Watchers of the Night, page 4
She rose from her seat and walked toward him, and Adam couldn’t help but notice the alluring sway of her hips, the way her buttoned shirt molded her breasts and thick, black curly hair tied into a ponytail. Her dark-brown skin glowed beneath the warm ceiling lights.
Her eyes never left his as she finally stopped and held out her hand. “Detective Solberg, I’m Cynthia Cornwall. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
Her grip was firm and warm. “Likewise.” He was nervous, and for the life of him couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t as if he was on a date, but he felt like a piece of evidence beneath her scrutiny.
“Please.” She indicated the chair opposite her own. “Would you like something? I’m buying.”
“Café mocha. And it’s my treat.”
She gave him a look. “No, I insist.”
Her stance gave Adam the distinct impression that Ms. Cornwall felt she needed to prove something. He wasn’t in the mood to argue—it had been a long day, as his stomach forcefully reminded him. “Thanks. I’ll get myself a sandwich.”
“I said I would buy. What would you like?”
He asked for the Cuban sandwich, then sat down while she approached the counter to place the order. Beside her laptop was a closed notebook and a unique-looking pen. It looked like she was working on an investigation. Dad’s, maybe?
The coffee shop, in his mind, didn’t fit with Ms. Cornwall’s personality, but who was he to say? He never figured Bruiser to be a choir singer, either.
He took a closer look at the paintings. A few were abstract. One was either an original Salvador Dalí or an excellent copy. And he recognized a Group of Seven landscape hanging near the door.
The one over their table was distinctly Middle Eastern—what caught his eye was the lone pomegranate painted in the lower corner. The home in the painting was a simple two-story building with a balcony on the upper level. The colors were so vibrant that if Adam closed his eyes, he could almost see his own grandmother standing out front. He sighed, knowing he would have to call her as well to break the news of her son-in-law’s death.
“The artist is a friend of the café owner,” Ms. Cornwall said quietly. “I love the colors, and the impression of a simple, but happy life living in that home.”
Adam spied the name of the artist, a woman whose work also hung in his mother’s home. He turned, watching as her expression softened while she looked at the painting. His detective senses picked up a trace of nostalgia, or maybe wishful thinking. Adam felt a tug of emotion he hadn’t felt since Else. Nah, that wouldn’t happen again. “My mom has several pieces of this artist’s work. Stills of simple Lebanese living. This house almost looks like...” He caught himself. “One of my relatives has a house similar to this.”
“Really?” She sat down, her smile replacing the wistful look, but he wouldn’t forget that open, honest expression. “This one is so beautiful. It’s peaceful and calming, which attracted my attention.”
It felt almost like a betrayal of his dead father and his friends, but Adam was glad to get his mind off what happened, if only for a few minutes. And seeing this unexpected side of Ms. Cornwall was pleasant. “They’re my mother’s favorite works.”
“Art has been my one indulgence, a way to escape what I deal with every day.” She glanced down at her laptop. “But you didn’t come here to listen to my daydreaming, Detective.”
Maybe one day I will. The thought came out of nowhere, heightening his awareness of the woman across from him. “Call me Adam.”
She looked up, her dark brown eyes catching the light from the small lamp on the table. “Thank you. I’m Cynthia.”
Their drinks and his sandwich arrived, and he took a big bite out of the Cuban, now suddenly aware of the sharp grumbling of his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since he chowed down that snack the night before. He ate about half of it before coming up for air. “Cynthia,” he started, then took a sip of the mocha—it was hot and damn good. “I have to ask again, why are you doing this?”
“My answer hasn’t changed. Captain Boucher’s actions at the crime scene weren’t fair. You were angry, and he should have taken that into consideration.”
“Wait, you heard me talking to him?” That wasn’t Adam’s finest moment.
“You were loud—I’m sure everyone did.”
He chewed another bite of sandwich as Cynthia swept her notebook and pen into a leather satchel hanging on the chair behind her. Closing her laptop, she pushed it aside and brought her drink in front of her. “I’m still analyzing evidence,” she said, turning the cup around in her hands. “But that explosion was intentional.”
He almost choked, surprise and fury swirling within him like a vortex. He put the sandwich down with trembling hands, and then took a long, slow sip of his drink, mentally counting to ten so that he could calm down. A bit. “It was a setup?” he asked.
“Yes. Captain Boucher and I interviewed a teenager named Larry, except the captain was trying to lay the blame at the kid’s feet.” Cynthia suddenly reached out for her laptop, opened it, hit a button. “Bring your chair around and put the headphones on,” she instructed, handing him a pair of earbuds.
Adam scooted his seat over so that he sat next to her. The table wasn’t large, and in order to see the laptop screen, he had to get really close and personal. His leg brushed hers as he tried to maintain a respectful distance, which wasn’t working. As he put in the earphones, his elbow hit something soft, and he suddenly realized it was her breast. Crap.
She didn’t comment or look at him, and instead hit Play.
The screen displayed the interrogation room, with Captain Boucher, Larry and Cynthia. As he listened to the clip, Adam couldn’t help but notice Boucher’s aggressive behavior. The man was usually a cool cucumber, so seeing and hearing his gestures and Cynthia trying to calm him down was unnerving. However, the captain was good friends with Dad and the others, so it wasn’t unexpected.
Cynthia’s demeanor was the complete opposite. During the interview, her voice was calm and reasonable. However, she was completely aware of her surroundings, emphasized by the warning look she gave Larry as he got too close to her.
When it finished, Adam pulled the earbuds out. “I didn’t think you’d be allowed into the interrogation room.”
“I had some specific questions I wanted to ask the suspect.” She clicked the video off. “The kind that Captain Boucher wouldn’t have enough knowledge of. The bomb.”
“Gotcha.” Cynthia knew what specifics to ask that no one else would. “So, what do you think?”
“He and The Desperados aren’t the suspects.”
“How can you be sure?” For a moment, Adam thought she wouldn’t answer. Her expression remained neutral, but he thought he sensed a quiet tension building around her.
“Are you questioning my methods?”
He was right—she interpreted his inquiry the wrong way. “No,” he said in a steady voice. “I’m asking what made you sure it wasn’t Larry and his Desperados gang.”
“You know the gang and how they operate?”
“Yeah.” Every bust Adam made on them didn’t have enough evidence to keep them in jail for long, or they’d call their slick lawyer and get bail within a week. They were cunning, but not smart enough to build a bomb...
And just like that, he had answered his own question. “Okay, it wasn’t Larry, unless he or the gang hired someone to do it.”
“I don’t think Larry would kill the man who helped him get clean.”
“And yet Larry admitted in the interview that he still helps his gang with insider information.” He was exhausted, mentally and physically. It had been a long, stressful and utterly depressing day. He wasn’t thinking straight, and memories of Dad would pop up unexpectedly, forcing him to hold on to his already unsteady emotions.
Cynthia glanced at him, her expression thoughtful. “You didn’t finish your sandwich. Maybe this was too much for you,” she said, closing her laptop and slipping it into her satchel.
“No, it wasn’t. I think it was the distraction I needed. I was at the hospital when you called.”
Her beautiful face frowned with concern. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I should have realized... I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.” He placed his hand over hers. They were still sitting side by side, and it felt so easy, so natural.
“How is everyone?”
“I don’t know. They were in surgery when I left.” He’d have to call Bruiser and find out their status, or he could just go back. But his friend would physically put him into a taxi and send him home. “Bruiser promised to call when he heard something.”
“The Black gentleman who would put a certain green, angry monster to shame?”
He smiled. “The one and only.”
Cynthia slipped her hand out from under his. A moment of warmth lingered before he snapped out of it and moved his chair back so that he sat opposite her. “Was there any other evidence you found that seemed suspicious?” he asked.
“The fire marshal found an accelerant near the bomb’s location.” Her notebook reappeared, and she flipped through several pages. “It was gasoline.”
“I see.” Not just a bomb, but a whole new level of overkill.
“I believe it was the kind of setup that was supposed to guarantee no survivors.”
“Except we have several.” Another problem to think about, how to keep his friends safe from further harm. He rubbed his forehead, trying to calm his distress.
“I’ve already talked to Captain Boucher. There should be several officers arriving at the hospital soon. We’ll make sure your friends have 24-hour security while they recuperate.”
It felt like this nightmare would engulf him. The only lifeline he had at the moment was Cynthia’s—steady, sure and constant.
He provided her the information for Bruiser, Dawg and the others, which she wrote down. She grabbed her satchel, a hint that it was time to leave the pleasant ambiance of the café.
Outside, the sun had gone, leaving in its wake the brightness of harsh streetlamps. Traffic was still heavy, and its noise grated on Adam’s nerves. “Want to share a cab?”
She smiled. “Thanks, but I’m going back to the precinct.”
He glanced at his watch out of habit and was surprised that two hours had already passed. “It’s pretty late.”
“I’m used to it.”
Adam used that exact phrase more times than he cared to admit. He saw a taxi coming toward them and waved it down. “I know you don’t need me to tell you this, but I’m going to say it anyway. Be careful. If the captain gets wind of this...”
“I promise he won’t.”
The taxi stopped and Adam opened the door. Just as she was about to get in, he grabbed her arm. “Hey,” he said, then stopped. Saying thank-you didn’t seem to be enough, considering what Cynthia was about to do. “If you need anything at all, let me know, okay?”
She nodded, her dark gaze watching him curiously.
He lowered his head and kissed her cheek, hoping it didn’t come across as a flirtation, that she would know he was grateful for her help. Cynthia’s surprised expression lifted his spirits a little as he shut the door and watched as the cab sped off into the night.
Chapter 4
The Forensics floor was silent as Cynthia’s footsteps echoed in the hallway toward the lab. The creepy vibes she got from the area when she first started working here had died away within the month. Now it was like another home, and when it was quiet like this, it was easier to concentrate on her work.
However, as she powered up her laptop and settled in, work wasn’t the only thing on her mind. Despite being all business during their coffee meeting, she’d been completely aware of Adam Solberg. When she’d asked him to sit next to her to view the interview footage, she’d been surprised by how big he was. It had been a tight squeeze, and when his elbow bumped her breast, she had flinched but didn’t admonish him. Normally, she’d browbeat a guy if he got too close.
And when his hand covered hers, it felt so natural, and that had unnerved her. Adam impressed her as a gentleman, despite the grief surrounding him. Maybe that explained why she was more tolerant of his actions.
Don’t kid yourself, Cyn. You didn’t say anything when he kissed your cheek, either.
“Argh, forget it.” Cynthia double-clicked a file folder. One piece of evidence in particular had bothered her, and she needed to figure out why.
As she scrolled through the pictures, it finally came into view: clear, yet so vague.
The watch looked just as innocent as before. Its leather strap was mostly gone, but there were small fragments still attached. The watch face was more interesting, featuring a second dial and what looked like moon shapes within it, telling her this was a chronometer. These particular watches were tested and certified by independent laboratories for their incredible accuracy. But searching the internet for watches with this feature came up with too many hits, so she had to narrow it down. What made recognizing the watch so difficult was the glass casing—it had cracked, but didn’t shatter, attesting to the mechanism’s quality.
Cynthia zoomed the picture even larger, her laptop adjusting quickly to the change, then rotated the image, hoping to catch a glimpse of something that would help her identify...
Wait. She squinted at the watch face again, spying the odd shape located at its twelve o’clock position. She zoomed in even more until she reached the highest percentage, then rotated the picture slowly, hoping to catch it at the right angle.
There it was—a symbol she instantly recognized. Pleased that she had discovered this bit of information so quickly, she decided to go home instead of hanging around at work any longer. Daniel might also give her some fresh perspective tomorrow morning.
* * *
“A Rolex, huh?” Daniel raised his head from looking at the item nestled in his gloved hand. “Pretty hard to tell by just looking at it.”
“I assumed a reliable, but cheap watch. Who would destroy a Rolex?” Another mystery piece to add to the puzzle.
“Are you sure it’s not fake?” Daniel asked. “There’s some really impressive knock-offs out there.”
“I’ll have to get it analyzed by a Rolex dealer, but I don’t think it is. That should have melted with the rest of the clubhouse, but other than the shattered face and burnt straps, it’s pretty intact.”
“Makes you wonder who would sacrifice a piece of jewelry worth, oh, twenty thousand dollars.” Daniel turned it over. “No fingerprints at all?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm.” Daniel dropped the watch back into the evidence bag and leaned against the counter. “So, I wanted to ask you something.”
“What’s up?” Her senses were on alert.
“I understand Detective Solberg isn’t working on the bombing case.”
She felt herself relax. “No. It’s too personal for him.”
“Yeah, I get that. But I thought he’d be here to wrap up his serial killer case. Why hasn’t he come back to the precinct? He worked his ass off to nail that son of a bitch. If I was in his shoes, there’s no way I’d let another detective take lead to finish it.”
“So what would you suggest?” she asked.
“Since you’re the forensic genius that helped crack the case, I suggest that you talk to the captain about bringing Solberg back.”
“Me, huh?”
“Yeah. Boucher listens to you. And we are short-staffed. So long as Solberg doesn’t interfere with the bombing investigation, I don’t see why he can’t return and complete it.”
“Enough said. I’m going to try your idea.”
* * *
“Come in.”
Cynthia stepped inside Boucher’s office and shut the door behind her.
“Cornwall.” The captain faced her from his favorite spot, the large picture window that looked out onto the street below and the forest park beyond. “What is it?”
“A couple of things I wanted to update you on, sir.” Despite discovering the make of the watch, she really didn’t have much more information, which annoyed her.
“What have you found out?” The captain sat down, and indicated for her to do the same.
Cynthia sat on the edge of the chair, anxious about her lack of results. “Daniel and I haven’t found any distinctive fingerprints other than those belonging to the MC members so far. That explosion was meant to erase anything that could link back to the criminal. But the watch used to set off the bomb was a Rolex.”
“What?” Captain Boucher’s eyebrows lifted.
“It was difficult to identify as the watch face was extensively cracked, but I managed to figure out the symbol at the top. I’m going to take it to a certified Rolex dealer to confirm.”
“You might discover the identity of the owner. Excellent. Anything else?”
“Whoever set this up was good. I’ll need more time to go over the evidence we found.”
“Understood.”
She hesitated, and the captain caught it. “Something else on your mind, Cornwall?”
“Yes, sir.” Now was the time, and she steadied her nerves. “Daniel’s finishing the serial killer case for me, but he’s feeling a bit—frustrated with Hawthorne and Timmins.”
“In what way?”
“Well, they don’t know the case. They’ve been asking questions Solberg already knows the answers to. Plus they’re also working on the bomb investigation.” She hoped the captain got the hint. “Everyone’s stretched pretty thin.”
“So you’re requesting that Solberg return to finish his case?”
