Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 03 - A Deadly Change of Heart (5 page)

I took the black object from him.  “Runners?  Diane was running when she fell.  I wonder if this was hers?”

Jason stood up straight.  “If it was, what was it doing way over here, so far from the trail?” he wondered.

“That’s a good question,” I said.  I crawled around on the ground and searched for the other weight.  I pushed leaves and dirt around and inspected every unusual looking twig.  “What are
we
doing over here, so far from the trail?” I said.

“Taking a short cut to the car,” Jason offered.

“Right.  And if you were running from someone who might want to hurt you, wouldn’t you go for the shortcut, too?” I speculated.

Jason nodded.  “And I’d probably try to lose those ankle weights if I could.”

I stood up and brushed the dirt and leaves off my knees.  “Come on.  The other one’s not here.  Let’s get back to the car.”

I dropped Jason off at his shop.  Before returning home to the
Plan C
, I stopped to pick up a bottle of wine and a few things to fix the fabulous dinner I’d promised Craig later that night.  He tells me he loves my cooking.  Every time he takes the first bite of a meal I’ve prepared, he stops chewing, rolls his eyes and acts as though he’s died and gone to heaven.  The moment I knew I just had to hang on to him was when he asked for seconds of my whole-wheat pizza with tofu-cheese and turkey-sausage topping.  How many men can there be out there who would actually look forward to that?  He’s got to be one in a million.

As I strolled down the aisles of the grocery store, I came to the conclusion that I was going to need Detective Wright’s help if there was any connection between Diane Parker and the ankle weight we’d found.  That wasn’t going to be easy.  I wandered down the aisles until I found the row I was looking for.  I gazed at the overwhelming collection of school supplies dangling from a million hooks and pegs.

Chapter Six

I
sat across from Sam Wright at his desk and gave him the biggest, brightest smile I could muster.  I’d worried about this meeting all night, and as a result, didn’t get much sleep.  He didn’t return my smile.

“What are you doing here, Miss Lace?” he asked, with a discouraging tone in his voice.

I didn’t say anything.  I kept smiling, opened my purse, and pulled out a brand new box of fresh pencils.  I laid them on his desk and meekly pushed them across the blotter until they were directly in front of him.  He eyed them curiously, then picked them up.

“What the…?”

“It’s sort of a peace offering,” I said.  “And apparently a tension reliever, too.”

I watched his face for a reaction.  For a moment, I thought the man was made of stone.  If he dared smile, his face might crack.  He regarded the box of pencils as though I’d just handed him a hand grenade.  Finally, he took his eyes off them and turned his attention to me.  I raised my eyebrows in anticipation.  Was he going to throw me out?  Charge me with detective abuse?  Have me arrested for criminal pestering?  I slumped in my chair, waiting for the tongue-lashing that was sure come.

He didn’t yell at me.  His face broke out into the biggest grin I’d seen since I met him.  I sat up and smiled back.  “You’re not going to yell at me?” I asked.

“Oh, you can bet I’m going to yell at you.  But this is cute
—
real cute.”

My smile faded a bit, but I remained hopeful.

His voice returned to its normal, serious tone.  “Now.  Tell me what
you’re
doing here and why I’m going to be yelling at you.”

I reached across the desk a
nd opened the box of pencils, then
removed one and handed it to him.  “Here.  You might want this.”

He leaned back in his swivel chair, folded his arms across his massive chest and frowned at me.

I swallowed hard.  “I read the newspaper articles about Diane Parker’s death.  They said she was jogging when she fell.”

Detective Wright nodded, but did not offer any words.

“I was wondering if she was wearing ankle weights when they found her body?” I continued.

His face took on a curious expression.  He sat forward in his chair and leaned on his elbows.  “What makes you ask a question like that?”

“Was she?” I repeated.

If he were a dog, he would have growled.  I’d learned to read his mood by the clenching of his jaw.  I slid back in my chair but kept eye contact.

“I’m not going to sit here and play games with you, Miss Lace,” he grumbled.

“Call me Devonie,” I offered, trying to ease the mounting tension.

“Devonie.  I want you to tell me why you’re asking the question,” he insisted.

I opened my purse, then hesitated.  “My real question is, was she wearing only one ankle weight?”  I removed the weight from my purse and placed it in the center of his desk.  “One like this?”

He picked it up and inspected it closely.  “Where’d you get this?” he demanded.

I felt my heart pick up an extra beat or two.  He’d be furious with me when he learned I’d been snooping around the scene where Diane’s body was found.  I took a deep breath and concentrated on my delivery.  “I went to the place where Diane’s body was found.  I was just looking around, you know, to see if maybe you missed
—
“ I stopped.  This was not a wise approach, accusing him of missing something.  That would be suicide for me.  “To get a fresh perspective,” I finally said.

He studied me through squinting eyes, as though he were trying to make some determination about what I’d just presented to him.  His jaw quit flexing and he placed the weight back down on his desk.

I cleared my throat.  “So, was she?  Wearing one weight?” I asked again.

He hesitated for a long moment.  I sensed his struggle between keeping me in the dark and realizing I wasn’t going to give up.  “Diane’s body was found with one ankle weight, just like this one.  That fact was never publicized.  We do that to allow us to filter possible leads.  You’d be amazed how many crackpots out there want to confess to crimes they read about in the papers.”

I nodded.  “No accident, though.  Right, Detective?”  I thought about the statement one second after it slipped out of my mouth.  I could be treading on thin ice.  This man absolutely abhorred being contradicted, or worse, accused of incompetence.

“Miss Lace
—
“

“Devonie,” I corrected.

“Devonie.  First you show up with a murder victim’s purse, and a fairly incredible explanation of how you acquired it.  Then, you present me with an article worn by the victim at the time of her death
—
an article that no one but myself and the other police officers at the scene are aware of.  A detective worth his salt would look at you and see a prime suspect.”

I cringed.  “Is that what you see?” I asked.

He shook his head.  “You’re too darn annoying to be guilty.  If you were the murderer, you’d leave me the heck alone, not pester me to the point of wanting to wring your scrawny little neck.”

He either didn’t notice my injured expression, or
he
didn’t care. 

“But I still have half a mind to have you arrested for interfering with a murder investigation,” he continued.

My hurt feelings retreated and were immediately replaced by anger.  I felt my grasp on diplomacy slip through my fingers.  “Well now, that would be par for how you’ve managed this investigation, wouldn’t it?” I said, trying desperately to maintain control.  “I’ve brought you more evidence in two days than you’ve gotten in over a year, and you can’t get beyond your egotistical, superior-than-thou attitude that only a
M
ister
M
acho detective such as yourself has enough brain muscle to find the truth.”  I grabbed the new pencil from his desk, broke it in half, and slammed the pieces back on the blotter, slapping my hands hard and flat on top of them.

He jumped in his seat and raised his eyebrows in surprise at my reaction.  “Settle down, Devonie.  I didn’t say I was going to arrest you, only that I ought to.”

“Why?  To teach me a lesson?  To get me out of your hair so you won’t feel so incompetent for not finding the ankle weight yourself?  It wasn’t that hard to find,
Detective
. 
Seems to me a detective ‘worth his salt,’ as you put it, would look at me and see a fresh resource for a stale investigation instead of a threat to his ego.”  My heart raced and I felt the dampness under my arms.  I took a deep breath and braced myself for the counterattack.

He stared at me with eyes that seemed a little too understanding.  “Are you through?” he asked.

I took a quick emotional inventory.  I’d released most of the hostility I felt toward Sam Wright.  “Yes.  I think so,” I announced.

He removed a fresh pencil and handed it to me.  “Yo
u sure?  Want to break one more?  J
ust in case?” he jested.  “It can be therapeutic.”  

I smiled and shook my head.  He’d managed to ease the tension.  He started to put the pencil back in the box.  “Wait,” I blurted, snatching the pencil from his hand.  “Maybe I will take it
—
for later.”

Jason and I had marked the area where we found t
he ankle weight by piling rocks—
much the same way hikers mark their path when they leave the trail.  I led Detective Wright to the exact spot where we found the weight.  He made notes in his small notebook and asked a few questions about the condition it was in when we found it
—
was it covered with leaves or was it plainly visible?  He intended to bring another team of crime-scene technicians to the location and go over the area with a fine-toothed comb.  I felt relief and gratification that he’d finally taken me seriously.  Respect is something one must earn from Sam Wright, and I would have to prove my credibility every inch of the way.

Detective Wright slid behind the wheel and slipped on a pair of reflective sunglasses.  I got in the passenger seat and buckled up.  As he drove us back to the station, I admired the view of the Pacific whenever I could catch a glimpse.  Finally, I asked the question that had been nagging at me all morning.  “Why are you so sure Bradley Parker didn’t kill Diane?”

He glanced over at me, then returned his attention to the road.  He didn’t answer.

“Do you think Willy Mendenhal did it?” I asked.

He continued to ignore my questions.  I studied his profile and his firm jaw, set like stone.  For the first time, I noticed how handsome he was.  His brown hair showed a little gray at the temples.  He had a few laugh lines that accentuated the character in his face.  His brown eyes were large and his lashes were dark and thick.  His nose was perfectly chiseled, like the statues of Greek Gods I’ve seen pictures of.  Though he didn’t have one, I thought he’d look great with a mustache.

“Ever think of growing a mustache?” I asked.

He gave me a curious glance then shook his head.  “Too itchy,” he replied.

“What a relief.  For a minute there, I thought you’d gone deaf.”

He shook his head.  “Look.  I’m not going to discuss aspects of this investigation that don’t involve you.  I want you to stay out of it.  When I want information from you, I’ll ask,” he said.

I nodded.  “So, it’s a one-way street?”

“Absolutely.”

“But you are looking at it as a murder and not an accident.  Right?” I continued.

He nodded.  “Yes.  I’ll concede to that.  Not an accident.”

“Would you concede that Bradley Parker had a motive?” I asked.  As expected, he didn’t answer.  “Or maybe she stumbled on Willy in the middle of a drug deal out there and he shoved her over the edge?”

Wright flipped on his turn signal, glanced over his shoulder, and changed lanes.  I noticed his muscular forearms and biceps.  I wondered how many hours a day he spent lifting weights and working out.  I estimated him to be in his early to mid forties.  By now, I wasn’t really expecting any response from him.  I just lobbed ideas into the air to see if he’d catch them.  It seemed to me they were hitting him in the chest and landing on the ground.

Wright pulled into the police station lot and parked in a slot close to the building.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card with his name and number.  He scribbled something on it.  “Here,” he said as he handed it to me.  “You are in no way to continue snooping around about Diane Parker.”

I studied the card.  He’d written a phone number on it.

“But things seem to miraculously land in your lap, so if that happens, I want you to call me.  I’ve put my home number on there, in case it lands in the middle of the night.”

I slipped the card into my purse.  “Okay.”

“But no snooping.  Got it?” he reminded me.

“Absolutely.”

I slid into the driver’s seat of the Explorer and glanced over at the pile of newspaper accounts of Diane’s death.  I pulled one from the top of the stack and skimmed down the column.  Garrett Henderson was the name of the man who reported her missing when she didn’t show up for work on Monday morning.  He was an editor at the
San Diego Union Tribune
.  I watched Detective Wright disappear into the building in front of me, then I checked my watch.  “I wonder if newspaper editors take lunch?” I whispered as I backed out of the parking spot and headed out of the lot.