Murder.com (8 page)

My office was the most disheveled
room of the lot. Every drawer was emptied. But to the intruder's
credit, they put the drawers back where they belonged. The contents
were another story, strewn about all over the room.
Everywhere.

I racked my brain trying to
remember if I had anything. Anything that could be misconstrued or
held against me. I couldn't come up with a thing. Maybe there was a
not-so-nice email here or there between me and Ted. But that was
business. And I was confident that there was nothing threatening
going on in any of that correspondence. Regardless, my laptop was
still on the desk. Despite all of my papers having been thrown on
the floor.

"What do you think they were
looking for?" Imogen asked. Now with the mace back in her purse.
Confident that the imminent threat had disappeared.

"I have absolutely no idea.
Something that ties me to the murder. But what that could be is
another story altogether."

Imogen was visibly shaken. This incident seemed to
have rattled her more than anything so far. Even more than my lack
of a proposal of marriage.

"I don't feel safe here, Max. Not
after this."

I didn't blame her. I didn't feel
safe here either. Someone had come into my house, turned it upside
down, and then left. Who knew if they'd be back? Who knew if they'd
try to hurt us next time?

"I've seen enough. We're not
staying here tonight."

Imogen just listened.

"We're going to your house. And
bright and early tomorrow, we're going to see Detective
Carrington."

After a five-minute drive, Imogen
and I strode up the steps to the old brick police station that sat
in the middle of town. We were waiting to talk to John at 9 a.m. in
the reception area that contained all of four plastic seats and an
on-duty receptionist in uniform that sat behind a bulletproof
plastic window. She didn't bother to mention that he usually showed
up around 10 a.m. That left an hour for Imogen and me to sip our
coffee. When he finally did arrive, he invited us into his office,
where Imogen and I explained what had happened to us last
night.

Sitting at his desk sipping his
coffee, he said, "You two certainly have had quite a
night."

I crossed my legs in the
uncomfortable government-issued metallic chair. Ginny leaned back
in her chair and then addressed John. "I don't feel safe,
detective."

"I don't blame you, Miss
Whitehall," he said, and took yet another sip of his
coffee.

"What are you going to do about
it?" Imogen asked.

"What would you like to do, Miss
Whitehall? File a police report? I don't know how much that's going
to help."

"Yes, I want to file a police
report," Imogen said. "Someone broke into our house."

I found it lovely that Imogen would refer to my
house as our house. She loved me. And I loved her. There was only
one thing left to do, and that was to make our union official.

John put his coffee down on his
disheveled desk. "Miss Whitehall, I understand your concern. I
really do, but—"

"It certainly doesn't seem that
you do, officer."

"Detective. I do, Miss Whitehall,
but I'm not sure there's too much we're going to be able to do from
what you're telling me. You see, it's—"

"That's not very comforting,
detective," she said.

John thought for a moment.
"Miss Whitehall, I understand your concern, but
there's nothing for you to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about?
Someone—"

"Let me finish," Carrington
interrupted.

Imogen looked at him and nodded.

"As I was saying, you don't need
to worry about it because it was us."

"What?" I said, shocked. "You have
no right to come into my house. To enter my property—"

"I'm afraid we do, Mr.
Slade."

Oh no. We were back on a
last-name, formal basis. Nothing good happened when people address
you by your last name. Especially when people knew your first
name.

"We have a warrant. And we acted
on that warrant last night. Searched your place." He reached over
and presented the signed warrant for my perusal. "You weren't home,
so we took the liberty."

"Aren't you supposed to show me
that first?"

He didn't answer.

I picked it up and read it. My mind was racing. They
were going to pin this on me.

"But that's ridiculous. Max
didn't—" Imogen started.

"Miss Whitehall, I'm going to ask
you to remain silent. Or you can wait outside while I talk to Mr.
Slade. What's it going to be?"

This was getting out of hand. Quickly. I would much
prefer Imogen sitting here. Listening intently. Keeping mental
notes of this conversation. So we could use anything that
Carrington told us to our advantage later.

"I'll be quiet," she
conceded.

"Thank you." Then Carrington
turned his attention back to me. "You finished looking that
over?"

I wasn't finished. I hadn't even
started. It didn't matter. They had a warrant. A signed warrant.
And they'd searched my house. Now I had to find out what they
thought they had found.

I tried to act calm. "Yes, I'm
finished." I pushed the document back across his desk.

"Seems you weren't very truthful
with me the other day, Max."

At least we were back on a first-name basis.

I didn't comment. No, I hadn't
been truthful. I didn't need this. I'd listened to Kitty. That was
mistake number one.

I didn't respond.

"You and Mrs. Baxter were more
than friends. Much more. So much more that you were engaged to be
married. That slip your mind the other day?"

"I didn't think it was
relevant."

Carrington smiled. "Well, I think
otherwise. But it's not so much the fact that you were engaged to
Mrs. Baxter. It's who stole her away that's the
pièce de résistance
."

"Ted," I said. "Yes, Ted Baxter
stole her away from me."

"And that angered you. Enraged
you."

"It certainly did at the time,
John. I'm a human being."

"You hated him. You still hate
him. You despise him so much that you decided to kill
him."

I laughed. A deep belly laugh. I
stared Carrington directly in his eyes. "You think I bided my time
for eighteen years and then now decided to kill him? Are you
nuts?"

Carrington looked at me. Stared at
me. Tried to digest what I was saying. With a side of logic. What I
was saying made sense. Eighteen years is forever. You could see him
running through the facts in his head. Running through the various
scenarios. He knew I wasn't lying. He had to know that I was
telling the truth.

He opened a manila folder on his
desk marked
EVIDENCE
in red. "They found this." He handed me a letter.

I took the letter from him and
immediately recognized it. It was a letter from Kitty. From
eighteen years ago. The letter detailed the entire breakup. It
upset me. I didn't look up from the letter, but I could tell that
Imogen's heart was breaking for me. I could also feel Carrington's
eyes fixated on my face. Trying to read my expression. Waiting to
read my guilt.

When I finally composed myself, I
responded, "So. It's a letter from Kitty. What does that
prove?"

"Nothing," Carrington said, and
then reached back into the folder. He pulled out another couple of
pieces of paper and handed them over to me. "But these prove
something."

My heart leapt into my throat when I had them in my
hands.

"That your
handwriting?"

I didn't even hear him. He had
asked me something, but I was too busy remembering. Recalling the
anger. The heartbreak. The sadness.

"I said, is that your handwriting,
Max?"

It was my handwriting. I had written this letter.
But I had never sent it. I folded it up and put it in a box in my
closet buried under a bunch of other things that I had forgotten
about.

"Yes, that's my
handwriting."

"There are a lot of interesting
things in that letter, Max."

He was right. There were a lot of
things in that letter that might not put me in the best light. I'd
threatened Ted. I'd threatened Kitty. I'd threatened everything and
everyone. I had been pissed. My life had been in shambles, and I
had expressed my lust for revenge against Kitty and Ted in that
letter. But I had never sent it. I'd stuffed it away and buried it,
just like I'd buried my feelings about the whole mess.

"A lot of threats," Carrington
added. "A lot of paragraphs that would lead one to believe that you
were the one who killed Mr. Baxter. Even eighteen years
later."

"I never sent this letter," I
said.

"It doesn't add up, Max. You lied
to me and then we found this. You're our man."

"I may not be a criminal attorney,
but you can't believe that a letter from eighteen years ago is
enough to pin a murder on."

"My sergeant certainly thinks so.
Thinks you're our man. The one who killed Ted."

"But what about you? Do you think
I killed Ted?"

Carrington sat there. Ignoring me. He looked lost.
Seemingly in another world.

I piled on: "I know my rights,
detective. And in case you forgot, I'm an attorney. I want to know
if you are arresting me."

I wasn't sure if my little tirade
would work. I didn't know if I was pushing my luck or rolling the
dice and betting on the come. But Carrington looked like he wanted
a reason to believe me. A reason to trust me.

After a moment, he seemed to snap
out of his stupor. "Not quite yet."

"Good. Then let me the fuck out of
here. I want to go home."

"I'm afraid it doesn't quite work
that way, Max."

"Then how does it work, John? If
I'm not being arrested then I'm free to go. And I'd like to
go."

"I can't do that."

"I don't understand. The other day
things were fine. I passed along information to help you and the
investigation. Now you're telling me that things have changed. Just
like that?"

"You lied, Max. You hated Ted. You
have motive. The letters prove that."

"You don't believe that, do you?
You think my feelings from two decades ago constitute motive? You
guys must really be grasping at straws."

Carrington was buying what I was
selling. I could tell. He didn't like what he was doing one bit. I
could read that in his face. He didn't think that I had a motive.
He was just toeing the company line. Toeing his sergeant's line.
That guy was the problem. I needed to find a workaround.

"Listen to me. I didn't kill Ted.
I was driving home from work. Did you guys follow up on that lead
yet? That's my alibi. And it's airtight. And what about the
threatening email from Mike Miller? At least that threat is from
the last decade. Who's doing this to me? Who's behind this? Your
sergeant?"

I was pushing. I knew it.
Carrington didn't say a word. That was when I realized that it was
the sergeant. He was the one on a fast track to wrap this
investigation up. Solve the murder of the bigwig in record time.
Earn himself a nice promotion. Quickly. Even if that meant throwing
an innocent guy in jail. He'd roll the dice at trial. Maybe a jury
would believe me, maybe they wouldn't. He didn't care. By then,
he'd be behind a captain's desk.

"Max, it's out of my control. It's
just a matter of time before they press charges."

"Then let me help you. Let me help
myself. In a couple of days, I've already made progress. I got the
email. Give me some time."

"Sit here." He got up from the
desk, walked across the room, and shut the door.

I turned to Ginny.
"Shit."

"You're bloody well right. Shite,
indeed. What are we going to do?"

"Try to find out who the hell
killed Ted. That's if they don't lock me up today."

The door opened. In walked
Carrington, and he went back over to his desk and sat down. Picked
up his coffee, took a sip. He looked at me, put the coffee cup
down, and then said, "You're free to go."

I shook my head just to make sure
that I had heard him correctly. I couldn't believe it. I had talked
my way out of this mess. I started to stand.

"Don't get too excited. They're
going to press charges, Max. It's just a matter of time. I don't
know how long you have. I don't know how long I can hold off the
inevitable."

Sitting again, I answered, "Well,
I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"It's not confidence, Max. It's a
hunch. But my neck is on the line if I'm wrong."

Whatever you wanted to label it,
I'd take it. Call it kindness, a hunch, stupidity; it would be fine
with me. I was going to be walking out of this station
momentarily.