Текст книги "Murder 101"

Автор книги: Faye Kellerman

Соавторы: Faye Kellerman,Faye Kellerman
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“No.”

“Did he know where the freak lived?”

“I wouldn’t know.” A pause. “This could be totally wrong, but I got the feeling that the freak wasn’t a student at any of the colleges.”

“Tell me why?”

“Because Lance used to rant about how old he was.”

“How old was he?”

“From the way Lance talked about it, he was around thirty.”

“And he never said where the freak lived?” When she didn’t answer, Decker said, “It’s not a time to be holding back, Lucy. Angeline was murdered and I really need to talk to this guy.”

“I don’t know where he’s from and that’s the God’s honest truth.” A pause. “I don’t know if this is relevant or not, but it sticks in my mind as odd, so I’ll tell you. A few months ago, Lance asked if I wanted to meet him for a Saturday night dinner in the city. It was reading week so I didn’t have classes anymore. I figured why not. I asked him what he was doing in the city. He said he had some family affair earlier in the day and if I could come down on my own, he’d drive me back up. I agreed. I made all these plans to hitch a ride into Manhattan. At the last minute, right before I was ready to go, he called me and said, change of plans. He was in Boston. Could I come up? I was pissed but he offered me a car service to come up and we’d drive down together.”

“That was nice,” Decker said. “Even a little extravagant.”

“Yeah, it was. But we’re closer to Boston than to New York anyway, so I didn’t think much about it.”

“Did you meet him?”

“I did. He took me out to a Spanish place. It was really, really good and we had a good time. But he was downing the pitchers of sangria like it was water.”

“What did you think?”

“Well, I was kinda worried about him driving. But the meal lasted a long time and when we were done, he seemed sober enough.”

Sober enough. Great. Decker said, “Do you know why he was in Boston instead of New York?”

“I asked him that. He told me he had an audition at Boston Rep and didn’t want to tell me . . . that it was bad luck. And that made total sense. Lots of actors are very secretive about their auditions because the field is so competitive. And because he was drinking so much, I thought it probably didn’t go well. So I dropped it.”

“Does he have family in Boston?”

“No idea.”

“Friends?”

“Probably. The city is full of colleges.”

Decker said, “So what made you skeptical about his story?”

“Not exactly skeptical. More like . . .”

“Dubious?” McAdams tried. “Doubtful? Unsure? Uncertain? Hesitant? Cynical? Am I getting closer?”

She smiled. “I just think there was more to the story than an audition.”

“Angeline often went away for the weekends,” Decker said. “Do you think he could have been following her?”

“Possibly.”

“Because it happened before?”

“Not like a stalker . . . I’m not saying that. More like he was curious, I guess.” She rubbed her arms. “Can I go home now?”

“Yes, you can.” Decker looked at McAdams. “Take the spare squad car and drive her back, please.” He handed Lucy his card. “If you think of anything more that could help us, please call.”

“Sure.” She stood up and smiled at McAdams. “Where’d you go to college?”

“Harvard.”

“Thought so. You seem Crimson.” She was still smiling as she slipped on her coat. “Why are you working as a cop? Gonna write the ultimate screenplay or something?”

“Yeah.” McAdams held the door open for her. “Something.”

CHAPTER 12

LANCE HAD FALLEN asleep in the interview room. In the big city, dozing was usually a sign of psychopathology. But in this case, it was three in the morning, Lance had been partying, and he was overwhelmed with exhaustion. Decker still had a good six working hours left in him, but McAdams was drooping. Maybe a little strategy planning would wake him up. They were looking at Terry through a one-way mirror.

“Did Lucy say anything on the way back to her dorm?” Decker asked.

“About Terry? No.”

“Is she flirtatious?”

“Yep.”

“She’s cute.”

“Not my type.”

Decker shrugged. “Do you think she’s Terry’s type?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is she a rebound relationship from Angeline or do you think he really likes her?”

“He likes her enough to fuck her. College guys aren’t noted for discrimination.”

“Speaking of which, do you think Terry was still doing her?”

“Angeline?” Tyler nodded. “If she’d let him, sure.”

“Think that’s why he was in Boston? Meeting up with her for a tryst?”

“Makes more sense for him to just go to her apartment.”

“What if Angeline was living with a guy?”

“The freak? If he exists, he probably wasn’t there all the time. They could easily squeeze in a quickie.” McAdams shrugged. “Besides, Boston seems like a long way to go for a nostalgic fuck with the ex.”

“What do you think about Lucy’s stalking theory?”

“I think stalking makes more sense than traveling three hours for a booty call.”

“Why?”

“Because if all he wanted was sex, I’m sure he could have figured out how to do it closer to home.” He faced Decker. “If Angeline dumped him, he’d think about her for a while. Who did she throw me over for? Who’s the other dick? But eventually, he’d just let it go. That’s how college guys are.”

Decker said, “So let’s see if we can rule him out as a suspect. Angeline was murdered recently, so we need him to retrace his steps over the weekend. If we can rule him out, then we can concentrate on the other guy a.k.a. the freak.”

“Whatever you think, boss.” When Decker was silent, McAdams took out his iPad and said, “That came out as sarcastic. I didn’t mean it like that. I know this is serious stuff. And I know I haven’t a clue. I cede to your superior knowledge.”

“More like my experience. It’s nothing you can’t learn, Tyler. But you’ve got to want to learn it.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s a good start.”

“THIS WEEKEND, THIS weekend . . .” Terry was having a hard time concentrating even with the double shot of caffeine. “Uh, starting on Friday?”

“Yes, tell me what you did on Friday.”

“I was in school.”

“How about Friday night?”

“I didn’t murder her. I loved her.”

“I believe you. This is just routine. Friday night, Lance.”

“Uh, Friday night . . .” He hit his head. “I had a game on Friday night. We won.”

“Congratulations. What did you do after the game?”

“Partied. Morse McKinley . . . that’s where most of the parties take place.” He cleared his throat. “The way it works is that Morse McKinley and Littleton are like one group versus Clarion, Duxbury, and Kneed Loft. I mean our swipe cards can get us into Morse McKinley’s gym facilities, but not into Duxbury. Most of the time, Morse McKinley students use Littleton facilities because we’re a smaller college.”

“A consortium within a consortium,” McAdams said.

“Yeah . . . I guess. We can still take classes at any of the colleges, but we’re allowed to take more classes at Morse McKinley than at the other three colleges. We still have to take a certain amount of classes at Littleton unless our major is a 5-C major, meaning you can take classes in your major across the colleges. Angeline wasn’t a 5-C, but she took a lot of classes at Duxbury because it’s the most prestigious of the colleges. She thought she was all that.”

Decker said, “Let’s return to Friday night after the game.”

“I told you I went to a party. There were like a zillion people who saw me.”

“And what did you do after the party?”

“Went back to my dorm room and fell asleep.”

“What time was that?”

“Around . . . four.”

“Did you go back alone or did you go back with friends?”

“I went back alone. I was pretty wasted and needed to sleep.”

“Did you swipe your card to get into your dorm?”

“Yeah, sure, of course.”

“So there would be an electronic record of it.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Check it out.”

“I’ll do that. What time did you wake up the next morning?”

“Late . . . twelve, twelve-thirty. I made it down to lunch . . . that must have been around one. I went back to my dorm and showered. We had an acting seminar at three until six. Afterward, I worked out for a couple of hours . . . then I had dinner at the dining hall . . .”

Decker and McAdams waited.

Terry rubbed his eyes. “Can I check with my phone?”

“Sure.”

Terry took out his phone and then said, “Ah . . . another party. This one was at Kneed Loft. I went with Lucy. We both got wasted, and then we went back to my room . . . she spent the night. We went to brunch in Greenbury on Sunday morning. Health and Hearth. I hate that place but she loves it.” He continued to consult his schedule. “I worked out . . . I had an appointment at the writing center at four.”

“Did you show up?”

“Yeah, of course. My tutor was Liz. We worked on my Native Americans of the Southwest paper. The Pueblo revolt of 1680 and the recapturing of the land by Spain under Diego de Vargas Zapata Lujan Ponce de Leon.” He grinned. “The mind is still working.”

“Good for you,” Decker said. “What did you do after that?”

“I went to dinner at the dining hall. Then I guess I was in my dorm all night. My door was open. It’s always open unless I’m doing my business with my woman. People coming and going. Lucy came over at around ten. She left at twelve and I went to bed.”

“We are now at Monday.”

“I had classes. Then I had practice. Then I showered and did a little work. And then Lucy came over and we went to a party at Palm Hall in Littleton. Lucy came back with me and . . .” He grinned a third time. “We are now up to date.”

“I need phone numbers,” Decker said. “We’ll need to verify everything.”

“Go ahead,” Terry said. “I’m down with that. Angeline and I hadn’t been together for a year. Like I told you, I moved on.”

“But you’ve been in contact though.”

“A few texts here and there.”

“You’ve spoken to her on the phone as well.”

“When she called me, I didn’t hang up on her.”

“Did you ever call her?”

“Not once I found out she had someone else.”

“Yeah, the freak. John something . . . do you recall his last name? There are a lot of Johns out there.”

“I’ve been thinking. Leather . . . Letter . . . it’s something like that.”

“Keep thinking. You’ll nail it down. And in the meantime, tell me about him.”

“Pretentious arty type.”

“You’ve talked to him?”

“Well . . . no.” Lance blew out air and took a swig of coffee. “No, he just looks pretentious. Really, really skinny. Like he lives on air or something. He has a scrawny beard and a long braid down his back. He wears black—including a black hat.”

“Hipster meets hippy,” McAdams said.

“Yeah . . . like he can’t quite decide. And he’s old . . . old for her, I mean. Maybe thirty-two or thirty-three. He’s just got the type of face that you want to put a fist through. Smug little bastard. I just don’t understand what she sees . . . saw in him. I asked her about it . . . when she called me up. What the fuck do you see in him?”

“What’d she say?” Decker asked.

“She’d just laugh . . . like I couldn’t understand. Bitch!”

“You sound angry.”

“I’m angry at her for being conned.”

“Maybe he was a secret prince?”

“Right . . . living in a one-bedroom shit house in Summer Village outside of Boston. The locals call it Slummer Village.”

“So you know where he lives,” Decker said.

Terry turned a deep red. “Uh . . . she told me. Angeline did. I said he looked old for a college student and she told me he wasn’t a student. That he was some kind of lecturer or postdoc or something.”

“Tufts University is in Medford, which is next to Summer Village,” McAdams said.

“Yeah, I know,” Terry said. “Angeline told me he was at Tufts.”

“What was his field?”

“I didn’t ask and she didn’t tell me. We didn’t speak that often after the breakup.” Terry exhaled. “This isn’t politically correct to say out loud but he looked gay. For the life of me, I can’t understand what she saw in him.”

“Could they have had something else going on?”

Terry was confused. “What do you mean?”

“Julia Kramer told me that about the same time Angeline broke up with you, she began toting around expensive handbags. Could they have been doing something illegal together?”

Lance was stoic, then stunned. “You don’t think they were sleeping together?”

“I don’t know. And it’s possible that they were sleeping together and still doing something illegal. We’re exploring everything. And if you say that he was a postdoc student, it appears she wasn’t getting her money from him.”

“I don’t know where she got her money,” Terry said. “I . . . was out of her life.” He turned to McAdams. “Are you from Massachusetts?”

“I went to school there.”

“Tufts?”

“Yeah,” McAdams lied.

“Did you know him?”

McAdams said, “Lots of Johns in the school, Lance. It would help if I had a last name.”

Terry went quiet. So did McAdams. Decker said, “Did you ever pay the mysterious John a visit, Lance?”

“No . . . why would I?”

“You knew he lived in Summer Village. And I know you were in the area when you went on your audition at the Boston Repertory Company,” Decker said. “Maybe you took a little side visit.”

Terry turned red again . . . this time out of anger. “Lucy told you about the audition?”

“She did. Now I’m not saying you were stalking Angeline—”

“I wasn’t stalking anyone! I had an audition and it didn’t go well. To blow off some steam, I drove by his apartment, taking great pleasure and schadenfreude in his shabby building. Je-ez! Can I go now?”

Decker took a chair and pulled it up close to Terry. “Lance, you’re not a suspect—”

“Well, thank you.”

“You’re here to help us find a killer, okay? So if there was another guy in her life, I want to know about him . . . starting with his last name . . . which I know you know. So tell me.”

Terry closed his eyes. “Latham. John Latham.”

McAdams was already on his iPad. “There’s a John Latham who’s a stage actor in England who’s fifty.”

“The guy wasn’t fifty,” Lance said.

“There’s a John Jeffrey Latham who won a Windsor Prize: Political Analysis of Prolekult and the Soviet Socialist Realism Art Movement.”

“Well, ex-cuse me!” Lance said.

“Let me get an image.” McAdams showed the picture to Lance. “Is this him?”

Lance stared at the picture. “Yeah, that’s him. Do you know him?”

“Nope.”

“What does the article say about him?”

“Not much . . . it mostly talks about the Windsor Prize. It’s given to candidates every four years who have excelled in the fields of arts and politics . . .” McAdams looked up. “I know that Tufts is known for the Fletcher Graduate School of International Affairs. I bet he’s either a postgrad there or maybe a lecturer—something like that.”

“He’s a prick, that’s what he is,” Terry said.

“Lance, do you know anything else about Latham?” Decker asked. “If you know something, tell me now.”

“Only that he and Angeline like to go out for Thai.” He bowed his head. “Okay. So I followed them a little in the beginning. Then Lucy and I starting hanging and I lost interest.”

“Do you have any idea where Angeline got the money to buy expensive purses?”

“No.” Said emphatically. “And it’s really ironic. Because if she wanted nice things like that, I would have bought them for her.”

“You went together for two years and you didn’t buy her anything nice?” Decker asked.

“I took her out to nice places—restaurants, concerts, sports events. I took her to a couple of Jets games, a Knicks game. We went on a couple of nice weekends. But . . . I never bought her much of anything: T-shirts, books, flowers a few times . . . nothing expensive like designer handbags.”

“If you loved her so much, why not?”

“Well . . . for starters . . . she never asked.”

CHAPTER 13

IT WAS TURNING up dawn by the time Lance Terry left the station house. Decker offered to drive him back, but the kid elected to walk, saying that he needed to clear his head. Decker was putting on a fresh pot of coffee when his cell rang. He depressed the button. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Rina answered back. There was an awkward pause. “Just like old times.”

“Sorry. I know this isn’t what you bargained for.”

“I’m fine, honey. You sound tired.”

“A little.”

“But you’re also wired.”

“A little.” Decker smiled although she couldn’t see it. “Did you go back to the city last night?”

“Not without you. I slept on the couch in the kids’ nonexistent living room but that was fine with me. I got to wake up with Lily who seems to enjoy a predawn glass of milk. We’re watching Elmo right now. Later, we’ll go to the park, around eleven after she wakes up from her morning nap.”

“You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“I do. I’m leaving for Philadelphia in the late afternoon by train. The kids are taking me out to a vegetarian Indian restaurant called Spice and Chai. I’ll save you samosas.”

“I see my absence has made no dents in anyone’s plans—as usual.”

Rina ignored his self-pity. “I talked to Cindy last night. Of course, she’s disappointed. But I represent the both of us. I should be back Wednesday afternoon. I’ll send your love.”

“Just like old times,” Decker said. “And not in a good way.”

“Peter, when was the last time Greenbury had a homicide?”

“A whodunit? Maybe like twenty years ago.”

“So if you have to do this again in twenty years, I can live with that. They are very lucky to have you on the force right now. Does Mike know anything about procedure?”

“He’s a smart guy, but he hasn’t done it for a while.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

“Step by step.” Decker chose his words carefully. “Rina, I love our decision to move east. I love living in a clean environment. I love being close to the kids, and I don’t even mind the cold. I hope the homicide is a weird thing and I return to recovering stolen iPads and rescuing cats from trees. I don’t need the thrill of the case to be happy.”

“But what you’re doing right now feels natural, right?”

“I guess it takes time to decompress.”

“This case is basically feeding crack to an addict.”

Decker laughed. “I’m slipping into all my old bad habits. No sleep and too much coffee.”

“At least you don’t smoke anymore. How’s the kid working out? Or is he even in the picture?”

“Better than I thought . . . once we jumped a couple of hurdles.”

“I heard that,” McAdams said.

Decker covered his phone. “We’re talking about the Summer Olympics. Hurdles are my favorite event.” He returned to the phone. “Give Cindy, Koby, and the boys my love. Tell them I promise I’ll visit real soon.”

“Do you really want to tell them that you promise?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Melancholy slipped into Decker’s voice. “Maybe just give them my love and we’ll leave it at that.”

“I’VE MADE OUT a schedule for Lance Terry so we can check out his alibis.” Decker pushed the list across the desk over to McAdams. “Make a few copies. It shouldn’t take too long to verify everything.”

“Do you want me to check out the alibi first or to talk to the administration when it opens?”

“Maybe, neither. Maybe one of the other guys can do it.”

“Still don’t trust me?”

“I might need you for something else.”

“Like?”

Decker handed him a phone number on a scrap of paper. “This is the only number that I could find for John Jeffrey Latham in the Boston area. Give him a call.”

“Sure.” McAdams did. “Voice mail. Should I leave a message?”

“Give it here.” Decker waited for the beep and then pressed the hash mark to go past the instructions. “This is Peter Decker of Greenbury Police Department. Can you please call me back as soon as possible? It’s important.” He left his cell number, the station number, and then he hung up. “It’s seven in the morning. Where could he be without his cell?”

“Sleeping in bed.”

“You of the information highway generation have your cell phones glued to your hands. The call should have woken him up. Try again in five minutes. Leave your cell number. Then he’ll have two numbers to not call.”

Five minutes later, on the dot, McAdams called and left his own voice mail. Decker was scribbling out his thoughts. “Can I have Angeline’s phone bill from last month?”

“Sure.” McAdams slid it across the desk.

Decker’s eyes scanned the list. He gave it back to McAdams. “Do you see Latham’s number anywhere?”

“Uh . . . no, I do not.”

“Do you see any 617 area code numbers?”

“No, I do not.”

“What are the other Massachusetts area codes?”

“If my memory is still intact, which I can’t promise after being up for almost twenty-four hours, it has 857 and 781 . . . uh, why don’t I just look it up?”

“Before you do, what’s the point I am making?”

“That she made no calls to the Boston area.”

“Which means?”

“Either Latham and Boston are dead ends or she had another cell phone.”

“And why would it make sense for her to have another cell phone?”

“If she was doing something illegal, she wouldn’t want a paper record of it.”

“So what’s our next step?”

“Search her place and see if we can find the other cell phone, which we won’t find. Because if she was doing something illegal, she was using a disposable phone.”

“Which means?”

“We won’t be able to recover either a phone bill or a phone number.”

“So what’s our next step?”

McAdams sat back in his chair. “She had to buy the disposable phones somewhere. We need to hit the local phone stores.”

“Tyler, you are truly worthy of your Harvard B.A.”

“How about my two-hundred-thousand-dollar-plus tuition?”

Before Decker could answer, Mike Radar stepped into the station house. Clearly it had been a long time since the captain had worked through the night. Fatigue was etched into his face, sorrow in his eyes. “What’s up?”

Decker said, “We’re making a little headway. Did you get a coroner?”

“A CI came down from Boston. It’s hard to find an exact time of death because of the decomp of the body. Remember, the room was very hot. His best guess is that Angeline probably died sometime on Sunday night. There were ligature marks on her throat—also marks on her feet and wrists. Most likely it was strangulation, but we won’t know for sure until the autopsy is done. The doc couldn’t see any petechiae on her face because it was too bloated.”

“Could she tell if the hyoid was broken?”

“No, but the CI thinks she saw cigarette burns on the body. She couldn’t tell if that was done before or after she died. Her name is Bonnie McFee.” Radar handed him a card. “In case you want to talk to her directly.”

“What’s a CI?” McAdams asked.

“Coroner’s investigator,” Decker said. “They are usually laypeople with some medical experience, like an EMT or a nurse. In big cities, they’re the ones called out to take care of the bodies and get them to someone who’s qualified to do an autopsy. Police can’t touch the bodies until they’ve been seen by someone from the coroner’s office.” To Radar. “What about forensics?”

“Boston’s Crime Laboratory Unit came in about an hour ago. Ben and Kevin are holding the fort. Feel free to talk to whoever you want.”

Decker’s phone buzzed. He looked down at the text. “It’s Angeline’s parents. They’re in southern Maryland, checked into a motel last night. They’ll be here around eleven.” He thought a moment. “Give me a minute to text them back.” When Decker was done, he turned back to Radar. “Has the body already gone north?”

“Yes. They took it back to Boston. And with the city’s murder rate, it might sit in the morgue for a couple of days. Now it’s your turn. Tell me what’s going on.”

Decker gave him the story with as much detail as he could remember. The captain digested the information. Then he said, “So Lance Terry was stalking her?”

“I’m not sure if it was stalking or more like boredom. The next step is checking out Lance’s timeline. If he was where he said he was, he was alibied pretty much all weekend.”

“So he’s out of the picture once we verify his alibi.”

“More or less. Can Kevin do the verification? I can fill him in on everything.”

“Any reason why you don’t want to do it yourself?”

“I want to track down John Latham. I haven’t reached him and that makes me feel uneasy.”

“We called him twice,” McAdams said. “Once Decker left a message and then I made a follow-up call. He’s not answering his cell.”

Decker looked at his watch. “Boston’s about an hour and a half from here by car?”

“Probably two hours in this traffic.”

“What about the train?” Decker asked.

“You have to go to Islewhite.”

Decker’s mind was whirling. “Let me see if I . . .” He dialed the cell number associated with his most recent text. A woman answered the phone. “Hi, this is Peter Decker of Greenbury Police.”

“It’s Karen Bronson, Detective. I’m sorry we’re so late . . . we just had to crash last night . . . it was too long a drive and we were both so exhausted.”

“No, no, no, you did the right thing.” Decker cleared his throat. “So you’re planning on being here around eleven?”

“More like twelve . . . twelve-thirty. We’re getting a late start.”

“Okay.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, it’s perfectly fine. We’ve been talking to a few of Angeline’s friends and I do have a couple of questions for you. Could I ask them now?”

A sigh. “Go ahead.” A pause. “Of course.”

“Are you familiar with the name John Latham?” Silence. “Does it ring any bells?”

A pause. “I don’t know the name . . . hold on, I’ll ask Jim.” Muffled voices and then she came back on the line. “Neither of us knows him. Who is he?”

“I don’t know. He came up in conjunction with Angeline. I was just wondering if she mentioned him to you.”

“No, she didn’t. Is he important?”

“Anyone associated with Angeline is important. I think he may live in a suburb outside of Boston. Did your daughter make weekend trips to Boston?”

“I have no idea. She kept in touch with us, but she rarely spoke about her private life and I . . . didn’t pry. I probably should have.”

Decker heard the sorrow in her voice. “She was a legal adult. You couldn’t have stopped her anyway.” No response. “Okay, if he becomes important, I’ll let you know. A few more questions. I found out from Julia Kramer that Angeline was studying eighteenth-century textiles. She was writing her thesis on the subject.”

“That’s correct. Textiles are her first love. In high school, she did a lot of textile design on her own. She painted material by hand. She taught herself batik and laser print. She experimented with lots of different materials.”

“Is that why she chose Littleton College?”

“Yes, of course. They have a wonderful art department. And she got a great scholarship. She deserved every penny they gave her. She’s a one of a kind, very gifted . . .” There was a sob. “She was, very, very talented.”

“I’d like to hear more about that. It helps me get a feel for who she was. Did she focus on textile design? Or was she talented at other things: drawing, painting—”

“Of course she could draw and paint. But she was excited by . . . how did she phrase it? She liked elevating crafts into works of art. Like her textile designs. She used to call it wearable art.”

“What other crafts did she like?”

“I don’t think Angeline ever met a craft she didn’t like: weaving, macramé, papier-mâché, stained glass, pottery, glass blowing—”

“Stained glass?”

“Yes, she was very good at it. She started at around fourteen. I didn’t relish the idea of her using knives and working with shards of glass, but she was careful. I think she only cut herself a couple of times.”

“It’s an unusual hobby.”

“With Angeline, the more unusual the better.”

“Any idea why she took up stained glass?”

“Like I said, she loved anything artistic and unusual. She was influenced by a woman named Clara Driscoll who worked at Louis Comfort Tiffany Studio—the lamp guy. She told me that the best designs were actually done by her and not by Tiffany even though he put his name on them. That appealed to her as an artist and a woman. Why are you asking about her art?”

“Just trying to get a feel for your daughter. It may be significant down the road.”

“Whatever I can do to help.” Her voice cracked. “Ask your questions, Detective.”

Decker said, “Mrs. Bronson—”

“Karen, please.”

“Karen then. I wouldn’t bring this up unless I thought it was important, so please forgive me in advance.”

“What . . .” Anguish in her voice. “Was she pregnant?”

“Did she intimate that to you?”

“No . . . I mean just the way you’re talking . . . was she pregnant?”

“I honestly don’t know. I haven’t gotten the report back.”

Her voice grew very soft. “How did she die?”

“I won’t know anything definite until I get the report.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“Nothing I want to talk about over the phone. I do have another question for you. Please don’t take it personally. Before she was murdered, Angeline had acquired a collection of expensive handbags and designer shoes. Would you know anything about that?”

“No.” A long pause. “How expensive?”

“Bags over a thousand dollars and exclusive designer boots.”

“Oh my Lord . . . I . . . no, I don’t know anything about it.”

“That’s all I wanted to know. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“She couldn’t afford . . . maybe Lance Terry bought her gifts. He comes from money.”

“We asked him. He didn’t buy them. He did tell me that they broke up a year ago.”

“They did, but I thought they remained friends.”

That jibed with what Emily and Julia had said about Lance, that he had made booty calls to Angeline. “Any idea how she might have acquired those items?”

“No idea at all. She didn’t have that kind of money. Did . . . did she have an older man paying for these items? Is that who this Latham character is?”

“The Latham I’m investigating is in his thirties and appears too poor to afford those kinds of accessories. I’m not even sure what his relationship is to your daughter. He isn’t answering his phone, so I’d like to pay him a visit.”

“Is there a problem with that?”

“Latham lives in the Boston area, which is about an hour and a half from Greenbury without traffic. If I go visit him, I might not make it back before you get here. Would you like me to wait for you? There are other things I could do in the meantime.”

“How important is this Latham?”

“I feel he’s very important. And there are things I need to do in Boston. We’re too small to handle the lab work. The captain wanted it done correctly, so Boston sent out a team.”

She cleared her throat, but her voice choked up. “Where is . . . the body?”

“In Boston.”

There was a long pause. “Shouldn’t we meet you in Boston? After all, you’re not certain that it’s her, right?”

“Karen, we can do the identification with a simple cheek swab.”

“But I want to say good-bye!” Anger in her voice. “I need to say good-bye!”

“Karen, please give it a few days. Then you can give her a proper burial.”