AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Sullivan was about six two, muscular and broad shouldered and around forty, with a square-jawed face and short hair that was as rumpled as his off-the-rack suit.
His eyes were pure cop’s eyes, thought Gibson. Alert, suspicious, roving, and contemplative.
They all went in to see the body just about the time a forensics team showed up, offloaded their equipment, and shuffled inside to look for microscopic clues that criminals always left behind.
Sullivan came back out later and sat on the steps next to Gibson.
“Will I have to stay much longer?” she asked. “I’ve got two little kids to get back to. I’ve already given a detailed statement.”
Sullivan lit up a cigarette and blew smoke away from her. “I really need to quit this, but the patch doesn’t work. Neither does anything else. And the fact is, I like it.”
“I know a lot of cops who smoke. Sort of comes with the territory for some.”
He ran his gaze over her. “You look like you wore the uniform.”
She gave him an amused expression. “How can you tell? From my extreme fitness?”
“You found a dead body in a creepy mansion. You’re not hysterical or crying or otherwise upset. That means you’re either the killer, or you’re used to seeing dead bodies. Plus, I see it in your eyes, the way you handled yourself around all the law enforcement flying around here.”
“Okay, I’m busted. Jersey City. Forensic tech for two years, uniform for six, detective for four.”
“And a mom of two small kids. And your husband?”
“Divorced.”
“So, can you tell me how you came to be here? I know it’s in your statement, but I’d like to hear firsthand.”
Gibson explained who she worked for and the call that she received.
“Can I see some ID that shows you work for ProEye? Which I’ve heard of, by the way.”
Gibson pulled out both her driver’s license and ProEye credentials.
Sullivan studied the twin cards before handing them back. “They good folks to work for?”
“They are for me. And it gives me flexibility. I mostly work behind a computer at home.”
“But not this time,” said Sullivan pointedly. He finished his smoke, pocketing the butt. “Don’t want to contaminate the crime scene,” he noted. “So, Rutger Novak?”
“Yes.”
Sullivan got a look in his eyes that Gibson did not like. “I’ve heard of him, though not too much lately. Didn’t know he was living around here.”
“I didn’t even know this placewashere. I’m a relative newcomer to the area. I was told it was built by some robber baron named Mason Rutherford back in the 1920s. And that a British Lord’s house used to be here before it was burned down during the Revolutionary War.”
Sullivan gave her another look that Gibson liked even less than the first one.
“What?” she asked.
“I’ve only been in this area a couple years, too. Came up from North Carolina. But I learn pretty fast. And I’ve never heard of a British Lord having a home here. Never heard of this Mason Rutherford, either. And I checked on this Stormfield place before I headed out here. Rutger Novak never owned it.”
Gibson looked perplexed. “I…I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” retorted Sullivan, giving her a sharp look that Gibson had given many suspects in her time as a cop and detective.
Shit.
Sullivan took out his phone and scrolled through some screens. “Stormfield wasn’t built in the 1920s. It was built in 1950 by a man named Richard Turner. He was the great-grandfather of the people who lived here before the current owner. He made his money in advertising up in New York, but he was from Tidewater and returned home to build this mansion. The Turner descendants owned it until about six years ago.” He stopped and eyed her.
