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“Do you know of Mr. Wilson’s dealings in Florida?” I ask. “Two sources say that he was supposed to be out of state this past week, but it’s clear he didn’t make it out of the city. Additionally, his reasons for being in Florida vary, depending on who we ask.”
“In our circles, Florida’s well-known as a place to meet up and pretend to talk business.” Sloane smirks, curled lips and a line digging into his cheek in response. “Most of the time, we’re drinking on a golf course and talking shit about each other. And, for those brave enough to jeopardize their marriages, there’s the option for a man to have his balls polished in the back room of a country club.”
He drops his arms from the doorframe and folds them across his chest. “My marriage is solid, Detectives. I actually like my wife, so I’ve never been tempted to fiddle around with anyone else. But the guys over at Wilco never say no to a little side action. And that chick, Annaliese? Well, she’s smart enough to have been servicingbothbusiness partners while also keeping the office running. If you’re looking for a motive for murder, I reckon you should take a peek at the guy who stands to gain Roger’s half of the business andallof the side pussy.”
Taking a step back and grabbing his heavy front door, he regards us with smug knowledge that he’s not a killer, nor will he be punished for someone else’s crime. “It’s Sunday, Detectives. Inmyhome, that means it’s family time.” He nods toward the chain around my neck, hanging outside of my shirt when it so rarely is. “I suggest you prioritize your family on the weekend, too, Malone. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
MINKA
“Roger Wilson’s last meal consisted of plain white bread, peanut butter and jelly, instant coffee, and a dash of orange juice.” I set the report down and wander to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Aubree is perched on my desk, swinging her feet, and her shiny silver high tops cast rainbows across the room as they catch and reflect the light of the lowering sun. “He ate approximately six hours before death.”
“So his captors fed him.” Folding her arms and narrowing her brows in thought, she ponders, “They wanted to hurt him. Torture him. Make him bleed and beg for his life…” Unsatisfied, she shakes her head. “But they fed him?”
“To keep his strength up?” I wonder. “To keep him alive and prolong the torture?”
“It’s possible. But I think speculating is dipping into the detectives’ role.” She smirks, because that’s a line I’ve used with her before. “We’re not supposed to solve the murder.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not curious.” I turn from the window and press my back to the warmed glass. “His genitals were untouched; no mutilation, nothing. Which minimizes the chance that his murder was a crime of passion.”
“But we kinda already knew that,” she reminds me with a frown. “Eyes, teeth, lacerations… It was all—”
The elevator dings across the lobby-like space outside my office door, and though its opening wouldn’t typically be cause for concern, the echoing wail of a woman in hysterics is enough to bring our attention up.
“I want to see him!” the stranger cries out. She battles free from clutching hands and dashes out of the elevator. “Let me see him!”
“I’m sorry, Chief Mayet.” A frazzled Fifi follows the woman out, but the screamer is already charging toward my door, her over-large handbag swinging against her thighs, and her hair, wild and curly like she’s stepped out of the nineteen eighties.
“What the hell?” Aubree shoves up from my desk and places herself in front of me. My little guard dog. My sweet protector.
When the crying woman crashes through the glass door, huffing and heaving so her bosom lifts and falls, Aubree opens her stance a little, widening her legs and lifting her hands like she’s willing to fight for me. “Seraphina? Who is—”
“My name is Diane,” the woman sobs. “Diane Andrews.”
“Hello, Ms. Andrews.” I hold my bad arm to my body, wary of the pain I might endure if I get too close, but still, I step a few feet to the right and reveal myself behind Aubree. “How can I help you?”
“My husband was…” Grief-stricken, she chokes on her words. “M-my husband was on the news. I need to see him. Please.” She presses her hands together in prayer. “Please let me see him.”
“Your husband?” I look her up and down and catalogue the woman I see. She’s in her forties, I think. Probably closer to forty than fifty. Large-chested and round-waisted, she reminds me of another woman I’ve talked to today.But there’s no way,I tell myself.No way she could be—“Who is your husband, Mrs. Andrews?”
“Kyle. His face was on the news, and Tiffany Hewitt said to contact Copeland City police if I knew who he was.” She hugs her handbag close and cries so her chest bounces. “I know that Detective Malone and Detective Fletcher are running the case, and I should go to them, but…” She whimpers. “They’re homicide detectives. That means Kyle is here.”
Aubree spins to me, wide-eyed and stunned. “His nameisKyle!”
* * *
“Ineed you to move Mrs. Andrews to Autopsy Room Three,” I tell Aubree quietly.
While Fifi holds the distraught woman—and hates every moment of it—I quickly make plans, and try so freakin’ hard to straighten the thoughts sprinting through my mind.
“Move her there, get her a cup of coffee, then just wait with her. Probably don’t speak to her about her husband. The detectives won’t like that.”
“What areyougonna do?” she whispers, while Diane bellows her grief, and the few staff working today watch us through the glass walls that comprise the entire floor. “It’s not like there’s a protocol for this. She’s claiming the face on the news, but we already have a name!”
“I’m calling Archer.” I take out my phone and unlock the screen, ignoring the text messages that two of five Malone brothers have sent since my replies this morning, then I hit dial. “The guys need to get here before we inadvertently ruin the case,” I mutter. “Something has gone really wrong, and now we have two women claiming the same dead guy. And without fingerprints, it’s gonna be difficult to prove whose husband he is.”
“Minnnnka.” Archer’s sultry tone arrows straight for my gut every time I hear it. But in this moment, where lust—or, ya know, unconditionallove—usually sits, nerves flutter instead. “I’m walking into your building right now, Chief. You missed me?”
“Hold on,” I tell him. Then I glance back to Aubree. “Go. Don’t talk to her. Don’t confirm or deny anything. Don’t answer her questions. Just…” I shrug. “I dunno. Buy us time.”
