The Strategist (8 page)

“Criminal?”

“Corporate. Defending big companies against lawsuits, stuff like that.”

The detective was scribbling notes at a furious pace. “And what was it that she most often complained about? Colleagues? Clients?” 

“The first and only time I heard her complain about work was during the drive home from the airport yesterday. It wasn’t anything specific. It just sounded to me like she was tired of being a lawyer.”

“Are you sure there wasn’t anything else to it?”

Camille hesitated. She had asked Julia the same question. Every instinct she had at the time told her that something wasn’t right, and she pushed for answers. But the more she pushed, the further Julia retreated. In the past, the only time Julia put up a wall was when it came to talking about her relationships, especially the bad ones. Camille had wondered if that was the case here too. Even though the subject seemed to bother Julia to the point of not wanted to say a single word about it, she never gave even the slightest impression that it was anything approaching life and death status.

Camille cleared her throat and continued. “Julia isn’t a complainer, not about work or anything else. So when she started talking the way she did, I just got the sense that it was her way of telling me there was something else bothering her.”

“So what was bothering her?”

“She didn’t say. But we were supposed to have dinner this evening to…” Camille’s mouth started quivering and she had to stop.

Detective Sullivan immediately stopped writing, slipped her notepad into her jacket pocket and put a hand on Camille’s shoulder. “We can stop for now. I know this is incredibly hard on you and there is still a lot to process. Trying to recall too much right now may even be counter-productive. With so much else on your mind, you might miss certain details of a conversation or an encounter that you otherwise wouldn’t. If you’d like, we can resume this after you’ve had some time.”

Camille nodded and was about to communicate her thanks when a male voice stopped her.

“Detective Sullivan.”

Both Camille and the detective turned around to see a tall, stoutly built man in an ill-fitting shirt and loosened tie standing at the crest of the hill staring down at them.

Detective Sullivan dropped her hand from Camille’s shoulder and used it to wave at the man. Her posture was decidedly more rigid now. “Detective Graham.”

As he descended the hill toward them, Camille could see something of a subtle smirk peeking out from under a thick, gray goatee, though she hoped she was reading that wrong.

“Is this the witness that Officer Davies was talking about?” he asked Sullivan without looking in Camille’s direction.

“She’s not a witness. She was a close friend of the victim,” Sullivan corrected.

“People who are closest to the victim often make the best witnesses,” Graham countered in a condescending tone. Then he turned to Camille. “Detective Walter Graham,” he said as he stuck out a catcher’s mitt of a hand.

Camille tentatively took it. “Camille Grisham.”

An instant gleam of recognition cut across Graham’s face that Camille didn’t like in the least. Such recognition meant he knew one of two things about her, neither of which she was ready to talk about.

“Paul Grisham’s kid. I thought you looked familiar,” he said with an affected smile that was almost comical in its insincerity. “I worked with your old man for a long time. Hell of a cop. I always hoped we could partner up on the detective beat one day. But he was smart enough to take the early pension. I bet his golf game is out of this world by now.”

“I wouldn’t really know,” Camille muttered. She hadn’t realized that both of her hands were balled up in tight fists until she felt the pain from her fingernails. Something about Detective Graham had immediately rubbed her the wrong way.

“And man, was he proud of you,” Graham mercilessly continued. “He had FBI banners and decals all over his cubicle. You would have thought he was the agent.”

Sullivan chuckled, though it was peppered with a nervous edge.

“Thank you for the kind words,” Camille said with a tight half smile. Then she looked at Sullivan.

The detective quickly took the cue. “I was just wrapping up with Ms. Grisham. She was able to shed some light on the victim’s state of mind during the final twenty-four hours before her death.”

“So you were with her yesterday?” Graham asked Camille before his partner could continue.

“Yes. I already told Detective Sullivan that.”

“I understand. But just for my own clarification. Approximately what time did you last talk to her?”

Camille sighed and shot another quick look to Sullivan. “She was at my house – my father’s house – for most of the day and left about four p.m.”

“And was that the last time you talked to her? When she left your father’s house?” 

“Yes. Well, actually, she did call me later. But I missed the call.”

Graham suddenly pulled out his own notepad. “And what time was that?”

Camille paused to search her memory. “If I had to guess, I’d say about eight-thirty.”

Graham wrote in his notepad then looked at Sullivan. This time there was little doubt about the smirk.

“Did she leave a message?” Sullivan chimed in, seemingly irritated that she hadn’t gotten this information before now.

“No.”

“Did you call her back?” Graham asked.

Camille took in a deep breath. She had conducted her fair share of interrogations, and this was beginning to feel a lot like one. “No. It had been a long day and I was getting tired. We were planning on meeting up tonight for dinner, and I figured that whatever it was could wait until then.”

Graham nodded as he continued writing. “Was there something specific you were supposed to meet about?”

Sullivan cut in. “It’s all in my notes, detective. If you want
to review them we can go back–”

“Why would I want to review notes when I have the witness right here in front of me?” Graham asked curtly.

“Like I told your partner, Julia and I hadn’t seen each other in a long time and we wanted to catch up.”

Graham looked at Sullivan as if he expected her to fill in the blanks.

“The victim indicated that something was troubling her, though she didn’t say what. She and Ms. Grisham were supposed to talk about it today,” Sullivan reported.

“Is that correct?” Graham asked Camille.

Camille shook her head in disbelief that she was answering these questions again. Graham was the worst kind of cop: an arrogant asshole who had no idea of how much of a hack he truly was. Idiots like him made her disdain for local police feel completely justified. “Just like it says in Detective Sullivan’s notes.”

Camille saw something harden in Graham’s face.

“I was just about to give Ms. Grisham my card,” Sullivan said to Graham. “I thought it would be best for her to let the smoke clear then have her come in so we could talk more about Julia and their scheduled dinner.”

“Unfortunately we don’t have the luxury of letting the smoke clear, Detective Sullivan,” Graham said with a stiff glare that looked completely at home on his leathery, bloated face. Then he turned to Camille. “I know this is a very difficult time, and I’m truly sorry for the loss of your friend. But as Detective Sullivan may or may not have told you, we don’t have much to work with right now. Any information we can get about Ms. Leeds, no matter how seemingly insignificant, will be extremely useful. Hell, you’re a former federal agent. You know better than most what I’m talking about. So if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like for you to come downtown with us so we can ask a few more follow-up questions, maybe get a written statement. We’ve done about all we can here anyway.”

Camille looked at Detective Sullivan who promptly looked away. She was disappointed that Sullivan backed down, but she couldn’t be upset with her. Sullivan may have had the makings of a solid detective, but it was obvious she was in no position to call the shots. Being a young female meant the deck was already somewhat stacked against her. And Graham was making it very clear that he wasn’t interested in making the road any easier.

But he was absolutely right about one thing. Time was not on their side. No matter the crime, the window for successfully solving it is always incredibly small. In most cases, the vast majority of useful evidence, witness statements, and anonymous tips are collected within the first forty-eight hours of the incident. After that, the trail begins to run cold. Even though she wanted nothing more than to crawl into the nearest hole and die, she knew she couldn’t. The fact remained that she was possibly the last person who Julia talked to. She may not have had a lot to give to the detectives, but right now it was probably a lot more than anyone else.

“I’m parked a few blocks over,” she said to Sullivan.

“We’ll drive you to your car then you can follow us from there,” Graham answered.

Camille made her way under the yellow police line and back into the street. The two teenage sisters she noticed earlier were now standing beside their father. All three of them looked at Camille as she passed. The collective empathy in their faces almost made her cry again. She also thought about her own father. She would have to call him. He was probably awake by now, and if he wasn’t already worried to death he soon would be. The words he spoke last night echoed in her mind: “
I’ve never worried more about you than I have for the last two months
.”

Camille feared that before this was all over, the last two months were going to seem to him like a perfect day on the golf course.

CHAPTER 13

Camille sat in a conference room inside the downtown Criminal Investigations Division, while Detectives Graham and Sullivan worked feverishly at their computers; most likely logging witness statements and crime scene evidence. At least that’s what Camille’s experience told her they should be doing. Before escorting her inside, Graham made the token offer of a Krispy Kreme doughnut and a cup of coffee. Camille declined both. All she wanted was to write her statement and get the hell out of here as fast as she could.

She called her father while she waited. He had seen the news report but didn’t make the connection to Julia. When Camille made the connection for him, he was quiet for a long time. If the news had made him emotional, he would rather put the phone down and walk away than let Camille hear him cry. To him, sadness was an entirely private matter, not to be shared with anyone else in the world, including those closest to him. It was a complete sense of detachment that masqueraded as cast-iron toughness, and it allowed Paul Grisham to survive the streets for over two decades without a single scratch – to either his body or his psyche. The trait was passed on to Camille, and for a time she wore it with great pride. Then she encountered a mass murderer who rudely informed her that she wasn’t made of nearly the same kind of stuff as her father.

After what felt like an hour of silence, Paul told Camille that he would meet her as soon as he could arrange for a ride. He didn’t seem the least bit upset that she had taken his.

Graham and Sullivan finally made their way into the conference room some twenty minutes after Camille’s phone conversation ended. They were each holding a cup of coffee and a manila folder. Sullivan was smiling as she took a seat in the chair nearest Camille. C
amille didn’t smile back.

When Graham sat down on the other side of the table he immediately opened his folder and began sifting through the contents inside. “Sorry for the wait Camille,” he said without looking up. “Paperwork is one ugly bitch.”

Sullivan glared at him and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “We’ve contacted Julia’s sister in Castle Rock,” she said as she opened her folder and pulled out a blank witness statement form. “She’s on her way to meet the coroner as we speak. Once she establishes a positive ID, we can release Julia’s name and more information about the crime to the public.”

“Then we pray that the tips start rolling in,” Graham continued. “A case like this lives or dies on the number of snitches who come out of the woodwork and how loud they’re willing to sing.”

Camille nodded then turned to Sullivan. “How is Nicole doing?”

“She slept in this morning and hadn’t watched the news, so she had no idea. Those kinds of phone calls are the worst part of what we do.” Sullivan cast her eyes down and the same look of sadness came over her that Camille noticed earlier. This time she didn’t blink it away so quickly.

“Detective Sullivan has a witness statement for you to fill out,” Graham said to Camille without a hint of the emotion evident on Sullivan’s face.

On cue, Sullivan slid the paper across the table to Camille.

“But before you do that, I have a couple of questions,” Graham continued.

“I have a couple of questions too,” Camille interrupted. “Actually I just have one. Do you have any idea who did this?”

Graham and Sullivan looked at one another.

“No we don’t,” Graham answered tersely. 

“Not yet anyway,” Sullivan interjected. “We only have a couple of leads so far, and they’re slim at best. But we’re working them the best we can.”

“So was it a home invasion?” Camille asked.

“That’s certainly a possibility,” Graham answered. “All of the trademarks of a home invasion are there, but in cases like this we always have to pursue other angles so as not to prematurely rule anything else out.”

“Which is why we wanted to bring you in for some follow up, Ms. Grisham,” Sullivan continued. “The sooner we can get a complete picture of Julia Leeds and what was happening in her life prior to last night, the sooner we can start to focus the investigation.”

“Of course I want to help in whatever way I can,” Camille said. “But I honestly don’t know much more beyond what I’ve already told you. I wish I would have pushed her harder for answers, but I didn’t want to make a bigger deal out of it than it was.” Camille felt her eyes begin to swell and reached for a nearby box of tissue.

“Why do you think she was so unwilling to talk? Was she normally a secretive person?” Graham inquired.

“No. Not with me anyway.”

“But do you think there were aspects of her life that she could have kept hidden from you?”

Camille hesitated before answering. “I can’t sit here and say that she told me every single thing happening in her life. But she didn’t keep things hidden either, especially the big things.”

“Like relationships?”

“I knew about most of them.”

“But not all.”

Camille sensed Graham was going somewhere specific with this line of questioning and she braced herself. “I lived in Washington D.C., detective. I saw Julia once every couple years, and we only got to talk on the phone a few times a month. There’s no way I’m going to know everything.”

Graham put up a hand. “I certainly understand that, Camille. I’m not suggesting you should. But you mentioned that a couple of months prior to you returning here, you talked to her almost every day.”

Camille nodded.

“So that would have given you more opportunities to talk about things like relationships.”

Camille blew out a loud sigh. “Detective Sullivan and I have already had this conversation. Julia wasn’t involved with anyone romantically.”

“How do you know that for sure?”

“Because that’s the kind of thing girls talk about,” Camille answered with a sarcastic half smile. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sullivan once again shift nervously in her chair.

Graham bit the corner of his lip as he pulled an eight by ten color photo out of the manila folder and passed it to Camille. “Do you recognize this car?”

Camille took the photo and eyed it closely. The burgundy Ranger Rover she had ridden in twenty-four hours before was barely recognizable. All of the windows, including the windshield, had been smashed out, the trunk and hood were open, and all four wheels were gone. It was balanced tenuously on a pile of cinder blocks and wedged in between a dumpster and an abandoned washing machine. “It’s Julia’s,” she answered as she slid the photo back across the table.

“That’s correct. It was found by patrol officers in an alley approximately seven miles from the victim’s home. On the street adjacent to the alley, the officers spotted a gray Chevy Impala. That vehicle happened to match the description of a car seen by one of the victim’s neighbors around 12:30 this morning. The neighbor was awakened by the sound of loud music outside his house. When he looked out the window he saw the Impala parked along the curb two houses down. That would put it directly in front of the victim’s home.”

Camille felt her stomach tighten as Graham continued.

“The neighbor watched from his window while the car idled on the curb with its lights on and windows down. According to his statement, the car sat for approximately two minutes before driving away. The neighbor then reported hearing the music again while the car drove off.”

“So you think this car was somehow involved?” Camille asked as she cradled her queasy stomach.

Sullivan chimed in. “The neighbor claimed he had never seen that particular vehicle in the area before, so it raised some suspicion. But we had nothing to go on except a light-colored Chevy blasting rap music from its radio. That could have described literally thousands of cars in this city. Then we found a vehicle with the exact same description parked on the street less than 200 feet from where Julia’s Range Rover was found.”

“And that’s where it gets interesting,” Graham continued. He pulled out another piece of paper from the folder and began reading from it. “Officers ran the plates from the Impala, and it came back as being registered to a Steven Clemmons. When officers interviewed him, he claimed not to have left his house since arriving from work last evening, though there were apparently no witnesses to corroborate that. Officers then asked him where he worked. Turns out he’s a mail clerk at the law firm of Brown, Wallace, and Epstein.”

“When you told me that Julia was a lawyer it set off all kinds of alarm bells,” Sullivan added. “So I did a little research and came up with so
mething pretty interesting.”

Camille felt the bottom of her queasy stomach completely drop out. “I already know, Detective Sullivan. Julia was a partner at the same firm.”

Graham’s face widened with a smile that Camille could only describe as hideous. “If that’s not a crazy coincidence, I don’t know what is.”

“So are you saying that he was merely visiting Julia the night she was killed?” Camille’s face suddenly burned and she desperately wanted to pound her fist against the table. “Or are you saying he’s the one who actually killed her?”

“There are theories being discussed, but so far there’s no evidence to support them,” Sullivan said. “If we could establish a link between Julia and Clemmons aside from the fact that they worked in the same building, it would at least give us more ammunition to approach Clemmons with. We have detectives at the firm right now interviewing Julia’s colleagues and we’ll see if that bears anything. But you were a close friend, Ms. Grisham. You’ve had conversations with her that her colleagues probably would not have had. I know it’s hard to remember everything, especially given your current state of mind, but if you can think of anything that Julia may have mentioned, even something in passing that may have hinted at personal issues with a colleague or anyone else for that matter, it would really help us out.”

Camille dabbed at the corner of her eye with a tissue. “I wish I could. I’ve replayed every conversation I’ve had with her for the past few weeks. Every single one. And I can’t come up with anything aside from what I’ve already told you.”

“It’s okay, Camille. We don’t want to tread the same ground here,” Graham said almost dismissively as he closed the manila folder. “I just thought that hearing this new information would spark something. But it’s likely that the victim’s colleagues can better speak to the matter anyway, considering they saw both her and Clemmons every day.”

“But we do want to thank you for c
oming in and talking,” Sullivan added with a thin but sincere smile. “I know how difficult it was to do so.”

Camille nodded as she threw the damp tissue she had been holding into the wastebasket. She almost felt compelled to return the detective’s smile. But the presence of Graham wouldn’t allow her to do it.

Sullivan pulled a pen from her breast pocket and handed it to Camille. “My card is attached to the witness statement. If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to call. We’ll be sure to keep you in the loop regarding any developments in the case.”

“I appreciate that,” Camille said, her emotion-battered voice barely registering above a whisper.

Sullivan and Graham stood up at the same time. Sullivan extended her hand to Camille, Graham headed straight for the door.

“Take all the time you need with that statement,” Graham said as he reached for the doorknob. “You’re basically just writing down everything you told us. Of course, being a former FBI agent, I’m sure you know those things like the back of your hand. By the way, I’m sorry things ended the way they did. But I know from my experience with your old man that you Grishams are a feisty breed. I’m sure you’ll be busting serial killers again in no time flat.”

Even though Graham’s words sounded complimentary, the sneer on his fat face left little doubt about the real intent behind them.

Fuck this asshole straight to hell
, Camille thought, fighting like crazy to keep the words from actually coming out of her mouth.

“Detective Sullivan and I have a briefing to attend, so when you’re finished you can give your statement the officer outside. He’ll make sure that it gets to one of us.”

“I’ll do that,” Camille said, giving Graham the finger under the table.

“Goodbye, Ms. Grisham,” Sullivan said as she walked out of the room. “And thank you again.” The look in her eyes made Camille think that she was on the verge of apologizing. But she kept going, then closed the door behind her.

Camille sat at the table staring at the blank statement. After she wrote her name and date of birth she couldn’t seem to get much further. Her mind swirled with images of Julia, lines of dialogue from their conversations, and questions of how different things may have been if she had only taken Julia’s phone call last night.

Even though her heart was overwhelmed with grief and sadness, she knew that she somehow had the capacity to handle it. But the one feeling she could not handle was guilt. Camille had already experienced enough of that to last two lifetimes. But she couldn’t stop wondering why Julia had called. Did she suddenly get the urge to talk about what had been bothering her? Was she fearful about something? Did she just want to hear Camille’s voice again? The sad fact was that Camille would never know because she couldn’t take five measly minutes to call back.