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Kelly said easily, “Moving along then. Agent Sherlock visited the Madison house on Tuesday. Do you know what she noticed?”
“Get on with it, Agent,” Clooney said. “Cut the cute drama.”
Sherlock said, her voice matter-of-fact, “I noticed one of the kitchen chairs was pulled out from the table and faced out, toward the kitchen doorway. After you shot Mrs. Madison in the face, Ms. Storin, you sat in that chair with Mrs. Madison’s body nearly at your feet and waited for your ex-lover to return. When Dr. Madison came in he wasn’t alone, and I imagine you were surprised, but it didn’t deter you, probably didn’t even particularly concern you. You stood up from that chair and shot both men between the eyes. After you shot them, you did your best to make the murders look like a robbery, but of course no one bought that scenario for very long.” Sherlock paused a second, hardened her voice. “In short, Ms. Storin, you shot both men from at least twelve feet away, which means you’re an excellent shot.”
Storin stared at Sherlock with her cold flat eyes, raised her chin an arrogant fraction, and said in a voice as smooth as glass, “What you’re saying is impossible. I couldn’t do that. I barely know how to fire a gun.”
Clooney again pressed his hand on Storin’s and said, his voice dismissive, “I don’t know what you’re trying for, Agent Sherlock, with this tedious tale about the placement of a kitchen chair. It’s wild supposition, a not-very-clever spin on what might have happened.”
Storin shook off Clooney’s hand, sat forward, and now there was anger in her voice. “I understand what you’re doing. Your superiors sent you up here to close this case however you can, so you don’t continue to blunder around like incompetent clowns. Really? Me? Firing a gun from twelve feet away? That’s longer than this table. Impossible.
“You will listen to me now. After the FBI got involved, I was hopeful, all of Brickson was hopeful, this horrible situation would be resolved, the Madison murderer would be identified, but instead of doing your jobs and finding the murderer, you decided I was your best shot to save face, so you’ve continued to browbeat me.” Her voice dripped contempt. “So much for my prayers that there might finally be justice, that a man I cared about would be avenged.” She splayed her hands in front of her, small hands, buffed nails, no rings. “I am more than disappointed with the lot of you.”
Clooney nodded, looked pleased. “My client could not have summed up the situation better. Now, I expect you to make clear why you asked my client to appear here today or we are going to leave.”
It was hard not to applaud Storin’s brilliant performance, but Kelly kept her voice calm and steady. “We’ve asked you before about your frequent trips to Washington, D.C. Have you now remembered where you’ve stayed when you visited?”
Storin shrugged, pursed her lips. “As I’ve told you before, I’ve stayed at various B&Bs around the city, to sample the different neighborhood flavors, you could say.”
Clooney said, “Again, Agent Giusti, Ms. Storin told you this. Do you have anything more to say?”
“And there were times you and Dr. Madison traveled to Washington, D.C., together.”
Impatience simmered. Clooney said, “Is that supposed to be a question, Agent?”
Kelly ignored Clooney. “Ms. Storin?”
“As I have told you, Agent, Dr. Madison and I were adults and since he was married, we were discreet. I am very fond of Washington, and we traveled there to enjoy ourselves as often as we could.”
Clooney said, “If you have a new point to make, Agent, spit it out or move along. My client doesn’t remember or simply doesn’t choose to discuss where they stayed. It doesn’t matter.”
Kelly said, “You’re on the record stating you always paid cash.”
“I prefer cash,” Storin said. “Some people do.”
Sherlock picked it up. “Ms. Storin, it appears you neglected to inform your attorney about a lovely property in Washington, D.C., more a picturesque cottage, really, at 743 Black Street NW.”
Sherlock saw it, a flash of fear in Storin’s flat eyes, then calculation. You never thought we’d find that cottage, did you? She waited, but Storin merely shrugged, said nothing.
Sherlock continued. “We ran a computer search of real estate deeds of private homes in your name or either of your ex-husbands’ and of course didn’t find it. However, when we searched further afield, we found a property at 743 Black Street NW, owned by a Mrs. Mary Gilbert. As you very well know, she’s the mother of your first husband, Martin Orloff. The name isn’t the same because she remarried. This first husband, Martin Orloff, was murdered, too, his killer never identified, but that’s not what we’re addressing here today. You no doubt visited that lovely little cottage in Washington with your first husband, and it appears you wanted it.
“After Mr. Orloff was dead and buried, you renewed your relationship with his mother. Mrs. Mary Gilbert was living in a nursing home in Albany, New York, suffering from Alzheimer’s. We know from the facility’s records you spent a lot of time with her before her death last year. You consoled her for the tragic death of her son, long enough for you to manipulate her into turning control of the cottage over to you, or rather to an LLC we traced back to you. The LLC has been making quite a nice profit over these years from the cottage, as a short-term rental, without sharing any of that profit with Mrs. Gilbert, the real owner. That is, when you weren’t there yourself or with a lover, most recently, Dr. Madison.
“Our agents visited your cottage with a search warrant and found your caretaker, Mrs. Jernigan, very helpful. Our agents came away with personal items that belonged to Dr. Madison as well as photos of the two of you.”
Sherlock lined up the three photos side by side in front of Storin. “It appears you have a very different look when you’re in Washington, Ms. Storin. Look at that red spiky hair, the flamboyant makeup, the black stiletto boots, the short leather skirt.”
Storin stared down at the photos, said nothing.
Clooney shoved the photos back toward Sherlock. “You have no proof that woman in the photos is Ms. Storin, and if it is, what of it?”
Angela Storin interrupted him. “No, she’s right, it’s me in the photos.” She shrugged. “Who cares? I enjoy changing my look. I’m certainly not causing harm to anyone. A different wardrobe, a fun wig, and using Mrs. Gilbert’s house doesn’t make me guilty of murder.”
“True, but it helped us realize why none of the gun ranges we contacted to find out where you honed your shooting skills recognized our photos of you.”
Sherlock turned to Clooney. “Your client practices at Curly Johnson’s Bivouac, a gun range outside of Plankton, Connecticut, about a half hour from the New York border. Curly looked at these photos and grinned from ear to ear. He said, ‘That’s our girl, Misty Lee, the biker chick, a little long in the tooth, sure, but you should see her shoot. She roars up on her Harley and usually takes some of the guys’ money, but they don’t mind too much because she buys them all beers afterward.’
“So, hi, Misty. I really like your look, it’s an amazing transformation. I imagine it must be very liberating for you to travel to Washington or Connecticut and shed your dowdy professional image, become Misty Lee, and sling your leg over the seat of your Harley. It must have been fun for Dr. Madison, too, I imagine, to see the proper Ms. Angela Storin transform into wild-as-the-wind Misty Lee.
