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She tried to block that image from her brain and glanced across the room at Lucien, only to find that he was perusing Dennis’s bookshelves.
Lucien saw his opening and pointed to an entire shelf dedicated to serial killers. “Any reason you have all these books about murderers?”
Dennis jammed his hands into his golf pants. “What can I say? I never miss an episode of true crime. That ID channel is the best. The wife and I watch it every night. Are we done here? Because I have a one o’clock tee time. I don’t want to be late for it.”
“Absolutely,” Lucien muttered, looking over at Brogan. “We’ll just convey how disinterested you were in helping us solve a murder to the current police chief, Brent Cody. Brent’s the guy who reopened this case. We’re looking at everybody who frequented the beach back then. You won’t mind giving us a DNA sample, will you?”
That shocked look crossed Dennis’s face and stayed in place. “You want my DNA?”
“Everyone’s cooperated so far,” Brogan bluffed. “We know you’ll want to do your part to eliminate yourself as a suspect. You wouldn’t want this hanging over your kids until we find out who murdered this teenager. Am I right? You being a successful businessman and all who lives to do the right thing by his kids.”
Boxed into a corner, Dennis didn’t look happy. “What if I don’t want to give my DNA?”
“Fair enough. But Brent Cody will just get a warrant,” Brogan replied, easing out the sealed sample kit she’d brought from her handbag. “Chief Cody has connections here in Santa Cruz. He used to be the sheriff here. Getting a judge to issue a warrant for your DNA won't take much effort. After all, you spent a lot of time in Pelican Pointe back when the murder occurred.”
“You can get it done here and now,” Lucien began, “or you can put it off and have a cop come by your office to take the sample later. Your choice.”
“I’ll take my chances and get my lawyer to fight the warrant,” Dennis snapped.
“That’s what we thought you’d say. It’s trash day at your house, isn’t it?” Brogan asked. “Tuesdays.”
Dennis’s temper flared. His face turned crimson red. “What? What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Your housekeeper put the trash out this morning like she has every Tuesday since she was hired. Once your trash hits the curb, it’s fair game in the public domain. And we figured you wouldn’t be all that excited about giving us your DNA willingly. So we came to Santa Cruz this morning with friends who were prepared to go through your garbage while we conducted this interview. They’ve already collected several items that should provide the sample we need without your lawyer getting involved or obtaining your permission.”
“That’s outrageous. You can’t do that.”
Lucien held up his phone. “We already have. Our friends texted that they have everything they need.”
“You can’t do that,” Dennis insisted. “I want my garbage left alone.”
“If you have nothing to hide, there’s no need to worry,” Brogan explained, gathering up her maps from his desktop.
A red-faced Dennis followed her to the doorway. “I want that trash put back immediately.”
“Sorry. No can do,” Brogan uttered on her way out the door. “Our client is the Pelican Pointe Chief of Police. Take it up with him.”
Ten minutes afterleaving Dennis’s office, they met up with Kelly and Beckett near the beach, wearing what looked like hazmat suits.
“Where on earth did you get that get-up?” Brogan asked Kelly.
“We wanted to look official,” Kelly explained, removing her mask.
“They’re not strictly hazmat suits,” Beckett said. “We had pairs of plain white overalls on hand with hoodies that zipped up the front, close as we could get to what the real crime techs wear.”
Lucien chuckled. “I bet the neighbors didn’t know the difference.”
“Are you kidding? These outfits fooled Mrs. Marshall, who came out and yelled at us to leave her trash alone. But we got the job done. That’s all that counts.” He held up a sack of garbage. “Good stuff too. Paper towels, paper napkins, soda cans, bread wrappers, even some masking tape.”
Kelly tittered with laughter. “You should’ve seen the look on her face—Melissa Marshall—she must be twenty years younger than her husband.”
“At least,” Brogan added. “Melissa must have been hard up to marry the likes of Dennis Marshall. That man is a piece of work. Brent wasn’t kidding when he said the guy was a sleazebag.”
“Melissa’s no prize, either. That woman has a filthy mouth on her,” Kelly tossed out. “She must have called us every name in the book, screaming at us to get off her property.”
Beckett nudged Kelly in the ribs. “But we got to explain that anything put out on the curb is up for grabs. That shut her up.”
“Before that, she threatened to call the police. And when we told her to go ahead, she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. I think that’s when it dawned on her that hubby Dennis might be in some serious trouble.”
