Secrets and sins, p.7
Secrets and Sins, page 7
Alexandra shook her head, and McCallister pushed, “The whole ‘you have the right to remain silent’ spiel—he didn’t recite it to you?” When she shook her head again, McCallister flew to the door, flung it open, and bellowed, “Jansen, get in here!”
Swiftly, he moved into the room, looking uncomfortable and confused. McCallister wailed, “I don’t care that the law says Miranda Warning is only necessary upon arrest. I’ve seen too many innocent people railroaded by this system.” She paused, seeming to try to regain control of her breathing that was swift and audible. “How the hell many times have I told you that I want anyone I question to be read their rights?” He shrugged, and she commanded, “Do it now, Jansen!”
He promptly did as she instructed, ending with, “Do you understand your rights, Mrs. Sinclair?”
“Of course, I understand,” she spat at him. “I’m not the Neanderthal.”
McCallister motioned to the door for Jansen to leave, which he eagerly did. “Men, huh?” she remarked to Alexandra and then took a chair across from her. She probed until she got her to say that she was comfortable waiving her rights, that they could talk freely. “Yes, I’m sure you would want to do all you can to find out who killed your brother.” She watched Alexandra merely bow her head.
After an uncomfortable moment, McCallister asked, “Why is it, Mrs. Sinclair, that you’ve never seemed very upset by the idea that someone murdered your brother?”
“Because he was a cantankerous old man,” she answered very matter-of-factly. Then, she laughed. “Even when he was a boy, he was a cantankerous old man.”
“But you loved him?”
“Of course, I did.”
“And your fighting never went beyond sibling spats?”
“No. He was never good at arguing either. Our spats never lasted very long.”
“Did he ever hurt you ... become violent?”
“For God’s sake, no. I actually think he was afraid of me.”
McCallister requested an explanation, and Alexandra expounded, “I think he was jealous of me. I had a life outside that hell hole of a house, and he had nothing.”
“It seemed like he had all the money, though. No?” McCallister queried.
“That he did,” she replied. “And he was a miser with it, to the point where he lived like a king and I had to live in a slummy apartment.”
“Slummy” did not exactly describe her living conditions, but McCallister had something else in mind. “Yes, I talked to Arlen Dorsey, and it sounds like your brother made sure everything went to the botany department at the university with hardly anything to you. What a shame.”
“That’s not true!” Alexandra shouted. “I just talked to Arlen a few days ago. Everything goes to me!” Her eyes were wild with defiance.
“Oh,” McCallister said, stretching the word. “Did he change the will or something? That’s not what I heard. Maybe I misunderstood.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did change it recently.”
“At your request?”
“Actually, I suppose it was. One of the few times he listened to me. He was getting on in years; he was my older brother, you know. He needed to see that those stupid orchids of his meant nothing, that throwing his money to the lazy leeches at the college was utter stupidity. The money should stay in the family. So, yes, he changed his will.”
“How convenient,” McCallister said as she jotted a couple of notes in her file.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Alexandra yelled. “He was a son-of-a-bitch. Whatever he got he had coming to him. That money is rightfully mine. And frankly, I can’t wait to burn every one of his goddamn orchids. Stupid son-of-bitch! Stupid little man. Stupid men!”
With perfectly ill timing, McCallister’s cell phone went off in her pocket. She grabbed it and spied Holly’s cell number on the screen and chose to ignore it.
“Mrs. Sinclair, remember the conversation we had yesterday about how your fingerprints would be all over your brother’s house?”
“Yes,” she said, still shaking from her angry outburst.
“Well, your DNA is probably all over as well since you had dinner and drinks with him,” she explained. “I’m going to need to get a sample from you so that we can, again, tell what belongs to you and what belongs to someone else.”
Alexandra merely scowled at her.
“I’m afraid—” Her cell phone went off again, this time with the text message tone. She glanced, noting that it was from Holly. It simply read, “Painting = Thaddeus Frederick.”
McCallister apologized for the interruption. She tried again, “I’m afraid we’re going to need a DNA sample from you, like I said, to make sure what belongs to you and what doesn’t.” She rose and moved to the door.
“This is ridiculous, Detective.” She paused. “Perhaps I should call my lawyer.”
“That is certainly your right, Mrs. Sinclair. Please do whatever makes you feel comfortable.” McCallister pleasantly smiled at her.
“This whole thing makes me uncomfortable. If I did what makes me comfortable, I’d leave.”
“Do you want your lawyer? Do you need someone’s help?” McCallister asked. When she finally shook her head, McCallister asked, “Can I get a DNA sample from you then?”
Alexandra questioned how the sample was taken. Once McCallister reassured her that it was a painless swab inside the mouth and a plucking of hair from her head, she consented. McCallister smiled slightly, knowing that avoiding the use of a warrant assured that she still had the upper hand.
McCallister summoned Ristow and stood quietly while the sample was taken and recorded. As Ristow finished up, McCallister asked, “Mrs. Sinclair, do you have any scratches on your body?”
Alexandra emphatically shook her head, and McCallister said, “I have reason to believe that your brother scratched you the other night, so hard, in fact, that your skin was found under his fingernails during his autopsy.” McCallister watched as she squirmed, her face turning red and her hands wildly smoothing her pant legs. “Mrs. Sinclair, I can easily produce a warrant that would allow us to check. It might be in your best interest just to show us.”
“Fine!” she finally shouted, pulling up her sleeve and exposing three long gashes. “You’re going to twist it into something it’s not. I told you he was a cantankerous old man. He was crazy! It was unprovoked! It’s not what you think!”
McCallister asked her to hold out her arm so Ristow could take several photographs. As she angrily did so, McCallister asked, “What is it exactly that you think I think, Alexandra?”
The use of her first name did not go unnoticed by Alexandra. She suddenly looked at McCallister with contempt. “You’re a goddamn cop. Just like the others. You can quit pretending now. Goddamn cop. You think I killed my poor dear brother.”
“Did you, Alex?”
Instead of arguing, she laughed dramatically. “Well, you obviously think so. Does it even matter what I say?”
“It matters to me, Alex.” McCallister said calmly. “Think of me what you will, but I really want the person who did this to him, not just somebody to hang it on.” Then she moved within an inch of her face. “Do you realize that he suffered for hours after he drank the poison this person put in his cognac? Convulsions. Vomiting. Pain. He suffered, Alex! He suffered more than any of us know. And when death finally came for him, it probably felt like a blessing. I want the bastard who would do such a thing to him!” She glared at her.
“See, there it is!” she screamed as she shot up from her chair. “You care about the son-of-a-bitch! Not me—not whether I’m doing what’s comfortable or that I’m not accused of something I didn’t do. Goddamn liar cop! You care about him! Never me. Always that son-of-a-bitch! Everybody cared for that son-of-a-bitch. Mother and Father, so fucking in love with their little man, their precious little man. Am I glad he’s gone? You bet, but I didn’t do it!” she yelled, punctuating the denial with fists on the table.
McCallister eagerly showed her hand. “Your prints are on the bottle of poison, on the snifter, on the cognac that you bought that night. You have scratches on your arm. You admit to arguing with him. Even the neighbors heard you arguing. You got him to change his will so everything went to you. He said he was afraid of you, Alex. He was a stupid little man who was afraid of you. And from listening to all this crap you’re spewing, I think he was probably right to be afraid of you.” She paused long enough to give her a look of disgust. “Yeah, you loved him all right.”
Alexandra’s eyes grew wide and dark. She stared at McCallister, but McCallister refused to flinch.
“He was your brother, your own flesh and blood! You make me sick, Mrs. Sinclair.” She pointed to the chair, told her to sit down, and then waited for her to comply.
“I want my lawyer.”
“You need your lawyer.”
McCallister and Ristow slowly and quietly left the room.
Chapter 7
McCallister closed the door to the interrogation room and made a beeline down the hall. Greeley, who had apparently watched the entire interrogation, gave her a confident thumbs-up. “Good job, Laura,” he said. “You got everything but a signed confession, and I really thought you were about to get one. Motive up the wazoo. I’ll call Sharon.”
She waved at him and then darted into the bathroom. Hurrying into the last stall and falling to her knees, she vomited. She knelt there until her stomach stopped roiling and her face stopped sweating. She stood for a moment to brace herself, and upon exiting, she almost ran face-first into Ristow.
“Are you okay, Laura?” she asked with visible concern.
McCallister smiled. “Well, you really mustn’t think so if you called me by my first name,” she quipped. “Only Greeley does that around here.”
Ristow put her hand out and waited for reciprocation. Smiling, the two shook hands.
“Laura, nice to meet you. My name is Leigh,” she said. “Now, are you all right?”
She laughed. “Yes, Leigh. I’m just fine. Anger just has that effect on my stomach sometimes.”
“I hear you,” she reassured.
“I used to think it was weakness. Now I either know better, or I’ve deluded myself into thinking that it’s just getting other people’s evil out of my system. Whatever.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? Can I get you anything?”
“As a matter of fact, there this. Get my evidence to the lab!”
Ristow laughed. “Yes, you are just fine! As bossy as ever.” She clutched her collection kit and camera and sped out the door.
McCallister washed up and then strode back into the hallway to find Jansen waiting for her. “Did I do something wrong, Detective? Should I really have read her her rights?”
“Damn, I wish you’d trust me, Jansen,” she said. “If I was going to yell at you for a screw-up, I sure as hell wouldn’t do it in front of a suspect.”
“Oh, I suppose not,” he said, his body relaxing and a smile making its way across his face.
“She didn’t need to be Mirandized. I just wanted the path of least resistance with her. It was probably wasted energy, but it certainly didn’t hurt,” she explained. “Can you make sure she gets a call to her lawyer?”
“Already taken care of. He’s on his way. She also said she’s diabetic and needs lunch, so I took care of that, too,” he boasted. “And Greeley says he wants to see you.”
She thanked him and headed to the captain’s office. She found him seated at his desk, just hanging up the phone. “Everything is set,” he said. “Her lawyer’s on the way. Sharon said to go for it. So I want you to grab lunch, get as much of your paperwork done as possible, and get the hell out of here.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. Even after he nodded vigorously, she added, “Positive?”
“What is the big deal, Laura?” he asked, obviously confused by her unusual behavior. “You’ve got her. Case closed. Get out of here.”
McCallister left his office, and then with her jacket in hand, she snuck out the back of the building to avoid the press. She took a spot on the grass that spring was coaxing the green back into. She lit a cigarette, inhaled, and then exhaled so deeply that it made her lightheaded. Willfully, she tried to clear her mind, but it wouldn’t stop its churning. She thought of Holly, and a sudden need to wrap her arms around her, to feel her love, consumed her.
Quickly, she grabbed her cell, thumbed “I love you,” sent it, and then waited. The cell’s irritating tone would tell her that Holly was there and that she felt the same way. Minutes passed, and still the text message remained unanswered. She fidgeted. She worried. She checked the cell’s signal bars and power. And finally the tone told her what she needed to know. “I love you, too,” the message read.
Then seconds later, the cell sounded again. “Eat lunch!”
“Pack!” she thumbed back to her.
“Serious?”
“Yes!”
The to-and-fro text messages ended with both a smiley face and another “I love you!” from Holly.
Recharged, she headed back to her desk to get as much paperwork done as she could. The area was bustling with activity—activity she knew would have been her doing and responsibility had there not been the state of Maine. She glanced up as a confident Jansen escorted Alexandra Sinclair out of interrogation in the direction of booking with Arlen Dorsey in hot pursuit. She saw Jessop in the group, giving her a salute and a smile in passing. She endured the nasty glare from Faraday’s sister, and in her mind, she tried to imagine the clouds evaporating from his eyes. It was a horrid end, but at least in that end, there were words given to describe his demise.
And through it all, there was a gnawing knot in the pit of her stomach.
Greeley approached to ask whether or not she wanted to take care of the press conference or if she wanted him to do it. Normally, that official announcement provided closure for her, but this time she hesitated. First, she thought to tell him to do it; he loved the media spotlight when there were positive things to say about his department. Then, she conceded, “I’ll take care of it.”
The media nearly mobbed her as she approached the curb.
“Alexandra Sinclair has just been arrested for the murder of her brother, Tobias Faraday,” she announced.
She watched as Kate instantaneously hit a button on her PDA, again a pre-written piece made its way to the Granton Journal after confirmation was had. Knowing Kate as she did, she was sure the article was riddled with facts about Alexander Sinclair, things she had researched after she had probably followed Jansen to the apartment complex that morning. She didn’t smile, but she wanted to.
She answered all the press’ questions that she could and then headed back to the paperwork. At four-thirty, she handed Greeley what she had, grabbed her jacket, and made for home.
Holly enthusiastically greeted her at the door, her level of excitement bordering on frenzy. McCallister knew that it stemmed from more than the simple prospect of Maine. It was the last-second seizure of something almost dropped. It was the final downhill slope of a nauseating roller coaster ride. It was victory, and that became sorely evident when Holly offered high-fives.
“You’re good, Detective!” she declared. “I’m very proud of you. I really didn’t think you could do it, and not because I doubted you. Just because time was definitely not on your side.”
McCallister gently tugged her into the living room and brought them both to a horizontal position on the couch. She wrapped her arms around her and just drifted into the solace. It was good there. It was safe.
“So who killed the poor old guy, babe?” Holly asked after several minutes of silence.
“His sister.”
“And that makes you sad,” she put forward without question.
“Yes,” she readily confirmed. “Doesn’t it make you sad?”
“Yes, it makes me sad, too. I think I would have liked him. I don’t know why I think that. Maybe just the painting.” She paused. “Who is Thaddeus Frederick anyway?”
“He’s the guy who lives in Faraday’s guesthouse.”
“Would I like him, too?” she asked. “I mean aside from the fact that he liked my work so much that he doubled my commission.”
“I don’t know, Hol,” McCallister flatly responded. “I’ve never met him. No one has, actually.”
“Well, I bet I’d like him,” she deduced and then asked, “Are you hungry, babe? I’d bet my life that you never had lunch.”
McCallister informed her that she wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a glass of wine. Reluctantly, they got up from the couch.
Holly brought her wine while McCallister readied to shower. Holly hoped that the combination of those two things would bring her lover fully back to her. McCallister hovered in a different place—a place Holly recognized from afar as one common to her murder investigations. She knew from experience that her job now was to wait it out, to gently coax her back, and to be there for her when she arrived.
Indeed, she seemed more like herself after the shower. She continued to sip her wine as they rechecked their luggage and prepared the house for their absence. McCallister checked the outside of the house and made sure the cars were locked. Holly checked appliances and shoved snacks into her carry-on. They sat by the front door, going through tickets and itineraries, when a car horn blared. A moment later, Kate and Claudia stood at the door with outstretched hands looking for luggage to carry.
“Thanks, you two, for offering to get us to the airport,” Holly said, giving them both a hug and a kiss.
McCallister and Kate loaded the trunk, while Holly and Claudia gabbed like only best friends could do. Eventually, the foursome was maneuvering through Friday night traffic with Kate at the wheel. She pulled to the curb at the airport, and the whole packing and gabbing routine ran its reverse course. Holly and Claudia had a drawn-out goodbye, as if years instead of days were about to pass.
