Sundays Are for Murder. Marie Ferrarella
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was fun. She made me feel young again. The way I hadn’t felt in years.”
Same old story, Charley thought. Older man needing affirmation, younger woman needing trinkets. But she wanted Pullman to spell it out for them. “And what did you make her feel like, Mr. Pullman?”
Pullman gave a helpless shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t know. I—I gave her things.”
The owner looked from one to the other again uncertainly. Was he trying to guess if he’d given the right answer? Charley wondered. Was this the guilt of a cheating husband they were witnessing, or of a murderer? Everybody was a suspect. Until they had their man.
“Like promises?” Nick guessed.
“No,” Pullman cried.
Charley was quick to push the advantage. If Pullman was going to be pressured into telling the truth, it would be now. “Maybe you promised to marry her and she found out you were lying.”
“No!”
Charley continued as if the man hadn’t made the protest. “Stacy threatened to tell your wife about the two of you. You saw your business going south, losing everything you’d worked for. You tried to talk Stacy out of it, she refused. You lost your head. You grabbed her by the throat and squeezed, trying to get her to say she wouldn’t ruin your life. You squeezed a little too hard.” Charley lifted a shoulder casually. “These things happen.”
“No, no.” Panic was rising in Pullman’s voice. “That’s insane.” He was visibly shaking now. Charley raised her eyes to Nick. Her partner kept a solemn expression in place as he listened to the restaurant owner. “Look, I never laid a hand on her. Ever,” he emphasized. “I really liked her. A lot. I wouldn’t have hurt her. I swear,” he repeated, his eyes pleading with them to believe him.
“You were the last one she talked to. We checked the phone records,” Charley interjected before the man could protest.
The breath Pullman released was shaky. He was a man on a tightrope, knowing he couldn’t remain in place but afraid of falling if he took a step. “I did call her on Sunday. But it was to tell her that I couldn’t make it. She got really angry at me and hung up. It was the last time I talked to her.”
The significance of his own words seemed to penetrate. Pullman pressed his lips together, struggling with tears. The tears won. They slid down his cheeks. He brushed them away angrily.
“The last time,” he repeated in a voice choked with emotion. He looked directly at Charlie and added, “I swear.”
“You swear a lot, Mr. Pullman.” A tolerant sigh escaped her lips. After a beat, Charley nodded. “All right, Mr. Pullman. That’s all for now. We’ll be in touch.”
THEY LEFT HIM standing in his office, visibly shaken. Not by the threat of incarceration, Nick thought, but because the death of his mistress had finally registered.
Walking out of the building, Nick automatically held the door open for his partner. He was mildly surprised that Charley didn’t say something about being able to get her own door. Maybe she wasn’t all that militant after all.
“You believe him?” she asked as they approached her vehicle.
Nick didn’t have to think about it. He’d formed an opinion during the questioning.
“Yeah, I do.” Then, because he knew she wanted reasons, he added, “Pullman really looks broken up about the girl’s murder.”
After deactivating the security alarm, Charley opened the white Honda’s door and got in behind the wheel. “Could just be acting.”
After getting in on the passenger side, Nick buckled up. “I don’t think so.”
Instead of starting the car, she turned to him, curious. The beginning of a working relationship was like a dance with a stranger. You had to feel him out, make sure you didn’t wind up with flat, crushed feet. “And you base this on what, gut instinct?”
Nick shrugged. “For lack of a better word, yes.”
Key in the ignition, Charley started the car. She kept her profile to him so he wouldn’t notice her amused smile. “How often has your gut been right?”
“More than not.” He shifted in his seat as she peeled out. The woman had an Indianapolis 500 complex, but he was determined not to show her that her driving rattled him. “Besides, aren’t we operating under the assumption that the girl was murdered by the Sunday Killer?”
She glanced in her rearview mirror. Traffic was almost nonexistent. Just the way she liked it. She opened up a little more. “Just ruling out a copycat murder.”
“I thought the tiny cross on her forehead did that,” he reminded her.
For the most part, he was right. But she liked to cover all contingencies, just in case. “Just crossing my ts and dotting my is.”
He knew law-enforcement agents who needed only a hint before they ran with something. She was more meticulous than he would have thought.
“You always so thorough?”
“Always,” she answered with finality. “If you want a case that’ll stand up in court, you have to make sure you don’t leave anything for the other side to pick up on.”
“Makes sense,” Nick allowed. “So we’re back to looking for the Sunday Killer.”
“Yeah.” And she wanted the man so bad she could taste it. She realized that she was holding on to the wheel with enough strength that her knuckles were turning white. With effort, she forced herself to relax her grip. “Let’s hope forensics has come up with something for us. Fibers, hairs, something.”
The people in the crime-scene-investigation department had taken an incredible number of items from the scene. Undoubtedly, most would lead them to a dead end.
Nick glanced at her rigid profile. The case meant a lot to her. Considering her connection, he didn’t wonder. “You feeling lucky?”
Charley stared straight ahead as she drove. She hadn’t felt lucky in a long, long time. “No.”
“Me, neither.” He sank back in his seat, crossing his arms before him. He figured whatever luck he had was being used up right now, as he sat here, watching the scenery whiz by. So far, the woman hadn’t crashed them. “Let’s hope anyway.”
NATASHYA KOVAL WAS bent over her work when they entered the lab twenty minutes later. She glanced in their direction, then smiled.
“Found a hair.” She held up a hand, forestalling any comment from either of them. “Before you get all excited, it’s a cat hair.”
Nick thought back to their examination of the apartment. “The victim didn’t have any cats.”
Another piece of the puzzle, Charley thought, however minor. She was grateful. “Which means that the killer does.”
“Or has friends that do,” Nick said.
But Charley shook her head. “I don’t see this person as having friends.”
They had differing opinions on the profile, Nick surmised. “Maybe our boy’s not a weirdo twenty-four/seven,” he countered. “Ted Bundy was thought to be a friendly guy. And the guy who confessed to being the BTK killer had a prominent place in society. Was even the president of his church group. This guy doesn’t have to be the type to sit and talk to his wallpaper, working himself up until he’s ready to kill again. Besides, until just lately, it’s been a long time in between victims for him. In the meantime, the guy has had to earn a living in order to eat, has had to interact with people—”
“Just because he works with people doesn’t mean he has to be friends with them,” she pointed out. “And most people don’t bring their cats to work.”
Nick wasn’t ready to let the