Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (14 page)

"And you are?" she asked.

"Riley Reed."

"I'll see if he's in..." I watched as she
announced my name to him on the phone and then gazed at me.
"Detective Whitmore's office is near the end of the floor. He's
expecting you."

I walked past a rather large room with desks
and detectives on the phone, busy with paperwork, or otherwise
occupied.

As I approached an office, Detective Whitmore
stepped out of it and nodded. "Ms. Reed."

"Hello, Detective. I was wondering if I could
have a word with you regarding the arrest of Emily Peterson and
Tony Sullivan."

"Sure," he said. "In fact, I was hoping to
speak with you as well—"

I wondered why as he led the way into his
office. It was small and a bit cluttered.

"Have a seat." He pointed to a chair closest
to his desk and I sat down. Instead of sitting in his desk chair,
he sat on a corner of the desk.

"So how can I help you?" Whitmore asked.

"You can start by telling me what evidence
you have that Emily and her friend Tony were behind Brent's
death."

"I'm afraid that's police business."

I expected as much, but pressed on anyway.
"As you know, Brent London was a very good friend of mine. I've
gotten to know his niece and I can't believe she could be involved
in his murder."

"I can understand how you might feel that
way," he said. "People always find it hard to think that someone
they know could be capable of such violence, but it happens,
unfortunately."

"But Emily was at the library during the time
of the murder," I told him.

"Actually, that isn't true," Whitmore said.
"Turns out her alibi didn't quite hold up."

I cocked a brow in surprise. "Really?"

He nodded. "No one could vouch for her being
at the library. However, an eyewitness placed her at the house
around the time of death and overheard her arguing with
London."

A witness?
I mused. Arguing? I
recalled seeing the neighbor looking at us suspiciously seemingly
every time Emily and I passed by. Emily had dismissed her as just a
nosey neighbor.

"Are you referring to a neighbor of Brent's?"
I asked. "Female, middle aged?"

Whitmore leaned back. "You know her?"

"I know she's a meddlesome neighbor," I
answered. "Maybe she got her times mixed up with this so-called
argument."

"That's possible," he said. "But when you
combine that with other facts, it fits..."

"Such as?" I asked, hoping he would share
more with me.

"The murder weapon," he said slowly, as if
weighing whether or not to continue. "Turns out that both Ms.
Peterson's and Tony Sullivan's DNA and prints were on it."

I tried to hide my shock at this revelation.
"Well, I'm sure they played pool in the recreation room with that
pool stick. That doesn't prove they used it to kill Brent."

"Perhaps not. But it certainly cannot be
dismissed either, all things considered." He reached across his
desk, flipped open a folder and removed a photograph, handing it to
me. "Does this look familiar?"

It was a picture of a dark vehicle.
Immediately, I thought back to the car that had sped off just as I
turned on to Brent's street.

"Yes," I admitted. "It looks very much like
the car I saw the day I found Brent dead."

"Yeah, I thought so too, based on your
description."

"Are you saying this car was involved in the
murder?"

"I'd say it's a pretty good possibility,"
Whitmore responded.

"But you said the car I described belonged to
a neighbor. Are you suggesting that—?"

Whitmore cut me off and pointed to the
picture. "We think this is the car the killers used to take off
after committing the deed, and it doesn't belong to a
neighbor."

Our eyes locked. "So who does it belong to?"
I knew Emily drove a red Prius, so it wasn't her car.

"It belongs to Tony Sullivan," he said
matter-of-factly. "We found skid marks that match his tires."

"Oh dear," I said, putting a hand to my
mouth. "But that doesn't prove Emily was involved."

"She was his girlfriend," Whitmore said
bluntly.

"Actually, they're just friends."

"Well, whatever, she was seen in the car with
him after the incident. Aside from that, another piece of the
puzzle gives her a strong motive for wanting to see her uncle
dead."

"Which is?" I asked thoughtfully.

"The oldest motive in the book—money. Brent
London had a half a million dollar life insurance policy, and Emily
Peterson was the sole beneficiary. That's a lot of incentive for
taking someone out, along with her boyfriend, or
friend
as
you put it, who was buried in gambling debts. So to answer the
question you have in your head—yes, we're pretty sure we have the
people who killed Brent London in custody."

I had to admit that the evidence,
circumstantial and otherwise, certainly made it seem that way. But
could the police be wrong?

I thought about the insurance policy. Did
Emily know she was the beneficiary of such a large sum? Was that
enough for her to want him dead?

Was there more to the story? Or was there a
different story altogether?

I knew the only way to have a better
perspective was to talk to Emily directly. And maybe even Tony.

* * *

I went through the routine procedure of
visiting a jail inmate, having done it once before when a friend
had too much to drink one night and ended up punching a police
officer. Though he felt terrible afterwards and vowed to never get
intoxicated again, he ended up spending thirty days behind bars.
Lesson learned.

As I waited in the chair for Emily to enter
the room on the other side of the glass partition, I could only
imagine what was going through her mind. Or what wasn't. Was she
the innocent young woman I wanted her to be? Or had she committed
the worst sin imaginable by taking the life of the uncle who had
taken her in when there was no one else.

Emily entered the room and sat down in the
booth, lifting the phone to her ear.

"How are you doing?" I asked.

She frowned. "How would anyone be doing stuck
in here?"

That was a fair response, considering her
predicament. "Will you be able to make bail?"

"I don't think so," she muttered. "I can't
touch anything that Uncle Brent left me. My lawyer said he would
try to get the bail reduced, but I'm not holding my breath."

"I was told that Jonathan Resnick is a good
attorney, with plenty of experience in criminal cases," I said.
"Whether or not he can get your bail reduced, he should still be
able to help you."

Emily sucked in a deep breath. "Thanks for
your help in getting him for me."

"You asked for my help, so I only did what I
could." I paused, gazing at her through the glass while collecting
my thoughts. "I have to ask this—did you have anything to do with
Brent's death?"

"No!" she responded adamantly. "How could you
even ask? He was my uncle."

"I spoke to Detective Whitmore," I told her.
"He seems to think they have a pretty compelling case against
you."

Emily rubbed her nose. "I'm innocent—no
matter what they think they have."

"Is Tony innocent, too?" I asked bluntly.

"Yes! There's no way he would have killed my
uncle. He's not that type of person."

"The police say that your fingerprints—and
Tony's—were found on the murder weapon."

Emily did not seem surprised. "I love to play
pool and so does Tony. Uncle Brent liked seeing the pool table in
use when he wasn't playing. We played pool the night before and
shared the same stick."

I found that plausible, though I could see
why the police might not. "Tony's car was apparently seen leaving
Brent's street around the time of his death," I noted, neglecting
to mention that I was the one who identified the vehicle. "They
have tire tracks that match his tires. Is there something you want
to tell me?"

Emily hesitated before saying, "Tony came to
the house to see me. The door was open and he went in. He saw Uncle
Brent's body in the rec room and panicked. He got out of there as
fast as he could. But he didn't kill him, I swear it."

"You didn't think it was important to mention
this to the police?"

"I wanted to," she said, "but Tony was afraid
they would somehow try to pin this on him."

"Well, now they have, in spite of you trying
to keep his presence at the house a secret."

"I know it was a dumb thing to do and I wish
we could do it over—but we can't."

I leaned forward. "What were you arguing
about with Brent the day he was murdered?"

Emily cocked a brow. "How did you—?"

"Your nosey neighbor overheard it and relayed
it to the police," I answered.

"I should have known," she said, sneering.
"It was nothing, really."

"It was important enough for the police to
build a case against you," I told her. "So what was it about?"

She sighed. "We argued about him being too
controlling and trying to manage my life. I told him I was an adult
and had to make my own mistakes, even if he didn't approve. He
actually agreed and we left it at that on good terms."

I had no reason not to believe her, aside
from the evidence to the contrary that Detective Whitmore had
gathered.

"The police were unable to verify that you
were at the library at the time Brent was killed," I informed her.
"Did anyone see you there?"

Emily pondered this. "I don't know. I wasn't
really paying attention to anyone, and apparently no one was paying
much attention to me."

"Well there must be someone you spoke to who
could vouch for you," I pressed, wanting to believe she was telling
the truth and was not in any way responsible for Brent's
murder.

"Actually, there was a librarian who saw me
afterward, I guess. She had my cell phone that I left on the
table."

"Did you get her name? She could provide the
alibi you need."

Emily shook her head. "I didn't think I'd
need her name, rank, and serial number. But I can describe her. She
was in her sixties, had short white hair, and walked with a slight
limp."

I made a mental note of this and eyed her.
"Did you know that Brent had named you the beneficiary for his life
insurance?"

"No," Emily insisted, "not until his lawyer
told me. I didn't even know he planned to leave me his house. We
never talked about that type of thing. I wanted him to live to a
ripe old age and deal with those issues later."

She started to cry and my gut instincts told
me they were real tears. If I had any doubts, I was convinced now
that she was telling the truth and that the police and prosecutor
were barking up the wrong tree. But without proof to the contrary,
that wasn't likely to change. And since I wasn't a private
investigator, I wasn't sure what could be done, other than her
lawyer putting up a good defense.

"I believe you," I told her. "But I'm afraid
that you'll need more than that to convince the authorities."

"I'm open to suggestions," she said. "Tony
and I can use all the help we can get—especially since we both know
the real killer is still out there, probably hoping we'll go down
for the crime."

"Just stay strong," I advised her, "and we'll
find some way out of this."

She wiped her eyes and thanked me for the
support.

After watching Emily being escorted away, I
arranged for a brief meeting with Tony, hoping he would show.

He did and, by the look on his face, he was
clearly surprised to find me on the other side of the partition.
Grabbing the phone, he held it to his ear and I did the same.

"Ms. Reed—what are you doing here?"

"I asked myself the same question," I told
him. "I want to help Emily get out of this mess, meaning I need to
help you, too."

"I appreciate it, but I'm not sure what you
can do."

"Neither am I," I said. "But since Emily
believes you're innocent, I guess I'd just like to hear your side
of the story."

"I am innocent of everything but stupidity,"
he claimed. "What do you want to know?"

"I'd like to hear your account of exactly
what happened when you arrived at Brent's house."

"Okay."

He pretty much backed up Emily's story word
for word. "I should never have gone inside the house," he lamented.
"I had told Emily earlier that I would drop by and she was down
with it."

"But wasn't her car gone when you got
there?"

"I thought it was in the garage, where she
usually keeps it. I saw her bike outside, so I figured she was
probably there."

"Did you see anyone else inside or out?"

"Not a soul. The moment I saw Brent lying
there, I knew he was dead, but I checked for a pulse to be sure.
There was none. Since he was famous and I was someone people
probably thought was just sponging off his niece, I had a bad
feeling that I would be blamed."

"So you ran off?"

"Yeah. I saw a car coming that I nearly
hit."

"It was my car," I admitted.

His eyes expanded. "You...?"

"Yes. But I didn't put the pieces together
until the police showed me a picture of your car, which is now
being held as evidence."

"You told them you saw me?"

"No, I just saw the car. The rest they
figured out on their own, as they were able to match your tires
with the skid marks you left when you sped off."

Tony muttered something under his breath and
slouched down in the chair. "So I'm screwed."

"Maybe not," I tried to reassure him. "Where
were you before you went to the house?"

"I was hanging out at The Train Stop, having
a drink."

"Can anyone vouch for you?"

"Yeah, my buddy Elliot Quail. He's a
bartender there."

"Did you tell the police everything you've
told me?"