said.
“Yeah, it is. I’ve lived here my whole life—my parents left me the place when they passed. But it’s not the kind you’d expect people to be murdered in.”
The detectives were silent for a minute, just watching her. She hated how cops made her feel guilty, even when she hadn’t done anything wrong. Maggie heard the kids’ screaming laughter, the decibels leaking out through the closed door.
“Listen, I’ve got to go. It’s my daughter’s birthday, we’re having cake. Is there anything else?”
Fletcher shook his head. “No, ma’am. Here’s my info. If you remember anything, please give us a call. Thanks for your time.”
She took his card and went back inside. Shut the door, then turned the dead bolt. Debated telling the kids, decided against it. Keep them in the kitchen, away from the scene. They’d be fascinated and horrified, wanting all the details, then would have nightmares. Like Jen had last night. She really needed to smack Bobby for giving her that book. But they may be more cooperative… No. Better to keep them in the dark.
She dropped Fletcher’s card on the table by the door and steeled herself for what she had to do next.
She never even thought about what Jen had said to her, that small, scared voice in the dark. All she knew was as soon as they had their cake, she had to get them all out.
She’d read about Donovan’s death. A carjacking. On the surface, a senseless act. But now, three days later, Croswell had been murdered in a house right across the street from her very own?
The message was clear. One could be chalked up to a mishap. But two?
The tiniest frisson of fear cruised down her spine. She shook it off. Pulled open the hall closet door and grabbed her bug-out bag, plus the smaller pack she had for the kids.
Fucking past. She was never going to escape it, was she?
Chapter Ten
Washington, D.C.
Detective Darren Fletcher
The door to the house closed behind them, and the sun popped from behind the clouds, dumping warmth and brightness on their shoulders. Fletcher slid his sunglasses out of his breast pocket, put them on against the sudden glare.
Hart put his notebook away and sighed. “So. Make that thirty people who didn’t see a thing. Either they’re all telling the truth, and this killer’s a ghost, or someone’s lying.”
“Or they didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, which means we need to be looking at suspects that fit into this neighborhood’s profile in particular.”
They walked out to the street.
Fletcher glanced back at Maggie Lyons’s house.
“Hey, Hart. Was it my imagination, or did she flinch when I said Croswell’s name?”
“Mmm, I don’t know if I’d call it a flinch. But she did react.”
“Yeah.” Fletcher let that run through his mind. “We should probably find her ex, see if he knows anyone that matches Croswell’s description.”
“Look into her, too?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Don’t overstate it or anything. So, Fletch, what’s next?”
Hart looked tired. He and Jimenez had been canvassing all morning. Fletcher had only joined up for this last house so he could drag Hart with him to the notification.
“We go to Falls Church and see Croswell’s wife.”
“Super. Can’t wait.” He yawned widely and Fletcher did his best not to follow suit.
They grabbed coffee at the Starbucks on Wisconsin. Fletcher had worked on the task force that investigated the triple murder case there in ’97. Talk about a town losing its innocence. He was a green detective then, partnered with a lumbering guy named Jim Kennedy. Kennedy taught him most of what he knew about homicide investigation. Kennedy had dropped from a massive coronary in 2004. He missed him.
Traffic was starting to build, the morning rush hour already under way. Luckily they were going against traffic—the vast majority of commuters were trying to get into the District, only a few were driving out to the suburbs. Most of those workers took the Metro,
“Yeah, it is. I’ve lived here my whole life—my parents left me the place when they passed. But it’s not the kind you’d expect people to be murdered in.”
The detectives were silent for a minute, just watching her. She hated how cops made her feel guilty, even when she hadn’t done anything wrong. Maggie heard the kids’ screaming laughter, the decibels leaking out through the closed door.
“Listen, I’ve got to go. It’s my daughter’s birthday, we’re having cake. Is there anything else?”
Fletcher shook his head. “No, ma’am. Here’s my info. If you remember anything, please give us a call. Thanks for your time.”
She took his card and went back inside. Shut the door, then turned the dead bolt. Debated telling the kids, decided against it. Keep them in the kitchen, away from the scene. They’d be fascinated and horrified, wanting all the details, then would have nightmares. Like Jen had last night. She really needed to smack Bobby for giving her that book. But they may be more cooperative… No. Better to keep them in the dark.
She dropped Fletcher’s card on the table by the door and steeled herself for what she had to do next.
She never even thought about what Jen had said to her, that small, scared voice in the dark. All she knew was as soon as they had their cake, she had to get them all out.
She’d read about Donovan’s death. A carjacking. On the surface, a senseless act. But now, three days later, Croswell had been murdered in a house right across the street from her very own?
The message was clear. One could be chalked up to a mishap. But two?
The tiniest frisson of fear cruised down her spine. She shook it off. Pulled open the hall closet door and grabbed her bug-out bag, plus the smaller pack she had for the kids.
Fucking past. She was never going to escape it, was she?
Chapter Ten
Washington, D.C.
Detective Darren Fletcher
The door to the house closed behind them, and the sun popped from behind the clouds, dumping warmth and brightness on their shoulders. Fletcher slid his sunglasses out of his breast pocket, put them on against the sudden glare.
Hart put his notebook away and sighed. “So. Make that thirty people who didn’t see a thing. Either they’re all telling the truth, and this killer’s a ghost, or someone’s lying.”
“Or they didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, which means we need to be looking at suspects that fit into this neighborhood’s profile in particular.”
They walked out to the street.
Fletcher glanced back at Maggie Lyons’s house.
“Hey, Hart. Was it my imagination, or did she flinch when I said Croswell’s name?”
“Mmm, I don’t know if I’d call it a flinch. But she did react.”
“Yeah.” Fletcher let that run through his mind. “We should probably find her ex, see if he knows anyone that matches Croswell’s description.”
“Look into her, too?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Don’t overstate it or anything. So, Fletch, what’s next?”
Hart looked tired. He and Jimenez had been canvassing all morning. Fletcher had only joined up for this last house so he could drag Hart with him to the notification.
“We go to Falls Church and see Croswell’s wife.”
“Super. Can’t wait.” He yawned widely and Fletcher did his best not to follow suit.
They grabbed coffee at the Starbucks on Wisconsin. Fletcher had worked on the task force that investigated the triple murder case there in ’97. Talk about a town losing its innocence. He was a green detective then, partnered with a lumbering guy named Jim Kennedy. Kennedy taught him most of what he knew about homicide investigation. Kennedy had dropped from a massive coronary in 2004. He missed him.
Traffic was starting to build, the morning rush hour already under way. Luckily they were going against traffic—the vast majority of commuters were trying to get into the District, only a few were driving out to the suburbs. Most of those workers took the Metro,
Similar Books
