One Wrong Move, page 11
“Anything’s possible,” Deckard relented. “But look at it from my perspective. Mitch’s family hired me. The evidence, and by that, I mean the lack of evidence—being it was basically destroyed or missing—pointed directly at Miranda Forester.”
“Because she was set up,” Harper cut in.
Of course Harper would jump in the conversation after just meeting the siblings. Shy was the last word to describe Harper.
“You don’t work for Mitch’s family anymore,” Harper continued.
“Where are you going with that?” Deckard asked.
“I want you to look into Andi’s case,” Christian responded.
“Ditto,” Harper said.
Deckard released a stunned laugh. “You couldn’t possibly want me,” he said. “Either of you.”
“On the contrary, you’re the perfect guy for the job,” Christian said.
“Why on earth is that?” Deckard asked.
A bug zinged by Andi’s ear, and she swatted it away.
“Why on earth would you want me?” Deckard asked.
“Because I trust you’d be impartial. You’ll look at and study the evidence for what it is, and when you discover she was set up, you’ll find a way to prove it,” Christian said.
“You’re assuming she was set up,” Deckard said.
Andi shooed another bug away from her ear. She shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but she needed to hear how this conversation would end. Though she feared she knew. No way Deckard MacLeod would take her case.
“You will too,” Harper said, her tone imploring and impassioned.
“How can you be so certain?” Deckard asked.
“Because I know Andi, and I know she’s telling the truth.”
She smiled at Harper having her back—always.
“That’s what you think too?” Deckard asked.
No doubt talking to Christian.
She continued on the path, moving to join them, anxious and nervous to hear Christian’s response.
“Yes,” he said.
“How can you be so certain?” Deckard echoed his earlier question to Harper, only this time to Christian. “You just met her.”
“You know I can sum a person up within—”
“A few minutes of meeting them. I know, and usually it’s helpful. . . .”
“Usually?” Christian asked.
“Right now, it’s a pain in my rear.”
Around back, the stone path spilled into a beautiful, sprawling flagstone patio complete with a stone grill, a fire table, a smattering of comfy chairs, and an oversized patio sofa. Everyone had their back or side to her. All focused on the conversation at hand.
“How so?” Christian asked.
“Because between the two of you, I either work Andi’s case or I never hear the end of it.”
Andi held at the edge of the patio. What was he saying?
“So you’re going to work her case?” Christian asked, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“Yeah. I’ll take it, but you know I work the facts, and the chance exists you might not like what I find.”
Her eyes widened as her jaw slackened. Had Deckard MacLeod just said . . . ?
Christian’s gaze flickered up to her. “Deckard’s taking your case,” he said, beaming with a smile.
Harper stood. “And I’m going to help him.”
Deckard flickered his hands up in a questioning maneuver. “I’m sorry—what?”
“I’m going to help you,” Harper said with a wide smile of her own.
Andi remained frozen on the edge of the patio, trying to absorb what was happening.
“Look, lady, I appreciate your offer, but—”
“It’s Harper,” she reiterated.
“I’m sorry.” Deckard inclined his head. “Harper. I appreciate that she’s your friend and that you want to help, but I work alone.”
“I can see that about you, but as I was there when this happened, and considering I still work in the lab you’re going to need access to, I think it’d be a good idea if we paired up.” Harper linked her arms across her chest.
Deckard’s brows arched. “You’re FBI?”
“Yes.” Harper nodded with a smile brimming with her usual confidence. Always so strong.
“And you work in the same lab Miranda did?” Deckard asked.
“Yes.” She gave another nod.
“You’re a crime-scene analyst?” he asked.
Andi took a seat beside Christian, her gaze bouncing between Deckard and Harper as they lobbed responses back and forth.
“Yes,” Harper said, “but in a specific area. Andi’s the expert in DNA analysis.”
She paused long enough for Andi to study Deckard’s face in relation to the comment. He shifted his lips but didn’t say anything.
Harper continued, “I’m a forensic botanist.”
“A forensic botanist. Wow. That sounds interesting.”
“It can be,” she responded, “but the main point is that I worked at the lab when everything went down, so I have some firsthand knowledge.”
“You worked in the lab that night with Miranda?” Deckard asked, taking a glass of lemonade from his sister. “Thanks, Cool Whip.”
Cool Whip? Andi mouthed to Christian.
Later, he mouthed back.
She nodded, forcing her gaze off his lips—Where was her mind?—and back on Harper and Deckard duking it out in what would have been a very entertaining conversation if it wasn’t her reputation in the balance. She prayed Harper won, and knowing her friend’s diehard persistence, Andi had strong belief she would. Andi had witnessed her relentless pursuit firsthand in everything from how she approached her work to how she played games. She’d played poker with the woman once and hadn’t been foolish enough to do so again.
Harper finished sipping her drink and set her glass on the side table. “Where were we?”
“I was asking if you saw Andi’s work in the lab that night firsthand?”
“No.”
“No.” Was that disappointment echoing in Deckard MacLeod’s tone?
“I was in the field,” she explained.
“In the field?” He sat forward, propping his elbows on his thighs. “You worked Anne Marlowe’s crime scene?”
“Yes.”
He swallowed, his pronounced Adam’s apple bobbing. He rubbed the scruff on his face. “I’m sorry. That had to be tough. Given the nature of the murder . . .”
“Sadly, it wasn’t one of the worst I’ve worked.”
“That’s saying a lot.”
“It’s not a job for the squeamish, that’s for sure.”
“Okay, let’s go back to that night. You’re working Anne’s murder. Walk me through what happened on your end, and then we’ll shift to Andi. I’d like to hear as much about that night as possible.”
———
Deckard had seen a copy of the case file from the defense attorney, just words on a page, and some copies of photos—those nearly turned his stomach. But even that wasn’t the same as being on the scene. Mitch hadn’t been there that night, despite what the initial evidence indicated. So he hadn’t been able to fill anything in, and the prosecutor was clearly stonewalling him, along with the homicide detectives who had worked Anne’s case. All believed Mitch was where he deserved to be—guilty and behind bars. None of them wanted to help him prove otherwise.
“Okay,” Harper said, setting her glass of orange juice on the blue side table. “I was called to the scene after the initial walk-through was completed by homicide. I joined the CSI team in progress. For whatever reason, they always call in botanists and entomologists last.”
“So you arrived on scene . . .” He led her like a witness, because that’s what she was.
Andi had sat beside Christian, and he hadn’t missed his brother resting his hand over hers. Just how friendly were they? Until this was sorted out and Andi found innocent—if she ever was—he had to warn his brother off.
“Right,” Harper said, popping one more strawberry in her mouth from the plate Riley had placed beside her.
His sister always played the generous host, but he needed everyone to focus.
Harper took a sharp inhale, then released it. “It was an awful sight. She’d been stabbed half a dozen times. Poor girl.”
“And what else did you see?”
“She was lying on a pile of rocks, blood on the rocks. The detective’s theory was that the stab thrusts knocked her down on the rocks, she hit her head, and blood spilled out, the wound adding blood to the scene.”
“You hitched when you said theory,” Deckard said, her pause indicative of a different opinion.
“I think her assailant . . .” Harper began, emphasizing the word assailant, no doubt for his benefit.
He tried not to chuckle. Andi’s friend was a spitfire, and a gorgeous one at that.
“I think he . . . or let’s just go with assailant,” Harper said.
“You’re not suggesting it could have been a woman?”
“Women, as a rule, don’t stab other women,” Christian said. Occasionally men did, if they were in a heat-of-the-moment fight and a knife was readily available.
“No. I’m just saying Andi believes, based on her evidence, that Mitch Abrams killed Anne Marlowe. Deckard believes he didn’t,” Harper said. “If you’re going to work her case, you both have to set your conclusions aside and just study the evidence, or you’re going to be at constant odds.”
He looked at Andi, and they both indicated their agreement with a quick nod. He’d work the evidence, like he always did. Evidence was black-and-white. He’d base his investigation on the facts, and the dominos would fall where they may. He just prayed they didn’t knock his brother over in the process.
TWENTY-SIX
CYRUS LAY on the sloped ground of the foothills, trying to ignore the rocks prodding him. They sat on the stone patio, all around the fire table. He noted each one by the names they spoke and the way they interacted. He tightened his grip on the long-range microphone and video recorder—the long stick fitting easily in his hand.
Pleasure rippled through him. The chick’s case would distract them, even if they weren’t the ones working it. Now he hoped they’d discuss the heist case. He needed to know how much they knew so he could make an educated decision. If they got any closer to him, they’d have to go, regardless of the trouble it would cause. If they were still working clues that didn’t lead anywhere close, he’d let them live—for now. Hopefully, Teresa listened to him and hadn’t sent another order to undermine him, to prematurely take out Andi and Christian. But he wouldn’t put it past her.
■ ■ ■
“Okay, let’s focus,” Deckard said. “You started to say you think the assailant . . .” He inclined his head toward Harper. Getting firsthand information about the crime scene would be super helpful in understanding the full case.
“Right.” She crossed her legs—long, shapely legs. Shorts and a long-sleeve shirt with Docksiders spoke of Cali or the East Coast, but not typically New Mexico. He’d have to ask where she came from, but later. Right now, his job was to keep her on track.
He glanced at Christian and Andi whispering to each other, their gazes locked, very in tune with one another. Not good, baby brother. He prayed God would guard his brother’s heart until the truth came to light.
“So,” Harper finally said, “I think the killer was someone she knew. Someone who told her to meet him there for a midnight picnic or some romantic nonsense.”
He smiled.
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“You don’t hear many women calling a romantic gesture nonsense.”
Harper shrugged. “I’m just a more practical person, I guess. . . . Anyway, there was a bench at the crime scene and a string of fabric from Anne’s skirt was found on it. I think she waited on the bench. The killer approached from behind, knocked Anne unconscious, threw her on the rocks, and stabbed her there.”
“That’s quite the theory.”
“There was no blood on the grass, only the rocks, and she’d have to nail those rocks with her head amazingly hard to have the deep head wound she had.”
“But the rocks had blood on them by her head, right?” He’d read that in one report or another.
“Yes. I think the killer dropped the rock he’d knocked her out with in the pile, then threw her on top of it and finished the job.”
“Why?” he asked.
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you asking me why I think it happened that way or why he killed her?”
“Why you think he killed her that way?” He got to his feet to demonstrate. “Come here, Riley.”
“Great. I get to play the victim again,” she said.
“Stabbings are typically personal, sick as that is. They’re crimes of passion and often by someone the victim knows, often intimately,” he explained.
“It’s horrifying to think so, but yes, that’s my understanding as well,” Harper said, standing.
He turned Riley to face him.
Christian and Andi stood and shuffled to get a clear view as well.
“Most men—and stabbings are predominately by men—will overtake the woman, push her against a solid object if one is available. If not, they’ll grasp hold with one hand”—he demonstrated by gripping Riley’s left upper arm—“and stab with the other.” He simulated a handful of stab wounds as had occurred with Anne Marlowe. “If it’s a crime of passion, it doesn’t make sense to stab an unconscious victim. What’s the point? If she’s knocked out, why not slit her throat or strangle her?”
“Deckard!” Riley said.
“I’m not saying anyone should. Just trying to approach it from the killer’s perspective.”
“My theory?” Harper said.
“Sure.”
“It wasn’t a crime of passion. It was premeditated, staged as a crime of passion, and the shirt left behind was left on purpose. And to top it off, apparently Judge Simmons and Anne Marlowe used to meet up at the hiking area she was found adjacent to.”
“So you’re suggesting it was premeditated to look like a crime of passion?” Deckard asked.
“Correct,” she said. “And set up to make Judge Simmons take the fall.”
Andi leaned forward. “Mitch Abrams had an alibi. He was at a conference in Las Cruces. But when the prosecution submitted the DNA evidence I processed, they argued that the three-hour trip to and from Albuquerque fit within the parameters of his committing the murder.”
“Judge Simmons’s alibi was easier to prove,” Deckard said. “Clint, the defense attorney, said he had last-minute judicial company, a Judge Sawyer and his wife, who decided to stay for the night, as it was late.”
“So whoever intended to set him up was unaware of the alibi he had,” Andi said.
“Any way Judge Simmons could have snuck out?” Riley asked.
“The visiting judge’s wife has awful insomnia,” Deckard said, the facts of the investigation seared into his mind. “She said she was up until well past four a.m. Simmons would have had to walk right past her to get out of the house.”
He ran it all through his mind, then fixed his gaze on Harper. “So you not only think Andi was set up but that the murder was a setup too?”
“Most definitely.”
Deckard tilted his head. This should prove an interesting investigation. He looked at Harper. And an interesting woman to work it with. Most people he could easily categorize, but not Harper Grace. He couldn’t pin her down, and something about that was appealing.
■ ■ ■
Cyrus smiled. So they were preoccupied with Andi’s case. He’d done his homework. Found who Ambrose Global would send out when Tad Gaiman’s galleries were robbed. She had an interesting past, to be sure. And, as long as that kept their attention divided, the better. Knowing Enrique, his brutish force, and sick perversion for killing people in dramatic ways, it wouldn’t be long before they found the girl’s body. It was coming. He could feel it. As long as it didn’t draw them to him or get in the way of what lay ahead . . .
Andi returned to her seat beside the giant, averting his attention.
His muscles coiled, the odd heat of jealousy rippling through him. Not again. Last time he fell for a woman, it’d landed him in jail.
He gripped the microphone scope harder. No. He’d admire the beautiful woman from a distance and that was it. Unless she got close to catching him, and then she’d meet him face-to-face.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“WE SHOULD HEAD into the office,” Deckard said to Harper. “Run the case with Greyson.”
“Sure, but who’s Greyson?”
“He’s our Alfred,” Deckard said. “And our Lucius.”
A smile curled on Harper’s lips. “So runs everything to support you guys and is brilliant?”
“Yeah,” he said, surprised and impressed she’d gotten the Batman reference. But it still wasn’t enough to describe the pivotal role Greyson played daily. The man had taken him under his wing when he was a young kid in Tucson, trained him to be a PI, then sold the company to him after moving it to Santa Fe, but thankfully remained on to help in a supporting role. It was odd and awkward having him in that role, but that’s the life Greyson wanted. Said he’d been in the field too long; he was getting jaded. He wanted to work on the backend, and, of course, he did an amazing job of it. They would struggle to function without him and his expertise that ranged from knowledge of exquisite wines to being able to recall case details at a moment’s notice. Something called hyperthymesia, he’d explained. So rare less than one hundred people in the world had it, but it made Greyson’s gift nearly unmatchable.
“Shall we go?” Harper asked, standing.
“Just a sec.” He looked at Christian and Andi sitting leg-to-leg cozy on the love seat. “I’d like an update on their case.”
Christian looked at Deckard and then to Andi. “Where to begin?”
“Starting at the top usually helps,” Deckard offered, sitting back and linking his fingers on his lap. He wanted a better read on the two. If they were beginning to exist as a two. Would they finish each other’s sentences, pick up on each other’s cues?
