say.
Right away April could see that Lorna didn’t like her. “I already told the officer everything I know.” She cocked her head toward April, who was suddenly busy with her notebook.
“You mean Detective Woo?”
Lorna glanced at April. “Uh, yes.”
Sergeant Joyce looked doubtful. Looking doubtful orscathing was her thing. “Well, you’ll probably think of some more things over time.”
“I may think of a lot of things,” Lorna replied sharply, “but I know my husband, and I know he didn’t kill himself, so you better start looking for the monster who did.”
Nothing like antagonizing the cops. The way Sergeant Joyce hammered her flat feet on the worn hall carpet as she walked away gave every indication that it was not up to the newly widowed Lorna Cowles to tell the police what their job was. Without another word, she went inside. Eager to get into the apartment to view the deceased.
ten
S ergeant Joyce’s lips were gone when she returned. They had disappeared into her mouth, where she chewed on them thoughtfully as she considered the situation. Inside the apartment the Crime Scene team had already begun its work. Joyce made a slight motion with her head at April as she stared steadily at Lorna. April knew that scrutiny. It meant
We’re going to strip all the covers off this woman and see what’s underneath
. It was a common police tactic that April and Sanchez used only on alternate Tuesdays with clearly guilty suspects. Today was Monday. The woman was the victim’s widow, and clearly not at her best. With her, they wouldn’t have used it.
April’s left eyebrow arched at her supervisor.
You want me to go or stay?
Joyce raised her shoulder a half an inch in reply.
Stick around
.
Inside the apartment, muffled conversation as the two men from Crime Scene went about their job of dusting for prints and photographing and sketching and measuring and bagging anything that could conceivably be used as physical evidence in whatever case might be made in court many months from now. If it ever came to that. Sanchez was searching for an address book, for leads on the girlfriend, Cowles’s dinner companion. April wanted to be in there with him.
Out in the hall, silence. Now the Sergeant was guarding the door like a brick chimney, her hair on end and her mouth shut tight on her lips. She studied the widow this way for what seemed like a few eternities. Lorna’s beige coat had fallen open. Underneath, a tan sweater was unevenly tucked into a straight plaid skirt of the palest blues and browns. It appearedthe woman had dressed in a hurry and rushed over. Still, her tights matched and so did the paisley scrap of silk tied around her neck. Sergeant Joyce’s eyes finished the tour of Lorna’s person by scanning her polished tasseled loafers, which were similar to those of her dead husband except hers were not suede, and the shoulder bag that had seen better days. A most conservative-looking person. A drink of water. Pale and exhausted, Lorna did not give the impression of a killer. But April had seen her change colors three times in an hour, now, and had a picture of her as a chameleon.
Sergeant Joyce released her lips from behind her teeth. Her pink lipstick was now outside the lines. She was ready to speak. “Mrs. Cowles, are you all right? Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Confused by this sudden concern for her well-being, Lorna glanced quickly at April, the cop who had seen her vomit in the sink without gagging herself.
“I touched. I’m sorry,” she said, so softly the brick chimney was taken aback.
“What?” Sergeant Joyce turned to April for an answer.
April reached into her own shoulder bag, pulled out her diminishing pack of tissues, and offered it to the Sergeant, pointing to the bow in her own lips.
“What …? Oh.” Sergeant Joyce accepted a tissue and dabbed at her mouth distractedly. “What do you mean, you touched?”
“I know you’re not supposed to touch anything. I
Right away April could see that Lorna didn’t like her. “I already told the officer everything I know.” She cocked her head toward April, who was suddenly busy with her notebook.
“You mean Detective Woo?”
Lorna glanced at April. “Uh, yes.”
Sergeant Joyce looked doubtful. Looking doubtful orscathing was her thing. “Well, you’ll probably think of some more things over time.”
“I may think of a lot of things,” Lorna replied sharply, “but I know my husband, and I know he didn’t kill himself, so you better start looking for the monster who did.”
Nothing like antagonizing the cops. The way Sergeant Joyce hammered her flat feet on the worn hall carpet as she walked away gave every indication that it was not up to the newly widowed Lorna Cowles to tell the police what their job was. Without another word, she went inside. Eager to get into the apartment to view the deceased.
ten
S ergeant Joyce’s lips were gone when she returned. They had disappeared into her mouth, where she chewed on them thoughtfully as she considered the situation. Inside the apartment the Crime Scene team had already begun its work. Joyce made a slight motion with her head at April as she stared steadily at Lorna. April knew that scrutiny. It meant
We’re going to strip all the covers off this woman and see what’s underneath
. It was a common police tactic that April and Sanchez used only on alternate Tuesdays with clearly guilty suspects. Today was Monday. The woman was the victim’s widow, and clearly not at her best. With her, they wouldn’t have used it.
April’s left eyebrow arched at her supervisor.
You want me to go or stay?
Joyce raised her shoulder a half an inch in reply.
Stick around
.
Inside the apartment, muffled conversation as the two men from Crime Scene went about their job of dusting for prints and photographing and sketching and measuring and bagging anything that could conceivably be used as physical evidence in whatever case might be made in court many months from now. If it ever came to that. Sanchez was searching for an address book, for leads on the girlfriend, Cowles’s dinner companion. April wanted to be in there with him.
Out in the hall, silence. Now the Sergeant was guarding the door like a brick chimney, her hair on end and her mouth shut tight on her lips. She studied the widow this way for what seemed like a few eternities. Lorna’s beige coat had fallen open. Underneath, a tan sweater was unevenly tucked into a straight plaid skirt of the palest blues and browns. It appearedthe woman had dressed in a hurry and rushed over. Still, her tights matched and so did the paisley scrap of silk tied around her neck. Sergeant Joyce’s eyes finished the tour of Lorna’s person by scanning her polished tasseled loafers, which were similar to those of her dead husband except hers were not suede, and the shoulder bag that had seen better days. A most conservative-looking person. A drink of water. Pale and exhausted, Lorna did not give the impression of a killer. But April had seen her change colors three times in an hour, now, and had a picture of her as a chameleon.
Sergeant Joyce released her lips from behind her teeth. Her pink lipstick was now outside the lines. She was ready to speak. “Mrs. Cowles, are you all right? Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Confused by this sudden concern for her well-being, Lorna glanced quickly at April, the cop who had seen her vomit in the sink without gagging herself.
“I touched. I’m sorry,” she said, so softly the brick chimney was taken aback.
“What?” Sergeant Joyce turned to April for an answer.
April reached into her own shoulder bag, pulled out her diminishing pack of tissues, and offered it to the Sergeant, pointing to the bow in her own lips.
“What …? Oh.” Sergeant Joyce accepted a tissue and dabbed at her mouth distractedly. “What do you mean, you touched?”
“I know you’re not supposed to touch anything. I
Similar Books
