The Target by L.J. Sellers

respected that.
    He parked behind the red Miata in the driveway, wondering who drove it and if another vehicle was in the garage. The summer sun beat down on his head, but he was used to it. The task ahead was what made him sweat.
    Before he reached the ornate double doors, a woman flew out of the house, her beautiful face stricken with panic. “Are you here about James? Was he in an accident?” Her loose white clothes didn’t hide her long, lean body and full breasts.
    Stunning! And so much younger than her husband. Avery had been a lucky man. Well, until he was killed. “I’m Detective Cortez, SDPD.” He held out his hand.
    She ignored it. “Tell me. Is James in the hospital? I haven’t been able to find out anything.”
    He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Can we go inside?”
    Her mouth opened in shock and her hand flew to cover it. “No!”
    Oh dear.
What should he do now?
    Veronica’s knees buckled and she doubled over as if in pain.
    Cortez regretted volunteering to do this. “Let me help you into the house.” He reached for her elbow.
    She slapped at his hand, sobbing now. “No! Just go away! I don’t want to hear this.”
    He would wait it out. Cortez took a deep breath and counted slowly to twenty, while the widow cried with her face in her hands. A car on the street slowed down to gawk.
    “Miss Scappini? Let’s go inside and get you comfortable. We have things to talk about.” Cortez put his arm around her and led her toward the door. She didn’t object.
    Inside, he guided her toward a pale sofa in a sunny corner. The windows were draped in a gauzy material that softened the white room. A very different interior than his small house, which he’d painted in rich colors.
    He sat on the coffee table, afraid to dirty the furniture. “I’m sorry, but James Avery is dead. You’re his wife, Veronica Scappini, correct?”
    She nodded, her head still down. “Tell me what happened.”
    “We found his body in an abandoned cannery south of downtown.”
    “What?” She stopped crying and looked up, her forehead crinkled.
    “He was probably murdered there sometime last night.”
    “That makes no sense. Why would he be in an abandoned factory?” She gulped in air.
    “We think someone took him there and roughed him up. Do you know what they could have wanted?”
    “No.” She pushed off the couch. “Where’s my purse? I need to take something.”
    Cortez followed her through the house while she searched, marveling at how beige and white everything was. She found her bag in the kitchen and gulped a tablet from a pill bottle. A second later, she grabbed a partial bottle of red wine from the granite counter and downed three long gulps, splashing some on her white blouse.
    Unfazed, she set down the bottle, reached for a paper towel, and wiped her mouth. “Sorry, I was starting to hyperventilate.”
    Startled by her reaction, Cortez wondered how he would handle the death of his mother or sister. “If you’re feeling better, I’d like to ask some questions.”
    “I’m feeling a little numb, but not better. Let’s get this over with.” She plopped down at the small breakfast table, her bony hands gripped tightly together.
    Cortez took out his notepad and stuck a piece of cinnamon gum in his mouth to keep his throat from going dry. “When did you last see your husband?”
    “Yesterday morning when he went out to play golf.”
    “What was his mood?”
    “He seemed fine. Maybe preoccupied. He hadn’t made a movie in a while, so he was a little depressed.”
    Cortez realized he would never see another Jack Kramer movie. “Was James taking medication? Or seeing a therapist?”
    “No.”
    “Was there anyone new in his life? Anyone pressuring him?”
    “I don’t think so.” The widow fought to keep from sobbing. “He did see his lawyer last week, but I don’t know what it was about.”
    Cortez would find out. The next question was delicate and he hated to ask. “Do you know about his will?