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“So?”
“So I think she died later.”
Webb wasn’t exactly expecting a parade, but Ackerman had no reaction at all.
“What’s on your mind, Brad?”
Ackerman sighed. “I just don’t get why you’re so insistent on undoing all the work we did to solve this case.” He sat back in his chair and shook his head. “I have a family. I don’t think about this shit every second of my life. When I close a case, that means I get to go home and eat dinner with my family for once. Maybe I can tuck my kid in. You know? I don’t sit around dreaming up ways to throw away all the hours I put in.”
Webb sat quietly for a moment and thought about what his partner said. He couldn’t dispute it, at least not from that angle. Family. Perhaps that was the difference. And for a second, just for a second, Webb felt a twinge of envy. But that, too, was something for his therapist to work out.
“I hear you, Brad. I do. And if you don’t wanna be involved in this, then I understand.”
Ackerman’s face softened. He’d probably been expecting a fight. “Look…I don’t mind running down leads for you when you have something real. And honestly, your theory has some merit. But if you go to the bosses with it, I’m out. I don’t want my name on any of it.”
“That’s fair.” Webb tapped his foot. “So can I tell you what I have?”
Ackerman laughed and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”
Webb scratched his beard and looked his partner in the eye. “I think she died later in the night. And if I’m right, that means we need to recheck these alibis.”
Ackerman flipped through a stack of files on his desk and selected one before scooting his chair closer to Webb. “Have you ever considered looking into the parents?”
Webb raised his eyebrows and tried not to smile. “I’m not opposed to that idea. But what would be the motive?”
“Depends. The girl, the dancer, what was her name?”
“Bria.”
“Yeah, her. What if her mom was pissed about the whole dance captain thing and stealing the dance moves?”
“Ain’t nobody killing somebody’s kid over something like that.”
“Oh yeah? You don’t remember the Texas cheerleader mom?”
Webb shook his head.
“This chick hired a hitman to kill her daughter’s rival on the cheerleading squad.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember that shit.”
“See? Not that farfetched.”
“Maybe, but I don’t see a woman being strong enough to get her up there on that rope. A man did that.”
“What about her pops?”
Webb scrunched his face. “I’m just not seeing it, man. I’m not ruling it out, but it’s not clicking for me.”
“Well lucky for you, I happen to have a stack of alibis that you can go through. I have all the parents, all the kids who left the party early, Nyleah’s family, and the neighbors.” He passed the folders to Webb. “You should be able to find something in there.”
And he did, but not what he expected.
According to the file, the Lanes left and drove straight home, which was two minutes down the street. The alarm company backed up that the alarm was deactivated at the time they said they returned, but that didn’t necessarily mean they didn’t go back out. Webb wished Ackerman had seen that thread through to the end.
The Baptistes left the party and went to a bar. Surveillance video backed that up. The Wilkinses left the party and went home. Their Ring camera corroborated their whereabouts. The Joneses went home, and their babysitter corroborated that. Mr. Sills, Mike’s father, drove to his girlfriend’s house after the party, and the girlfriend—Brandy Joseph—backed up his account. Webb was a bit scandalized, because Juanita Grant, Mike’s mother, who lives in the home with Mike and his father, wasn’t able to account for her common-law husband’s whereabouts. But she was at home, and her younger son agreed. Webb briefly wondered what alibi Mr. Sills had given to Juanita.
The Gordons weren’t present at the party at all. The stepmother was at home asleep. Her cellphone data showed she was home, or her phone was, at least. Dr. Gordon was playing with his band at a club called the Standard. His bandmate, a Mr. Polo, vouched for him.
