If I were God, I know what the eleventh commandment would be: Thou shalt not kill before 8 a.m. on a Monday.
That thought gave me no comfort on this sticky July morning as I climbed a long flight of steps hemmed in by white wrought-iron railings which led to the ornately-carved wooden door of a Greenwich Village brownstone. I wished I’d stayed in bed with the AC on full blast.
I flashed my badge hanging around my neck on a lanyard at the uniformed cop blocking the door. “Detective Pagano,” I said, my Brooklyn accent asserting itself. He gave me the once over, his eyes searching me with the subtlety of an amateur pickpocket as they settled on my pride lapel pin I wore on my suit in honor of my late brother, a victim of a hate crime. A flash of disgust on his face told me sexual harassment lived to see another day.
The uniform stepped aside without a word. I pulled out my booties from the pocket of my suit and slipped them on my shoes. I grabbed latex gloves from my other pocket and pulled them on.
I made my way through the dim foyer, and into the living room, nearly tripping on a pair of Italian leather shoes. My vision adjusted to the lack of light, and the man who owned them sprawled on his back came into focus. A corpse is never a pretty sight, even a handsome one in his early forties with dark curly hair.
I crouched beside him. The three bloody holes in his chest was proof his life hadn’t worked out the way he’d planned. He wore an expensive suit, a blood-stained white shirt, black pants, and a shiny gold Rolex on his right wrist. In my head, the robbery motive went bye-bye.
The wounds appeared to come from a small caliber gun at close range.
“Good morning,” a voice rang out behind me. I’d know Gleason’s raspy caw anywhere. I glanced up and found him standing in the foyer, his six-four frame topped with a head of thick gray hair. “You’re looking fine today, Detective, mighty fine,” he added, eyeing the cut of my new charcoal suit I splurged on that cost half a week’s pay.
“You’re happy for a Monday morning,” I said, grinning. “I thought you were taking off today?”
“And leave you on your own?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I said.
“You took the call, you’re the lead. I’m here to help.” He returned my smile.
“Meet Mr. John Miller,” Gleason said, pointing to the victim, then wiping his brow with the sleeve of his suit, though the temperature outside hadn’t hit eighty yet. “An eyewitness across the street, a Mrs. Parry, called nine-one-one. She heard a shot and thought she spotted Mrs. Miller race down the steps and disappear toward Seventh Avenue.”
“She’s not positive?”
He shook his head. “She’s eighty-two, bad eyesight even with glasses. She gave me a line on the Millers. He practiced law, and she owns the Shining Rose Real Estate three blocks away, near Sixth. They’re childless. That’s not all.” Gleason kept me hanging for a few seconds. My partner loved dramatics. He’s a stillborn actor, no matter how much he denies it. “Mrs. Parry thinks she heard the Millers fighting last night. A shouting match,” she said.
“Thanks. I’ll take care of Mrs. Miller and poke around here,” I said.
“I’ll finish up the neighborhood and see you back at the Six.” Gleason disappeared from the foyer.
After partnering with him for a year and a half, I concluded he enjoyed talking to people. Sometimes I couldn’t shut him up. He insisted on handling the canvassing because informing relatives of a death wasn’t his favorite task.
I stepped past the corpse and took in the sunlit living room that looked like a photo from Architectural Digest. Intricate mahogany molding adorned the off-white walls where they met the ceiling and the floor. A crystal chandelier hung high above the antique oak flooring, while a white leather couch and a glass table with a pile of coffee-table sized books populated the center of the room.
The crime lab boys announced their boisterous arrival, hauling their equipment in while I searched the spare bedroom. Books lined two walls and a solid-looking black oak desk stood against another. I searched the desk piled high with papers and empty boxes. Nothing of importance. I ran a finger along a shelf and specks of dust danced in the air. They weren’t clean freaks. Momma Pagano would stroke out.
I scribbled notes in my notebook, then checked the master bedroom. A different story in here. Clothes cluttered the floor and an empty wine bottle, an old lotto ticket, a set of car keys, a wallet, and other odds and ends covered the dresser. I thumbed through John Miller’s wallet. Credit cards, driver’s license, and two hundred in cash. Not bad pocket change. The money confirmed my earlier suspicion of ruling out a robbery, I checked the closets, and spotted only men’s clothes. Divorced?
I checked the bathroom and the lone towel and toothbrush confirmed he lived alone. The rest of the house yielded nothing. No forced entry, no signs of a struggle, and a clean kill that lasted seconds. The crime lab boys were busy when I left.
I double-parked my Pontiac at the curb in front of the Shining Rose Real Estate eight blocks away and palmed the keys.
Peering through the tiny store front, I found a man sitting at a computer on a desk and two women standing over him. I pinned the willowy, sharp dressed woman with a short mane of blonde hair as the new widow. I walked in and flashed my badge. “Mrs. Miller?”
They all looked up. “Yes?” the blonde said.
“I’m Detective Pagano. We need to talk in private. This concerns your husband.”
She brushed a wisp of hair from her perfect made-up face. “My husband, John? what’s he—.”
“In private.”
She led me to an immaculate rear office with a white pine desk and comfortable-looking ergonomic chair.
I closed the door. I hated delivering bad news. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Miller. We found your husband John shot to death earlier this morning in your home.”
I waited for her to collapse into her chair or faint, anything to tell me she harbored feelings for her late husband. She did neither at first.
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Sounds like his girlfriend got fed up with his shenanigans. Oh my God.” Then she fell into the chair behind the desk.
Her tears came fast. I sensed she wasn’t acting, and gave her time to compose herself. The clean office and pigsty house didn’t jibe. “I have a few questions for you, that okay?”
She nodded.
“When did you leave him?”
She wiped the tears from her eyes, the mascara blackening her face. “We haven’t been living together since I filed for a separation six months ago. John inherited the brownstone from his mother. I moved to a loft on West 27th off Seventh Avenue near Carol, my secretary, the brunette outside.”
“You mentioned his girlfriend. Do you know her?”
“No, he refused to say.”
“When did you last see him?”
She breathed in deep before she spoke. “Last night. We argued. He asked me to stop by the brownstone. He needed money. I gave him two hundred dollars, but he wanted more.”
“A witness spotted you leaving your husband’s house at seven this morning.”
Her emerald green eyes grew bright, like a fire igniting behind them. “I haven’t been there since last night. Carol and I started working at six a.m. this morning on the new computer system. Ask her or the tech who’s been here with us the whole time.”
“I will. Did anyone threaten your husband recently?”
Through her tears she asked, “I threatened him with divorce, does that count?”
I shook my head. Not in a court of law. “You mentioned he wanted money? For what?”
“My husband has a problem with gambling besides woman. He liked his drinks.”
“How about someone who’d want to hurt him?”
“Other than a girlfriend, I can’t think of anyone.”
“Sorry for your loss, Mrs. Miller.” I gave her my card. “If you think of anything. The coroner’s office will call you.”
Her sobbing subsided as I exited the office and spoke to Carol, Mrs. Miller’s secretary, then to the tech separately. They corroborated Mrs. Miller’s story. The jealous wife fell down a few lines on my suspect list. Real estate prices were up. A brownstone went for millions in this neighborhood. Did she hire someone to kill him?
Undecided, I returned to the precinct and tracked down Gleason to the cramped kitchen in the Detective’s room, sipping coffee from his infamous emerald-green cup. I didn’t like that devious smile of his.
“What’s the secret,” I said, helping myself to a paper cup of coffee whose viscosity defied gravity.
Gleason chuckled. “I love working with you, Antonio.”
He knew I hated my given name. He liked the way the syllables rolled off his Irish tongue, his sense of humor sharp as always. Hell, he treated me like his own son. “The name’s Tony,” I said. “Enlighten me.”
His eyes lit bright blue. “I’ve done my good deed for the people of Manhattan.”
“Gleason…”
He shuffled to the sink and set his mug on the counter. “A Linda Dawson confessed to killing our well-dressed Mr. Miller. Want a peek at her?”
Gleason enjoyed teasing me. His idea of intellectual foreplay. “Who’s she?”
“Miller’s next-door neighbor. Ready?”
“Sure.” Slurping the rest of the coffee, and burning the roof of my mouth, I trashed the cup and followed Gleason to Interrogation Room One.
I peered through the one-way at a hunched over bleached-blonde Linda Dawson, dressed for an evening out in tight black jeans and shiny black top at 10 a.m. in the morning. I pegged her at about my age, a young-looking thirty-five.
Her head perked up as we entered the room with its muted pale green walls and occupied by three chairs and a rectangular metal table bolted to the floor. We took seats opposite her at the narrow table. I introduced myself and Gleason did the same. Gleason recited her Miranda rights and told her we were being videotaped. She waved away the suggestion of a lawyer. She’s either stupid, guilty, or a bit of both. Eyes red and puffy and her mascara beyond help, she avoided my gaze, as if embarrassed to find herself in a police precinct confessing to murder. I didn’t blame her.
“Mrs. Dawson?” She gave a noncommittal shrug. “Tell us what happened this morning?”
Sniffling, she leaned forward and laid her arms across the table. “At 7 a.m. I took my husband’s gun from the closet and knocked on John’s door and I….” She broke into a tirade of heaving sobs.
We waited for her crying to stop. “I shot John, three times,” she said. “I hid the gun in a trash dumpster on Seventh Avenue.”
I looked at Gleason. “We recovered a .22. I’m waiting for the lab results.”
“Why did you kill him, Mrs. Dawson?”
Her face didn’t give anything away. “We’ve been seeing each other, then his wife found out. He called me this morning and said we were done.” Her words sounded rehearsed to me. An actress? She removed a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
“An affair?” That fit with what Mrs. Miller mentioned about a girlfriend. Neither Mr. Miller or Mrs. Dawson were delinquent in the good looks department. “How long were you together?”
“A year,” Linda Dawson said, not a hint of shame apparent in her voice. “If I can’t have him, then no one can.”
Possessive woman. Did she want him that bad? A knock sounded at the door. Sal Davis, our newbie detective with a shock of bright red hair, stuck his head in and motioned to us.
“Excuse us,” I said, following my older partner into the hallway.
Gleason beat me to the question. “What’s going on, Davis?”
“Mr. Paul Dawson’s downstairs. He wants to talk to his wife. The .22 is registered in his name. We nabbed him on a drunk and disorderly ten years ago.”
“Thanks,” I said. Davis left us alone. “This puts Miller’s wife in the clear. Dawson’s wife covering for him?”
Gleason’s eyes brightened as he chewed on my words and his brow tightened. “She’s hiding something. I’ll put him in the box.”
“I’ll meet you in room two,” I said, because I had more questions for his wife.
Gleason nodded and headed to the room down the hall. I entered the interrogation room again and faced Linda Dawson. “When did your husband discover your affair?”
She sighed, leaned back in the chair. “He doesn’t know, he wouldn’t care anyway. He’s busy with his precious consulting job.”
“What time did he leave this morning?”
She hesitated. “He didn’t. He went into work yesterday and said he wouldn’t be home until tonight.”
I pulled out my pad and scratched a few notes. “That unusual?”
“He’s worked weekends half dozen times a year in the past.”
Convenient alibi. “We’re finished for now. You’ll be escorted to a holding cell.”
***
Twenty minutes later, I sat with Gleason in the identical interrogation room next door, except for Linda Dawson’s husband Paul, sitting across from us.
The .22 sat in a clear evidence bag in front of Gleason on the table as I strode into the room. “I own the gun. I don’t know how the gun founds its way to the dumpster.” He ran a hand through his thick rug of curly brown hair. “Someone stole the gun last month.”
“Did you report the theft?” I asked.
“I did. Check your files.”
“We did,” Gleason said. “Nothing’s been filed.”
“Not my fault you can’t find the record.”
I bit my tongue and wanted to knock the smirk from his face. I believe certain people are born obnoxious liars. “Has your wife been acting strange the last few days?”
He shrugged. “Lately, she’s been moody, crying, you know.”
“Mr. Dawson.” I took a deep breath. “Did you know your wife had—.”
“An affair? I’m not blind. I love her. I’d never divorce her.”
From the look on his face, Gleason didn’t think much of this man. “You knew Miller was having affair with your wife?”
“Yeah. There were others.”
“She said you didn’t know,” I said.
“What’d you expect her to say?” Dawson shot back.
I agreed with him. “Did Mrs. Miller know?”
“No idea.” The expression on his face turned to worry. “Are you arresting me?”
“We’re holding you until we clear things up,” Gleason said.
“Look, I agreed to talk,” he pleaded.
We didn’t answer and left him sitting, staring at the blank wall until Davis escorted him to a holding cell. Gleason started the paperwork for a search warrant for Mrs. Dawson’s house. I dug up information on the Miller’s brownstone. John Miller’s name alone appeared on the title. His wife told the truth about the brownstone belonging to her husband. I called the computer tech service and verified that the 6 a.m. start time for the computer upgrade installation. Mrs. Miller’s name fell further down on the suspect list.
***
I treated myself to two glasses of Chardonnay before bed. My thoughts drifted back to Linda Dawson as I fell asleep. A murderess or not? And Paul Dawson, the jealous husband? Paul Dawson’s .22 killed Mr. Miller. But who’s finger pulled the trigger?
I didn’t sleep well.
***
I awoke thinking of the Miller case. I had motive, opportunity, a confession, but two suspects.
By the time I dressed, I settled on questioning the local newsboy, Ralph Petersen. Gleason had given me his name yesterday. The kid might shine light on the dark corners where I couldn’t see. One call confirmed Ralph went to school today. I called Gleason and I caught him in route to search the Dawson’s place. We made plans to meet either at the Dawson’s or later at the precinct.
I called forensics for the results on the gun before I left. Two sets of fingerprints, one too smeared for forensics, the other belonging to Paul Dawson. I stopped at the Sixth precinct and picked up the keys to the Miller’ house for a second peek.
Half an hour later, I sat inside Chelsea High School, in the principal’s office. The principal, Susan Howard, a forty-something in a business suit, acted like she’d seen this before. She let us use her office and described Ralph as a fifteen-year-old straight-A student and a bit of a rebel.
The rebel description stirred memories from my high school days. They had told me I headed down a dead-end street. Here I am, past thirty, single with a career, but no marriage prospects in sight. I’d wasted years dating, waiting to fall in love with the perfect woman, but that never happened. Not yet anyway.
The door opened and Ralph Peterson stepped into the room, followed by Susan Howard. Ralph fit the description of tall and handsome, but he needed a shave. His wavy, longish brown hair fell to his shoulders of his black t-shirt with a heavy-metal guitar band I’d heard of but never listened to. Ralph appeared older, an easy eighteen.
Ralph settled into a chair beside me where I sat in front of Susan Howard’s desk. He fidgeted, his one knee bobbing and his right hand tapping his thigh to music in his head. Not every day you get a visit by the NYPD. “I gather your principal explained why I’m here?” Ralph glanced at her then at me. “What time do you deliver the paper?”
“Starting at six, before school.”
“Did you see Mr. Miller yesterday morning?”
His face went blank and he stared into space for a few seconds like teenagers often do. His knee stopped moving for a second.
I refreshed his memory. “Twenty-six West Thirteenth. White wrought-iron railing?”
“Right. No, I didn’t.”
“You delivered their paper?”
“I did.”
“Did you see anyone else? Any suspicious looking cars prowling the neighborhood?”
“No.”
“How about Mr. Dawson? The Miller’s next-door neighbor, one house over toward Seventh Avenue?”
“Oh them. Nope.”
“What time did you finish your route?”
“Seven a.m.”
Not talkative and his answers came fast. Nervousness will do that. “Okay, thanks.”
Disappointed, I left to meet Gleason at the Dawson’s house. I caught him leaving the house.
I stopped in front of the stoop and watched Gleason trotting down the steps toward me. “What’d you find?”
Gleason shrugged. “Nada. Want a peek?”
“Sure.” Gleason handed me the keys. “Meet you at the Six.”
Gleason waved and walked away. I climbed the steps, unlocked the door and stepped inside the Dawson’s house.
I started in the kitchen and worked my way toward the bedroom.
Neatness wasn’t Linda Dawson’s forte. Dirty dishes filled the sink and the kitchen table lay buried beneath a pile of clothes, an unread copy of yesterday’s Daily News rolled up in a plastic bag, a paper-clipped pile of coupons, and an empty glass whose contents had since dried. I thumbed through the pile of clothing. A black lace camisole on top of the pile with a broken strap caught my eye, as if ripped apart in a fit of passion.
I wandered into the master bedroom. His and her dressers side by side occupying the far wall, to the left of the king-sized bed. A fifty-inch TV overlooked the bed on the opposite wall. Mementos of their lives cluttered the dressers: a collection of ceramic animal statues, a gold-rimmed wedding photo, a jewelry box on hers while black and white photos, and a bunch of change crowded his. A replica of an old-fashioned radio sat centered on top of his dresser. I turned the radio on and loud rock music blared into the room. I switched the radio off.
The other bedroom turned up nothing. In the living room, I noted a projection TV, a huge CD collection, mostly easy listening, and an expensive McIntosh stereo rig. Paul Dawson liked to spend money as much as John Miller.
I walked outside and re-locked the door. I stepped next door, under the yellow crime scene tape, keyed the front door and stepped inside the Miller’s house. I searched the kitchen and the den and even the bedroom.
I didn’t like the narrative I saw. Something felt off. I needed to talk to Mrs. Parry before heading to the precinct.
Ten minutes later, I sat perched on a floral love seat opposite Mrs. Parry’s in her cozy apartment, declining tea for the second time.
“Mrs. Parry, you spoke to my partner and said you witnessed Mrs. Miller running away from her brownstone yesterday, the morning Mr. Miller died. That correct?”
She looked like my grandmother except my grandmother was heavier and wore black, never a floral housecoat like Mrs. Parry. I doubted there was an ounce of fat on Mrs. Parry. She adjusted her glasses whose frame matched the same shade of gray as her thinning bob of hair. “Yes, I heard a gunshot. I jumped out of bed and through my window saw her running away.”
“Were you wearing glasses?”
“I don’t when I go to sleep.”
“But you’re positive you saw Mrs. Miller?”
“No mistaking her blond hair. Who else would be running out of her brownstone? The gun shot startled me awake.”
“Only one shot?”
“Yes.”
John Miller’s body bore three holes from the .22. “You wear a hearing aid?”
“I own one but it never worked right, so I don’t use it.”
“Did you see anyone else outside this morning?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t.”
“Thanks for answering my questions,” I said, standing up. I refused a cup of tea for a third time and left. Lonely didn’t describe her. Sad how people fell through the cracks when they get older.
Back at the precinct, Gleason waved me over to his desk as he hung up the phone. “Paul Dawson wants to confess.”
“Great, two confessions,” I said, plopping into the beat-up wooden chair beside Gleason’s desk. Sometimes good news is harder to sort through than the bad.
“Not really,” Gleason said. “I made a few calls to McPherson associates, where he works as a consultant. He worked late and stayed overnight at the Doubletree hotel on Fifty-first. I called the hotel. They verified he checked out this morning at 8:13 a.m., after someone permanently checked out our Mr. Miller. He didn’t murder Mr. Miller.”
Protecting his wife? One confession and a false confession. “I talked to Mrs. Parry. She wasn’t wearing glasses or her hearing aid. She assumed the blonde woman running away from the Miller house was Mrs. Miller.”
“Or Mrs. Dawson, then?”
“Yes. I’m not buying that Mrs. Miller stole Paul Dawson’s gun and shot her husband. How could she do that?”
“Don’t know,” Gleason said. “Want to watch Mr. Dawson give his false confession?”
I sighed, and checked my watch for the time. “I’ll catch up. I’ll run out for a bite to eat and need to make a phone call.”
***
An hour later, Gleason strolled up to my desk where I sat, a huge grin on his face. “We have evidence in black and white,” he said.
I didn’t understand. “You’re gloating.”
“I explained the charges of perjury and obstruction for giving a false confession to Paul Dawson. He declined to confess.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Then I went through a bunch of receipts from the Dawson’s garbage can. We traced a garage receipt to the widow, Susan Miller, and her 99′ Corvette she keeps at the garage that Paul Dawson paid for. Looks like they swapped partners. I’m betting Linda Dawson shot Mr. Miller and dumped the gun like she said. Or Mrs. Miller stole the gun from Paul Dawson and shot her husband.”
I shook my head. “But Mrs. Miller had an alibi, her secretary, and the tech I spoke with vouched for her.”
Gleason sat down on the corner of my desk. “Or they’re lying.”
“No. I verified the 6 a.m. computer upgrade appointment with the computer tech’s company,” I said.
“The blonde had to be Mrs. Dawson. We have an eyewitness and the murder weapon.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Mrs. Parry claimed she spotted Mrs. Miller running out of the house. If you were mad enough to shoot someone, would you walk inside the house and shoot him? Why not shoot when he opened the door?”
Gleason shrugged. “If I didn’t want to wake the neighbors, I’d shoot him inside.”
“Not if you were angry, and the person you loved spurned you minutes before with a phone call?”
Gleason’s eyes narrowed. “Okay.”
“Unless Mr. Miller invited the killer inside?” The adrenaline rush made me jump out of the chair. Got you. I hated being lied to. “We need to take a run at Linda Dawson again,” I said.
“Sure,” Gleason agreed.
“I need to make some more phone calls. I’ll catch up to you in room one.”
Half an hour later, we sat opposite Mrs. Dawson again in Interrogation Room One. My gut feeling said that with a prod, the truth might come spilling out. What an optimist. I had to try something. I lied. “Ralph spilled everything to us,” I said. Linda Dawson’s eyes dimmed at the news. I went for the kill. “Tell me, Mrs. Dawson, how long after you broke up with John Miller did you start seeing Ralph?”
She spat out her words. “What? He’s a boy. That’s ridiculous.”
“Your husband’s an easy listening fan?”
“So?”
I told her what I surmised. “The radio in your bedroom was tuned to a rock channel, but I found easy listening in your CD collection. And Ralph delivers the paper in your neighborhood. I called the Daily News ten minutes ago. You don’t pay for delivery, but a copy of yesterday’s paper sat rolled up in a plastic bag on your kitchen table. Care to explain?”
“Oh. Ralphie’s a nice boy. He drops off an extra paper to me sometimes for free for the coupons.” Gleason nor I said a word. She filled in the silence. The interrogation technique came in handy.
“He’s been giving me free papers as a favor to me for a while.” She lowered her voice, letting us in on her secret. “Don’t tell on him, he’ll get fired.”
I did find a stack of coupons on the table. “He slept over and before he left to do the route the next morning, you ended your affair. How am I doing?”
Mrs. Dawson jumped to her feet, the anger visible on her face, looking for a fight. “You’re crazy.”
“Sit, please.” I said, my voice a whisper. I wasn’t giving in to her. She glared at me and Gleason but then obeyed.
I continued. “Ralph came back before finishing the route to plead with you, didn’t he? The Millers are the last stop on his route. I called Mrs. Parry. Ralph delivered her paper yesterday. I searched the Miller’s house and didn’t find yesterday’s Daily News. Their Daily News sat on your kitchen table. Why give you Monday’s paper for coupons? Coupons come out on Sunday, not Monday. Ralph lied to me about delivering the Millers’ paper.”
Her total demeanor changed as if she’d discovered she had a month to live. Tears welled in her eyes. “I slept with him twice. My God, how…” Her shoulders heaved, and she broke down into long, rhythmic sobs. More tears ran down her face. “Ralphie didn’t understand. He thought he loved me. I told him to find someone his age, to remember our time together. I didn’t think…”
“He’d kill Mr. Miller?”
“John called me this morning. Ralphie assumed I’d gone back to John Miller. I swear I didn’t. Ralphie knew about the gun. He went crazy and grabbed Paul’s gun from the closet. I ran after him. John opened the door. Ralphie stepped inside his house and I heard three shots. Ralphie must have run out the back door. I found the gun and wiped the fingerprints and dumped the gun in the dumpster on Seventh Avenue.”
The image of the ripped camisole came to me. Youthful inexperience? “I found the ripped camisole on your pile of laundry with a broken strap. Ralph do that?”
“Yes. He—he….” She burst into more tears. Were the tears for Ralph or herself?
“And your husband?” Gleason put in. “You knew of Susan Miller and your husband’s affair?”
“Yes,” she said, failing to hold back her tears.
“Why lie for Ralph?”
Her tears stopped. “Don’t you see? He did it for me? I had to protect him. My husband doesn’t love me like that.”
“It’s ironic, Mrs. Dawson,” I said. “Your husband lied about the gun being stolen and almost confessed to murder because he loves you.” True love like that was elusive. She didn’t know how lucky she’d been.
A look of disgust appeared on Gleason’s face as he dashed from the room to pick up Ralph. Davis entered the room. Linda Dawson’s tears were getting to me. I wanted out of there. “Detective Davis will escort you to call your lawyer. Care for a cup of coffee first?”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, exiting the interview room to retrieve her coffee.
Linda Dawson gave Ralph the only thing she had to offer, but that wasn’t enough. Sometimes memories are never enough. And sometimes love kills. I headed for the coffee pot. It sure did.
[Image Credit : Photo by Nick Design on Unsplash]
Charles Spataro is a writer of mystery/crime fiction novels as well as
short stories and is a member of SinC, ITW, and MWA. He traded his
career as a research mechanical engineer for that of a writer and a
bookseller of modern first editions and lives on the eastern end of Long
Island, New York.
