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The man who got up and strode toward her was about forty, so older than she was, but he still had some youth in his face. With springy salt-and-pepper hair, and a sunburn that made him look like he’d put on theater makeup, he had an easy smile and eyes that were direct.
“Tim Sulley, ma’am.” He finished pulling his sport coat on. “Thanks for coming down.”
When they shook hands, his grip was firm and brief.
“Thank you for having me.” What, like this was a cocktail party? she thought. “I mean, thanks—oh, just, here are the photographs. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Come this way.” He took her elbow lightly and started to lead her. “And listen, you’re not a suspect or anything. I’m only taking us into an interview room because my desk is a mess.”
“I’m not worried.”
The nine-by-twelve box he let them into had egg-carton padding on the walls, and as he’d said, a bare table with two mismatched office chairs. Things were kind of dingy, hunks missing from the soundproofing, the short-napped carpet stained. When the detective sat down, she did the same.
“So, yes, here are the photographs,” she said as she slid the envelope across the chipped tabletop.
“And Charles Byrnes told you he wanted to meet with you?” The detective took the images out and started going through them. “Last night?”
“At six o’clock after work.” She leaned forward and tapped one of the pictures. “That’s Bruce McDonaldson. My… well, we dated for some months, and the night Charlie fired him, he tried to strangle me when I broke up with him.”
The detective looked across at her sharply. “Tell me what happened.”
With his calm encouragement, she told her whole story as dispassionately as she could, trying to sound… well, professional, maybe? What the hell did she know, she’d never given a statement as part of a murder investigation before. And as she laid things out verbally, Detective Sulley went through the images twice. Then he pushed them aside and sat back.
“So you think Bruce went to Charlie’s apartment last night.”
“I do,” she said. “Charlie was the one who actually fired him. When Bruce lost it with me, he told me so. Sure, my boss, the head of HR, was with them, but Charlie apparently was the guy who told him the ruse was up, the lies were out, and he had to go. He was incredibly angry at Charlie.”
The detective stared across at her for a little bit. Then his eyes went to her temple and he pointed to his own. “And how’s your head?”
Anne touched the Band-Aid she’d forgotten was still there. “Much better.”
She’d kept Darius and the car accident out of things—so she was braced for Sulley to bring up the other detective who had been taking photographs of the tire marks in the road outside Bruce’s development.
He didn’t.
When she stayed silent, the detective sat forward. “I’d like to arrest Bruce McDonaldson for assaulting you. All I need is for you to sign a statement and I’ll send an officer out to him right now.”
“Of course. I’ll do whatever I have to, to put him behind bars.”
“Do you mind if we keep these photographs?”
“Not at all. Please do.” She frowned as the detective slid the images back into the envelope. “Can I ask you something?”
“Absolutely,” Sulley said. “And I’ll make sure you have my card in case there’s anything else after you leave here.”
“Do you think Bruce killed Charlie Byrnes?” She lowered her eyes. “Because if he did, it was my fault.”
“I’m sorry?”
Tears speared into her eyes and she wiped them away. “Like I said, when I discovered that Bruce’s paycheck had been garnished… I went to Charlie because Bruce was his paralegal. I was confused, upset. I probably should have told my boss in HR first, but Charlie had always seemed so approachable. Maybe if I hadn’t gone to him…”
Detective Sulley put a reassuring hand on her arm. “It’s not your fault. Trust me on that. You are not responsible for McDonaldson’s actions.”
“So Bruce did kill him?”
“I don’t know. But he’s certainly a person of interest now.” The detective’s voice became both grim and sure. “And I promise you this, if he did commit murder, I’m going to get him locked up. Trust and believe in that.”
Anne took a deep breath. “I can’t believe Charlie is… gone.”
“Are you safe at home?” the detective asked. “I mean, do you have—”
Anne nodded. Then she looked down to make sure her face didn’t show anything. “I’m not… alone.”
Anymore, that was. And thank God for Darius.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Anne finally got home, she let herself in her front door, and as she closed things up, she was aware of double-checking that she’d thrown the dead bolt. Yes, she had, but damn, she wished she could barricade the thing. Moving through the dim rooms of her first floor, she turned on more lights than usual, and when she went into her kitchen, she walked to the slider and tested whether it was locked. It was, and the bar down on the floor was in place on the track.
