скачать книгу бесплатно
“Two possibles.”
Two. Then Hank did seriously think Celeste might have done it.
Travis checked his watch, telling himself that could well change when they talked to Jill Flores. Hey, maybe they’d really luck out. Maybe, when they told her why they’d come to see her, she’d admit she was their killer.
Of course, that was way too much to realistically hope for. But he and Hank were so overdue for a gimme of a case that you never knew.
* * *
CELESTE SPOONED OUT Snoops’s dinner, then stood gazing into the open fridge, trying to decide what she’d make for herself.
She really had no appetite, but—
Her phone began to ring, delaying the need for a decision. When she picked up, Bryce’s voice greeted her.
She swallowed hard. She had no appetite for talking to him, either.
“Celeste, Nancy called to tell me about Steve. And I just wanted you to know how sorry I am.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, guiltily thinking she should have called him herself. But when Aunt Nancy had offered to do it, she’d gratefully accepted.
She didn’t like phoning Bryce at his office, because since they’d separated, his assistant always managed to make her feel as if she’d picked the worst possible moment.
And she liked calling him at home even less. The few times she’d had to—for one reason or another—his live-in girlfriend had answered.
“You’ve been having a bad time of it lately,” he said.
“It hasn’t been the greatest, but I’m coping.”
“Good. You know...I hadn’t talked to Steve since your mother’s service. And, of course, we were never close. But...something really strange happened on Saturday evening.”
When Bryce paused, she gave him the “Oh?” he was waiting for.
“Donna’s in a play, so she was at the theater,” he continued. “And I was home alone, catching up on some work. And...I got this feeling I just couldn’t shake. One of those vague feelings that something’s wrong, you know?”
“Uh-huh.” Bryce was prone to vague feelings about all sorts of things.
“And something certainly was wrong.”
She realized he expected a comment about his being psychic, but she simply wasn’t in the mood to humor him any further.
“So,” he continued when she said nothing, “you’ll let me know when the service will be?”
“Bryce, you don’t have to come.”
“I feel I should. Unless it would upset you to see me.”
“No, it wouldn’t upset me, but—”
“Good. Then let me know. And if there’s anything I can do in the meantime...”
“Thanks, but I don’t think there will be. I made most of the arrangements today, so it’s just a question of how soon the...”
“Autopsy?” he said.
“Yes,” she murmured, certain she’d never hear that word again without thinking of Steve.
* * *
AS THEY NEARED Jill Flores’s door, Travis suggested that Hank do the talking.
It was easier to concentrate on reactions and body language when you didn’t have to think about the questions you were asking. And if Flores turned out to be blond, he didn’t want to miss a thing.
Hank knocked. A few seconds later, a woman inside the apartment said, “Yes?”
“Ms. Flores? Police detectives.” Hank held his ID up to the peephole.
The door opened—and Travis wondered if they would be lucky this time around.
She was closer to forty than thirty. But their witness had only seen the back of the woman in the hall. And Flores was “stylish,” with short blond hair that was a shade or two darker than Celeste’s.
“May we come in and talk to you?” Hank asked.
“What about?”
“It would be better if we came inside,” he said.
The woman was clearly uneasy, but most people were when a couple of detectives appeared at the door. After another look at Hank’s ID, she led them into the living room.
“We’re here about Steve Parker,” Hank began after they sat down. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he was murdered on Saturday evening.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
Her eyes grew misty as Hank elaborated. When he was done, she murmured, “That’s so awful. Sometimes I wonder why people live in this city.”
After giving her a minute, he took his notebook from his pocket and said, “I’m afraid we have to ask you some questions.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“How long had you been seeing Dr. Parker?”
She hesitated briefly. “You aren’t under the impression that I’ve seen him recently, are you?”
“We’re only aware that you dated him.”
“Yes, I did. But it was from early June until about a month ago. Then we decided things just weren’t working out.”
“I see. And have you had contact with him since?”
“No. We...well, we didn’t see any sense in pretending we were going to remain friends when we wouldn’t. So the end was the end.”
Hank nodded. “What about enemies? Do you know if he had any?”
“If he did, he didn’t tell me about them.”
“And when the two of you called it quits? Did that have anything to do with another woman?”
“No, it was...basically, we’d just come to realize that we didn’t have much in common.”
“And what about another woman since? Were you aware that he was seeing anyone?”
Flores hesitated again before saying, “No. As I told you, there’s been no contact. Not even a phone call.”
“Well, the reason I asked is that we believe he had a female visitor on Saturday evening. Would you have any idea who it could have been? Did he have any women friends who might have just dropped by or—”
“You think a woman killed him?”
“We’d simply like to question his visitor. So, as I said, if you have any idea...”
“I don’t. I’d like to help you, but I really don’t.”
Hank nodded. “I’m sorry I have to ask this, but just for the record, where were you on Saturday evening?”
“I was with a friend,” she said slowly. “A female friend. She came over around seven, we had dinner here, then watched an old video. The English Patient. We’re both Ralph Fiennes fans. And it’s a long movie, so she didn’t leave until after midnight. Do you want more details?”
“No, but I need your friend’s name and number. Again, it’s only for the record.”
“Her name is Rhonda Stirling. And her number is 555-1623.”
Hank jotted that down, then closed his notebook and thanked Flores for her time.
Travis added his own thanks, gave her his card and asked her to call if she thought of anything that might help them.
“Anything at all,” he added before she closed the door.
“What do you think?” he said as he and Hank started down the hall.
“Same as you. Our wit put the blonde in the hall around ten. M.E.’s estimated time of death is between nine and midnight. Flores was watching her video the entire time.”
“You know that’s not what I meant. Do you think she was lying?”
Hank shrugged. “Always a possibility.”
“I’ve got a feeling that either she was or there’s something she held back. And she knew Rhonda Stirling’s number without looking it up. Which probably means they’re pretty good friends.”
“You’re saying good enough that Rhonda might give her a phony alibi?”
“It wouldn’t be a first.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll check it out. But at this point Flores is a whole lot lower on my list than Parker’s sister.”
Travis frowned. He and Hank rarely had different gut reactions to people, and he’d be a whole lot happier if they’d read Celeste Langley the same way. As in, innocent.
They reached the elevators and silently waited—until Hank caught his gaze and said, “I was right last night, wasn’t I. Something about that woman got to you.”
He shook his head. “I told you, I just felt sorry for her.”
Hank eyed him, clearly not buying that. But when he spoke again he simply said, “Good. ’Cuz I’d hate you to start feeling anything more, then discover she’s our perp.”
* * *
A LITTLE BEFORE TEN, Travis and Hank called it a night and started uptown, heading for Manhattan North Homicide so Hank could pick up his truck and get home to Jersey.
He had a house on a couple of acres, not far from Madison. It was a bit of a commute, but he’d bought there because his ex-wife had wanted to live in the “country.” They weren’t there long, though, before Jane left him. Like so many cops’ wives, she just hadn’t been able to take the night work and impossible hours.
They made marriage a risky proposition for a cop, and one Travis intended to continue avoiding—despite his mother’s hints that thirty-three was more than old enough to be settling down.
Turning his thoughts back to their newest case, he began mentally reviewing the evening.
They’d made six stops after leaving Jill Flores and had caught five more people at home. Three of Parker’s friends and two of his long-term patients.
All had professed shock at hearing he’d been murdered. Each had seemed sincerely upset. None had told them anything helpful.
Of course he’d given them all his card, so there was a chance that one of them would think of something useful and get back to him. Or maybe a detail neither he nor Hank had picked up on immediately would fall into place later.
That often happened. One person you questioned said something that eventually came together with what another one told you.
Adding up bits and pieces was how you usually solved homicide cases.
He turned onto East 119th, and as they neared the parking garage, he asked Hank, “What do you want to do in the morning?”
“Sleep in.”
Travis grinned. “I can live with that. How about I see you here at ten?”
“I could probably manage nine-thirty. That would let us talk to a few more people on our Parker list, then spend the afternoon playing catch-up.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Despite the pictures Hollywood painted, big-city homicide detectives didn’t have the luxury of devoting all their time to a single case. He and Hank routinely had more of them on the go than they could reasonably juggle.
They reached the garage and his partner climbed out, then turned to give Travis a tired wave. As he disappeared into the garage, Travis started back downtown.
One of the good things about both living and working in Manhattan was you were never very far from where you were going. Which meant that in mere minutes, barring a traffic crunch, he’d be home.
Just as he was debating whether the first thing he’d have when he got there was a hot shower or a cold beer, his phone rang.
Hoping it wasn’t someone calling about a fresh homicide, he dug the phone from his pocket and answered it.
