23
DETECTIVE PAIGE WALKER
I pourmyself a cup of coffee and take it to the table. I have some time before I have to leave for the station. My phone rings, and it’s Elijah.
“Morning,” I answer.
“Another husband was murdered.”
“What?” My head falls to the side. “Where?”
“236 East 72ndStreet. Mr. Oliver Tate. The wife found him on the floor in the foyer. The captain wants us there now.”
“I’m on my way.” I end the call, dump my coffee into a to-go cup, grab my purse, and fly out the door.
When I reach the Tate residence, Mrs. Tate falls into my arms, sobbing so hard that I try my best to calm her down. But I suppose I would act the same way if I found my husband lying on the floor, murdered. Not that I’m married. But if I were, I’m sure my reaction would be the same.
I guide her to the couch and instruct Hank, another officer, to stay by her side. I slip on a pair of latex gloves and approach Mr. Tate's lifeless body, sprawled out on the floor. My eyes take in the scene—his shirt is completely unbuttoned, revealingmultiple stab wounds across his chest and abdomen. I count them. Twenty-two. Twenty-two knife wounds like the others.
“Did you ask her if he was cheating?” Elijah speaks softly so Mrs. Tate doesn’t hear.
“No. Not yet. Look at her. She’s a wreck. That question will have to wait.”
“Detective Walker, the lock on the front door is broken. It looks like a break-in.”
“I wish it were that simple.” I sigh.
“Do you think she did it?” Elijah asks.
“Really?” I cock my head. “Look at her? She is shaken to the core. I’ve seen some good acting in my career, and she’s not acting.”
After speaking with Mrs. Tate, she runs to the bathroom. When she returns, I tell her that her friend is on the way.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask. “Perhaps a glass of water?”
She shakes her head and doesn’t say a word.
“Where is she?” I hear a woman’s voice at the door.
“It’s okay, Hank. You can let her in,” I say.
She runs over to Mrs. Tate and embraces her.
“Would it be possible for Mrs. Tate to stay with you for a few days? The house is officially a crime scene, and she can’t stay here.”
“I can stay at a hotel,” Mrs. Tate softly speaks.
“No, you’re not. I’m not leaving you alone. You’ll stay with Travis and me,” she tells her. “Come on. Let’s go pack a bag.” She helps her up and leads her up the stairs.
I am no closer to finding the son-of-a-bitch who’s committing these murders than I was after the first one. I ran my fingers over the smooth surface of the floor where Mr. Tate’s body was. My frustration was building—my desperation was growing. Not only did I have the captain up my ass, but I alsohad the police chief and the mayor up there. They wanted this person found and found now.
“Elijah, talk to the neighbors and see if they saw or heard anything last night.”
“On it.” He walks out of the house.
I’m standing in the foyer, staring at the floor, when Mrs. Tate and her friend walk down the stairs.
“I’m taking her back to my house now,” Samantha says.
