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Chapter7
DECKER LET THE HOTWATERrun off his head for a full minute before soaping up. The next moment he had a brief panic attack because he couldn’t recall Cassie’s favorite color. Then his memory righted itself and the proper shade kicked out of his brain.
He rested his head against the shower tile.Shit, more hiccups. No, moremalfunctionsbecause I’m a machine, after all. Right?
Was his memory going to keep misfiring? Right when he needed it to work precisely? Or would there be a time when it simply stopped functioning altogether? Then a dreaded thought sprouted up: Was he developing complications from his brain injury all those years ago? Like CTE?
He finished in the shower, dried off, and put on fresh clothes. Mentally he still felt like crap, and physically he was tired, but at least he was clean.
Jamison was waiting for him in the lobby. They got into the car and from the driver’s seat Jamison said, “Where to?”
“Our only viable suspect right now, Susan Richards.”
On the way he phoned Lancaster and told her what they were going to do. He had to leave a message because the call went to voicemail. She was probably still sleeping, surmised Decker.
Richards’s home on Primrose Avenue was a small single-story brick bungalow with old-fashioned green-and-white-striped metal awnings over the windows. The patch of yard was neatly laid out, with mature trees and well-shaped bushes and planting beds. An abundance of colorful fall flowers was displayed in pots on the covered front stoop.
“Nice landscaping,” commented Jamison.
“She was a florist for years,” explained Decker. “Into gardening. Runs the floral shop she sold to new owners a while back.”
“Do you actually think she could have murdered Hawkins last night?”
“She could have. But I don’t know if she did. That’s what we have to find out.”
They got out, but Decker didn’t head up to the front door. He instead walked over to the house across the street.
“Verifying alibis?” said Jamison as she caught up to him.
He nodded and knocked on the door of the bungalow that was a twin of Richards’s home, only with a screened-in porch on one end.
Answering the door was a tiny elderly woman with white hair so thin they could see her reddened scalp underneath.
“Yes?” she said, staring at them from behind thick glasses.
Jamison held out her FBI badge, which the woman scrutinized.
“FBI?” she said. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No,” said Jamison hastily. “We were checking on a neighbor of yours, Ms.…?”
“Agatha Bates.” She looked up at the towering Decker. “Are you FBI? You didn’t show me a badge.” She ran her gaze over him. “You look too big to be FBI. I watch a lot of TV. No FBI agent is as big as you.”
Jamison said hastily, “He works as a consultant for us.”
Bates slowly drew her gaze from Decker and settled it on Jamison. “Which neighbor?”
“Susan Richards.”
“Oh, Susan, sure. Nice lady. Lived here a while. Not nearly so long as me. I’ve been here fifty-seven years.” She looked at Decker again. “Don’t I know you?”
“I worked here on the police force for twenty years.”
“Oh, well, I don’t have much contact with the police. I pay my taxes and I’ve never robbed anybody.”
“I’m sure,” said Jamison. “We were wondering if you could tell us when you last saw Ms. Richards.”
“Well, I saw her this morning when the police came to get her. We don’t usually have the police around here.”
