Her Last Word
“She bled out quickly,” Dana added. “The knife wound was on target.”
“She’s murdered, he lays her out for twenty-plus hours, and then brings her here. Why the delay?”
“The million-dollar question,” Quinn said.
He rose and stepped back. “Dana, is that heart painted in blood?”
“It’s marker,” she said.
“Thanks, Dana,” he said. “Let me know if you find anything else.”
“It’s going to take us a few hours to process this scene.”
“All right. Keep me posted.”
As he and Quinn walked to the end of the alley, he thought about his conversation with Kaitlin. “Jennifer’s and Erika’s deaths are tied to Gina. Now I need to prove it.”
Adler and Quinn spent most of the night talking to business owners near the alley, hoping someone had seen something. One bartender thought he’d spotted a truck vanish into the alley but had no details to give.
Through the course of the night, Adler placed three calls and left messages on Brad Crowley’s cell before the return call came after sunrise. Adler and Quinn were going through a drive-through and he’d just made twin orders of an egg biscuit, hash browns, and coffee when his phone rang.
He answered, “Mr. Crowley. Thank you for calling me back.” He nodded to the cashier, accepted his credit card, and pulled ahead into a parking spot.
“Have you found my wife?” Crowley sounded annoyed, almost put out. In the background, the downbeat of rock music pulsed.
Adler stared ahead. “I’d like to meet you in person.”
“Can’t you answer my question?” Crowley demanded.
“Not over the phone.”
“Why not? Tell me!”
Crowley sounded more the bully than a man worried about his wife. Quinn heard Crowley’s outburst, and she bit her lip to keep from saying something.
Adler reached for his coffee. “I’ll meet you in person.”
Crowley said in a softer tone, “I’m sorry to sound annoyed. I’ve not slept much in the last couple of weeks.”
“Where can we meet?” Adler said.
“I’ve been staying at my hotel since I saw you last.”
“We’ll meet you there,” Adler said.
“That’s not the place to meet. Can’t you just tell me?”
“No.”
Finally Crowley said, “My attorney’s office is the best place.” He rattled off the address. “I can be there in a half hour.”
So they were playing hardball. Fine. “See you then.” He hung up. “Crowley wants to meet at his attorney’s office, who just happens to be Derek Blackstone.”
“Really?” Quinn said as he handed her an egg-and-bacon biscuit. “This should be fun.”
As he snatched a hash brown from his bag, she took a large bite of her biscuit. It was their first meal in twelve hours. The food was good and satisfying, to a point, but they ate every bite. After tossing their trash, he and Quinn covered the drive to the lawyer’s office in fifteen minutes.
Blackstone’s office was located in a hundred-year-old Colonial Revival building on the Boulevard. It wasn’t glitzy, but every detail was meticulous, from the grounds and trimmed boxwoods to the painted trim around the arched windows and the brick herringbone driveway.
Out of the car, he matched Quinn’s quick, determined strides as she moved toward the front entrance. She pulled off her glasses, taking a moment to clean the lens with the hem of her shirt. “Can I be the bearer of bad news? Normally, I don’t enjoy this kind of thing, but I don’t like Mr. Crowley.”
“He’s all yours.”
She tucked the glasses in her coat pocket. “You’re too good to me.”
They walked inside and showed their badges to a young receptionist with dark hair that swept over her shoulders. She didn’t look surprised by their badges as she picked up the phone and announced them. “I can show you to the conference room.”
“Thank you,” Adler said.
They traveled down a short hallway and into a conference room with a large window that faced the front parking lot. There was no sign of Crowley or his attorney.
The receptionist offered coffee. They both declined. Adler opted to sit. Quinn paced. They waited almost five minutes before the door opened to Crowley. His hair was neatly combed, and he was wearing khakis, a dark V-neck sweater, and polished loafers.
Blackstone stood behind Crowley. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie. A gold Rolex on Blackstone’s wrist caught the sunlight leaking in through the shades.
“Mr. Blackstone, good to see you again,” Adler said.
Blackstone’s welcoming look held steady. “Why don’t we have a seat?”
When they were all seated, Adler looked to Quinn. “Detective?”
“Mr. Crowley, we found your wife,” Quinn said. “She’s dead.”
“What?” Crowley sat back in his chair. His face paled, and he began to tap an index finger on the arm of the chair. After a moment of silence, Crowley said, “How did she die?”
“We can’t say right now,” Quinn said. She was waiting, or in her case, hoping for him to slip up and reveal more than he should.
“Why can’t you say? She’s my wife.” Crowley looked to his attorney. “Blackstone, I want to know.”
“It’s not an unreasonable question,” Blackstone said to Quinn. The attorney’s mannerisms and tone were smooth and controlled, but his eyes burned with keen interest.
Quinn shook her head. She wasn’t answering any questions until hers had been satisfied. “When is the last time you saw your wife?”
Crowley looked to his lawyer. The widower might be an ass, but he was smart, and he knew when the sharks were circling. “We already had this conversation at the station when I came to you looking for my wife.”
“My memory is sometimes faulty. Refresh it.” Quinn’s memory was a steel trap. A fact went in, and it never escaped.
“I told you, about five days ago,” Crowley said.
“Can you be more specific?” she asked. “What time of day was it?”
“Morning.”
“And where did you see her?” she pressed.
“At our house.” He shook his head. “I know how this goes. The cops are always looking to blame the spouse. I didn’t kill my wife.”
“Where have you been the last couple of days?” Adler asked.
“In my hotel room.” His grief appeared to dissolve.
“Can you prove it?”
Now he looked outraged, concerned about himself, and slightly annoyed. “I shouldn’t have to, but yes, I can.”
“What kind of relationship did you have with your wife?” Adler said.
“What do you mean?” Crowley demanded.
“What kind of marriage? Happy, contentious, ambivalent, or what?”
Worry deepened the lines framing his mouth. “We loved each other. We’ve known each other since high school.”
“That doesn’t sound very convincing,” Quinn said.
“What does convincing sound like?” Blackstone asked.
She smiled. “Not like that.”
“Does this have anything to do with Kaitlin’s stabbing?” Crowley asked. “If it does, ask her what’s going on, because clearly she knows more than my wife or I.”
“I did my research on Kaitlin,” Blackstone said. “With her past, she must be a suspect.”
Adler ignored the comment, keeping his gaze trained on Crowley. “I’ve listened to Ms. Roe’s interview with your wife.” He let the statement hang.
Crowley fidgeted with his wedding band. “Whatever Erika thought she remembered from that night is corrupted. She was drunk.”
“She recalled the details pretty well,” Adler said.
Blackstone injected, “What does Ms. Roe’s interview have to do with Mrs. Crowley’s death?”
Adler ignored the comment. “Mr. Crowley, was your wife involved in any kind of lifestyle that might be considered risky?”
“Like an affair?” Crowley asked.
“Boyfriend, swinger, drug use? I don’t know. You tell me. People who live in perfect houses don’t always lead perfect lives. Her yoga teacher said she often parked in the back of the studio, but skipped the class. Did she meet a friend or go somewhere more intimate?”
Crowley’s confusion was enough of an answer. “Erika was a good woman. She was not into any secret kinky shit, and if you spread anything like that about her, I will have Mr. Blackstone sue you and your department.”
“We’re simply asking questions here. No one is passing judgment.”
“I don’t like your tone,” Crowley said.
Adler had touched on a nerve. “Are you engaged in any kind of extracurricular activities that we need to know about?”
“I am not.”
“If I trace your credit card receipts and phone records, I won’t find anything?” Adler asked.
Crowley shifted and looked to his attorney.