tiara. The point was, she could easily prove that she had spent most of the day a good four hours from Pittsburgh. "I didn't get back to town until around ten o'clock last night."
"And did you contact Brandon at any point?" the detective pressed.
"Yes," she answered. "I phoned him as soon as I got out of court—around five. He was upset, and I told him I was coming home and would meet him at his apartment."
The detective leaned in. "What was he upset about?"
Diana hesitated, but only slightly. "He had an important meeting scheduled last night, with the congregation of a church whose land he wanted to buy. He had hired a PR person to run the meeting, but she bailed on him at the last second. His management consultant, Gil March, was supposed to be there, but apparently Gil also refused to take an active role in the meeting. So Brandon got stuck running the thing himself." She paused. "Brandon felt like he'd been back-stabbed—especially since Gil was supposed to be a friend."
She looked up from her tissues long enough to see the detectives exchange a pointed glance. Excellent.
"Did you go to his apartment when you returned?" Detective Peterson probed.
Diana nodded. "I did, but he wasn't there. He wasn't answering his phone, either. I'd tried him several times since the meeting should have been over, but he never picked up. When he wasn't home, I got worried, and I drove to the church myself."
She allowed a suitable dramatic pause. Best not to appear too eager.
"And what did you find there?" the detective prompted.
"His car," she responded. "Empty. The church was all locked up, but he was nowhere in sight. And his car was the only one in the parking lot. I couldn't figure it out."
She sniffled again. This was the important part. "My first thought was that he had gone out with Gil March somewhere. I wondered if maybe they had gone out for a drink or something afterward. I... well, it seems silly now, since they weren't getting along very well. But I didn't know."
Both detectives were leaning forward now.
"So I called Gil on his cell, and he—"
Diana's voice caught, and she buried her face in another tissue. "To say that the man was no help would be an understatement. He practically screamed at me. Told me he didn't know where Brandon was, didn't care, and didn't want to hear from me ever again!"
The detectives were silent for a moment. "At what time did you make that call?" Peterson asked.
"I'm not sure," she answered honestly. "10:30, maybe? I can check it if you want."
"We'll do that in a minute, if you don't mind," the detective answered. "But first, can you tell us what you did next?"
Diana's eyes narrowed at the memory. "I went back to Brandon's apartment. I thought I would just wait for him there."
"But he never came home?"
Her head shook. "I never got in. I recognized his wife's car in the parking lot, and I left. I went back to my own apartment, sent Brandon about four texts, and then finally fell asleep. This morning I came in to an empty office. Courtney called here and told me that Brandon was dead. And then you arrived. End of story."
More or less.
"Are you certain that it was Courtney Lyle's car you saw in the parking lot?" the female detective asked. Her voice was civil, but commanding. Diana made a mental note not to get on the woman's bad side.
"Absolutely. She drives a bright yellow Porsche Boxster with the license plate 1BANANA."
The detectives exchanged a hard glance. "And you weren't expecting her to be there?" Peterson asked.
Diana snorted. "She has an apartment of her own in Chicago and breezes in whenever she feels like it. But I would say no—Brandon wasn't expecting her. If he was, he would have warned me not to come."
She looked up from her tissue and straightened, her voice level. "Courtney said he was shot. I don't suppose you know by whom."
The detectives let a beat pass. "That's what we're trying to figure out, ma'am," Peterson said glibly.
"Well," Diana remarked, "I
"And did you contact Brandon at any point?" the detective pressed.
"Yes," she answered. "I phoned him as soon as I got out of court—around five. He was upset, and I told him I was coming home and would meet him at his apartment."
The detective leaned in. "What was he upset about?"
Diana hesitated, but only slightly. "He had an important meeting scheduled last night, with the congregation of a church whose land he wanted to buy. He had hired a PR person to run the meeting, but she bailed on him at the last second. His management consultant, Gil March, was supposed to be there, but apparently Gil also refused to take an active role in the meeting. So Brandon got stuck running the thing himself." She paused. "Brandon felt like he'd been back-stabbed—especially since Gil was supposed to be a friend."
She looked up from her tissues long enough to see the detectives exchange a pointed glance. Excellent.
"Did you go to his apartment when you returned?" Detective Peterson probed.
Diana nodded. "I did, but he wasn't there. He wasn't answering his phone, either. I'd tried him several times since the meeting should have been over, but he never picked up. When he wasn't home, I got worried, and I drove to the church myself."
She allowed a suitable dramatic pause. Best not to appear too eager.
"And what did you find there?" the detective prompted.
"His car," she responded. "Empty. The church was all locked up, but he was nowhere in sight. And his car was the only one in the parking lot. I couldn't figure it out."
She sniffled again. This was the important part. "My first thought was that he had gone out with Gil March somewhere. I wondered if maybe they had gone out for a drink or something afterward. I... well, it seems silly now, since they weren't getting along very well. But I didn't know."
Both detectives were leaning forward now.
"So I called Gil on his cell, and he—"
Diana's voice caught, and she buried her face in another tissue. "To say that the man was no help would be an understatement. He practically screamed at me. Told me he didn't know where Brandon was, didn't care, and didn't want to hear from me ever again!"
The detectives were silent for a moment. "At what time did you make that call?" Peterson asked.
"I'm not sure," she answered honestly. "10:30, maybe? I can check it if you want."
"We'll do that in a minute, if you don't mind," the detective answered. "But first, can you tell us what you did next?"
Diana's eyes narrowed at the memory. "I went back to Brandon's apartment. I thought I would just wait for him there."
"But he never came home?"
Her head shook. "I never got in. I recognized his wife's car in the parking lot, and I left. I went back to my own apartment, sent Brandon about four texts, and then finally fell asleep. This morning I came in to an empty office. Courtney called here and told me that Brandon was dead. And then you arrived. End of story."
More or less.
"Are you certain that it was Courtney Lyle's car you saw in the parking lot?" the female detective asked. Her voice was civil, but commanding. Diana made a mental note not to get on the woman's bad side.
"Absolutely. She drives a bright yellow Porsche Boxster with the license plate 1BANANA."
The detectives exchanged a hard glance. "And you weren't expecting her to be there?" Peterson asked.
Diana snorted. "She has an apartment of her own in Chicago and breezes in whenever she feels like it. But I would say no—Brandon wasn't expecting her. If he was, he would have warned me not to come."
She looked up from her tissue and straightened, her voice level. "Courtney said he was shot. I don't suppose you know by whom."
The detectives let a beat pass. "That's what we're trying to figure out, ma'am," Peterson said glibly.
"Well," Diana remarked, "I
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