Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (32 page)

“This meeting today with Stiles.” She met my eyes. “It’s important.”

She paused for me to absorb her words. Okay. I knew it was important.

She went on. “And I have a feeling it won’t be good.” Again, she paused.

I held the mug close to my face, felt its warmth. Braced myself for whatever was coming.

“Stiles’s wife called me to say he’s upset. She knows you and I are close and doesn’t want to be in the middle. Stiles doesn’t usually talk to her about ongoing investigations. But this time, he’s dropped hints. And even though she doesn’t want to break his confidence, she told me he’s not happy about what’s going down.”

Which means?

“To me, that sounded like he might have to arrest you.”

Her words reverberated, sounded far away. Arrest. Not a scary word; it sounded like “a rest.” Not bad, to take a rest. But Susan was talking about me taking a long one, behind bars, wearing orange. Susan’s face lost focus. Something heavy dropped inside my chest. Crashed into my bowels. Sherry McBride’s bludgeoned face grinned at me, and I saw the hanger protrude from Somerset Bradley’s eye. In slow motion, I watched myself set down my coffee mug, stand, run to the bathroom. I heard Susan call my name, slow and elongated. Saw her stand and come after me.

Outside the door, Susan was talking. Telling me that it would be all right. That there were recourses. Recourses? Another odd word. I thought about it. Recourse. Something you take if you flunk math? The path of a dammed-up river? It didn’t make sense in the context of murders and arrests. But she was still talking, now saying the word, “bail.” I heard her voice more than her words. My body cramped and twisted, rebelling.

When I finally came out, my face damp with sweat and hair feeling matted, Susan was waiting. She reached out and took me in her arms, and when she released me, I saw that her mascara
was running, her face wet with tears. She swallowed, touched my chin, nodded.

And said, “It’s time, Elle. We have to go.”

On the way out, I stopped to swallow a couple of Dr. Schroeder’s pills. They might not help, but they couldn’t hurt.

Even with the scar on his face, Stiles was handsome, in a rugged, craggy sort of way. Strong jaw. Direct, intelligent eyes. An aroma of soap. His bones were long, and he looked awkward, out of place on the swirling floral print of Susan’s living room sofa.

Don’t look guilty, I repeated a list of don’ts to myself as he began talking. Don’t think about Sherry McBride or her brutalized body. Don’t avoid Stiles’s eyes.

“Frankly,” he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “I’m not convinced you did it.”

I shrunk into the cushions of the easy chair. His tone indicated that he was leading up to a “but.” Like, but the rest of the department does. But the DA does. But I have to arrest you anyhow.

“But here’s the thing, Elle. The other suspects that we’ve looked into? They all have alibis.”

I blinked. Said nothing. Waited.

“Sherry McBride was in the ER for a dog bite. Derek Morris was out, entertaining clients. Somerset Bradley was home with his family, and neighbors corroborate that. The other men in the photos of Russia were not even in town. One was in Thailand; the other in Houston.”

He paused again.

“Bottom line. You stood to inherit millions from your estranged husband’s death. He was killed in your home with your knife, at a time when, by your own account, you were home. From a prosecutor’s standpoint, you and you alone have no alibi, yet you had motive, means, and opportunity to commit the crime.”

I was still breathing, barely. Seeing myself from far away, pulling an Elle despite the pills. They weren’t working, not strong enough to tether me. I drifted away, watching myself sitting motionless, bloodless, white, fading. Waiting for the handcuffs to appear.

Susan stood up. “Let’s cut to the chase. Are you arresting my client?” She sounded ferocious. Abrupt.

Stiles hesitated, looked from me to Susan, back to me. Back to Susan. His voice was edgy, cautious. “Susan, we’ve discussed this. I told you I couldn’t promise—”

“Just answer me, Detective. Are you arresting her or not?” Her hands were on hips. Eyes fierce, daring him.

He leaned back. Put his hands together. “Sit down, Susan. We’re here to talk.”

Susan huffed and puffed, but sat. Crossed her legs. Folded her arms. Sliced him with her stare.

“Personally, I don’t think this case adds up. There was a partial fingerprint on the knife that doesn’t match Elle or Charlie—”

“That gives reasonable doubt,” Susan interrupted.

“It doesn’t match any of the people we’ve looked at. Might be old. A guest who touched the knife. We can’t be sure. But from my point of view, if you wanted your husband’s money, would you be dumb enough to kill him in your own home at a time when you had no alibi?”

“Of course she wouldn’t.” Susan spoke for me.

“I don’t think so either. Trouble is, the DA disagrees. Seems you failed to mention to the police that your husband lost your entire personal savings—your whole inheritance—in a bad investment.”

Susan was on it. “Her finances aren’t relevant—”

“And then there’s the matter of the kiddie porn—and, by the way—thank you for that flash drive. There’s an investigation already
underway, since it’s a crime to travel abroad for purposes of illegal sexual liaisons.”

“And you wouldn’t have that evidence if not for Elle.” Susan interrupted. “She’s cooperated fully, assisting law enforcement—”

Stiles kept talking, silencing her with his eyes. “But let’s talk about how the porn applies to your situation—maybe you thought your husband was on that trip to Russia. Maybe you thought he funded it or planned it or was the guy holding the camera—well, that’s what the DA thinks. You found the pictures and, with all the friction in your marriage, they were the last straw—they led you to a crime of passion.”

“Bullshit—where’s the evidence? There is not a shred of proof that Elle found those pictures before the murder.” Susan was on her feet again. Voice booming. “In fact, she handed them over as soon as she found them—and that was
after
Charlie’s death.”

“Susan, sit.” It was a command.

Susan huffed, but sat. I watched from the sky, silent as a cloud. And as weightless.

“Again. We don’t know when Elle found the flash drive. Or when she first saw the images on it.”

He talked about me as if I wasn’t there. The way my friends often did. His voice rumbled in the distance. Dangerous like thunder.

“In fact,” he went on, “even Elle doesn’t know when she found it. She says she has no memory of the entire chunk of time surrounding the murder.”

“What do you mean, she
says
? An eminent psychiatrist is treating her for localized dissociative amnesia. He says her memory loss was caused by a trauma.”

“Yes, you’ve told me all about it.”

“Well, I’m telling you again. Because you don’t seem to accept
the fact that she can’t remember despite the fact that a nationally renowned, highly respected professional believes her and has diagnosed her—”

“Susan, save it.” Stiles leaned forward again. Spoke softly. “It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t believe. But, obviously, the psychiatric information will be part of your defense.”

Our defense? Oh God. I was going to be a defendant. In court. In a murder trial.

“Fine. So answer me, Detective Stiles. Are you arresting her or—”

“Susan, relax. I asked for this meeting as a courtesy to you. Out of respect for our friendship.” He sounded peeved. “I could easily have waited until the warrant was drawn up and simply gone and picked her up. But I didn’t. Out of our friendship. And because I know you and Elle go way back.” His eyes drilled her. Pulled rank.

“Okay.” Susan’s shoulders sagged. “So what’s the deal?”

Air currents carried me higher; the air was thinner. Too thin to breathe.

Dimly, I heard them talk of a choice. An offer. Elle could surrender at the Roundhouse. Within forty-eight hours.

The wind had grown louder, was almost deafening. Maybe I’d misheard. Gotten it wrong.

“Bail?” Susan’s voice defied gravity, floated up clear and bell-like.

Bail? I strained to hear.

“The DA has agreed, even though it’s a murder charge. A quarter million. But only because I personally guaranteed—”

Wait. A quarter million? That was the amount Charlie stole from me. The amount that I didn’t have anymore.

How did it work? Would I have to sell my house? Sign it over to the warden? The judge?

Well, what was the difference? I wouldn’t need a house anymore. I’d live at a state facility. I was not in orange, but butt-naked,
being body-cavity searched by burly prison guards. Being thrown into a cell with tattooed, greasy-haired witches. Being raped in the shower and shivved in the cafeteria line—

“Elle!”

I dropped fast and hard, crashing into my body as it sat perfectly still on the cushions. Susan was jostling me. “Dammit, Elle. Pay attention—” To Stiles, “She gets this way. Drifts off.” To me, “Did you listen to what we’ve just discussed? Do you have questions?”

Questions? Seriously? I was going to jail. I would be arraigned. Searched. Locked in a cell. I would have to mortgage my house to raise bail. Would lose my job, have my face in the papers and on the six o’clock news. Wouldn’t die right away, but was definitely losing my life. Another casualty. Our names seemed like a song title: Charlie, Somerset, Sherry, and Elle.

I looked at Susan and shook my head. No, I had no questions.

Susan and Stiles stood. Susan thanked him, said she appreciated his going out on a limb for her. He assured her that he was following his gut, doing what he thought was right. They parted with a tentative, yet warm, embrace. Stiles met my eyes, nodded once, wished me well. And left.

The meeting was over.

Susan plopped onto the sofa, running her hands through her hair, cursing. “Okay. We’ve got forty-eight hours to comply.”

She went on, telling me what to expect, the procedures I’d have to undergo. Assuring me that she’d have me out within a day. That I wouldn’t spend more than one night in jail. That I should keep to myself while there, speak to no one. Leave my valuables at home. She took my hand.

“This will be the worst of it, Elle. They really don’t have a strong enough case.”

I nodded.

“Are you okay?” She eyed me, assessing.

I nodded again. My chest threatened to explode. I debated telling her about Sherry McBride.

“Well, let’s plan the next two days. We want to get there early day after tomorrow.” She looked at her watch. “Before ten. So nobody gets nervous.”

I managed another nod.

“This must be terrifying for you. Look. Let’s do business, and then spend the next two days pampering Elle. I’ll treat you to a spa day. How about a massage? A facial?”

Was she serious?

“Because we’ll have plenty of time to plan our defense strategy after the arraignment. First step is just to get you past that hump and back home on bail. You’ll need ten percent, twenty-five thousand dollars for bail. You have it?”

“Barely. It would wipe out my retirement account.”

“Fine. You’ll get it back. Now, think. We have two days.”

Two days. It sounded like a death sentence.

“So what do you want to do—let’s go somewhere great for dinner—you choose. I’ll call Becky and Jen.”

I blinked at her, silent. Did she think I wanted to party? The thought of food was sickening. Repulsive. Why didn’t she know that? Susan meant to be helpful. She sat beside me, holding my hand. But she seemed out of reach, miles away. In another universe. Susan had never stuck a hanger into a man’s eye. Never discovered that her husband kept dark secrets and lies. Never found murder victims practically everywhere she went. Never been a murder suspect. No. Susan’s life was protected. Perfect. She had a husband, kids. A career. A future. Freedom.

Suddenly, I resented her. Wanted her to back off and stop looking at me. I was about to say that I wasn’t up for dinner. Or even for a massage. But she’d moved on, wasn’t thinking about pampering me anymore.

“When do you see the shrink again? Do you have an appointment today?”