Silent Reckoning. Debra Webb
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left my cubicle.
While we’re on the subject of cubicles, I should mention that the term is probably not the right one to use. I don’t have any walls around my desk. Mostly I have my space. About a yard of beige carpet all the way around my beige metal desk. There’s a chair, also metal but embellished with a little fake leather, sitting in front of it for interviewing folks or conferencing with one’s partner.
I was somewhat protective of my space. The day the desk had been pointed out to me I’d taken steps to make it mine. Framed family photos and a mug turned pencil holder were my only personal items on top of the desk. The mug had been given to me by the kids in my last class as a teacher. In an effort to clearly delineate the boundaries of my space, I’d brought in a six-by-eight burgundy rug to go beneath my desk. Needless to say, no one else had marked their territory in such a way. Coffee stains and the like were about all that surrounded the other detectives’ desks, even the other two that belonged to females.
Oh, well, I’d always been different. Why change now?
I downed the last of my coffee, grimaced, and grabbed my purse. Sometimes I carried my gun in my purse, but only when I couldn’t wear my shoulder holster. I preferred the latter. The .9-millimeter made my purse weigh a ton.
However, wearing the shoulder holster sort of dictated my wardrobe. It usually meant I would need to wear a jacket to hide it. Not a problem, because jackets were okay with me. Today I wore navy slacks—my favorite color—and a soft baby-blue blouse with a navy jacket, short cropped with no pockets and a cool zipper instead of buttons. The shoes were sensible pumps with two-inch heels. No one would vote me the best-dressed woman in Nashville, but I looked reasonably snazzy for a cop.
The drive to Franklin didn’t take that long. Mr. Rex Lane lived in one of the more glamorous residential neighborhoods of Franklin. So did a lot of stars. Franklin and Brentwood were the two most popular areas outside Nashville. The commute was short and the houses were huge with masterfully landscaped lots. Though Patterson and I were supposed to be a team, time was of the essence here. Splitting up was the most efficient way to do the job.
I stopped at the gate and pressed the intercom button. I felt sure Mr. Lane wouldn’t like having unannounced company on a Sunday afternoon, but I didn’t want to give him an opportunity to be away when I showed up at his door.
I laid my hand on the speaker to feel the vibration when and if someone answered. Worked like a charm.
After moving my hand, I said, “Detective Merrilee Walters, Metro Homicide, to see Mr. Rex Lane.” I quickly placed my hand back on the front of the speaker and waited. I didn’t get an audible response but the gates began a slow swing inward. I took that as a “come on in” sign.
When the gates yawned open fully, I let off the brake, allowing the Jetta to roll forward. The driveway sprawled out before me, a good half mile long. As gorgeous as the landscape was, it didn’t hold a candle to the circular parking patio in front of the house. A large fountain amid the seeming acres of cobblestone lent an old-world flair.
“Big bucks,” I muttered. This guy was making some major money in the video business. My ex had always said that these guys made almost as much money as the performers themselves. Definitely beat out the song-writers, he’d complained. Though Heath appeared to be doing pretty well these days. I’d noticed that one of his new songs, performed by a seasoned veteran, had topped all the charts.
Good for him, I mused. Maybe he’d choke on all the money he was probably making. No hard feelings.
As I got out of my car, the front door opened and the man himself, Rex Lane that is, stepped out onto the granite landing that stood at the top of about a dozen matching steps. Wide, luxurious steps. No expense had been spared in making this Italianate-style home an awe-inspiring mansion.
Detective Walters, what brings you to my home on a Sunday afternoon? he asked with a polite smile.
Well-washed jeans, a comfortable striped button-down shirt and leather Birkenstocks dressed the man who looked around thirty when the background I’d pulled up indicated he would turn forty this year. Maybe the good doctor had done his partner in crime a few favors.
Back up, Merri, I told myself. I hadn’t proven the two were partners in anything just yet.
“I have a few questions for you regarding one of your clients,” I said as I climbed the elegant steps.
This client has a name, I presume, he said as I took the final step, bringing me up alongside him on the wide landing gracing the front of the mansion.
“Had,” I corrected. “She’s dead.”
That got his attention, just as I’d intended.
The expression on his face shifted from annoyed to startled. Come in, Detective.
He opened the door and gestured for me to enter before him. As I did I couldn’t help but notice his—or the decorator’s—exquisite taste followed through to the interior. Marble-floored entry. Soaring ceilings. Beautiful artwork and tapestries. Marvelous antique pieces made up the furnishings.
I could almost smell the money.
Lots and lots of the stuff.
He said something I missed as he turned to lead the way to wherever he wanted to do this. I followed, kept an eye on his profile in case he said something else, despite my desire to admire the decorating.
When he led me into a parlor, he asked, Would you like something to drink, Detective?
“No, thank you.”
He indicated the sofa and I sat. He settled into a leather chair directly across from me.
How can I help you?
That he didn’t prod some more for the client’s name alerted me to his nervousness and the possibility that he already knew.
“I’m sure you remember a client who came to you a few months ago named Mallory Wells.” This was a statement, not a question. I didn’t want to give him an easy out. I wanted him to worry about just how much I knew.
He took his time answering. Most of that time he used to arrange his expression into a thoroughly un-readable one. But he didn’t accomplish that before I picked up on surprise and then a moment of horror that wilted into remorse. He hadn’t known she was dead. He felt sick at the idea.
Both of those things helped lower his ranking on my suspect scale.
But I didn’t mention that to him. Let him sweat.
Yes. He moistened his lips. His posture grew considerably more rigid. I knew her quite well, as a matter of fact.
“It’s my understanding the two of you were involved in an intimate relationship,” I said bluntly. Now this is a tactic known in cop world, or in poker, as bluffing. You take rumor and innuendo, or maybe a wild guess, and formulate a theory. In other words, you lie. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.
He blinked. I wouldn’t call our relationship intimate, he hedged.
This time it worked.
“What would you call it?” I pressed. I wanted to ask him the most personal questions while the shock was still new.
It was intense but mostly about business.
“But you knew her in the biblical sense.” Another statement of presumed fact that would amp up his discomfort.
We slept together once, he insisted without meeting my eyes. That was the only time.
So far so good. That he admitted having had sex with her surprised me. I wondered if he assumed I had evidence to back up my assessment. Apparently. “Did you part on bad terms?” I stayed clear of specific adjectives on this point. I didn’t want to lead him, I just wanted to prompt him.
He gave a halfhearted shrug. I suppose you could say that. She wanted more than I could give her.
I found Mr. Lane’s honesty refreshing.