Booked to Kill, page 6
Christine led the way down the stairs, waiting until she reached the shabby lobby before responding. “They wanted to know where I was the night Courtney was murdered. They weren’t happy when I didn’t have anyone to confirm I was home—alone—all night.”
Olivia winced and pushed open the door.
“They also asked about my relationship with Jason and Courtney. The dark stubble on Detective Green’s face couldn’t hide his irritation with my answers.”
“What about Detective Stone?” Olivia couldn’t help but ask. She hadn’t dealt with the other officer. Jack had been the one by her side. Hell, he was the one who had been on her mind way too much since this disaster started.
Christine shrugged and turned down the empty sidewalk toward the gallery next door. “He didn’t say much. Wrote everything I said down, though. That made me jumpy. Like he was analyzing every little word I said and searching for some admission of guilt.” The normal falsetto of her voice dipped low. “The only thing I’m guilty of is suggesting Courtney stay at the place where she’d meet her death. Trust me, that’s enough to tear me up inside for the rest of my life. I spoke with Eli. He’s torn to pieces over this. It’s just all too much to process.”
“I’m sorry.” The words were so small and inadequate but all she had to offer with the front door to the gallery in front of her. When they finished here, she could offer ice cream and a shoulder to cry on, but that would have to wait just a little bit longer.
“It is what it is. As much as I wish I could fix it, I can’t. But let’s not think about it right now. Let’s go make you some money.” She opened the door wide, waiting for Olivia to step through the doorway before entering, then letting the glass door close.
Olivia inhaled a deep breath, giving herself one moment of happiness. She loved stepping inside the converted warehouse. Its stark white walls stood in contrast to the mahogany floors and the aged brick outside. A door in the back stayed closed, hiding art that had been sold or kept out of rotation. The mess in there always spiked her anxiety so she steered clear unless she needed to use the bathroom, which was inconveniently located in the storage area. Edward Consuelo had changed her life two years ago when he’d given her a chance and housed her first art exhibit. Ever since, he’d worked hard to build her brand and increase her value as an artist.
“Hola, my lovely Olivia!” Edward’s booming voice echoed off the high ceiling. He stood outside his office in the front corner of the room, his arms stretched wide and a huge grin on his handsome face. “Your ears must be burning. I was about to call you, my dear.”
She greeted him with a kiss on each cheek before noting a twinkle in his brown eyes. “No burning ears. Just a new piece I wanted to show you to see if you had space for it.” She pulled out her phone and scrolled to the photo. Handing the device over, she bit into her bottom lip as she waited for his response. No matter how many pieces she sold, her nerves always danced the first time she showed him something new.
Leaning forward, Edward squinted at the photo. “Oh dios mio. This is powerful. Even on a tiny image on your phone. I can only image the full impact in person.”
Christine bumped her with her shoulder. “Told you.”
“Do you have space for it?” she asked, her stomach in knots. She hated being so dependent on selling her art to make ends meet. As if pieces of her actual soul were for sale to the highest bidder. But gone were the days when her husband’s salary supported her needs while her passion was something that provided her with a creative outlet—any money she earned put toward the fun extras. “I could bring it in tomorrow. Today even, if you want it.”
Grinning, Edward clapped his hands, then rubbed his palms together. “Perfect. Because I just sold every one of your pieces to one very special buyer.”
Olivia’s head reared back. “What?”
He clamped his hands on her shoulders, giving her a little shake as if to pump up her enthusiasm. “Sold! Every single one! I need more work if you want me to make you more money.”
A statement that would have set her on cloud nine mere days before had her swallowing bile that crept up her throat. Uneasiness settled in the pit of her stomach. A nagging sensation told her that whoever had cleared out her art was interested in more than just her paintings.
* * *
The tinkle of laughter and the cheerful clinking of glasses stood in direct opposition to the teary-eyed man hunched over his beer in the dark corner of the hotel bar. Jack inwardly cringed. Interviewing a victim’s ex-husband over a drink wasn’t something he relished. But after Brock Bailey’s flight had been delayed, he’d agreed to meet the man at his hotel instead of making him come down to the station in the evening rush hour traffic.
A decision he now regretted. Not just because the man sitting in front of him was on his second drink, but because after a long ass day with zero answers, he’d give anything to drown his bad mood in a glass of whiskey.
Brock skirted his gaze around the bar, a scowl on his thin lips. Blond scruff lined his jaw in a disheveled way that matched his messy hair. “How can people still be happy and carefree when my world just crashed down at my feet?”
A beat of confusion thudded along with the tempo of piano keys in the distance. Usually, a man recently divorced held more contempt than concern for their ex-wife. “I’m sorry for your loss. I understand you and Mrs. Bailey had just finalized your divorce.”
“Biggest mistake of my life. Now I can never make things right.”
The misery etching itself on the other man’s face mirrored what Jack carried inside him every day since Mary’s death. Life had kept moving forward even after he’d let feelings for a woman he had no business falling for cloud his judgment. He’d never fix that mistake, a fact that haunted him nightly when he lay in bed and chased after sleep.
But he’d loved Mary. Hadn’t left her in search of a new life.
“I spoke with your in-laws,” Jack said, needing to get the interview back on track so he could go home and wash off this awful day. “They said you two had a loving marriage until Courtney found out you’d cheated on her.”
Brock winced and downed the rest of his beer, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth to wipe away the lingering droplets of liquid. “I was stupid. I let my guard down one night when out with my buddies. I told her what happened. Promised it’d never happen again. She said I lost her trust. That she couldn’t forgive me and wanted a divorce.”
His opinion didn’t matter, but he couldn’t blame the young woman for wanting her freedom from a man who didn’t respect her enough to stay faithful. “Were you angry that she wouldn’t take you back?”
With his gaze fixed on some faraway space, Brock nodded. “It was easier to be mad than admit I’d messed up. To realize it wasn’t just the cheating that pushed her away. But, man, I loved her so damn much. I’d vowed to win her back.”
“Is that why you went to Vegas?” Jack asked, fighting to keep an edge of sarcasm from his voice. If he planned to fight to keep the love of his life around, flying to Vegas with his buddies was the last place he’d be. Unless he needed to be out of town—far away with lots of witnesses.
Brock hung his head. “I was giving her space. Figured if she had some time, she might be more open to talking to me. Now I know if I’d stayed, she wouldn’t have been in New York. Wouldn’t have called Christine about a place to get away. If I’d stayed and fought for her, she’d still be alive.”
So he knew where she was and who had given the recommendation to the victim. “Are you acquainted with Christine Roberts?”
Brock lifted a finger to signal to the server. “A little. Her and my brother-in-law are friends. She’d be around sometimes. Nice lady.”
Jack settled back in his chair, keeping attuned to any signs of lying from the other man. “What about Olivia Hickman?”
He shook his head. “Never heard of her.”
That jibed with Olivia’s claim to have never met Courtney. “Did your ex-wife have any disagreements with anyone you’re aware of in her last days? Weeks?”
“Just me. And maybe the downstairs neighbor. Mrs. Hench’s dog always barks in the middle of the night. Drives Courtney nuts because it always wakes her up.” Brock’s face crumpled. “Drove her nuts.”
Jack scribbled a few notes on the notepad he’d flipped open and left on the table. Clearly, Brock Bailey hadn’t killed his wife, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know who had. “That’s all I have for you now. Thanks for speaking with me. I’ll be in contact if I have any more questions.”
Wide, remorseful eyes stared up at him as he stood and slid his notepad in his back pocket. “That’s it? Four years of marriage and you only have a handful of questions to ask me about the woman I loved? The woman who was murdered because I couldn’t keep her safe? There must be more I can tell you. More I can help with. Please. I have to help find out who did this.”
Jack tossed a business card on the table. “Call me if you think of anything else I need to know. In the meantime, the best thing you can do is be better. Don’t make the same mistake next time.” The unsolicited advice slipped out before he could stop it.
The server brought over another drink, taking the empty glass with her when she walked away.
Brock stared at the white foam frothing at the top of the tall glass. “There will never be a next for me.”
With nothing more to say, Jack dipped his head in goodbye and left the grieving man to nurse his pain in the dark corner of the crowded bar. The alcohol might help numb his heartbreak for the night, but it’d be back in full force the next morning, along with a splitting headache.
Jack’s shoes slapped against the marble floor as he passed under the opulent chandelier in the lobby. Clusters of people waited in line to check in or perched on seating with their luggage nearby. Nice hotel. Probably cost a pretty penny for a night’s stay. He’d poked around in the Baileys’ finances before talking with Brock. Not filthy rich, but they did well. Well enough to pay someone to head into the city and get their hands messy for an upset husband who was pissed his wife refused to take him back.
The theory didn’t sit well with him, but his gut had been wrong before. Besides, he didn’t have any other leads to follow. Irritation hung around him like a cloud of a dust as he bypassed the revolving door and pushed out the side exit.
The sun had set, leaving the air chilled and lights splashing around him. He merged into the stream of pedestrians toward the garage he’d parked his car in, a few blocks away. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he debated letting it go to voice mail. His shift had ended an hour ago, and he wasn’t expecting any calls. Conversation was the last thing on his list of wants at the moment, but an open case meant any call could be important.
Digging out his phone, he saw Max’s number flash across the screen and tightened his stomach muscles. “Hey, man. I’m just leaving my interview with Brock Bailey. What’s up?”
“I need you to get to Olivia Hickman’s loft. Another renter’s been murdered.”
Chapter 8
Jack inhaled a deep breath, preparing himself for a conversation he didn’t want to have, and coughed out stray bits of dust that burned his lungs. The dim lights hung high on the walls cast an eerie glow over the shabby hallway outside of Olivia’s apartment. He’d told his partner he’d deliver the news of the murdered renter to Olivia while Max started looking into the life of the newest victim—Priscilla Abbington.
Not like either he or Max expected to find much that would lead to her murderer. Even her boyfriend—the person who’d called in the crime—wasn’t high on their list of suspects at this time. The odds that the killer was someone connected with Olivia climbed higher than the Empire State Building with each passing second.
Not being able to put off the inevitable any longer, Jack waited for a young couple to pass by, then knocked on the warped green door.
The door swung open, as if she was waiting on the other side for him. Her hair was tied back in a low ponytail and not a trace of makeup covered her face. Splatters of paint dotted her overalls, and a streak of blue paint spread across her cheek. The combination charming as hell.
She kept her grip on the round knob and blocked his way into the apartment—as if only placing her slight frame in his path would keep the bad news in the hallway with him. “I’m surprised to see you so late. Do you have news? Did you catch the person who killed Courtney?”
He’d learned over the years the best way to deliver bad news was to just rip off the Band-Aid, but the way she stared up at him with hope shining from her hazel eyes made his chest burn. “Unfortunately, I don’t have good news. There’s been another murder.”
She reared back, and her knees buckled.
Jack swept inside, hooking an arm around the small of her back to keep her on her feet. “You’re okay. I got ya.”
She blinked up at him as if not understanding what was happening. With one hand still on the doorknob, she gripped the neck of his shirt with the other. “I don’t understand. Who? Who was killed?”
“Priscilla Abbington.”
Olivia closed her eyes and hung her head. Her body went lax. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.”
“Let’s get you inside.” He loosened her grip from the door, closing it before leading her to the sofa and sitting beside her.
She stared ahead with her lips trembling. “She had her boyfriend with her. I thought she’d be safe. I didn’t think someone could hurt her if she wasn’t alone.”
He fought the urge to fidget, or worse, lay a reassuring hand on her and offer comfort. “Her boyfriend called it in. It appears he went down to the gym. When he came back to the loft, he found Ms. Abbington dead by the door. Security footage from the building shows someone knocking, the door opening, then the same person turning and walking quickly toward the exit.”
A sharp inhale of breath drew his attention to her full lips, and he shifted away so their knees weren’t touching. Being this close messed with his head. Something he couldn’t afford.
“Are you sure it wasn’t the boyfriend?” She cringed. “Is that horrible?”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in an attempt to make her feel better. “No, that’s not horrible. But we checked the footage in the gym. The boyfriend was running on the treadmill when Ms. Abbington opened the door.”
“Then this isn’t about her. Or Courtney Bailey. It’s about me.” She pressed her hands to her stomach. “I don’t understand. How could killing two innocent women have anything to do with me? What’s the endgame? What’s the point?”
The same questions had kept him up last night and plagued him all day. He’d already asked her the same lineup of questions reserved for victims, but maybe time had shaken a few forgotten things loose. “Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt you? Who’s upset with you?”
She lifted her hands, then let them drop in her lap. “No. I don’t even see many people. Most days I spend trapped in my studio. Painting alone. I keep to myself, try to be kind and stay out of people’s business. I can’t think of anyone who’d want to harm me in any way.”
Leaning forward, he tapped his finger against the edge of the coffee table as he worked out a thought spinning in his brain. He’d done some surface level research on her husband, just to get a better understanding of Olivia’s situation. He’d read about the accident that had taken his life—a hit-and-run while he’d been out for a jog when on vacation in the Hudson River Valley—the driver never found. Maybe someone with a vendetta against her husband was taking their anger out on Olivia. “What about your husband?”
“Excuse me?” Her body tensed beside him. Her narrowed gaze caused ripples to gather on her brow.
A pinch of unease made him squirm. He hated to bring up something so painful, but he couldn’t leave even one stone unturned. No matter how difficult it was for Olivia to discuss. “Someone has an axe to grind. If not against you, who else? The loft was owned by both of you, correct?”
Slowly, she nodded.
“Then maybe your husband pissed someone off before his death, and now they’re coming after the only person they can.” He felt like he was grasping at straws, but this new theory was better than nothing. Even if it only played as a jumping-off point for more questions.
A sad smile played on her lips. “Everyone loved Dave. Besides, he died a year ago. What could he have done that someone would let their anger fester for that long, only to go after his widow? It doesn’t make sense.”
“None of this makes sense, and chances are, it never will to you. Because you aren’t the type of person who would take the lives of innocent women. It might be difficult, but you can’t look at things logically. Can’t be afraid that looking at things in a different way could mean you’re a bad person. Nothing you say, even if just thinking out loud, will leave this room if it doesn’t have to.”
She released a shaky breath. “Okay, but I’m not looking at my husband with rose-colored glasses. He was a great man who people respected and liked. I promise, if I could think of anyone who would come after me because of him, I would tell you.”
She paused for a minute, her stare unfocused, and rubbed her thumb against the spot on her left finger where her wedding ring should have been. “What about the person who hit Dave?”
“What about them?” he asked.
“Whoever was driving the car that took his life was never found. I’m sure the police did everything they could to catch the driver, but...” She shrugged and wiped at her eyes. “It never sat right with me. That whoever killed him was still out there, unaffected and going on with life. I’ve always wondered...” Her voice tailed off, as if she was afraid to speak her mind.
