry about it. I’ll be out before morning and filing a lawsuit against these cretins before they start chowing down their noon fries and burgers.” His tone was scathing, dismissive. The two men listened with no apparent reaction.
“Is—is Tess really dead?” Linnea asked.
“Yes. She fell.” His lips drew back in a snarl. “As I keep trying to explain.”
“I’m so sorry, Finn.”
“You’ll take care of Hanna,” he snapped, as if her obedience was a given, and walked past her with the two men each gripping one of his elbows.
Oh, Lord! Had Hanna seen her father arrested on top of the awful discovery of her mother’s body? Linnea rushed up the steps, stopped inside by a plainclothes officer. He wore a rumpled brown suit, his badge clipped to his belt. She could see that he had a gun in a black holster at his side, too.
“Ms. Sorensen?”
“Yes. I’m here for Hanna.”
“Your niece is upstairs in her bedroom. A female officer is with her.”
Hanna must be terrified.
She bit her lip. “It’s true? My sister-in-law is dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said, with surprising gentleness.
“She hit her head?”
“In the course of an argument with your brother. Did they fight often, Ms.—I’m afraid I didn’t catch your first name.”
“Linnea,” she told him. “And it’s true that Finn and Tess had arguments, but that’s all they were. They yelled, then made up. Finn never hit her or anything like that.” At least, she thought privately, that she knew about.
“I’m afraid they won’t be making up this time.”
She went very still. “Is she—her body, um, has she been taken away yet?”
He shook his head, his eyes uncomfortably watchful. “No, but if you go straight upstairs, you won’t see her.”
A shuddery breath escaped her. “All right.” She hesitated. “Do you know … Did Hanna see her?”
“We don’t think so. She says that she heard Mommy and Daddy yelling and she doesn’t like to listen.”
Linnea actually shuddered at the image that conjured. How often had Hanna huddled in her room trying not to listen to her parents screaming at each other? At the same time, Linnea was hugely relieved to know that Hanna hadn’t seen any of the final, violent scene.
“Does she know?”
“That her mother’s dead? Yes, insofar as a child her age can understand.”
“Okay.” She closed her eyes for a moment, girded herself, then started up the stairs.
At the top, she could see into the master suite at the end of the hall. She could make out a corner of the bed, smoothly made. It might be that neither Tess nor Finn had gotten this far; both were workaholics who rarely walked in the door before six or seven in the evening. They might have started arguing the minute they got home.
Hanna’s door was closed. Linnea rapped lightly, then opened it. A uniformed woman sat on the bed. The six-year-old was on the floor, back to the bed, her knees drawn up and her arms hugging her legs tightly.
“Pumpkin?”
Her niece leaped to her feet and flung herself at Linnea. “Aunt Linnie! They said Grandma was coming, but I wanted you!”
They hugged tightly, Hanna’s arms around Linnea’s waist. “I was so scared,” she mumbled.
“I know, honey. I know.”
It was several minutes before Hanna drew back, face wet. Linnea crouched to be at eye level.
Hanna sniffed. “Officer Bab—Bab—”
“Babayan,” the dark-haired young woman supplied.
“She says Mommy is dead.”
Grief clogged Linnea’s throat. She had to swallow twice before she could say, “That’s what they told me, too.”
“That means … she won’t ever come home again?”
Linnea hated having to be the one to