With Malice. Rachel LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
you called us?”
2
Grant watched the water drip from his face into the sink. The bitter taste was still strong in his mouth, despite two rinses of mouthwash. The face he saw in the mirror had neither the energy of youth nor the wisdom of age. It was pale, drawn, eyes red-rimmed.
He drew a deep breath. He had to do something.
What would he tell the girls? They’d called Abby last night, before bed, just to say hi, they’d said. He couldn’t remember a night when they’d been away from Abby and hadn’t called her. It was as much a part of their bedtime ritual as hugs and brushing their teeth and him tucking them in. What would he tell them?
He had to get back to Tampa. That much was certain. Call his parents. That was the next step. Tell them what had happened and ask them to take the girls. One thing at a time, he told himself. One thing at a time.
His father’s voice was thick with sleep.
“Dad,” he began, and stopped. Saying that one word broke the last wall of reserve. Sobs tore from his chest.
“Son? What’s wrong?”
“Abby…Abby.”
His father knew. His father had always known. “Oh, son. Oh.”
In the background, Grant heard his mother stirring, asking what was wrong. “Dad, can I bring the girls home?”
The answer was immediate and reassuring. “Come home, son. Bring the girls. Your mother and I will start getting ready now.”
“I loved her,” Grant said, his voice breaking.
“We all did, Grant. Bring the girls. We’ll be ready.”
Jerry Connally shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, Detective. I mean, I know it’s the wrong thing to do, but I looked through the house first, to see if he— I’m guessing he’s a man—was still here. I could tell she was dead, but I checked anyway.”
“Before or after you checked the house?” Karen asked.
“I think before. I’m not sure.” He paused. “It’s funny. I’ve seen in a hundred TV shows where someone finds a dead body and panics and does something stupid. I always thought it was a bad plot device. And I guess I went and did the same damn thing.”
“So you approached the body?”
“Yes. I tried to find a pulse.” He looked down at his hand and shuddered. He met her eyes. “You check the pulse in the neck. That’s where it’s strongest. Easiest to find. I…”
Karen watched his ashen features. It wasn’t hard to see what had happened. Looking at a horrific wound was bad enough. Touching it would turn even the strongest of stomachs. She merely nodded and let him talk.
He seemed to study the floor for a moment. “I guess I checked her and then the house. Those footprints would be mine. Some of them, anyway. Maybe some of his, too. I just don’t know, Detective. I wish I did.”
He was a man transformed, Karen thought. Either he was a hell of an actor or the scene really had horrified him. Neither would prove his guilt or innocence. But the emotions rang true.
“You checked the house and then called?”
She saw the pause flicker over his face. Something he was keeping back. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to say. “I think I tried to call Senator Lawrence first. I don’t know what time that was, but my cell phone records would show it.”
“You called the senator before you called us?”
He threw up a hand, a gust of breath escaping him. Even to Karen’s alert gaze, there was no question that this was a man in distress.
“I may have. Detective, I’m not real clear on the order of events. I remember hardly being able to comprehend what I saw. I remember checking the house. I remember checking Abby to see if she was still alive. And when I knew she was dead… All I could think of was Grant and his children. They love that woman. They’ve loved her all their lives. And when I knew she was dead…well, it’s possible I thought of telling him first.”
His gaze suddenly fixed on her, intense with emotion. “What difference does it make, Detective? The woman was dead. Abby was dead.”
Karen refused to give him even a moment to collect himself. Instead she pressed him. “It made a difference in how fresh the crime scene was. We might have found the killer in the vicinity.”
He shook his head, his eyes growing hollow. “Like I was even thinking of that. A woman I’d known for years was dead, brutally killed. And people I love were going to be torn up by it. Do you think I was even thinking about what you might need?”
Then he turned and walked away, making it clear he was done with her.
Karen paused, thinking, then decided to let him go. There were questions yet to be asked, but something about Jerry Connally… Some instinct told her he wasn’t the killer. She pushed away the niggle at the back of her brain that insisted Connally was withholding something and went back into the house. Unlike many cops, she had never believed that the most obvious suspect was the likeliest one in a case like this. She wasn’t going to allow herself to get misled. She would find the killer, but she wasn’t going to close off any avenues by making assumptions.
Karen found Millie dusting a heavy glass ashtray. Millie glanced up. “From the floor by her feet. Looks to have prints. Probably the vic’s.” She turned it over. “There’s a bloody smear on the bottom, but that’s from the carpet fibers.”
“So okay,” Karen said. “She’s in her nightgown and a bathrobe. The ashtray doesn’t have bloody fingerprints. Only smears from the carpet. Sounds to me like she’s asleep or falling asleep, hears something, grabs an ashtray from her bedroom, comes down and surprises the killer.”
Millie nodded, her trained eyes sweeping the room. “That would fit, yeah.”
“So what was the killer doing when she came downstairs? Burglary? So far as Connally can tell, nothing’s missing.” Karen nodded toward a lacquered end table where a sectional serving dish held jelly beans and other candies. “That’s silver. There’s other stuff right here. Even if the perp panics after he kills her, why not grab stuff that’s right here in the room?”
“I’m a criminalist, Karen.” Millie shrugged. “Not a profiler. Don’t ask me to explain how criminals think. I just look at what they leave behind.”
“Your people photographed the spatter patterns?”
Millie nodded. “And logged the footprints and all the rest.”
Karen checked her watch. It was nearly five-thirty. “I’m going to go canvas the neighbors. Maybe somebody saw something.” She shook her head. “This case is going to suck.”
Millie smiled sadly. “They all do, Karen. They all do.”
Out on the street, though it was still dark and most people ought to be in their beds sound asleep, a crowd had begun to gather. It wasn’t a big crowd; after all, this was an upscale neighborhood where gawking at misfortune was probably a solecism.
But the ghouls had gathered nonetheless, a handful. All looking as if they had climbed out of their beds and dressed in a rush. Probably the nearest neighbors, and most likely concerned that their own families might be in danger. That was the rational explanation.
But something else stirred inside her, the memory of a Ray Bradbury short story, The Crowd. In the story, the same group of gawkers had appeared at every fatal traffic accident. And in the pre-dawn stillness, Karen could almost see that story taking place. The faces before her, concerned and questioning and peering as if to look through the darkness and the crime scene tape and even the walls of the Lawrence home, could have been the same faces she’d seen around dozens of homicide investigations before. The face of society’s