"Sure. They badgered me into remembering every detail. Every bite we'd eaten together. Every word we'd said in the last two weeks. I told them everything I could think of."
"They'll get the phone records," Parker said. "They'll figure out who she was talking to."
"Are you sure? Because I've read about witnesses giving information to the police and they don't use it. She had millions of phone calls. How will they sort out which ones they were?"
She knew it was a tall order. "Did you give them times of the calls?"
He nodded. "I remembered the ones in the last couple of days."
"Good. I'll remind Gibson to follow up on that. But what makes you think she was lying about it being her dad?"
"Because why would she go into another room? Why would she not want me to hear? She was never shy about complaining about her parents."
No college kid was. "Have you talked to them?"
"Yeah, her dad called this morning. I've never heard him sound so ... weak. Had all these questions. Same ones the cops asked." He stared at the floor. His white face looked dry, aged, in the dimly lit apartment. "Don't you think it's odd that some girl who was paid to be working would give up her shift to an unpaid intern?"
"Not really. There's not a lot that has to be done at night." The responsibilities at the front desk were minimal at night. Cat probably had confidence that Brenna could handle it. How could she have known the danger that awaited? Like Parker, Cat was probably feeling a sick kind of relief that it hadn't been her.
Chase stopped mid-pace and turned back to her. "Don't you find that odd?"
"What?"
"That the woman ... Cat, was it? That she would leave like that. It's suspicious, don't you think? Like she was setting Brenna up."
"No. She's my friend. I know her--"
"Is everybody your friend? Do you know what they're thinking? What they're feeling? Do you know everything they do?"
She suddenly felt defensive. "Of course not."
"Then how do you know?"
Her face was hot, and she looked at Marta. The girl looked up at her, apology crinkling her forehead. "Chill, okay, Chase? She didn't do anything."
He swallowed, then stared at Parker as if certain that she had, indeed, done something. She drew in a long, shaky breath. Time to leave. She slid her sweaty palms down her thighs. "It's okay. I understand you're upset, Chase." Her throat was tight. "I don't blame you."
His voice was hoarse as he said, "I just ... want to know who did this." He rubbed his mouth with his swollen hand. "Just ... want them to feel the pain that she felt." He closed that swollen hand into a fist, baring his teeth as he winced with the pain. "Want them to bleed like she bled."
Though his words were violent, his desperate expression and the soft whisper of his voice framed them as grief rather than vengeance.
The phone vibrated again, crawling.
"I'd better go." Parker looked at Marta, saw that her face was wet. "Do you want me to take you back to your dorm?"
Marta looked up at Chase. "Want me to stay or go?"
He shrugged, unable to speak. Marta looked at Parker, her eyes suggesting that she feared leaving him alone. "I'll stay."
"Okay."
Parker wished there were something she could do to comfort Chase. "I'm really so very sorry."
He just stood there.
She opened the door to leave. Two weepy girls and another guy were climbing the stairs. She felt as if she should block their way to prevent them from bothering Chase--but who was she to decide who could see him? They pushed past her and went inside. She stood on the stairs, listening to the limpid sounds of loss, as they spoke to Chase. Finally, she descended the stairs and went back to her car. Wind swept across the parking lot, chilling her soul.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Gibson woke after a couple hours' sleep, showered, and drank the brew Parker's Mr. Coffee made at seven o'clock every morning. It was too weak for his taste, but it gave the punch he needed to wake up.
On the way to work, he thought of Tiffany Teniere and Nathan Evans, mourning their child. He hated the part of his job that forced him to plow through grief and get in the faces of people in shock.
How would he feel if someone he loved were suddenly gone? Parker could have been taken out of his life just last night; it could have as easily been her as Brenna. LesPaul, though he was sometimes a pain, would leave a gaping hole in Gibson's life. His mother's loss would devastate him. Even the death of his father, Pete, with all his alcoholic flaws, would wipe him out.
His parents had never recovered from their divorce, though it had happened a decade ago. When their dad left their mother for a younger woman who sang in his band, his mother had sunk into a deep depression that lasted about a month. Then she pulled herself out of it and poured her energy into getting her PhD in English. Pete's new marriage lasted all of six months. When he came back seeking a reunion with Lynn, she had only one demand--that he stop drinking.
That was the one demand he couldn't meet. So there they were, stuck in love and no longer married, good friends but not lovers, dependent on each other while living independently. What some called unforgiveness, Gibson and his siblings called tough love. His mother's one weapon for saving Pete from himself was depriving him of herself.
He got to the precinct and headed inside, straight for the coffee. He passed Rayzo's desk; his partner looked decidedly more calm and rested than Gibson felt.
"Hey, where you been?"
That chafed him. "Up all night searching garbage bins and interviewing witnesses," he snapped. "I got two hours' sleep. Where have you been?"
Rayzo didn't seem to think he owed him an answer. "You get the security tape?"
He poured some cream powder into his coffee, then dumped in three spoons of sugar. Then he pulled the disk out of his coat pocket and tossed it onto Rayzo's desk. "It doesn't show anybody coming in or out around the time of the shooting. Just shows Brenna sitting at the computer minding her own business, when the bullets came flying."
The phone rang on Rayzo's desk. "Rayzo here."
Gibson headed to his own desk. He heard Rayzo grunting into the phone, muttering something unintelligible. When he hung up, he called out, "Chief wants to see us. He wants us to bring everything we've got on the Colgate case."
Gibson set his coffee down. "What for?"
"Got me."
Rayzo grabbed the disk Gibson had just given him and the little notebook with all his notes from last night. "Grab those pictures you printed out and anything else you got."
Gibson just stared at him. "All of it? Every last thing?"
"You heard me."
Gibson scrambled to get all his stuff together. If he'd known he was going to have to make a presentation he wouldn't have taken the time to sleep. The chief tied Gibson's stomach in knots. He was impatient and brusque--like Rayzo, only with more power--and he hated explanations and excuses. Maybe he thought the case should have been solved on the spot, like the other three Gibson had worked on. But those had been easier. There had been witnesses and motives and trace evidence lying out for anyone to see. All they'd had to do was question people who knew the decedents, and they'd had those cases solved.
Didn't the chief know that this one was tougher? A drive-by shooting with no witnesses?
He gathered all his notes and pictures and followed Rayzo upstairs. Chief Sims wasn't ready to see them, so Rayzo took a seat on an old couch with creaky springs that looked like something the chief might have dug out of one of those dumpsters Gibson swam through last night. The chief had furnished the entire police headquarters with second-hand furniture, much of it from garage sales. The city council loved him for it.
Dog tired, Gibson kept standing anyway, wanting to appear energetic and on top of the situation. But fatigue sent toxins into his shoulders and neck, aching through the muscles of his back. Night before last he'd been awake all night because his roommate was having a screaming fight with his hysterical gi
rlfriend. He'd had no idea then that he'd get so little sleep the next night, too.
Finally, the chief's door opened. Chief Sims was a short, skinny guy with facial hair that looked like peach fuzz, but he had a deep bass voice that made up for his small stature. A radio voice, Gibson thought. If police chiefing failed, he could always be a DJ.
"Get in here, guys," the chief boomed. "Let me see what you've got on the Brenna Evans murder." He went back around his desk and plopped into his chair. Something about Sims's huge chair intimidated Gibson, and those knots constricted more tightly around his stomach.
Rayzo laid out everything they had while Gibson sat like an idiot.
The chief leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. "Look, guys, no need to beat around the bush. I'm taking you off the case."
"What?" Rayzo asked. "Why?"
"Because of you, James."
Gibson felt the blood draining from his face. He'd known it. The moment he'd passed the detective exam and been assigned to Homicide, he'd known it was just a matter of time before he botched something and ruined this chance.
"Conflict of interest," Sims said. "Your sister works at Colgate, James. I think you have a stake in this. Makes it hard to see things objectively."
Relief trickled through him. So it wasn't his performance. He hadn't done anything wrong.
At the same time, defensiveness crept in. "I understand your concerns, sir. But the fact that the victim was at my sister's desk makes me even more anxious to solve the crime. I also have an advantage--I know a lot of the people who were there."
Chief Sims propped his elbows on the desk, rested his face in his hands. "Yes, you work on the side as a studio musician, don't you?"
Gibson looked at Rayzo and swallowed, wondering if that would upset the chief. There was no policy against it, yet he knew the chief expected total devotion to his work. "Yes, sir," he said in a weak voice. "But not that much now that I'm in Homicide."
"Son, the fact that you know the people you're investigating might cause you to overlook a crucial piece of evidence."
Gibson wasn't going to give up so easily. The knots tightened, but he forced himself to fight for it. "Sir, my sister is a storehouse of knowledge about this case. I already know what it would take other detectives weeks to find out. The key players are my friends."
"One of those key players could be the killer. And so could your sister."
Gibson's swallowed. "My sister is not a killer. She wasn't even there. She was playing a concert in front of a roomful of teenagers."
"I don't care where she was. I'm taking you off the case." The chief jerked off his glasses. "End of discussion. Let me have your notes."
Rayzo, who probably didn't care whether he was assigned to this murder or the next one, finally straightened. "Chief, we did a lot of legwork last night. We've interviewed a lot of people, taken a lot of pictures. We were on the scene minutes after it happened."
"If you did your job properly, then Carter and Stone should be able to take it without missing a beat."
"Carter and Stone?" Rayzo said with distaste. "Not those lightweights, Chief. This is a tough case. I have the most experience. If anybody in this department can solve it, it's me--you know that."
The chief groaned. He rocked back in his chair and flipped through the pictures in the notebook. He read through the notes on the security tape, scanning everything quickly.
Gibson had heard that Sims was practically a genius. Never forgot anything, and speed-read five newspapers every morning. He watched the chief's eyes move across their evidence. Finally, he sat back and looked up at them. "You're right, this is a tough one." He closed the notebook and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "All right, tell you what. I'll give you some time to find this killer. But if it looks like your closeness to the principals is inhibiting the investigation or jeopardizing prosecution, then I'm putting on the brakes." He stacked everything back up, slid it across his desk.
Rayzo got up. "Thanks, Joe. You won't regret it."
"Make sure of that. And steer clear of the press. We'll let Fred do all the talking."
Fred was the public relations officer for the department. He'd been a news anchor before he was a cop. He knew how to tell the press nothing and make them feel like they had something.
"Considering who the girl's parents are, there'll be a lot of reporters trying to drag this out. No leaks, no gossip. Careful what you say, even to witnesses."
As they walked out of the office, Gibson let out a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Rayzo. I appreciate you going to bat for me."
"Not for you," Rayzo said. "I want this case because it's high profile. I'm look in' to be a hero."
Gibson grinned. There was nothing Rayzo hated worse than television cameras.
"So now we do the grunt work," Rayzo said. "Call the phone company and get the records for Brenna's cell phone. Find out who she was talking to during the times her boyfriend said she was getting those secret calls. Find out everybody she talked to last night. Then go interview the friends you haven't already seen. See what they have to say about Brenna and her relationship with Chase McElraney. Or anybody else."
"What will you do?"
"I'm gonna check out the other businesses on Music Square East and see who was coming and going last night. Somebody might have seen something." He patted Gibson's aching shoulders. "Don't worry, kid. We'll catch this guy before you know it. I feel it in my bones."
CHAPTER
NINE
On her way home, Parker drove by Colgate Studios to get a look at the building in daylight. The road was roped off and blocked. Three media vans were parked there. Crime-scene investigators came and went.
The windows had been boarded up, probably at George's initiative, since the studio contained so much expensive equipment that looters would love to get their hands on. The glass in the building was high-grade security glass, meant to keep thieves from smashing it out and breaking in. But it clearly wasn't bulletproof.
She drove past. Stopping would invite reporters who might recognize her now. In their hurry to report her death last night, they'd probably found her MySpace page and studied her picture. Just as quickly, they'd probably forgotten her name.
She drove around the block to a favorite Starbucks. The drive-thruhad half a dozen cars, so she parked and went inside. She ordered her coffee, then sat down at one of the tables to wait, chin on her hand.
A man with stark, fake blue eyes looked at her as he fixed his coffee. Was he staring at her because of her recent celebrity? She decided to get up and wait for her coffee at the counter. The drive-thrutraffic had slowed the baristas down considerably.
"Excuse me. Are you Parker James?" The man had a charming British accent.
She turned around. "Yes."
"I'm Nigel Hughes. I thought I recognized you." He was still stirring his coffee. "You're the songwriter who writes for Serene, aren't you?"
Since he didn't refer to her as the previously dead girl, her defenses lowered. "I am."
"Grand. So nice to meet you. I work for the New York Times.I must say, you're much more attractive in real life than in your publicity pictures."
She didn't know whether to be flattered or defensive. "New York Times?" Then he was interested in her because of the murder.
"I wonder if you might sit down with me for a bit."
"I'm sorry. I don't really have any comments about the murder."
The girl at the counter called out her order. Parker took it across the room, pried off the top, and grabbed a couple of sugars.
"I actually have all I need about the murder for now. I had the good fortune to get an interview with one of the detectives this morning."
She wondered if it had been Gibson.
"When I'm working on a story, I often like to work on side storiesas well. Kill several birds with one stone, you see. And when I was looking at your website last night, I grew interested in your songwriting. I thought perhaps I could do a story
on you, as well. It would be excellent publicity."
Parker looked at him more closely. She did need PR, and depending on when the article came out, it could do her a lot of good. "I could talk to you for a few minutes," she said, stirring her coffee. "But I really can't talk about the murder."
"Excellent," he said and waved his hand toward an empty table. She sat, took off her coat, and sipped her coffee. When he was seated, he looked into her eyes. His eye color didn't look quite as fake as it had before. Maybe he'd been born with stunning blue eyes.
"Were you close to the girl who was killed?"
She set her jaw. "I told you, I don't want to talk to you about the murder."
"Yes, you did. Very sorry. I simply wanted to offer my condolences. Terrible thing, it was."
Parker looked down at her coffee.
"So how long have you been writing for Serene?"
She brought her eyes back to him over her cup. "Since the beginning. We've known each other since we were kids."
"She's always recorded your songs, then?"
"No, she started out doing covers. You know, recording songs that other artists had made popular. But she decided she liked my songs better. She started recording them, and some of them became hits."
"Christian hits."
"At first. But 'Trying' hit the secular charts."
"Secular charts. Is that what you call Billboard's rankings?"
She smiled. "I guess people outside of the Christian market don't call it that."
"You have an interesting way of looking at things, you Christians." She smiled. "Can I take that to mean you're not a believer?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. I believe in many things. Just not Jesus Christ."
"Funny that you'd call him Christ if you don't believe."
"Why is that?"
"Because Christ means 'the Messiah.' If you think he's the Messiah, then why don't you believe?"
He grinned. "I didn't say I think he's the Messiah. I was merely calling him what you do."
She gave him a smile that she hoped was winsome. "I call him Lord."
He matched her smile. "As I said, you Christians have a funny way of looking at things." He shifted in his seat. "So tell me, how has Serene taken her fame?"