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I skipped the bell, not wanting to alarm her or possibly alert those new sort of alarm systems that took pictures or videos when the bell rang.
My hand went to the sturdy wood instead, rapping somewhat quietly three times.
“Mrs. Ericsson, this is Smith from Quinton Baird and Associates.”
“C..come in,” a voice called, shaking like Jules had said, but not frantic. Just freaked.
And, well, wouldn’t you be freaked if you just killed your husband?
My hand went to the knob, finding it didn’t turn. But I didn’t know what I would be walking into. I didn’t want her to move. I was sure Jules had told her just that. She was nothing if not thorough.
“Do you have an alarm system on?” I called as I reached in my pocket for a lock-pick kit. The service had taught me how to use it. For what reason, I wasn’t sure. We were always more of a knock-the-mother-fucker-down group. I’d only ever used the skill since working with Quin.
“It’s n-not armed,” she called back after a pause – hopefully just looking at the panel, not moving toward it.
I made short work of the lock, carefully moving the door open, not sure what might be in front of me.
When the door swung without meeting resistance – or dragging a half-moon in blood, I moved fully inside.
The foyer was as grand as the door had implied with a double staircase sloping gently in a half circle. A crystal chandelier hung twenty-some-odd feet above my head, shining, catching the bright light even at the late hour. Directly in front of me was an oversized marble table with a giant glass vase overflowing with lilies. White. White was the favorite color of people with some extra money, I found.
There were drops of blood on the floor, a little trickle from a small type of wound, stark red against the white tile floor.
“H-here,” Mrs. Ericsson’s voice called from the right, making me turn on my heel to find a body sprawled in the doorway to what seemed to be a library, blood bloomed out around his midsection to encompass even his head.
Heart shot, maybe.
A few feet from him, far enough that she’d likely – hopefully – avoided blood spatter, was Mrs. Ericsson.
I didn’t know what I was expecting of the two. I guess older for one thing. The senator’s age was hard to tell, being in that section of years when a man who kept himself fit and groomed could pass for fifty or seventy-five depending on genes. I had automatically assumed the latter. But his son had maybe been in his late thirties, his daughter-in-law maybe her early.
Blonde.
Tall.
The kind of body that screamed pilates, yoga, a diet high in veggies and low in crap, maybe even one of those stupid ass Fitbits everyone wore around like it was so hard to tell if you were sweating enough to lose weight or not. An obsessive kind of lithe, toned, taken care of, that was what she was. And her floor-length champagne-colored silk nightie didn’t leave a whole hell of a lot to the imagination.
Her eyes were pretty, just shy of big, bright, almost startling blue. So much so that I couldn’t help but wonder if they were contacts.
But, see, it was impossible to tell if she was pretty beyond the great body, the perfect, gleaming blonde hair, the stunning shade to her eyes.
Because her entire face was wrecked.
See, I hadn’t been around, but I had buddies around who kept me up-to-date on the goings-on in Navesink Bank. So, while I didn’t know from watching actual news clips or anything about the situation, I knew the general story. One night, Senator Ericsson’s son was beating his wife. In a case of wrong place and wrong time, one of the Mallick boys came upon them and nearly beat the man to death.
He served nearly a decade behind bars once the senator and his team got the right lawyers, hushed up the wife, had her lie on the stand.
They somehow managed to spin the story to omit the bit about how the spousal abuse was a factor, bleached the shit out of that dirty laundry.
But standing before me was the proof that while it got buried, while her voice got stifled, she had been doomed to a life of unknown beatings.
Like she had endured earlier in the night. Which I knew because the bruises were getting dark, her blood was drying.
A gun was in her right hand at her side. The other held her cell, the fingers on each white with pressure.
I tried not to wince at the black eyes, the bloody nose, the split lip, the fingerprints pressed into her throat, around her wrist like a bracelet. Her cheeks were fat, swollen from angry fists.
I didn’t need to lose focus, to think of what she may have endured leading her to shoot the bastard after so many years.
