Blown Away by Shane Gericke Page B

farewell clears up a lot of doubt about suicide. But not all.”
    â€œMeaning?” Emily asked.
    â€œGun suicides are a guy thing. Women almost always choose something less violent, like carbon monoxide or sleeping pills.”
    â€œLucy was a mechanic,” Branch countered. “She’s comfortable in a male world. And her gun was right there with her.”
    â€œSomething to be said for convenience,” Benedetti agreed. “But then there’s Emily’s question. Why steal a car when her own is fifty feet away?”
    Emily glanced at Lucy’s wedding ring and felt a small, sad certainty. “How recent was the divorce?”
    â€œEx walked out a year ago. Final court papers came through last week.”
    â€œIt took a year?” Branch said. “With no minors to fight over?”
    Benedetti shrugged. “According to her boss, Lucy had three decades invested and wasn’t handing him to some bimbo without a battle.”
    Emily nodded. That information only cemented her conviction. “What kind of car did she own?”
    â€œCadillac. Brand-new. Heated leather seats, satellite radio, the whole megillah.”
    â€œWhen did she buy it?”
    Benedetti consulted his notes. “Two weeks before the old man bailed.”
    Bingo. “That car was the last significant purchase of her marriage, Commander. Maybe she just didn’t want to ruin the upholstery.” Emily noticed his disbelief and added, “Look, maybe it’s not how you or Branch might react. But it’s exactly how I would. The fact she’s still wearing her wedding ring after all this time proves it—she carried her man’s flame to the end. Have Luerchen examine that Cadillac. He’ll find it as clean as the day Lucy bought it. As well preserved as she wanted her marriage to be.”
    Benedetti thought about that. “Old man dumps Lucy for a race car…” She’s crazy with loneliness…knows how to hot-wire a car…Mall lots are easy pickings…Final papers push her buttons, so she steals a Porsche—I’ll show you a trophy, asshole!—and drives around working up her nerve…sees the cemetery, gun’s in the purse, tire tracks fit the Porsche…”
    The satisfaction in his voice pleased her. She’d handled her first homicide OK.
    â€œSo I think we can put this one to bed. Assuming the crime lab doesn’t run across inconsistent fingerprints or trace evidence.”
    â€œOr footprints,” Branch said, nodding to the perimeter. “Any you can’t account for?”
    Benedetti grimaced. “You know how cops react to homicide calls, Branch. A dozen guys ran all over this field looking for a shooter, like the mope’s gonna hang around to confess. It’ll take weeks to match all the footprints we found with the deputies’ shoes.”
    â€œWell, you’ve got your suicide note,” Branch said. “Written on the computer the victim used every day. Ballistics consistent with a self-inflicted wound. She lives and works locally and would know about this cemetery. She’s got her money and credit cards, and so forth. What’s still bothering you?”
    Benedetti raised two fingers “The boot you guys found—trash or clue? And where does Emily’s police card fit in? Message from a killer? Did Lucy want to see her? If so, why?” He snorted. “Or is it just a goofy damn coincidence designed to drive me batty?”
    Emily wondered that herself. Benedetti and Branch began brainstorming solutions to the boot—some kid tossed it during a drunken joyride, raccoons stole it from the industrial park and dragged it to their nest—but she couldn’t add anything useful. So she squatted, curious to see how much undercarriage survived the encounter.
    â€œNot much,” she muttered. The tombstone acted like the bullet, ripping out everything in its path, then drenching itself