The Mia Quinn Collection Page 15

  The interview room offered Charlie no distractions. It was plain, with bare walls. No point in providing a suspect a place to focus other than the face of his questioner and his own guilty thoughts.

  Mia looked at her watch. Martin was five minutes late. She tried to recall the last time she had seen him. Before he and Colleen divorced, the four of them had gone out to dinner a few times, and sometimes Martin would drop by the office to take Colleen out to lunch. Mia had chiefly known him as a good dresser, a good conversationalist, and a good-looking man. He had thick straight hair so black that sometimes walking down the street she had glimpsed a Japanese man from behind and briefly mistaken him for Martin.

  Fourteen years ago Colleen had been blindsided when Martin told her that there was someone else, that he was moving out, and that there was nothing she could do to change his mind, because their marriage was dead. The next day Colleen had hidden in her office, crying, while Mia handed her tissue after tissue.

  In between bouts of blowing her nose, Colleen had choked out, “He had the gall to tell me, ‘The heart wants what the heart wants.’ That’s actually what he said.” Her face was red, her eyes nearly swollen shut from crying, but her voice had been as sharp as acid. “And I told him, ‘You know, Martin, I don’t believe it’s actually your heart doing all this wanting.’ ”

  Martin was a liar, a philanderer—but could he also be a killer? Of all the things Colleen had said about him, she had never hinted he was abusive. Still, that was a secret many women hid.

  When a uniformed police officer ushered Martin into the interview room, Mia was startled by how much he had changed. His hair was now sparse and mostly white. While his hair had thinned, Martin himself had grown. He had a belly now. Still, his well-tailored charcoal suit and butter-colored shirt were what the old Martin would have worn back in the day. When he shook hands with Charlie, Mia caught a glimpse of a silver cuff link.

  Charlie had buttoned his jacket so that it hid the police badge on his belt and the gun on his hip. This was supposed to be just an informal chat.

  “I really appreciate you coming down here today,” Charlie said easily as the two men sat down. He had brought some papers in with him and now shuffled through them, letting his eyes skim over them as if refreshing his memory. It was always good to make suspects think you knew far more than you did. “I just want to ask you some questions about Colleen’s death. Fill in some of the missing pieces.”

  “Have you caught the guy who did it yet?” There were bags under Martin’s eyes.

  “We’re looking at a number of potential suspects,” Charlie said. “What do you think happened?”

  Martin pushed his lips out and sighed. “Colleen’s in a dangerous line of work. Every day she deals with lowlifes. Look at the people she’s prosecuted: killers, rapists, drug dealers, guys who are in motorcycle gangs. I think one of them got mad and took it out on her.”

  He used the present tense, as if Colleen were still alive. Could a killer do that?

  “We argued about it when we were married,” Martin went on. “I thought she should go into private practice. Do corporate law. She could have made more money, and I wouldn’t have had to listen to her war stories. Who wants to hear about murder and rape and setting people on fire over the dinner table?”

  In his words Mia heard echoes of Scott’s objections. Maybe that was why Colleen had never talked about her cases to Violet. After Martin left, she might have seen the virtue of silence.

  “What was her response to your suggestion?” Charlie asked.

  “She said it would be boring. I mean, I put her through law school, but I always thought the idea was for her to get a high-paying job. Not to work for the county.”

  “And what is it you do exactly, Martin?”

  “I work at Washington Health. The HMO?”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  Martin raised his eyebrows for a millisecond before saying, “No. No, just an administrator. I do database management. Everything is outcomes-based these days. The purchasers all want statistics. And they want those statistics to be good.”

  “Same here,” Charlie said. “All the rates for the different types of crimes are tracked, and heaven help you if the rate isn’t going down, or if the percentage that are unsolved is going up.”

  This was true, but Mia knew Charlie wouldn’t be above lying if he thought it might build rapport.

  “When was the last time you talked to Colleen?”

  “About a week ago.” Martin didn’t elaborate.

  “Did the two of you keep in close contact?”

  Martin waved a hand. “Our marriage was over a long time ago, but Colleen is still the mother of my child. I certainly wouldn’t wish her any harm.”

  “Do you know if anything has been bothering her?”

  He shrugged. “We don’t talk that much, unless it’s about Violet, and now that Violet’s older she’s straightened up. It’s not like when she was a teenager and there was always some issue with her skipping school or partying.”

  “What did you talk about when you spoke last?”

  He began to pick at his cuticles. “I’ve been trying to help pay for Violet’s college, but I was explaining to Colleen that things are a little tight these days. Frankly, we’re maxed out. See, my wife, Gina, and I have spent years trying to get pregnant. First the old-fashioned way and then through IVF. Each IVF cycle cost thirteen thousand dollars. We went through all our savings, and Gina got pregnant twice, but the pregnancies never lasted long enough to even hear a heartbeat. And then we decided to adopt. I mean, Gina deserves to be a mom. We took money out of our retirement to pay for the adoption, and then the first one fell through when the birth mother changed her mind. But now we finally have a baby.” He smiled briefly, keeping his lips together. “But we are flat broke, and Colleen seems to just expect us to shell out year after year for Violet, who only worked about twelve hours a week this summer. I asked Colleen if maybe she could take out a line of credit or something, but she wouldn’t even talk about it.”

  “Tell me about it,” Charlie said. “My buddy has to pay alimony and child support every month. By the thirty-first, if he wants to go to Subway for a sandwich, he has to dig in the couch cushions.”

  Now it was Martin who couldn’t keep still. People who were nervous—or who had something to hide—often invented little grooming tasks for themselves during an interview, like Martin’s ragged cuticle that now sported a bright spot of blood.

  Charlie stretched, then made a show of checking his watch. “I’m gonna go get a bag of Fritos from the vending machine. I’ll be back in a second. Do you want anything?”

  Martin shook his head. “No, I’m good.”

  Charlie got up. Martin glanced up at the one-way glass and then away. The room had been designed well, with the glass beginning five feet up, so that it was not in the direct line of sight of a seated suspect. You didn’t want to remind them they were probably being watched.

  Even with Charlie gone, Martin still seemed jittery. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. After all, Charlie had been the same waiting for Martin. And Mia had also seen murderers who steadfastly denied all involvement and then fell asleep as soon as they were alone in the interrogation room, exhausted from keeping their lies straight.

  Martin was checking his phone when Charlie walked into the observation room carrying a bag of Chili Cheese Fritos.

  “How do you think it’s going?” he asked Mia.

  “It’s interesting that he owned up right away to their arguing about money.”

  “He probably figured Violet would tell us about it.”

  “He’s nervous about something,” Mia said, checking the monitor again.

  “He’s in a police station and his ex-wife is dead. A lot of men would be.” Charlie raised one shoulder. “But you’re right, he is. Text me if you think there’s something I’m missing. I can tell him I’ve got a call I have to take and then come back in here.”

&
nbsp; “Sounds good,” Mia said.

  In the interview room, Charlie opened the Fritos bag so that it split down the middle and set it between himself and Martin. Despite what the other man had said, he immediately picked up a handful.

  “So, Martin, can you just walk me through what you did on Sunday?”

  “Sunday. Um, sure. Gina and I got up around seven.” Martin’s smile seemed private. “Having Wyatt is forcing us to be morning people whether we like it or not. We ate breakfast, and then we went to the coffee shop and then the park. Then we came home, had lunch, and then I have to admit all three of us took a nap. After that we went to the grocery store together. We grilled salmon for dinner, and I played with Wyatt while Gina cleaned up. Then Gina gave him a bath and we put him to bed and watched a little TV.”

  Mia listened to his words, but it was his posture, eye contact, gestures, hesitations, and facial expressions that interested her. A good liar could control some of those things. A sociopath might be able to control all of them, might even believe the lies he spun.

  She didn’t think Martin was a sociopath. But she also didn’t think he was telling the whole truth. His gestures were abrupt and choppy.

  “And where were you around eight thirty?”

  Martin swiped at what Mia was pretty sure were nonexistent crumbs on his jacket. “Watching a movie Gina had gotten from Netflix. It was called Must Love Dogs. It’s got that John Cusack in it. My wife loves him. Absolutely loves him.” It struck Mia that Martin had once looked something like John Cusack.

  “Let me ask you something, Martin. Do you own a gun?”

  Martin reared back as if Charlie had slapped him.

  “A gun?” It sounded like he was stalling for time.

  “Yes. Do you own a gun?”

  “We have a gun that we keep in our bedroom closet, yes.” He nodded a little too vigorously. “Gina needs it for protection when I have to travel.”

  “What caliber is it?”

  “I think it’s a .22.”

  Mia straightened up, but Charlie’s body posture didn’t change.

  “Why are you asking me these things? Am I under arrest?” With every word, Martin’s voice rose. He sounded eerily like Gabe when he was under stress.

  “Of course not,” Charlie said easily. “You’re not under arrest, and you can leave at any time.” The courts had ruled that it was being in custody that triggered the need for the Miranda warning. As long as Martin was freely talking and didn’t think he was in custody, there was no need to remind him that any information he gave could be used against him in court.

  “Let me tell you something. Colleen and I may have had our disagreements, but I honestly did not harm her in any way.”

  Mia stiffened at the sound of the -ly word. Truthfully, honestly, absolutely—sometimes those were the words of a liar desperate to reinforce falsehoods.

  Charlie finished the interview and ushered Martin out of the room. Mia watched him go, trying to look past the well-fed, well-clothed exterior to the man inside. Could Martin have been so angry over Violet’s tuition that he had killed Colleen?

  CHAPTER 25

  To Charlie, Shiloh Arnold’s living room did not seem to be meant for living at all. Instead it looked like a furniture showroom display. The two couches sitting at right angles were cream colored, without a single spot or even strand of hair to mar their perfection. Each was decorated with three mustard-colored throw pillows set at precise angles. Even the accent rug was cream colored, with a mustard yellow border. The blond coffee table was centered in the middle of the rug, far out of reach of either couch.

  And in Charlie’s hand was a delicate cup filled to the brim with black coffee that Shiloh’s mom had offered them. Feeling the weight of the long day, Charlie had said yes. Even though he knew Mia was exhausted too—she had told him that her daughter had had another one of those attacks—she had declined. Maybe she had glimpsed the room.

  Rainy Sibley and Shiloh Arnold lived next door to each other, only a block and a half from Darin Dane’s house. Their parents had agreed to let Charlie and Mia interview the two girls together at Shiloh’s, and they hadn’t protested when Charlie had asked them not to sit in on the interviews. Afterward he and Mia planned to repeat the process at Jeremy Donaldson’s.

  Mia was already sitting on one couch, with Shiloh and Rainy on the other. “So how long have you two known Darin?” she asked.

  As he held the thin loop of the cup’s handle, Charlie decided that if he tried to take a seat he would manage to slop the dark liquid on the carpet or the couch. Or both. It was too big a risk, so he stayed where he was and waited for the girls to answer.

  After looking at Shiloh, Rainy said, “I don’t know. Since first grade, maybe?” Rainy had high cheekbones, light brown skin, and stick-straight hair that fell past her shoulders.

  Charlie raised the cup to his lips and sucked, too afraid to risk tilting it. The coffee was only a few degrees below boiling, but he ignored the pain.

  Shiloh said decisively, “We all met in kindergarten. I remember us sitting on the mat for story time.” She was a little bit plump, with blond corkscrew curls springing out from her head.

  Charlie forced himself to take another sip and managed to lower the coffee to a half inch below the rim. He raised his head, walked five careful steps forward, and sat down next to Mia. As he did, hot coffee splashed his thigh. He bit his scalded lip and didn’t make a sound. Better his pants than the couch.

  “I still can’t believe Darin’s dead, you know?” Rainy nibbled on her thumbnail. “I’ve never known anyone who was dead before.”

  Had Charlie ever been this young? By now, it seemed that the dead he knew outnumbered the living.

  “At school everyone’s been asking about him.” Shiloh shook her head. “They all looked the other way when those boys were picking on him, but now Darin’s a lot more interesting because he’s dead.”

  “They had an assembly and talked about him for, like, an hour, even though none of the teachers at school really knew him yet,” Rainy said. “And they had this room full of grief counselors? And we all got a list of warning signs to watch for, you know, to tell if people were suicidal?”

  “Did you ever see any of those signs in Darin?” Mia asked gently.

  “No!” Shiloh leaned forward. “He never talked about wanting to kill himself or how he would do it or anything!”

  “Darin was just, you know, all unicorns and rainbows?” Rainy said. “He was almost always happy. Except for, like, the last six months.”

  “Tell us more about Darin.” Charlie took another sip. “What was he like?”

  “He’s really sweet,” Shiloh said. She touched her dangling earrings, gold and ruby red. “He bought me these earrings at a flea market.”

  “He makes cupcakes all the time and hands them out to people at the bus stop.” A smile lit up Rainy’s face. “One time he bought me hot cocoa at Starbucks? And because he knew I like it with marshmallows, he brought a little plastic bag full from home. Just for me.”

  “In fifth grade we started our own Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants club,” Shiloh said. “It was Darin’s idea.”

  “What’s that?” Charlie asked.

  “There’s this book?” Rainy said. “And in it these four friends find, like, a magic pair of jeans at a vintage store? And the jeans fit all of them. So Darin went to Value Village and got this pair of jeans and said they would be just like in the book. Except they really didn’t fit him? He was already too tall. But when it was his day to wear them, he did anyway. And he didn’t care if people made fun of him. He said those pants were magic and good things always happened to him when he wore them.”

  Shiloh blinked and tears ran down her face. She made no move to wipe them away.

  Mia had brought along a photocopy of one of the notes, and she offered it to the girls now. “Do you recognize this handwriting?”

  Shiloh and Rainy bent their heads over it, but when they looked up ther
e was no recognition.

  “It kind of looks familiar,” Rainy offered. “Maybe.”

  “It looks like a boy’s handwriting,” Shiloh said. “All square and blocky. But I don’t know which boy.” She exhaled sharply and turned to Rainy. “Rain—remember when Darin got beat up after school last spring? I wonder if that’s what happened. Maybe some jerk sent him a note, and then when he came they jumped him.” She turned back to Charlie and Mia. “He would never say how, but somehow he ended up with bruised ribs and a split lip.”

  Charlie had heard that chickens would peck at an injured chicken, peck and peck until it stopped moving. Were human beings any better?

  “What happened to Darin’s Facebook page?” he asked.

  “Kids are always doing stupid stuff on Facebook,” Rainy said. “But this was the worst.”

  “What kind of stuff do they do?” Mia asked.

  “You know, people will post something mean? And then just say, ‘Oh, I was joking around.’ ” Rainy bit the end of her finger, thought better of it, took it out. “Or one of the really popular girls might put down that she’s married to another girl, you know, to show that they’re friends? And then the next day she will, like, unfriend her and start talking trash about her.”

  Shiloh said, “Whoever hacked into Darin’s Facebook page unfriended me and Rainy so we couldn’t tell him. I heard the kids at school talking about some crazy kid, but I didn’t realize they were talking about Darin. And Darin hasn’t been going on Facebook that much lately, so he didn’t know at first.” Her eyes shone with fresh tears. “Darin would never hurt anyone, so why did those boys want to hurt him? It’s only because of those terrible boys that he’s dead.”

  Mia said softly, “What else did they do besides alter his Facebook page?”

  Rainy rolled her eyes. “What didn’t they do? In the hall, kids would walk right behind him and pretend they were him, you know? They would walk like him, but, like, all exaggerated, swinging their hips.” She swayed from side to side, arms raised, loose hands flapping at the end of limp wrists.