Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 03 - A Deadly Change of Heart by Gina Cresse Page B

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