“Dad made the suit for me for my birthday.”
“Your birthday was in February.”
“So, maybe it was just time to dust it off.”
“Right.”
“Get it through your head, Sinclair. The suit ain’t about Charlotte Wellington.”
As Rokov opened the coffee shop door, the rich scents of coffee and pastries greeted them. Three customers waited at the register as a kid working behind the counter looking frazzled hustled to fill drink orders. They held back.
“And just for the record,” Sinclair said, “if Samantha White’s husband really beat her as the witnesses during the trial testified, I can’t say I’m against her. Wellington wins points in my book for taking the case on pro bono.”
He pulled off his sunglasses. “I’m sure the good attorney will be relieved to know you approve.”
She chuckled. “She doesn’t give a crap about what anyone thinks about her. She is pure ice.”
Charlotte had been cool and reserved when they’d first met at a cancer fund-raiser a month ago. Her law associate, Angie Carlson, who was married to homicide detective Malcolm Kier, had hosted the event. Rokov had gone as a show of support to a fellow cop’s wife and the cause. Charlotte Wellington was there to support Angie as well. They’d been fish out of water at the festive event and had struck up a casual conversation. At the event she’d been reserved and cool. He’d suggested coffee and somewhere along the way they’d ended up naked in a motel room.
“So you gonna see her again?” Sinclair said.
“There can’t be an again if there wasn’t a first.”
Sinclair nudged him with her elbow. “Come clean.”
“Buzz off.”
The morning crowd at Just Java had cleared, and Rokov reached in his pocket for his badge. He flashed it as the kid looked up at them. “Five-O. What’s the deal?”
“Stella here?”
“Yeah, just a second.” The kid vanished in the back and seconds later returned with an older woman in tow.
She tucked stray strands of gray curly hair behind her ear. “Figured when I saw the cops down the road earlier there was trouble. Kids using drugs this time or vandals? We’ve had trouble with both since that building was abandoned.”
“A woman was found murdered,” Sinclair said. “Her body was left in the building.”
“And you are?” Rokov said.
“Stella Morris. I own the place.”
“Were you here last night?”
“Normally I have Monday nights off but I got a call from the kid who was working the last shift. He was sick and had to go home, so I came in to work the last couple of hours and close up.”
“You see anything? Odd customers? Trouble. A car that didn’t belong?”
Stella rested her hands on her hips. “A few buzzed guys from O’Malley’s wandered in before midnight. And there was a homeless guy who stops by when he can scrap together enough coins.” She raised a finger. “I was closing up around twelve thirty, and I did hear someone shouting.”
“Shouting what?”
“Couldn’t make out the words, but it kinda sounded like howling. Like a wild animal. I figured it was a drunk.”
“What direction was the sound coming from?” Sinclair said.
“By The Wharf. That’s why I thought to mention it.”
“And that was about twelve thirty?” Rokov said.
“Twelve thirty-six as a matter of fact. The sound kind of spooked me. Sent chills up and down my spine and I glanced at my watch because I wanted to remember the time.”
“See anything?”
“Nope. Saw nothing.”
Rokov pulled out his card and handed it to her. “Ever seen a woman around here with a red leather jacket that says Magic?”
“That sounds like Diane.”
“Diane?”
“I don’t know her last name. She used to come in here a lot but I haven’t seen much of her the last six months. She does something with computers.”
“She ever use a credit card?”
“Sure, I guess, but it’s been a while since she’s been here. I’m gonna have to dig.”
“Would you do that?” Rokov said.
“Yeah, sure. Why not.” She flicked the edge of the card. “I’ll call you.”
They thanked the woman and moved back down the street toward the car. “Let’s stroll down the street and see if we can find Lowery’s car.”
“The Toyota?”
“Sure.” Sinclair took the north side of the street and Rokov the south side. They walked a block and a half when Rokov spotted the silver Camry. Sinclair crossed the street. “This the car?”
“Could be.” On the front seat was a briefcase. The cup holders between the seats held two empty cups. “He’s lucky no one smashed the window to get the briefcase.”
“Maybe he was in a hurry to get to the bar.”
“Let’s pay him a quick visit.”
“Will do.”
The detectives walked back to their car and for an instant Rokov nearly cut to Sinclair’s door.
“If you go for my door, Danny-boy, I’m breaking your fingers,” Sinclair said.
Rokov held up his hands. “I learned my lesson.” When the two had first started working together, Rokov had opened Sinclair’s car door. She’d demanded to know which medieval century he’d just returned from. He’d laughed, blaming the door-opening habit on his parents’ old country manners. They’d settled on a compromise. He’d not open the car doors, but she’d allow the occasional shop door.
Sinclair slid into the passenger side seat and Rokov behind the driver’s wheel. As he fired up the engine, the first television news van pulled up outside the crime scene. “The media is going to love this one.”
“I’m afraid you’re rig
ht.”
The drive to Lowery’s took minutes and soon the two were standing on the doorstep of his town house. Painted white with black shutters, the town house was modern but fashioned to look colonial. A planter on the front porch sported drooping marigolds and several cigarette butts.
Rokov rang the bell once. After a pause he hit it again, and when that didn’t produce results, he banged with his fist. Finally, they heard shouts and the stumble of footsteps. The door snapped open.
A man wincing against the sunlight greeted them with an angry glare. Dressed in suit pants and V-neck T-shirt, he had greasy dark hair that stuck up in the back and a dark beard shadowing his lantern jaw. A thick cross hung from a thick gold chain around his neck. “What the hell do you want?”
Rokov held up his badge. “You Matt Lowery?”
“Yeah.”
“You at O’Malley’s last night?”
“Sure. And if you’re here to ask, I didn’t drive home drunk. I took a cab.”
“So we hear,” said Sinclair. She glanced beyond him to a foyer warmed with Oriental rugs and a landscape on the wall.
“The bartender tells us he parked you outside on a bench last night.”
He rubbed a bloodshot eye with his knuckle. “Damn near froze my nuts off while I was waiting.”
“You see anything?” Rokov said.
“I was pretty hammered.”
“Unusual people? Odd sounds,” Sinclair prompted.
Lowery shoved out a sigh as if pushing through the fog of his hangover. “I thought I saw someone at the old restaurant across the street.”
Rokov tensed. “What did you see?”
“Shit, I don’t know. It was late and dark, and like I said, I was hammered. I just figured it was a couple getting busy.”
“A couple.”
“Saw a man with a woman at his side on the top floor. They went in and a light came on.”
“You see the guy or the woman?”
“No. Just their outlines. He was holding her close and kissing her like he couldn’t wait to get her alone.” He sniffed. “So what’s their deal?”
“She’s dead. And we think he killed her.”
Chapter 3