“Someone who didn’t want their relationship known because . . . he was married maybe? Or involved with someone else too?”
Alvarez shrugged. “Or maybe it was someone who didn’t want any association with the judge for political reasons.”
Pescoli eyed the medals on the wall, the military award, and collection of weapons on display. “Or maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree entirely and someone just burned some trash.”
“We’ll have the lab check the ashes. Let’s talk to the person who cleans the house, find out if the fireplace was ever used.” Alvarez looked closely around the room. “I’m just guessing here, but I don’t think the judge mopped her own floors or polished her own silver.”
“Right. Maybe the maid knows something.” They started walking toward the front door when Alvarez’s phone rang. “Unknown number,” she said, then answered, “Detective Selena Alvarez.” There was a pause as the person on the other end of the line said something.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Douglas, but I can’t discuss the case. There’s going to be a press conference this evening at the sheriff’s department, so you can . . . Yes, I understand, but I’m sure your editor will give you a little more time with the deadline . . . Nothing to say except ‘the investigation is ongoing. ’ ” She hung up.
“Our buddy Manny is at it again,” Pescoli observed.
“You got it.”
“Some reporters are okay, but not Douglas.” She glanced through the oval window in one of the doors. “It’s go time. The techs are here.” Snow had begun drifting down lazily and night had fallen; all the street lamps were now giving off their watery illumination. Though Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’s home didn’t appear to be a crime scene, there was a chance the killer was someone the judge knew, someone who’d been in the house and left some evidence behind.
“And they’ve got company,” Alvarez said.
A television news van with the letters KBTR emblazoned across its side had turned down the street and was slowing in front of the house. A thin layer of dirt from the slush on the road had dimmed the letters, but the words were still legible, the driver slowing as he located a parking spot.
As the lumbering vehicle stopped on the opposite side of the street, a reporter in a red jacket and black slacks and boots hopped onto the street. She couldn’t have been an inch over five feet or a day over twenty-five.
“Honey Carlisle,” Alvarez said, while Pescoli opened the door to admit the techs.
“You know her?” Pescoli couldn’t place the face.
“Works out at my gym. Transferred here from a station in Salt Lake City. Was Miss Utah or something.”
“You know this because it was out on the club bulletin?”
“My trainer, Jed. He’s definitely got a thing for her.”
“Which came first, her hair color or her name?”
“Shh.” Alvarez hid a smile.
“Selena!” Honey yelled, waving a gloved hand enthusiastically, just as if she’d run into a long-lost friend.
“You’re on a first-name basis?” Pescoli asked, her brows lifting.
“We’re in a couple of the same kickboxing and step classes, and then sometimes after, meet up at the juice bar.”
“Seriously? The juice bar?” Pescoli said as Honey began marching across the snow-covered lawn.
Alvarez ignored Pescoli’s comments. “Stop!” she said sharply in the reporter’s direction and held out both her hands. “Let’s keep it in the street.”
“Oh, okay.” The reporter backtracked while Alvarez stepped off the porch to greet her.
“Is this a crime scene?” Honey’s big, round eyes grew wider. “I thought the judge was killed in the mountains. Oh, my God, was there another murder?”
“No. We’re just being careful. And respectful,” Alvarez reminded.
“Okay. Sure. Um, I just need an interview for the ten o’-clock news!” She flashed a radiant, Miss Utah-worthy smile Pescoli’s way.
“You’ll have to wait until after the press conference at the station,” Alvarez told her repressively.
“Really?” She was suddenly deflated.