“You are out of your mind!” His face reddened, and those blue eyes that had so charmed her as a med school student bulged with fury.
“I know how much you and your family are worth, Cost. That’s nothing.Yourson deserves every penny of it. And”—she folded her arms over her chest—“that’s just for starters.”
“One hundred thousand,” he offered. “Not a penny more.”
She scooted away from him, started straightening the charts on her desk. “In that case, I guess you’ll learn what it’s like to be a murder suspect.”
He moved in close again, so close she could feel his hot breath on her cheek. “Watch yourself, Lusk. I’d hate to see that boy of yours end up an orphan.”
She turned her face to his, glared into those furious eyes. “You don’t have the guts to kill anyone.”
He lifted a brow. “Don’t I?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
815 Wheeler Avenue
Huntsville Police Department, 5:00 p.m.
CJ waited in a small conference room. Braddock had instructed her to wait here while he and his partner reviewed the autopsy findings. Apparently the ME had only just faxed the report to him and he wanted to be prepared before discussing the findings with CJ.
Exhaustion clawed at her. Sleep had been impossible last night. Edward had been the perfect host, as always. Usually his home was a relaxing retreat. He catered to her every need. But she’d awakened repeatedly after horrific dreams. Expecting a decent night’s sleep under the current circumstances, she supposed, was a little foolish, anyway.
Evidence technicians had scoured for prints yet again or other elements that might lead to the identity of the intruder who had come into her house and doused her bed in blood, but they’d found nothing useful other than the fact that the blood was indeed human. The blood had been analyzed and wasn’t Ricky’s type, but unless they had a comparison specimen, it was of no use to this investigation or any other.
CJ already knew who’d come into her room and she was very nearly certain who the blood belonged to.
Like the first message written on her wall, Tyrone Nash was unquestionably the one who left her that second message. Maybe not Tyrone himself, but one of his minions. The blood on her sheets—she squeezed her eyes shut—likely belonged to Celeste.
While the evidence techs had worked in her bedroom, she and Braddock had changed the locks on the doors. If Edward had his way, she wouldn’t be staying the night there again, but the house needed to be secured as well as possible. Truth was, in the village, nothing was secure unless it was nailed down, and sometimes not even then.
When this was done, she intended to take the first step in moving forward with her plan. No matter that Braddock had raised almighty hell last night before she’d left his condo and had beaten that same dead horse over and over today. He hadn’t let her out of his sight all day. Still, she would not be deterred.
She would get this done one way or another. With or without Braddock’s help. And certainly discussing her plan with Edward had been out of the question. He would probably have had her locked away for her own protection.
And maybe that was what she needed.
No. What she needed was to find Shelley’s killer. Tyrone had contacts everywhere. He knew every damned body in this town. If he wasn’t the one who killed Shelley, he would make it his business to know who had, since, as Braddock said, he considered her his property. He would want to set an example for anyone else who might decide to come into his territory and mess with his people. CJ wanted to be there when that happened.
If along the way she learned enough to put Tyrone away, too, that was all the better. Far too many women had suffered at his hand. It was time someone made it stop.
Braddock could cooperate with her or she would go it on her own.
Shelley had done it.
CJ could too.
Maybe they had been more alike than CJ had realized.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Patterson.” Detective Cooper breezed into the room, Braddock close behind her. “Would you like something to drink?”
CJ shook her head. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
The two detectives settled into chairs on the opposite side of the table from CJ. Both wore those impassive official faces that gave away nothing of their thoughts.
Braddock opened the file in his hand. “I have the final autopsy report.” He scanned the first page. “Cause of death was asphyxiation. But”—his gaze locked with CJ’s—“the injuries sustained were not consistent with a hanging scenario. This was a far more intimate act. The killer most likely used, according to the bruising on her throat, his gloved hands. She was already dead when he suspended her body in the woods.”
CJ was thankful for that. A hundred times she’d imagined Shelley fighting her attacker, clawing at the rope to get free those final moments before ... CJ shuddered and pushed the thoughts and images away.
