NEW YEAR IN MURDER

LESSONS IN MURDER, BOOK 3

EDALE LANE

PAST AND PROLOGUE PRESS

New Year in Murder: Lessons in Murder, Book 3

By Edale Lane

Published by Past and Prologue Press

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

Edited by Melodie Romeo

Cover art by Melodie Romeo

This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

First Edition October 2022

Copyright © 2022 by Edale Lane

Printed in the United States of America

Created with Vellum

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Other Books by Edale Lane

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’d like to give a special shout out to my Beta readers Zilla Novikov, Maryann Kafka, and proof-reader Laure Dherbécourt for their contributions to this novella. I also wish to thank all my readers and supporters along with members of my Facebook group who voted on a cover, but recently a couple of individuals have gone above and beyond the call of duty and I thank you from the bottom of my heart: Kristen Demarquis Walls for retweeting every post on twitter that mentions my name or one of my books, and Marie Kelly for reposting one or more of my posts on Facebook every day. You are helping me get the word out and grow my reading base, therefore greatly contributing to my success. Thank you all, along with J. Scott Coatsworth and my partner Johanna White who provided the inspiration for the “Lessons in Murder” series.

CHAPTER 1

Friday, December 31

Jenna paused outside the nightclub to rake her gaze down the long, lean frame of her enigma of a date, Professor Miranda McLeod, and swelled with pride and delight. “Randi, you look amazing tonight.” Jenna hoped all her exes would be there to drown in envy.

Randi’s infectious laugh filled the air. “My girlfriend is so hot and sexy, and brimming with a wonderful sense of humor!”

“Stop it!” Jenna teased. “You do look great.”

It wasn’t a secret Randi considered herself plain where her appearance was concerned, but Jenna had elevated how she viewed the woman’s outside to match the stunning beauty radiating from inside her. So what if she wore glasses or her nose was a tad big, her breasts not such a handful? Jenna was certain they would fit her hands perfectly and was eager for the proper moment to test the theory. She had long, toned legs, silky light-brown hair falling carefree around her shoulders, and radiant tawny eyes which gleamed with equal parts intelligence, creativity, and mischief. Jenna wouldn’t trade her for a Paris model.

The words from Randi’s mouth dawned on her in a flash, inspiring a look of wonder. Backing Randi against the wall for an illusion of privacy as other patrons passed them to enter the establishment, she asked, “Did you just say girlfriend? Is that who you consider me to be?”

An inviting aspect of daring adventure filled Randi’s face. “I guess it depends on you,” she replied, and left her lips parted as she took her turn to wash Jenna in an assessing gaze.

“I could go for calling you my girlfriend,” Jenna mused as a tingle of excitement raced through her senses.

It had been a month since she had met Randi at the scene of a crime—well, secondary scene, anyway—and had felt an immediate attraction to the woman without knowing which way her gate swung. They got together for coffee, dinner, and started dating, but had yet to make it to the bedroom as Randi was rather new at this, and Jenna had recently suffered a traumatic experience frying her ability to trust her instincts and emotions. And even though their Christmas lunch had been interrupted by domestic disputes and accidents demanding Jenna’s attention as a police lieutenant, they had spent almost the whole next day together, talked or texted everyday thereafter, and enjoyed a quick lunch on Wednesday at the bar and grill by the station. Jenna was excited to start her new year with this incredibly patient and understanding woman who may turn out to be The One—or at least she presented a better prospect than anyone in her recent past.

Not wishing to overwhelm a woman who had newly come out of the closet, Jenna had been allowing Randi to steer the physical side of their relationship, but she was experiencing a crushing urge to kiss her.

As if Randi read her mind, she reached a hand behind Jenna’s neck, lowered her mouth, and kissed her… on the sidewalk… in front of people! Jenna thought her heart would burst.

Randi felt intoxicated, and she hadn’t even had her first drink. Jenna looked so fabulous with her succulent curves fitted into a formal black suit, with her white blouse unbuttoned far enough to send Randi into a mini orgasm. Jenna had been to the stylist, as her short crop of black hair no longer fell into her eyes. Deciding to show off her legs and slim figure, Randi had gone with a royal blue cocktail dress and pumps with one-inch heels—well, she was already a lot taller than Jenna, and one inch was about the highest heel she was confident to walk in, much less the prospect of dancing.

The dress, shoes, and nightclub were all far outside Randi’s comfort zone, but she wanted more than anything for Jenna to have a good time tonight. She also desired to prove to herself she was not a frumpy, conservative, old maid who didn’t know how to have fun. My mission is to explore strange new settings, to seek out a new way of life and living, to boldly go where I have never gone before! I’m ready to live out my dreams and imaginations, to stop worrying about my reputation or what people will think of me, to be my authentic self. I don’t know what that is yet, but I’m here and I’m queer—a little terrified, but eager all the same.

“Aren’t you worried students may see you?” Jenna asked with an inquisitive raised brow when she released her lips from their blissful entanglement with Randi’s.

Randi countered with a coy grin. “Aren’t you worried some people you arrested before will see you?”

Her suggestion sent Jenna into unbounded laughter, and she kissed her back. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“My friends Jo and Madison are already here,” Randi reminded her. “They saved us a seat. I can’t wait for you to meet them, and I’m sure since you suggested this place, you’ll know other folks, too.”

Jenna’s bright blues shone at her, making Randi weak in the knees. “Tonight, I only have eyes for you, sweetie,” she replied, then grinned. “But I want to meet your friends. Hold my hand?”

Taking Jenna’s hand in hers, Randi answered, “Anytime, anywhere.”

Together they walked into music and the festive atmosphere of The Park Dance Club. Balloons hung from the ceiling, streamers were wrapped around poles, the dance floor was bathed in colorful lights, and the house was packed with less than three hours until midnight.

Randi scanned the room and spotted her unmistakable friend and her date. Jo Rodriguez jumped up from her seat at a square table and waved enthusiastically, a bright grin lighting her face.

“There they are.” Giving Jenna’s hand a squeeze, she led her past waiters with trays of drinks, mingling patrons, and other tables to join them. “Hey Jo, Madison,” she greeted, beaming with joy. “This is Jenna Ferrari. Jenna, Jo Rodriguez, computer tech specialist, and Madison Monroe, barista extraordinaire.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Jenna responded as they settled in their seats.

“Randi tells us you’re a police detective.” Jo dove right into her role as best friend, checking out her date for the first time. She was about Jenna’s height, but younger and thinner, with a bold sweep of blue hair topping a short brunette undercut. Her blazer, blocked in bright colors matching the stripes in the rainbow flags hanging around the club, fit her outgoing personality.

“Yep,” Jenna replied. “Ten plus years.” Cocking her head at Madison, she noted, “You seem familiar.”

The youngster of their group at twenty-six had a youthful appearance Randi thought would never fade. She wore her brunette hair long past her left shoulder with a fade on her right side, a nose stud, and a row of tasteful piercings rimming her right ear. Madison’s cool ivory skin-tone contrasted Jo’s warm, olive tan, and they both sported artistic tattoos.

She raised an amused gaze to Jenna’s. “That’s because you busted me for possession when I was a teenager. I think you were a uniform cop then, and you lectured me and all this crap, but I liked you because you were tough and in charge. You were in the courtroom when I had to go before the judge and insisted he order me to rehab instead of getting locked up. Turns out, rehab worked for me… at least it did the second time.” Holding up her hands, she swore, “Clean for six years. I can handle alcohol, but no more drugs for me ever.”

Jenna exchanged a glance with Randi, and they both chuckled before she turned back to Madison. “I remember now. It seems being drug-free agrees with you.”

“You’re not kidding,” Jo inserted. “You think, coffee shop barista, and wonder what she’ll do when she grows up.” She flashed a glowing glance at her date. “Madison makes more in tips alone than a public-school teacher’s salary. No offense, Randi, but she’s wicked snatched!”

“Hey, Jo here rakes in the bucks doing her computer gig, and the sky’s the limit in her biz,” Madison returned the praise. Looking back to Jenna, she relayed, “When Jo said Randi was dating a Detective Ferrari, I remembered exactly who you were. Who could forget such a cool name?”

She does have a cool name, Randi agreed to herself.

Pink rose in Jenna’s cheeks. “I can’t take credit for my name, but I’m happy to see you doing so well, Madison, and with Jo, here. Any friend of Randi’s has to be an amazing person.”

“Speaking of,” Jo addressed to Jenna with a wink at Randi. “You must be the ultimate G.O.A.T. to draw this one out of her closet and into the real world.”

Randi’s cheeks flushed with heat. “Jenna is absolutely amazing, but let’s try not to embarrass the baby dyke, shall we?” she requested, knowing full-well she was the oldest woman at the table, even if the least experienced.

“I know what,” Madison suggested. “Let’s dance! Jo, I love this song.”

Randi watched the couple hop up and bounce toward the dance floor with a glance and wave back in their direction.

“What do you think?” Jenna asked. “I’m good either way.”

Randi sensed the tight fingers of intimidation give her insides a squeeze. But in planning for the Shakespeare course the department was reviving in the curriculum this spring, she had been rereading the classics and quotes from the stellar plays spun about her awareness. When our actions do not, our fears do make us traitors. I refuse to be afraid of anything—even humiliating myself trying to dance.

With a deep breath, she turned a speculative expression to Jenna. “If you aren’t ashamed to be seen dancing with a klutz like me, then I’m up for giving it a go.”

Jenna flashed her a grin and a wink. “Think of it as karate to music and you’ll be just fine. Come on!”

The idea had been an inspiration! Instead of persisting in the notion dancing was something Randi could never excel at, she transformed her trepidation for the radiant confidence with which she approached her martial art form. Jenna was right—balance, flexibility, and strength—graceful forms of movement simply performed to music. She could enjoy this activity if she would let herself.

The experience proved exhilarating and freeing as Randi hopped about trying to imitate what others were doing while abandoning her need for perfection. But what really stirred her was when the beat slowed, and Jenna wrapped her arms around her neck so they could sway to the music with their bodies pressed together. It was like being back at senior prom as she had only fantasized about it—holding another girl in her embrace.

“Dr. McLeod, is that you?” Randi tore her gaze from her date to discover several of her students from last semester skipping over to her with amazement lighting their youthful faces.

“It’s me,” she answered with a pleasant smile. “Having fun?” The young women looked from Randi to Jenna and back, then bubbled over with astonished laughter.

“Hey, Blake, we have the coolest teacher ever!” the tallest of the girls exclaimed. “Who’s the total hottie?”

Randi could only bask with pride. “This is my new girlfriend!” She wrapped her arm around Jenna’s waist and pulled her close.

Jenna offered them an informal salute. “You guys do have the coolest teacher ever,” she repeated with a grin and a wink while she squeezed Randi back. The trio giggled and bounded off leaving Randi and her hottie to dance some more.

Sweaty with tired feet from the unfamiliar footwear, Randi escorted Jenna back to their table where they were met by Jo and Madison and ordered champagne and wings. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as the clock neared midnight. She felt like Cinderella at the ball with her princess charming, only her coach would not turn into a pumpkin when the hour struck. Instead, the entire club counted down in unison: “Five, four, three, two, one—Happy New Year!”

Jenna leaned over and captured Randi’s lips with rich expectation, relating cheer, affection, and invitation. Gazing into those intrepid blue eyes, Randi imagined she was ready to open the door to whatever would follow when they got home. “Happy New Year, Jenna.”

With a radiant smile, Jenna hugged her. “It is indeed, sweetie! Happy New Year to you.”

They toasted Jo and Madison, who blew silly buzzers and waved tiny pompoms while confetti drifted down from above, illuminated by swirling colored lights. It had been such a magical evening for Randi, but it wasn’t over yet. The night may hold one more fresh experience to relish, if she was willing to let herself be vulnerable enough to enjoy it. The champagne, the club atmosphere, the expectant smiles of her friends, and the desire which fired her soul for Jenna all pointed in the same direction.

Suddenly, Jenna became distracted. A disgruntled frown marred her cheerful face, and she dug the phone from her pants pocket and pressed it to her ear. “Ferrari.”

Randi’s heart sank like an anvil. She knew what the call meant. Rather than let the disappointment show, she took a moment to chat with Jo and Madison. When she heard Jenna’s, “I’ll be right there,” she turned back to her, caught her face in her palms, and kissed her.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening, Jenna. Jo is going to drive me home.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ve got a homicide,” she puffed out in disappointment. “Can’t even frickin’ take New Year’s Eve off! Couldn’t the killer have waited a few hours? Just a few more hours—is that too much to ask?” She groaned.

“It’s okay, dear,” Randi assured her. “I knew going into this, your job has to come first. Call me tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.” Jenna sealed her vow with a final quick kiss. “I’m really—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry, detective!” Randi declared. “I’d rather have five minutes with you than a whole night with someone else. Now, go catch a killer.” She made a shooing motion at Jenna, which made her laugh and shake her head.

“Later. Nice to meet you guys,” she waved to Jo and Madison on her way out.

“Bummer,” Madison sighed. “It’s what you get for dating a cop.”

“She is so into you!” Jo effervesced. “Tonight has been a thrill for me to watch. But now I need to drive you home so Madison and I,” she suggested, turning her attention to the uniquely attractive barista, “can make a little magic of our own.”

Randi nodded. She found she was alright with it, just as she had told Jenna. Standing, she stretched around the cheering crowd to spot her cop push through the door. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright… and she wants me!

CHAPTER 2

Early morning of January 1

Police cars lined the driveway with their headlights illuminating the sculptured lawn of the mansion in Poages Mill Estates. A quick scan revealed Captain Myers had beaten her to the scene, still dressed in his celebratory tuxedo, giving him more of the acclaimed celebrity presence than usual. “Captain,” she called as she approached. Her tall, dark-skinned boss excused himself from a conversation he had been having with two important looking men in suits she had never seen before. Lawyers? City officials? From her initial briefing, Jenna recognized this case would garner a ton of attention.

“Lieutenant Ferrari,” he greeted soberly as he met her in the drive between cars. Jenna noted the coroner’s wagon had not yet arrived and uniform officers were extending yellow crime tape everywhere. “This is going to require speed and delicacy.”

“Yes, sir,” Jenna responded. “Who was first on scene?”

“Officer Murphy, I believe.”

Jenna’s gaze caught the eager blonde rookie who she had taken a shine to. Good, she thought with a nod. He will have properly preserved the scene, checked to ensure the suspect was no longer on the premises, and secured the witness. Just at hearing his name, some of her tension eased.

“The victim is Mitchell Lockwood. The mayor is already all over this and the press will be as well.” Captain Myers ran a hand over the smooth skin of his bald head as he lowered his chin. “You’ll want to take your time and get everything exactly right.”

“Yes, sir,” Jenna assured him. “My team won’t overlook a single speck of dust. I called them all in.” The sound of another vehicle pulling up drew her attention. “There’s Officer Jamison now. We’ve got this, sir.”

He granted her a nod of approval. “Then I’ll let you get to it.”

Everyone in Roanoke knew the multi-millionaire Mitchell Lockwood’s name. He and a partner owned a major cleaning supply business, and he added to his income with a profitable real estate speculation sideline. But his initial fortune had been won when back in 2004 he had invested in a little dot com venture known as Google.

“Happy New Year, boss,” Tricia Jamison wished her as the thin, supple young woman dressed to the nines approached on three-inch heels. She wore her strawberry-blonde hair in an elegant updo to match her formal black dress and dangly, sparkling earrings. A photography bag hung over her coat-covered shoulder. “But I guess it wasn’t so happy for our victim.”

“Your outfit is stunning as ever,” Jenna commented. “Bringing in the new year with your lawyer?”

Jamison raised a brow and smiled. “Yes, and you with your professor?”

Jenna smirked. “Yeah, yeah, and I was about to get lucky, too. Go start photographing while I talk with Murphy. And perform like everything you do here will be scrutinized under a microscope, because it will be.”

Jamison nodded and headed for the open garage while Jenna pulled Officer Matt Murphy aside. “I’m sorry you had to work New Year’s Eve, but very glad you were first on scene,” she confessed. “Give me what you’ve got.”

Murphy blushed. “You look nice tonight, Lieutenant.” He took out his notepad to refer to as he issued his report. “The victim has been identified as Mitchell Lockwood, a fifty-nine-year-old Caucasian male, brown hair and eyes, five feet ten inches tall. He appears to have suffered one gunshot wound to the chest in his garage less than an hour ago, according to the witness’ account. We arrived at the residence after the victim’s wife placed a 911 call and was the closest car in the area. Vicki—I mean Officer Stone—is with Mrs. Audra Lockwood in her living room attempting to calm and console her while we waited for you. We did not disturb the crime scene, and the body does not appear to have been moved.”

“Thank you, Murphy,” Jenna responded with a hand to his shoulder. “You did a good job. Dr. Valentine is on his way, and Detective Owens. I’ve called CSI Destiny Wilcox to collect evidence and she should arrive soon, too, but keep everyone else out of here.”

“Will do,” he declared, and went back to work.

Jenna stepped up to the open garage door, which Murphy had quickly taped off to ward away careless feet. It was a wide, three-car garage. To the left side was parked a sleek, silver Mazzanti sports car and to the right a black Mercedes luxury sedan; the victim’s body lay in the empty spot in the middle of the parking space, closer to the open driver’s side door than to the sports car. “Hey Murphy?” she called out. “Was the light on in here when you arrived?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Yes sir, uh, ma’am, Lieutenant.”

Returning her attention to the scene, Jenna noted a clean, neat area with naught appearing out of place. She spied no signs of a struggle, but if it had occurred in the open middle, there was nothing to knock over. Why have a three-car garage but only two cars? Could one car be in the shop? Or maybe they just like the room. There was no motorcycle or large riding lawn mower to occupy the space.

Jenna swept the crime tape up with an arm and ducked under while Jamison continued to snap photos of the body, the car, and every surface in sight… storage shelving stacked with boxes, bicycles, gas cans, air compressor, and quality toolbox. Being certain not to touch anything, Jenna squatted beside her victim, who lay on his back, a deep red stain splattered across his white tux shirt and open lapels. Dull, glassy eyes stared at the ceiling and his mouth hung agape as if in surprise. No one expects to be shot in their own garage. His hair was thick and dark with no signs of gray; probably colors it. She identified the Rolex on his left wrist, two gold rings, silver and diamond cufflinks. All his jewelry is here. I’ll wait on Dr. Valentine to check his wallet, but it isn’t laying out on the concrete. Pushing up, Jenna inhaled deeply, checking for any unusual smells. There was the coppery scent of the victim’s blood and a faint residue of gunpowder, but nothing else caught her attention. She wouldn’t smell fumes from the car with the doors open to air and she wasn’t even certain if this fancy sedan had exhaust since many newer Mercedes were switching over to hybrid or electric.

“Search for a gun,” Jenna voiced to Jamison. “I’m going to talk to Mrs. Lockwood.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Jamison chirped as she continued snapping pictures.

To avoid disturbing the door in from the garage, Jenna strode around the front of the house in time to see Dr. Valentine drive up. She waved and the coroner’s long legs carried him to her. “My first instinct is to wish you a Happy New Year, but under the circumstances…”

Dr. Valentine pushed up his black-framed glasses and gave her a nod. “Same here, Lieutenant. Mitchell Lockwood,” he uttered and shook his head. “I will leave no possibility unexplored,” he affirmed. “You and I both consider every victim of importance, but in this case, if anyone asks, he’s our top priority.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on TOD and anything else you can determine before taking him in.” Jenna hastened to the lavish entryway of the residence, with double doors boasting oval colored glass inlays tucked onto a covered porch enlivened by small, potted evergreens and gold light fixtures.

Officer Stone sat on the other end of a white couch from Mrs. Audra Lockwood in a formal living room at the front which Jenna supposed was reserved for entertaining guests. The trimmings glimmered with gold and a few potted plants and blooming flowers adorned the space. As she approached the grieving widow, she formed some first impressions. The woman was strikingly gorgeous and considerably younger than her husband, maybe around Jenna’s own age of thirty-two. She wore a long formal dress and jewelry, likely worth three times Jenna’s annual salary. Her chic blonde hair was arranged formally atop her head, like Jenna imagined Marie Antoinette may have worn hers. At her footsteps, Mrs. Lockwood raised haunted hazel eyes to meet hers in a desperate plea.

“Good evening, or morning, Mrs. Lockwood,” she addressed in a professional tone. “I am Lieutenant Detective Ferrari, and I will be the lead investigator into your husband’s death. I am so sorry for your loss.”

Jenna took the seat across from the widow’s end of the couch, holding the woman’s singular gaze. She noted a shift from desperate despair to hopeful longing upon identifying herself. “You’re Ferrari,” she answered with surprise coated in interest.

“Yes, ma’am. I know this is a very difficult time for you; I can only imagine,” Jenna conceded. “But I need to ask you a few questions about what happened while all the details are fresh in your mind.” She opened her notepad and clicked her pen. “You were present when your husband was shot?” When Mrs. Lockwood nodded and dabbed at her face with a monogrammed handkerchief, Jenna continued. “Can you please relate to me exactly what happened?”

The woman pivoted to face Jenna with perfect posture and pushed back a strand of loose hair. She lifted shaky fingers to her throat, drawing attention to its smooth, swanlike nature and the emerald pendant draping it. “Mitchell and I had just returned from a New Year’s Eve ball, a charity event, really, as guests were encouraged to donate to one of the sponsoring foundations. We left just after ringing in the New Year because I had a headache.” Mrs. Lockwood’s focus wandered as she drifted into recalling the events in a rich southern drawl which suggested she may hail from Georgia or somewhere in the deep south.

“Too much champagne, maybe. Anyway, we pulled into the garage—the lights come on when we push the button for the door to open.” She glanced back to Jenna with the point before continuing her story. “Mitchell got out first. He likes to come around and open the door for me, you know, like an old-fashioned gentleman. He is so chivalrous that way.” She batted her lashes with a little smile. Then her demeanor turned anxious and grave. “Someone in a dark hoody wearing gloves and a ski mask rushed out the door into the garage, like we had surprised a burglar. We read in the paper about other robberies in the neighborhood, and my first thought was, ‘oh, they have broken into our house.’ Mitchell tried to accost him, yelling, ‘What are you doing in my garage?’, or something like it. He blocked the intruder’s path, and they wrestled for a few seconds. I thought Mitchell might overpower him, but then… then…”

Mrs. Lockwood brimmed with fresh tears as she met Jenna’s gaze. “The man pulled a gun from somewhere, his belt or pocket maybe, and there was a loud pop when he pulled the trigger. Mitchell fell, and the intruder ran away. I don’t know if he even saw me.” She buried her face in the classic handkerchief and wept.

“Can you describe the man you saw?” Jenna pushed. “Anything at all—size, race? Are you certain it was a man?”

She glanced up and blinked. “I assumed it was a man. The robber didn’t have a feminine figure, but… hoody, mask, and gloves… I want to say white, but…” Her shoulders slumped. “He wasn’t particularly large or small, didn’t speak, and was quite average, I guess. I’m sorry, detective.”

Jenna had spent little to no time with people of the Lockwoods’ social and monetary standing, so she was uncertain what to make of the recent widow and her account. She seemed both distraught and put-together simultaneously. “Then what did you do?” she prompted.

With a sniff, the wealthy socialite continued. “I took out my phone and called 911. Then I got out of the car and ran around to Mitchell, but… he looked dead. Naturally, I was frightened and not sure what to do. I wanted to run to him and take him in my arms, to check his pulse, to kiss him goodbye, but…” She met Jenna’s eyes questioningly. “The crime shows all say you aren’t supposed to, that you aren’t supposed to touch anything or disturb the body because you may destroy evidence, and I want my husband’s killer caught and brought to justice, Lieutenant Ferrari, so I forced myself to back away. It was so hard,” she agonized. “I was scared and worried about what I might find inside, but I was also afraid to stay outside in case he came back.” More tears ensued, and she patted the white cloth on her face again.

“Did you go inside?” Jenna asked gently.

Mrs. Lockwood nodded. “I went through the garage door and locked it behind me, then ran to the bathroom because I was afraid I may be sick after seeing the blood and the trauma of it all, and I waited for the police to arrive.”

“And no one else was in the house?”

“I don’t think so.” The striking widow blinked at Jenna. “I didn’t see or hear anyone else, but I don’t know for sure.”

“Can you tell me if any valuables are missing?” Jenna asked as she made notes.

“This kind officer here,” she motioned, reminding Jenna another person shared the room, “walked around and cleared the mansion. Then she accompanied me while I checked my jewelry, the safe, electronics… nothing seems to be missing. Maybe the thief had only just broken in and we scared him off.”

Jenna’s brain had been ticking through the entire testimony. The intruder didn’t assault Mrs. Lockwood, didn’t steal any valuables, shoots Mr. Lockwood and takes off. It could have been a robbery gone wrong, and he was simply trying to get away, or… the killer could have been lying in wait to target Mr. Lockwood in a setting where he would be off guard and feel safe. We must consider both angles.

“Mrs. Lockwood, I have many more questions I need to ask you,” Jenna stated. “Your husband’s businesses, finances, family members, friends, enemies, and additional details if we are to find his killer, but it is late, and you may not be up to so many questions now.”

“Oh, bless you, Lieutenant!” she gushed. “I am devastated, simply devastated!”

“How about Monday morning, first thing?” Jenna proposed. “I could come here, or you could come down to the station. Any documents you could put together would also be a tremendous help. You could contact the attorney who conducts Mr. Lockwood’s affairs, and he might can gather the necessary information,” she expounded. “Do you have a problem with us examining his financials and correspondence?”

She shook her head. “No. You may search whatever you like. Monday morning, I’ll come in to answer all your questions and I’ll call Cedric tomorrow—well, at a reasonable time this morning—to collect documents for you.” She fixed Jenna with a forlorn expression, twisting the moist handkerchief between her delicate palms. “Whatever shall I do? I don’t know what to do.”

Jenna reached over and touched caring fingers to the widow’s hands. “I have an evidence collecting specialist, a woman, who I’m going to ask to swab a few things on you, take your DNA and fingerprints so we can rule them out of whatever we find at the scene. Even though you say you didn’t leave the car until the intruder was gone, your husband’s door was open and some bit of something might still have gotten on you. Will that be all right?”

“Certainly, detective,” she replied and gave Jenna’s hands a squeeze. “Anything I can do for you.”

As Jenna exited the house, she felt a wave of fresh, icy air hit her face as if waking her from a dream. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about being in the room with Mrs. Lockwood had sucked the energy out of her… or maybe it was almost two in the morning, and she was feeling it.

“Dr. Valentine?” she queried as she re-entered the garage.

“Liver temp places TOD at approximately 12:30,” he reported. Jenna recalled receiving her call only ten minutes later. “He has a gunshot wound to the chest, small calibre, through and through. I’ll need an autopsy to determine if it struck his heart or the aorta, but he went quick. Massive blood pool indicates the victim died where he lay, with no evidence the body has been moved.”

“Thank you,” Jenna responded. “His wife says he struggled with his attacker before being shot.”

The coroner examined Mr. Lockwood’s hands and face. “I’m not seeing defensive wounds, but if they wrestled rather than throwing punches, it’s hard to say.”

Jenna nodded, considering possibilities, when CSI Wilcox breezed under the tape with her kit in hand. “Morning, Lieutenant, Dr. Valentine,” greeted Jenna’s favorite specialist. The woman was thorough, professional, and her sharp senses detected trace others might miss. She could lift prints from fingers, shoes, tires, just about anything which leaves a mark, and she possessed a creative curiosity which sought answers from outside the box, as well as in. At a few years older than Jenna, the ebony-skinned field technician had the experience this case needed.

“Good morning, Wilcox. There’s a spent bullet around here somewhere besides processing the car, garage, and back door. We also need to determine where the intruder gained access to the house, if there is any transfer on the victim, but first, please process the wife so she can try to get some sleep. She was a witness, and while unlikely, may produce something of relevance. She’s in the front room with Officer Stone.”

“Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

While Wilcox walked around to the front door, Dr. Valentine called for a stretcher and body bag to move the victim, and Jenna spotted Detective Ron Owens.

“Looks like you and Jamison were out on the town when you got the call,” he noted in a disgruntled tone. “The wife and I were sound asleep—too old to stay up for some stupid ball drop.”

Jenna let out a little laugh. “I’m not so far behind you, ‘old man’.”

“I hate these high-profile cases,” he groaned and shoved his hands into his overcoat pockets.

“I’m done taking pictures of every square inch of this place,” Jamison declared as she joined them. “I may have found the point of entry. There’s a sliding glass door around back by the pool and from the position of the latch, I don’t think it’s locked. I’ll wait on fingerprints before giving it a tug.”

“Excellent work, Jamison. Owens, let’s start a door-to-door of the neighbors’ houses. Between the gunshot and all the cop cars, they’re awake anyhow. Maybe someone saw something.”

“I don’t get it.” The corners of Owens’ square face turned down and his bushy brows furrowed together. “We’ve been working these burglary cases in this neighborhood since Tuesday, upped patrol presence, put every resource on it.” Then, cocking his head at Jenna, added, “But this is the first time anyone even got a scratch. The thieves have been so careful to ensure nobody was home, in and out, neat and clean, targeting small, high-value items. How come tonight they kill someone?”

“I don’t know, Owens,” Jenna replied with a shake of her head. “Maybe it wasn’t the same guy, or he got scared or sloppy, or maybe this murder is entirely unrelated, but we’re going to find out.”

CHAPTER 3

Saturday, January 1

It was almost dawn by the time Jenna and her team returned to the police station. Captain Myers had already placed calls to the lab techs to come in this morning at the mayor’s request, despite being New Years’ Day. Jenna poured the last of the day-old coffee into a novelty mug that made her smile. Oh, Randi, you are so precious, she thought as she recalled the surprise gift of her Christmas visit. The cute mug featuring a police car, cops, and the words “I like big busts and I cannot lie” had created a huge splash with her coworkers.

“Jamison, those heels have to be killing your feet,” Jenna supposed in empathy. “Do you have anything in your locker to change into?”

“Only sweats and sneakers for workouts.” Officer Jamison plopped into the chair at her desk and puffed at multiple strands which had fallen out of her updo. She pulled the pins and band, allowing reddish-blonde tresses to cascade to her shoulders.

“Go change,” Jenna ordered. “And Owens, can you rustle up some breakfast for us? I’ve got to check on the autopsy.”

“My favorite assignment.” The blocky detective flashed her a grin and hit the door.

“Oh, and Jamison, what was the story about the sliding glass door you mentioned?” Jenna’s foggy brain remembered to ask.

“CSI Wilcox dusted it,” she replied with a yawn. “The door was unlatched, but I couldn’t open it. They had one of those cut-off broom handles lying in the track to prevent the door from sliding open, so no one got in the house through there.”

“Thanks.” Got by the security system then if it was turned on.

Jenna hadn’t worn heels and while she didn’t want to ruin her dressy black suit, she figured it would be safe in the office, so she took the elevator downstairs without bothering to change. “Fun way to spend your holiday, huh, Doc?”

Dr. Valentine, draped in scrubs, looked up from the body on the table before him. “With any luck, I’ll be home before my wife wakes up,” he replied. “I will for sure be in time for black-eyed peas, hog jowls, and cornbread. It’s not what I grew up eating in Massachusetts, but when in Rome?” He lifted his palms and shrugged. “I’ve finished the preliminary findings, waiting on tox and a few tests to run, but I can tell you Mitchell Lockwood was indeed killed by a small caliber bullet which passed through his left ventricle between the fourth and fifth ribs at a slight angle right to left. The projectile then fractured the posterior fourth rib before exiting the chest.”

“CSI Wilcox collected the spent slug, a .22 caliber, from the lawn of the front yard,” Jenna noted. “Took ages to find, but it was sent to ballistics. Mrs. Lockwood stated her husband struggled with the attacker. Did you identify anything to support her account?”

Dr. Valentine pursed his lips and adjusted his glasses, his hand sealed in a clean pair of rubber gloves. It appeared he had just finished sewing up the Y incision. He motioned for her to move closer and lifted her victim’s right arm. “There’s no bruising or abrasions on his arms or hands, but sometimes a subdermal hematoma occurring near time of death doesn’t show up right away. There’s an old scratch here, but it’s from several days ago. I took scrapings from under his nails and sent them to the crime lab. I can tell you the weapon was not in contact with his body when it was fired, as there’s no burned skin surrounding the point of entry, but GSR tests will give you a good approximation of distance.”

Jenna considered the implications. Mrs. Lockwood was in the passenger seat with an open car door and frame partially blocking her view. I’ll need to ask what she heard. The shooter could have been a few feet away when he fired the gun. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Plenty,” Dr. Valentine replied with a dry laugh. “I can tell you what he had for dinner, he smoked for about twenty-five years then quit between three and five years ago, and he had about twenty extra pounds around his midsection, but as far as probative information, he suffered no injuries other than the fatal gunshot wound. I went over every inch of this body with a magnifying glass, swabbed and collected trace from his nose, ears, mouth, under his nails, every possible place. Sometimes the smallest particle which seems insignificant can make the case, so I was thorough. If tox turns up anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks. Now go home and enjoy dinner with your wife.”

“And football,” he added with a wink. “Can’t miss the Rose Bowl.”

“Heaven forbid!” Jenna laughed and walked out to spot lab tech Dr. Asita Gupta unlocking her door. “Happy New Year,” Jenna greeted.

Dr. Gupta shot her a sarcastic glance. “Really, Lieutenant? Your case is all I’m in for today and believe me, I’ll have results as efficiently as possible.”

“Thanks, Dr. Gupta,” Jenna responded in honest appreciation. “I know you will.”

“Have you been to bed yet?” the shorter woman asked with a raised brow. The lab tech had her long, straight black hair tied back in a tail and donned casual clothes.

“Not yet,” Jenna threw back as she stretched down the hall. “It’s on my list.”

Back in the criminal investigations office, Jenna was relieved to see real takeout breakfast sandwiches and hash browns. “Owens, you’re amazing!” she exclaimed. “You found food.”

“McDonald’s,” he said and bit into his McMuffin. “We aren’t the only folks who have to work today.”

“Bauman, good. You made it in,” she said as she pulled food from the bag. Jamison already munched on hers.

“Yes indeed, boss,” the tall, curly-haired computer and technology expert replied while he typed on his keyboard. “I’ve got the footage from the Lockwoods’ home security system. The only camera they have was on the front door, so I doubt it will help.”

“Let’s take a look,” Jenna instructed as she marched over to his station. Ethan Bauman clicked on the video and hit fast-forward. Nothing, nothing, a bird, nothing, nothing, a portion of a car going by the street, and eventually at twelve twenty-eight, the side of the Lockwoods’ Mercedes pulling in the driveway and exiting the camera’s view. Bauman slowed to normal speed, and they scrutinized the image, hoping to catch a glimpse of the killer. Nothing until Murphy and Stone arrived.

“Okay, enough of staring at the front porch.” Jenna sighed. “Run back through everything we have on the burglary cases. Then I want deep background on the Lockwoods, their finances, businesses, properties, any lawsuits against them, whatever you can find.”

Bauman nodded while Jenna stretched up and pinned her focus on Jamison. “And you go home and get some sleep. I’m going to need you tonight.”

Tricia Jamison’s green eyes rounded. “Tonight?”

“That’s right. Ask your mom to borrow her Cadillac and wear one of those snazzy outfits of yours,” Jenna instructed. “Bauman, you’re off at two to go take a nap and Jamison can pick you up about eight. Do you have a tux or expensive looking suit?”

He mirrored Jamison’s reaction, brows drawing together in confusion. “I have a navy suit that isn’t polyester.”

“We must arrest these burglars pronto, and so far, we haven’t many leads.” Jenna spelled out her plan to the pair. “They strike rich people’s houses when no one is home. They don’t set off alarms, don’t break anything, don’t leave prints behind, and don’t hurt anyone—except last night, if the murder was connected. Owens and I will focus in a different direction, but I need you guys to seem like you belong in Poages Mill Estates. I’m going to consult with Captain Myers to get the cooperation of some residents to be out tonight and the two of you will run surveillance in the neighborhood. The department has had an extra presence in the area since the first robbery was reported. There have been two other thefts since, not counting the Lockwoods, but no calls in the past couple of days, so maybe they are laying low because of the police cars. I’m pulling out all the black and whites and will request a few more plainclothes cops and personal vehicles to patrol, so the crew feels comfortable to hit another house. Catch them, will ya, please?”

“Will do, boss.” Jamison’s usual cheerful chirp came out as more of an exhausted moan. “Thanks for the nap.”

“Eight o’clock, Cadillac,” Jenna called after her as Jamison trudged through the door.

Turning to Owens, Jenna said, “Now, let’s check out Mr. Lockwood’s family members, business partner, clubs, and everyone close to him. If it wasn’t a robbery gone wrong, someone else wanted him dead.”

“You got it!” Ron Owens wadded his empty sandwich wrapper into a ball and shot it into the trash can. Picking up a to-go cup of McCafe coffee, he swiveled his chair to his computer screen to start digging.

A few hours later, Jenna received a call from the lab and hurried down to see Dr. Gupta. “Show me what you’ve got!”

“Don’t get excited,” the petite scientist implored.

“Right now, I’m just racing on adrenaline,” Jenna answered and leaned on the front counter.

“Ballistics report is complete, and a search is running for matches in the system, which hasn’t produced any results yet,” Dr. Gupta conveyed. “Mr. Lockwood’s clothing gives us more. Gunshot residue is present, and the size and density of the pattern indicate the shooter was approximately six feet from the victim when the gun was fired. The only transfer we have matched so far belongs to Mrs. Lockwood, which we would expect to find as they had been out at a party, probably dancing or touching each other. There are a few unidentified fibers I’m running analysis on now. I have started both Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood’s DNA samples so I can compare them to anything you may turn up.”

A sound beeped in the background and Dr. Gupta moved away to check it while Jenna tried to make her brain focus on the facts. “No ballistics matches in the system. It is likely the gun that fired this bullet has never been used in a crime, unless the investigators did a very poor job and didn’t upload a report.”

Jenna grimaced and rolled her eyes. Can’t catch a break. She took the papers Dr. Gupta handed her. “Thank you. There’s not much more we can do today, so you may as well go have dinner with your family.”

Dr. Gupta nodded. “And you should get some sleep.” When Jenna opened her mouth to respond, the sharp science tech quipped, “I know—it’s on your list.”

With a tired laugh, Jenna stepped next door to fingerprints. “Marcus,” she sighed pushing herself for the most pleasant expression she could muster. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year to you! Those were good empanadas and cannoli, Lieutenant,” he greeted with a wink and rubbed a palm to his belly. “Um, um.” The Latino-Italian specialist had a smile for her despite the inconvenience of being pried away from parades and bowl games.

“Glad you liked them. Now, please tell me you have some fingerprints.”

“Loads of them, hordes of them, zounds of them,” he answered, spreading his hands farther and farther apart. Then his shoulders slumped. “And they all belong to Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood except these.” He picked up a tiny stack. “Top one is a valet from the Corinthian Ballroom. The other two sets aren’t on file. They were both lifted from outside the car, one on the front fender, and the other from the drivers’ door.”

“That’s something!” Jenna cheered. At least she had two possible suspect prints… she only needed suspects to go with them.

Jenna dragged into her apartment well after dark. Jamison and Bauman were out to blend into the ritzy neighborhood and hopefully spot their robbers. She and Owens had compiled lists of suspects other than the thief or thieves, but much of the potential evidence for their alternate angle would depend on what Mrs. Lockwood was to bring in on Monday. Jenna even pondered the notion the aristocratic southern lady could be a suspect, too. We always consider husbands to be suspects, why not wives?

As she pulled off the blazer she’d been wearing since last night, Jenna spied her black and white tuxedo cat race out of the bedroom and leap onto the counter. “Meow!” he demanded and fixed her with an angry scowl.

“I know you missed breakfast,” she affirmed. “Be happy you are getting dinner.”

She set her own bag of takeout on the opposite counter and picked up his bowl. He paced back and forth, flicking his tail at her. “Meow,” he repeated impatiently as she prepared his food.

“I’m coming, Bandit. If you had been awake for…” She turned her wrist to check her watch. “Thirty-six hours you’d be moving a little slow, too. There.”

She set the dish on the floor beside the water and brushed her hand over his fur as he dived in. Weariness struck her like a giant hammer. Abandoning the food for now, she grabbed a cold beer from the fridge and collapsed on one leg of her L-shaped couch ensemble. Her first thought was of Randi.

I need to call her. I left her at the club last night and haven’t had a free moment since. With a strong desire to be a better girlfriend and maybe contribute to a successful relationship for a change, Jenna drew out her phone and pushed her name on the favorites list.

“Hey, babe.” Randi’s tone was heartfelt music to Jenna’s ear. “Don’t tell me you’re just now getting home.”

“Okay.” Her voice was already drifting as her eyelids drooped. “I won’t tell you.”

“Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. I’ve been thinking about you all day,” she confessed. “I had such a wonderful night with you, but then I got to go to bed and dream it all over again while you have been up searching for a killer. I’m just glad you’re safe. And, by the way, why aren’t you asleep yet?”

“I’m about to be,” Jenna admitted. She took a sip from her bottle, set it on the floor, and tugged a pillow under her head. “It would be better if you were here, and I could lay my head in your lap or cuddle up with you in bed. I always feel so good when I’m with you.” Satisfaction settled over Jenna like a blanket and her eyes closed.

“I could come over,” Randi suggested. “I could go for holding you in my arms, too.”

“I’d be sound asleep before you got here. Maybe tomorrow night,” Jenna suggested, her speech slurred with drowsiness. “I have to work tomorrow, have to find leads and follow them… an important case, have to solve it fast… the mayor is all over Captain Myers. Randi?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

A dreamy look enveloped Jenna’s visage. “And I’m so glad you are.” The sentiment was rooted deep in her bones. “Talk to me. I want to fall asleep listening to your voice.” Bandit hopped onto the other end of the couch, took a few indecisive steps, then settled by her feet for the after-dinner paw-licking ritual.

“You are so sweet! And the mayor shouldn’t be the least bit worried if he knows you are lead on the investigation. So, it’s been a typical Saturday for me. Took Byron for a run, worked on curriculum planning for my new Shakespeare class, which I’m so excited about. It’s an upper-level class, not required like regular English lit, so I’ll have students who are actually interested…”

With a smile on her lips and Randi’s dulcet tones singing joyfully in her ear, Jenna drifted into sleep.

CHAPTER 4

Sunday, January 2

The ringing of the phone came from somewhere. Jenna pried open her eyelids to glimpse a bedroom washed in pale light and searched for it. When did I get in here? Her boots were off, but she was still in her pants, shirt, and bra from yesterday—and the day before. I need a shower.

Jenna shook her head and blinked a few times. The phone rang again, and this time she found it under the sheets. “Ferrari.” A glance at the clock showed 7:30 a.m. and another through the window informed her it was snowing.

“Hey boss,” sounded Jamison’s pert voice. “Did I wake you?”

“Yes, so it better be good.”

“We arrested two guys exiting a house we were watching last night. Bauman and I got them through booking, wrote up the reports, and they are all ready for you when you get in. We’re going home now. Long night, but definitely worth it!”

Invigorated by the news, Jenna popped up. “Great work, Jamison!”

“Ethan had these cool night vision binoculars and electronic sound amplifiers—”

“Yeah, that’s nice,” Jenna interrupted, deciding the details could wait. “I’ll be in by nine. You guys take the day, and I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Clicking off the call, she headed for the shower.

Jenna hung her onyx leather motorcycle style jacket on the hook inside the office door revealing a blue sweater over black slacks. Detective Owens arrived in his typical gray suit before she reached her desk. “Good morning, Owens.”

“It’s Sunday,” he grumbled. “I should be in bed.”

“Yeah, but think of the overtime.” She flashed him a grin. “Two of them. Do you want to divvy up or take them together one at a time?”

He spared her a speculative glance. “You are looking particularly feminine, Ferrari. Where’s your men-in-black suit?”

“I thought this would work well for interviewing our robbers. Distraction, Owens.”

“Your sweater is pretty distracting alright,” he noted before diverting his attention from her breasts.

“Good!” Jenna pulled up the arrest report and gave it a once over from a seat at her desk. “Troy Williamson, thirty-six years old, used to work for Granite Home Security Company, but got laid off a year ago when they downsized. Explains how they gained entry to the houses. He then took a huge pay cut to pick up a minimum wage job as a stocker at Walmart.”

“Yeah, a lot of businesses suffered because of all the covid crap,” Owens recalled. “Probably since folks weren’t going anywhere and were working from home, they cancelled their security contracts. Didn’t need them.”

“Well, it’s no excuse to rob innocent families,” Jenna countered. “Next is Bradley Quinn, thirty-nine, works construction for the highway department, and speaking of families, he’s married with four kids.”

“Four? I don’t have time for my two. And not regular work available there when it’s snow season.” Owens loosened his tie from around his broad linebacker neck. “Unless you get to drive one of those salt trucks.”

“So, Williamson knows how to disengage the alarms and his friend Quinn needs the extra money as much as he does, so they come up with this plan, knowing residents will be out of town during the holidays… and they start right after Christmas when the new game boxes, jewelry, cash, and gift cards will be lying around,” Jenna speculated as she swiveled in her chair.

“I like our dynamic,” Owens proclaimed. “Let’s put one in interview A and the other in B to sit and wait while we take the first one together.”

“I’m on board,” Jenna agreed. “But I want to set up a cue with Stewart. Let’s take Williamson first.”

Troy Williamson had been sitting in the room, watched over by a uniform officer, for about ten minutes when the pair strode in, folders and notepads in hand. All interviews were recorded, but taking personal notes was also helpful.

As they took their seats, Jenna gave Troy the once over. He struck her as being on the nerdy side—thin, frizzy acorn hair, glasses, with a frightened guise overtaking intelligent eyes. He may not fare well in prison, she surmised.

“Mr. Williamson, I am Lieutenant Detective Ferrari, and this is Detective Owens. Have you been read your rights?”

“Yeah,” he answered without meeting her gaze. “Those fancy cops who arrested us did the whole Miranda thing.”

“That’s good,” Jenna stated in a pleased, calming voice. “Have you contacted your attorney?”

He snorted out a laugh. “I can’t afford a lawyer—I have an ex-wife! Guess I’ll need one of those public defenders. I’m supposed to get to see him tomorrow, but I know I don’t have to answer your questions without him present.”

“You’re correct,” Jenna acknowledged. “But you may want to anyway, at least some of them. It will carry weight with the DA’s office if you’ve cooperated.”

“Officers are searching your house, your car, your financial and phone records,” Owens confirmed in a grave tone. “But you don’t have to go down for murder if you weren’t the one who shot Mitchell Lockwood.”

The man’s chin popped up at Owens’ statement, and a shocked expression filled his face. “Shot?” he blasted in astonishment. “We didn’t shoot anyone. We didn’t even go near Lockwood’s house. If you are trying to get me to plead guilty to grand theft to avoid a murder charge, it’s not going to work. I’m talking to my lawyer before I say anything about these alleged robberies.”

“There is nothing alleged about being caught with a bag full of valuable items leaving the home of,” Jenna consulted her notes, “Mr. and Mrs. Desmond Small at two a.m. this morning. And our people conducting the duly warranted searches will find more evidence. But right now, we want to talk about what happened on New Year’s Eve.”

“You didn’t expect the Lockwoods to be there,” Owens conjectured. “It was common knowledge they were attending a high society charity event, so you figured it would be safe to slip in and out with a nice chunk of change, but they returned home early. Their car surprised you and Mr. Lockwood tried to prevent you from fleeing the garage. The two of you wrestled. Maybe you feared for your life, as he was a larger, heavier man. You felt you had to defend yourself.”

“No, no!” Williamson pulled at his tousled brown hair and shifted a pleading glance from Owens to Jenna. “Neither of us was at their house. We wouldn’t be, even if…”

Williamson clamped his mouth shut and shook his head, lowering his focus to the tabletop.

“You wouldn’t be even if?” Jenna prodded. “Tell us hypothetically why you wouldn’t be there even if.”

The suspect took a deep breath and released it. “I used to work for Granite Home Security Company, as I’m sure you know already. Hypothetically, IF I was going to rob any houses, they would be ones equipped with alarm systems I installed. The Lockwoods were not customers of Granite Security, so hypothetically, I wouldn’t have access to their house. One thing I can assure you the fine investigators searching my home and car will not find, is a gun. I didn’t shoot anyone. Now, if you will please wait until I speak with my attorney to ask any more questions, I’d like to go back to my cell.”

Jenna exchanged a look with Owens before turning her attention to her phone, where she texted a brief note. “Our other detectives are interviewing your partner, Bradley Quinn. If your story doesn’t match his, you will be in worse trouble. Are you sure—”

A knock at the door interrupted Jenna, and she glanced up. Officer Stewart, who had been manning the front desk, stepped in. “Lieutenant, if I could see you for a moment?”

Jenna strode over to him and the two whispered. “Okay, thanks, Stewart. Good work. Give the DA’s office a call.”

“What was that about?” a frightened Williamson asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Jenna shrugged. “Quinn said he was with you last night for the first time, all the other robberies were you alone, and he can’t alibi you for the night of the murder.”

“Bull!” he bellowed. “And you want an alibi? We were robbing the Westcotts’ house on New Year’s Eve, and he was right there with me, little lying weasel!”

Owens frowned. “We don’t have a report saying the Westcotts’ have been robbed.”

“Of course not, lamebrain.” The agitated skinny guy rolled his eyes. “They won’t be back from their vacation until tonight. If the pretty cop and the dude hadn’t caught us, we’d have unloaded all their stuff before then.”

Jenna recapped her day on the ride home. Quinn’s interview had gone about the same as Williamson’s and the search had turned up corroborating evidence in the form of a gold pocket watch engraved with Westcott’s name. They had spent the afternoon wrapping up the robbery case and informing victims some of their property had been found and it would be returned as soon as the investigation concluded. Now we know Mitchell Lockwood’s murder was personal, Jenna determined.

She was halfway home when her phone rang, and she answered on her car’s speaker without taking her attention off the slushy, snow-spotted road. A plow might have been out at some point, but it was a Sunday. “Ferrari.”

“Hey Jenna.” She smiled and was struck by a warm, fuzzy feeling at the sound of Randi’s voice. “Is this a good time?”

“It is,” she cooed. “I’m on my way home. Do you still want to come over for a few hours? I will have to sleep, unfortunately. We caught the burglars, but not the killer, so tomorrow is another full one.”

“I’d love to,” Randi answered. “What do you want me to bring for dinner?”

“You don’t have to—"

“You mean you have food in your kitchen and plan to cook?” Exaggerated surprise filled Randi’s teasing tone.

Jenna let out a laugh. “I should be offended,” she bantered, “except you are spot on point. I’m inviting you over, so I’ll pick up something. Do you like Italian?”

“Well, I like you, don’t I?” Randi’s voice rang with a playful, flirty quality prompting Jenna to laugh again. “Pasta would be fabulous.”

“Great,” Jenna confirmed. “There’s a good family-owned restaurant near my building open on Sundays. You remember the address?”

“Mind like a steel trap. Forty-five minutes?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

CHAPTER 5

Randi’s tummy was bubbling like vinegar mixed with soda powder as she knocked on the door to Jenna’s apartment for the first time. It was a three-story brick complex with trees, shrubs, a lawn, and sidewalks all blanketed in a couple of inches of snow. The outdoor parking included visitor spots, one of which Randi took. Jenna’s suite was on the ground floor in a group of four units opening into a breezeway with steps leading to the apartments above. She had spied the balconies and patios as she walked up.

The door opened, and there stood Jenna in a plaid button-up shirt and jeans. “Come in,” she offered with an inviting gaze. “I’m glad you found it okay.”

“No problem.” Randi glanced around at the furnishings and decorations, the large screen TV, tiny dinette set, and a little galley kitchen off to the side, but noted no family photos or old mementos on the walls or shelves.

“So, this is the living room and dining area.” Jenna extended an arm. “Can I take your coat?”

Randi peeled out of her professor-looking forest green wool knee-length overcoat and handed it to Jenna, who hung in on a hook beside her cool leather jacket. “And over here is the kitchen, and my tiny, cluttered office space,” she directed toward a den off to the side. Turning, Jenna led her in the opposite direction. “The bedroom, bathroom, and laundry closet. That’s the whole thing.”

“It’s cute,” Randi said with a smile, then turned to Jenna. “Something smells delicious.”

“I told you they have good food. But first.” Jenna wrapped her arms around Randi, who responded in kind. Their kiss was longer and deeper than a generic hello, much to Randi’s satisfaction. A tingle ran through her as she shared a singular moment in time appreciating Jenna, so glad to have her in her life.

They chatted over pasta and wine and Randi met Bandit, who was shy at first, but then couldn’t stop rubbing her leg begging for attention. “You may have named him for his coloring,” Randi commented, “but it fits his personality since he’s trying to steal my heart.”

“I’m amazed at how he has taken to you,” Jenna admitted. “He usually hides when people come over.”

“He recognizes an animal lover,” she deduced. Randi took a moment to reach down and stroke the purring cat.

“You’re probably right.”

After dinner, they moved to the couch. Jenna claimed the corner of the ensemble and drew Randi into her arms. “So, you’ve heard about my day. What about yours?”

Randi reclined on Jenna, enjoying the feel of her touch, settling her head where she could detect her heartbeat. “It was a good day. We had communion at church, I gave Byron a bath, did some more planning for the new course, thought about you…” Jenna had started gliding her fingers through Randi’s hair, and the pleasurable sensation stirred a fresh desire in her body.

“Your church is important to you,” Jenna stated in a contemplative tone.

“It is. I grew up in church and have happy memories about childhood and youth activities, trips we went on, singing in the choir. It’s always felt like a safe, loving place, and when my mom got sick with cancer—my sister and I had already moved away from home—their church family was a wonderful support system. They didn’t only pray for her, though prayer was important; they sent cards, came to visit, sat with her for chemo treatments, and brought food to the house. It was hard enough on my dad, but because of people at church, he didn’t have to do everything, and he didn’t have to go through it alone.”

“And they really don’t condemn people for being gay?” Jenna peered down at her in question.

“No, not anymore,” Randi explained while Jenna’s fingers played a sweet, torturous waltz across her scalp and through her long strands. “When I was little, all the churches were like, oh, homosexuality’s bad. AIDS was a scary thing and people wanted someone to blame. Then there was the whole ‘Moral Majority’ scam when politics started taking over churches left and right. But with the turn of the century, scholars, pastors and members questioned if what they had been taught, what they continued to teach, was right or not. Our denomination entered a period of progressivism, with integrated congregations, ordaining women as deacons, elders, and pastors. My church here has two pastors—one is a woman, and the other is an out gay man who is married and everything. I am so proud of how my church has embraced diversity and acknowledges God’s love is for all.”

“I didn’t know churches like yours exist,” Jenna admitted. “I guess the mean ones just yell louder and get all the attention.”

“What about you?” Randi asked.

“I’m a non-practicing Catholic, as you might guess.”

“Catholics and Baptists!” Randi laughed. “They would never approve of us.”

“Well, this pope is a little better than the previous ones, but it’s not the main reason I quit the church.” Jenna’s fingers flowed out of Randi’s hair, and they shifted positions to look each other in the eye. “What I do, the things I see every day, what people do to each other, what they do to themselves… I find it hard to believe there is a loving God. Oh, maybe there’s a supernatural entity who created everything, but He or She or It certainly doesn’t seem to care what happens down here.”

“I can understand how you would feel that way,” Randi empathized.

“And don’t start with me about free will and crap,” Jenna added sarcastically. “If God was really all powerful and loving and compassionate, He would do something to fix all the unfair, terrible things going on.”

Randi smiled and lifted a hand to caress Jenna’s face. “It doesn’t work like that, sweetie.”

“Obviously!”

Randi brushed a kiss to her lips. “I believe how we view the world has much to do with the world in which we each live. Einstein said, ‘The most important decision we make is whether we believe we live in a friendly or hostile universe.’ Some people see trash on the side of the road and others see flowers. I guess I always look for something good, so I end up finding a lot of it.”

“But just because you don’t look at the trash, doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” Jenna pointed out. “At least until someone picks it up.”

“True.” Randi quirked her lips into a twisted smile. “And just because you don’t notice the flowers doesn’t mean they aren’t there, too… at least until frost puts them to sleep ‘til spring.”

“You talk like a poet,” Jenna observed. “I’m sure you’ve written poems. Recite one for me.”

Randi’s face flushed, and a flutter winged through her heart. “I know it’s hard to see the beautiful aspects of life when you have to deal with so many of the ugly.” Randi avoided the poetry subject. “But what you may not realize is you are one of those beautiful things. You think about this person who was killed but forget the ones you saved by putting the murderer in prison. This one died in an accident or overdosed on drugs, but what about all those who lived because you were there? You might never know the ripple effect of wonderful futures people have enjoyed because your actions kept them safe. You ask, where is God? I say, right here.”

This time, Randi ran her fingers through Jenna’s hair while she gazed at her with adoring warmth. At first, Jenna seemed to dismiss her suggestions, then she narrowed her eyes and pinned her with an inquisitor’s scrutiny.

“You are trying to sidetrack me. Are you too embarrassed to quote your poetry? Do you think I won’t like it?”

Randi relaxed in Jenna’s arms and sighed. No one had ever read or heard her writing—any of it. Her journal, her short stories, her poems were all personal and private. Why? Was she afraid people wouldn’t appreciate them? The words poured from her soul onto paper were like Randi’s children. She could not stand for one of them to be ridiculed or rejected. But Jenna had been vulnerable with her on Christmas and opened her heart about something of far greater significance than a poem. I can’t expect Jenna to open up to me if I’m not willing to take the same risk.

“I may be feeling a little trepidation,” Randi admitted. “But I still meant what I said. You are a beautiful person, Jenna Ferrari, and the world is a better place because you are in it. Now, you want me to recite a poem I wrote?”

Jenna’s ardent smile shone, and she leaned down to kiss Randi. “Yes, please.”

“I’ve been refreshing myself on Shakespeare and he was the master of sonnets, so yesterday I took a stab at a sonnet. You’ll probably think it’s silly.”

“I will think no such thing, Randi McLeod!” Jenna jostled her playfully and Randi sat up, steeling herself as if she was Lady Godiva about to ride through the city nude.

“Okay, well then, here goes.”

My love is like a river rushing wildly to the sea,

Or like the air around you giving life and breath so free.

It burns with heat of summer days in steamy New Orleans,

And cools you with refreshing breeze of autumn highland greens.

As high as any mountain peak, as deep as any sea,

As wide as any twilit sky through all eternity.

It sings a song of gentleness like nightingales would sing,

And brings a new beginning to each day as if ‘twere spring.

With peace and stillness like the night it welcomes you to rest,

And lay each care and sorrow down upon its waiting breast.

My soul entwined with yours, my Love, ‘till we become as one,

My heart belongs to you alone; we’ve only just begun.

The river rushes on, my Love, until it meets the sea,

And so my love will ne’er run dry, but always be with thee.”

Randi turned a tentative gaze to Jenna and was relieved to find a fervent smile shining at her. Jenna drew her near and claimed her mouth in a kiss heated with desire. Randi enfolded her arms around her, caressing her back and shoulders as she reveled in the sensuous exchange.

Presently, Jenna’s lips fell from hers, and she beamed at her with delirious delight. “That was beautiful, and so are you. I look forward to becoming one with you, my poetic temptress, with eager longing, but I wish to take more time doing so than tonight can afford us. I had hoped for New Year’s Eve, but…”

Randi’s eyes danced. “So had I. But you will solve this case soon and then maybe you’ll get a day off and we’ll see what we can do.” She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, the tug from her core, the enticing lure with which Jenna enthralled her. This was fresh territory indeed, and not just physically. Randi had never felt so powerfully about another woman than she did Jenna in this very moment. But she was right. Once she started, Randi suspected she wouldn’t want to stop for sleep or anything else.

CHAPTER 6

Monday, January 3

Jenna had worn something other than her basic black for her interview with Mrs. Lockwood, selecting her most expensive suit—a three-piece wool-blend navy blue pinstripe with a silk fog blouse. Instead of clunky police boots, she had on sleek, side-zipper black boots with reasonable heels and exchanged her standard cheap silver studs for a pair of real sparkling silver earrings.

She had gone to sleep contented, dreaming of taking Randi to her bed, playing out various scenarios of what she would do to her, but somehow things veered offtrack. She had awoken at three with her heart racing, body covered in sweat, when the nightmare about little Kiley Johnson’s throat getting slit before her eyes attacked with a vengeance. Maybe Dr. Grayson was right and somewhere my subconscious thinks I don’t deserve to be happy. I have the group thing tomorrow, so hopefully it will help.

“You look nice today, boss,” Jamison sang out when Jenna walked into the office.

“Thanks,” she replied, putting on her “everything’s alright, don’t worry about me” expression of pretend cheer. “Of course, you are always stunning, but every once in a while, I like to surprise people.”

“You wore it because Mrs. Lockwood is coming in and you don’t want her to think all cops are dirt poor.” Owens snorted out a laugh and shook his head.

“All she has to do is take one glance at the rumbled gray suit coat you wear every day to be assured we are,” Jenna replied in kind. “Bauman, what have you dug out of cyberspace for us?” Jenna crossed to the sidebar to fill her coffee cup.

“I researched Blue Ridge Cleaning Supplies, and the business has been a staple in town for years,” Bauman reported. “But it skyrocketed to the multi-million profits figure during the pandemic. They were among the first in the state to offer coronavirus deep-cleaning and disinfecting services. They pumped out antiviral gels, sprays, liquids, and wipes within the initial few weeks of the scare, so when store shelves ran dry, people and businesses started buying directly from them. Now the virus isn’t such a threat, but they gained a lot of new customer loyalty and became one of the relatively few local companies to boom during the economic downturn.”

“Makes sense,” Jamison concurred.

“So, what if Lockwood’s business partner got greedy?” Owens suggested.

“But then there’s this.” Bauman changed tabs on his screen to bring up the image of a young blonde woman at a party.

“Who am I looking at?” Jenna asked.

“Brett Lockwood,” declared Bauman.

“I thought Brett was Mitchell’s son, and the other one, Tiffany, was his daughter,” Owens returned in confusion. He stepped up behind the tech specialist to peer over his shoulder.

“Tiffany, age twenty-one, is Mitchell’s daughter with his first wife, Carla, and Brett was their son at birth,” Bauman explained. “But according to Brett’s social media posts, she has come out as a woman, and it doesn’t appear Dad was supportive.”

“Well, well,” Jenna mused. “I will have to ask Audra what she knows about this.”

“Audra, is it?” Jamison raised a brow and smirked.

Jenna batted the comment away. “Mrs. Lockwood. She should arrive with her attorney within the hour.”

Owens huffed out a laugh. “You’ll be lucky if she gets here by noon!”

Ignoring him, Jenna laid a hand on Bauman’s shoulder. “See what you can dig up on Carla, his ex-wife. Find out where she was on New Year’s Eve. Do a run on his brother, James Lockwood. Was he in financial trouble? Where was he Friday night? Did you come across any enemies for Mitchell? Any complaints, lawsuits, threats?”

“Nothing was filed with the police or the courts,” he declared. “But surely rival companies would be jealous of how much Blue Ridge Cleaning profited from the pandemic, unless they benefited just as much.”

“Yeah, I’ll investigate that after I do a deeper run on the current Mrs. Lockwood. Jamison, see what else you can find about these two daughters, Brett and Tiffany, and call them in for interviews, this afternoon preferably. Owens, scrutinize his partner, Charles Branson.”

Settling down at her desk with coffee, Jenna and her team got to work while awaiting Audra Lockwood’s arrival.

It was after eleven o’clock when Officer Murphy showed the exquisite widow and her lackluster attorney into Interview A. His balding head, slack jaw, and pudgy nose made him appear dull beside the stunning woman he represented. Jenna and Jamison watched them from behind the two-way mirror for a few minutes. “Impressions?” Jenna requested.

“She’s wearing an Oscar de la Renta dress, Yves Saint Laurent shoes, and carrying a Channel handbag,” Jamison observed. “Very impressive. And while her jewelry isn’t flashy, I’m sure it’s worth a small fortune. Her cosmetics have been applied with perfection and if she didn’t have a stylist do her hair, I want her to do mine.”

“Yeah, she looks like a million bucks,” Jenna agreed. “But since she stands to inherit about twenty-five of them, it’s what I would expect. What else?” Jenna prompted. “What does her body language tell you?”

“She displays good posture, doesn’t seem overly dependent on her attorney, and she appears in control of her emotions. Confident?” Jamison looked to Jenna for approval and got a nod.

“Certainly more put together than New Year’s morning when we spoke. Let’s see what she has for us.”

Jenna wanted Trish with her for this one because she was more acquainted with the high society crowd on account of her well-to-do parents. Jenna had to admire the young woman’s commitment to the job when she could be living the carefree life of a socialite instead of fighting crime.

“Good morning, Mrs. Lockwood,” Jenna greeted as they entered the room. Officer Murphy slipped out and closed the door behind him.

“Sorry we were a tad late,” Mrs. Lockwood responded with apology shimmering in her hazel eyes. “This is Cedric Dugan, our family attorney.”

“And this is my colleague, Officer Jamison,” Jenna added. “Lieutenant Detective Ferrari,” she said, taking the man’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.” The middle-aged lawyer’s suit didn’t measure up to the quality of hers, which gave Jenna a little ego boost.

“Thank you both for coming in this morning,” Jenna began in an appreciative tone. “I believe you have some documents for me Mr. Dugan?”

“Yes.” He lifted is briefcase to the table and removed several folders and envelopes. “The titles and deeds to his properties, legal papers for his cleaning company, and stock reports on his assets.”

“What about a last will and testament?” Jenna inquired. “It would be extremely relevant considering he was murdered.”

“But what would a burglar care about his will?” Mrs. Lockwood’s face morphed into one of confused concern.

“Mrs. Lockwood, we arrested the men who have been robbing houses in your neighborhood and established none were involved in your husband’s murder. They have an ironclad alibi for the time he was shot. Therefore, we are considering others who may have had a motive to kill him.”

“Oh dear, I see.” She lifted a hand to toy with her necklace while grief flickered over her face. “It couldn’t have been anyone we know,” she insisted. “Everyone loved Mitchell.”

“Everyone?” Jamison drew the widow’s attention from Jenna. “What about his trans daughter, Brett? Please tell us about their relationship from your perspective, because what I have uncovered is concerning.”

“Well.” Mrs. Lockwood shifted her focus back to Jenna, assuming an attitude of dismay. “Both children were from his first marriage with Carla. I was cursed with the inability to conceive, so I am ever so glad she gave Mitchell two children or else he may have never looked at me twice. He was so proud to be a father and he doted on Tiffany, but…” She shook her head and exchanged whispers with Mr. Dugan. They nodded to each other, and Mrs. Lockwood returned an emotional gaze to Jenna.

“Mitchell was a very conservative, traditional man, you understand,” she stated. “He was a deacon in the Baptist church and had served on the school board in the past. His reputation was of the utmost importance to him, you see. After he and Carla divorced, the children stayed with her during the week and Mitchell had them on weekends. He and Tiffany got along great, but he had difficulty connecting with Brett. He took him to ball games and fishing and activities men do with their sons, but Brett wasn’t interested in those things. Mitchell and I had recently married when he discovered Brett was gay, quite by accident, when he walked in on him with… a friend. He was livid! I tried to calm him, to explain this is a different world than the one he grew up in and he should be tolerant and supportive of his son, but their relationship became strained. It broke when Brett declared she was trans and asked for money to pay for her transition. It was more than Mitchell could accept. I don’t think they had spoken for three years or more now.”

“Did your husband pay Brett’s medical expenses?” Jenna probed.

“No.” Mrs. Lockwood’s expression was pained and remorseful. “He cut Brett off, saying he could put up with him being gay if he remained discrete, but he already had a daughter. If Brett would not remain his son, he would be nothing to him.”

“That had to hurt,” Jamison empathised.

“I tried to stay in touch with Brett and slipped her a few hundreds here and there, you know, just to help out, but she accused me of siding with Mitchell.”

“Did your husband resent your contact with Brett?” Jenna asked.

“I don’t think he knew about it,” came her innocent reply.

“Mr. Dugan, I need to see his will,” Jenna repeated. “Being cut out of a huge fortune is certainly motive for murder, but if Mr. Lockwood included Brett after all—”

“Oh, no, Lieutenant Ferrari!” Mrs. Lockwood gasped in horror. “It couldn’t have been Brett! She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Jamison referred to her notes. “Brett Lockwood, twenty-six years old, five-foot ten, one hundred-fifty pounds, light brown hair and eyes. Sounds pretty average sized to me, Mrs. Lockwood. She could have been the ‘man’ you saw shoot your husband. Do you know if she has completed her transition yet?”

“I… I… no, not really.” Shock and disbelief played over her aspect. She turned to her attorney. “Give them a copy of the will, Cedric.”

“But Mrs. Lockwood,” he protested. “They don’t have a warrant. There’s no reason—”

The southern aristocrat elevated her voice and secured him with a stone countenance. “I said give them the will.”

He shrugged and shook his head but produced the document. “As you wish.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lockwood.” Jenna took a sealed envelope from Mr. Dugan. “Now, back to New Year’s Eve. Do you recall if you or your husband engaged your security system?”

“We locked the doors, as we always do, and the camera stays on all the time,” she explained. “It has a twenty-four-hour memory card and records over itself each day. Your people took it, I believe.”

“Yes, ma’am, but what about the alarm system?”

“It hasn’t been working correctly,” Mrs. Lockwood admitted in dismay. “A few days after Christmas it started beeping all the time, and we had to turn it off. Mitchell was going to get someone out to fix it, but…”

“Who else has access to your home?” Jenna worked her way down the questions on her list.

“Let’s see…” Mrs. Lockwood lifted her gaze and tapped a perfectly manicured finger to her chin. “The cleaning staff, Brett and Tiffany, our attorney, my massage therapist, Charles, Maurice—he’s our chef… his brother, James, but he’s filming a documentary in Brazil.”

Half the county! Jenna bemoaned to herself. “If you could please write down all the names and contact information for them.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Lockwood took the pad and pen Jenna offered, but replied, “But none of them could have killed Mitchell. They are family.”

Recalling her family caused Jenna to seriously question Audra’s reasoning.

“What about a prenup?” Jamison raised a matter Jenna shouldn’t have forgotten about.

Of course, we have to investigate the widow, she reminded herself. But I found no gun registered in her name, nor did the CSI’s recover a weapon from her residence. She wouldn’t have had time to run off and hide it somewhere since the call to 911 came in right around TOD. She could have hired someone to shoot him, but it would leave a money trail. We’ve been looking at Mitchell’s finances; remember to check her bank accounts, too.

“What, you mean to our marriage?” Mrs. Lockwood’s eyes rounded in surprise and a faint laugh escaped her throat. “Doesn’t everyone have one of those?”

“Precisely,” Jenna confirmed, though she had known nobody personally who did. “We need to see a copy of your prenuptial agreement as a standard course of the investigation, Mrs. Lockwood. It doesn’t mean you are a suspect; it’s merely another piece of the puzzle to be put in its place.”

“Well, I don’t know. Cedric, what do you think?”

“I think they are fishing,” he said with a scowl. “They need a warrant, and they won’t get one. No judge will agree you should be scrutinized, Audra. You have been through enough harassment, what with all the reporters hounding you and all. I think it’s time for us to leave.”

“No, I don’t want to go,” she protested.

There was something about this woman, a charisma, a powerful personality, which drew all the attention in the room since the moment Jenna had entered. She was like a sponge or a magnet, or maybe a vacuum cleaner.

Mr. Dugan stood and hauled her from her chair. “You have your documents, and a copy of Mr. Lockwood’s will,” he stated to Jenna. “Now my client has a funeral to plan. She has relatives coming we must prepare for. Can’t you see she is distressed? She saw her husband murdered in front of her. I am taking her home.”

As they started for the door, an image flashed across Jenna’s mind of witnessing an eight-year-old girl murdered in front of her. A fist clenched around her heart, and she swallowed tears, grit her teeth, and pushed the vision away. Does she feel like I do? Does she see it over and over?

Randi stood in the hallway outside the door to the criminal investigations office where her new friend, Officer Stewart, had put her to wait for Jenna to get out of the interview when her attention was drawn to the end of the hall. A strikingly beautiful, obviously rich woman and her male companion stepped into the corridor, followed by Jenna and presumably another police officer.

The singular woman with stylish blonde hair dripping with emotions spun away from her escort to face Jenna. They were about the same height and weight, but the woman’s plea came out in a classic southern accent. “I don’t care what my lawyer says, I will cooperate in your investigation, Lieutenant Ferrari. I want my husband’s killer to be caught. I demand he be brought to justice. I can’t stand knowing he is out there somewhere. What if he comes after me? We don’t even know why someone shot Mitchell. You must help me!”

Randi was none too pleased by the intimate fashion in which the woman grabbed hold of Jenna’s arm and pushed herself into her personal space, leaving mere inches between their bodies. “I need you. I need you to arrest the man who killed my husband. I can’t eat, can’t sleep… I just keep seeing it in my head over and over. Please call me if you find anything, or if there’s more I can tell you.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Lockwood,” Jenna assured her. “Every detective on the force is focused on finding your husband’s killer.”

“Now, there, Audra,” the man said, pulling her back into his protective arm. “Do not distress yourself. I’m sure the police will do their jobs. Detective, we are done talking to you today. If you need something, call me and let Mrs. Lockwood rest.”

A wave of potency hit Randi as the pair passed her in the hall, heading for the front door. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. The quote from Macbeth screamed in her gut and she returned her attention to Jenna and the strawberry-blonde who walked beside her. Trying to push the disturbing incident aside, Randi held out a hand to the younger woman. “Hi, you must be Tricia Jamison. I’m Randi McLeod, so pleased to meet you.”

Officer Jamison smiled and shook her hand. “And I am very pleased to meet you. Lieutenant, enjoy your lunch,” she said with a wink and continued into the office.

“Hey, Randi,” Jenna greeted with a crooked smile.

“You look fantastic,” Randi praised as she raked over Jenna’s form dressed up in a sexily masculine suit. “A fact I’m sure was not lost on Audra Lockwood.”

“Oh, she wasn’t looking at me,” Jenna replied and shrugged a shoulder. Then, in an inviting whisper, added, “but I’m certainly glad you are.”

“Not looking at you?” Randi let out an unamused laugh. “I know that woman; at least we’ve met on a few occasions, from which she clearly forgot me. She and her husband were donors to the college, paid for a new state-of-the-art science building and everything. She was playing her Southern charm, damsel in distress game on you.”

Confusion played over Jenna’s features before suspicion lit her face. “Don’t you tell me you are jealous of her?” Jenna took Randi’s elbow and guided her inside her office, where she pinned her with an annoyed expression. “I would never look at some fancy-dancy widow suspect in a murder case the way I look at you. There’s nothing to be jealous about.”

“Really? The woman is gorgeous, rich, and exudes more sexual energy than a pheromone factory!” she exclaimed in a hush.

Jenna raised a brow. “Maybe I’m the one who should be jealous.”

Randi chuckled and shook her head. “She didn’t even notice I was standing there while she was all over you. Jenna, I’m not jealous, but I have eyes. Audra was so obviously coming on to you. I just don’t know why. She does the same thing at all the fundraising events—carouses the room using her charm and sex appeal to coerce men and women into doing what she wants. Maybe she wants you to find her husband’s killer,” she proposed. “Or maybe she wants more. Just…” Randi touched her fingers to Jenna’s. “Don’t trust her.”

Jenna’s smile was warm and genuine. “I’m looking at who I want, and outside my team, the only person in the world I do trust is you. I’ve got thirty minutes for lunch, then I have to dig into some leads.”

“Good thing I brought Italian sub sandwiches.” Dropping the subject of the sensual heiress, Randi held up the bag she had in her other hand and grinned.

CHAPTER 7

Randi hadn’t complained about Audra Lockwood anymore, as she only had half an hour to enjoy Jenna’s company and didn’t want to spend it appearing jealous and desperate. They had tentatively planned to get together Wednesday night, if nothing pressing broke in Jenna’s case. She wasn’t due at the dojo until four, so Randi headed home to work on Shakespeare some more and maybe throw the ball with Byron in the backyard. The dreary weather had taken a turn toward the bright side and no fresh snow added to the bit from yesterday. But nothing could shake the image of the wealthy widow smothering Jenna in a flood of sexuality.

Sitting at her desk with books and websites open, Randi discussed her concerns with Byron, who listened patiently with his favorite toy, a non-stuffed fur squirrel, lying between his paws. “At least four leading women in Shakespeare plays committed or helped others commit murder… not as many as were cast in a victim’s role, but still probably representative of women in society during his lifetime. And while not as murderous as Tamora or Goneril, Lady Macbeth was an ambitious manipulator using her wiles to send her husband on a killing streak. That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain,” she quoted from Hamlet. “Scholars still debate whether Gertrude knew Claudius murdered her husband the king, or she was merely so in love with him she didn’t care once she found out. Still, she did not murder her husband. I am not so certain about Audra Lockwood, Byron.”

He lifted his head, his attention fixed on her in curiosity. His welcoming expression invited her to continue with her suspicions. “I’m not saying she did,” Randi assured him. “But I find it odd a woman who just lost her husband was throwing herself at the lead investigator on the case, don’t you?”

The dog seemed to nod his head, an agreeable grin crossing his face. Then he picked up his squirrel in his mouth and offered her a hopeful look. Turning from her resources, Randi ran a hand over his head. “I need to be deciding how to organize my course—chronologically or by subject matter. I can’t possibly include everything Shakespeare wrote, but should I focus on his most famous plays and poems, or the ones more often neglected? An equal number of comedies and tragedies, don’t you think? Certainly a unit on his life and times, along with various authorship controversies and the mass of words he added to the English language.”

Byron’s tail wagged, and he dropped his toy at her feet. “Okay, pal. I can take a break to play with you before karate class, but then I have to go. But you can bet I’m going to keep a sharp watch on that sneaky fox who wants to hook her claws into Jenna.”

* * *

Officer Murphy popped into the criminal investigations office at two thirty, drawing Jenna’s attention away from her research. The murder board displayed their progress with a big red circle drawn around the two robbers with a diagonal line through it, and an array of photos spiraling about a shot of Mitchell Lockwood lying dead on his garage floor. Among the pictures were his partner Charles Branson, ex-wife Carla, children Tiffany and Brett, and Audra Lockwood.

“Lieutenant? Brett Lockwood is in Interview B.”

“Thanks, Murphy. Come on, Owens,” she directed as she popped up and slipped back into her suit coat.

“I’d rather not.” Owens remained glued to his seat, with a face as rumpled as his gray blazer. He swiveled his chair and clasped his hands together between his knees. “I don’t feel comfortable interviewing a, you know, trans woman. I wouldn’t know how to act properly, and I don’t want to say or do something offensive. Maybe she killed her old man and maybe she didn’t, but I don’t want to give her lawyer anything to complain about if I’m not sensitive enough or some crap.”

Jenna tilted her head at him. “She is a suspect like anyone else, Owens. Simply treat her like any other woman. And since when have you cared about sensitivity?”

“Well, you know, since… well anyway, I know I should get up with the times, but I’d just keep thinking about, you know, what do they do with their man parts? I don’t want to mess up the interview, Ferrari. Take Jamison instead and I’ll keep digging on the business partner.”

Jenna had noticed a sharp contrast in Owens’ behavior since the disastrous event which sent them both to therapy. He could still be gruff and intimidating, but now put more effort into acting like a human being rather than a brute from WrestleMania.

“I don’t mind,” Jamison chirped as she gracefully rose to her feet with a smile. “More practice before my detective exam. Oh, and by the way, it’s confirmed. Tiffany is in Paris and was all weekend.”

Jenna released a sigh. “Mark her off the list. Owens, I’m letting you off the hook because I don’t want you to blow the interview, either. But take a sensitivity training course or something. You don’t have any problems with me, do you?”

“You know I don’t,” he returned in an offended tone. “But it’s different. You’re still a woman and I totally get being attracted to women, but I’m a guy, and I’d rather die a thousand deaths than lose my man parts.”

With a chuckle, Jenna shook her head. “To each his own, Owens. And to each her own. Come on Jamison.”

With her sidekick in tow, Jenna breezed into interview. “Good afternoon, Ms. Lockwood,” she greeted. “I am Lieutenant Detective Ferrari, and this is Officer Jamison. Thank you for coming in to talk with us today.”

“We are very sorry for your loss,” Jamison added in a sympathetic tone. “Even when estranged, it must be difficult to lose a parent.”

They took seats across from the suspect. Brett’s natural hair bore a style similar to Jamison’s and looked very feminine, but she likely could not afford facial plastic surgery to change the size of her nose or the shape of her jaw. Her eyebrows and lashes were thin and lush in all the right places, and the smoothness of her skin suggested she had been on hormone replacements for a long time. Her hands were no larger than Randi’s, nor her breasts any smaller, but her feet appeared a few sizes bigger than an average woman of her height. Still, if anyone saw her walking down the street, they would probably not speculate she had been born into a man’s body.

“I don’t know how I can help you.” Brett’s voice was a soft alto and her manner gentle and compliant. “I hadn’t seen or spoken to my father in years.”

“Yes,” Jenna concurred. “Audra Lockwood told us about the falling out you and he had over your decision to transition.” Recalling her time in Dr. Grayson’s office, Jenna asked, “How did that make you feel?”

Her response was the same sarcasm Jenna’s had been. She emitted a “Ha!” shook her head and shuffled her hands around on the tabletop. “How would you feel if your father declared you were no longer his child, and he wanted nothing to do with you?”

Her words dredged up a sharp, stinging pain, but Jenna ignored it. “It must have been doubly hard on you to lose all the money and the lifestyle you had been accustomed to living.”

“It required an adjustment,” Brett confirmed. “But I had friends, genuine family who cared about me and didn’t demand I pretend to be someone I am not to remain in their good graces. In many ways, it was a relief to move out of his house.” Jenna could relate.

“Mrs. Lockwood said she gave you some money and tried to stay in touch with you,” Jamison mentioned.

Brett made a face and rolled her eyes. “Audra and I went to the same nail salon, and she would pass me hundreds, regard me with a sad puppy dog face, and say how sorry she was about everything. Please! She married him for his money. Anyone who doesn’t see it is as blind as a bat.”

“You don’t think your stepmother loved your father?” Jenna inquired.

“The woman is twenty years younger than him, drop-dead gorgeous, with a pedigree of famous southerners in her lineage. But her father blew her family’s fortune at the Kentucky derby the year she graduated from Emory University, leaving her penniless. My guess is she went online and researched wealthy divorcées trolling for a target, and I’m positive my dad wasn’t the first one she tried to land. As far as I know, she never had a job in Roanoke.”

“Do you think she killed your father for his money?” Jamison asked.

Brett smirked and shook her head. “Why would she? She already had his money. She could buy or do anything she wished, lived in the fancy mansion, drove the Mercedes, whisked off to London, or Aspen, or Rome, or wherever the hell she wanted.” She had a good point.

“With your father, or by herself?” Jenna asked.

“A little of both. Sometimes she traveled with Tiffany or one of her society friends,” she answered without emotion.

“She told us she tried to intercede on your behalf with your father,” Jamison inserted. “Would you agree?”

“Audra was much more understanding than Dad,” Brett concurred. “I’ll give her that. But she has to be the center of attention. Everything around the house was a melodrama, like living with Gloria Swanson. I’m ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille,” Brett imitated in a breathy, southern accent. Jenna had to squelch the urge to snicker.

Regaining a serious expression, she pressed on to the priority questions. “Ms. Lockwood, where were you on New Year’s Eve at half past midnight?”

A shadow fell over her face, and all joviality faded from her visage. “Drowning my sorrows in a bottle of champagne alone in my apartment after my boyfriend broke up with me. Can you imagine a worse time to tell your sweetheart to shove off? Well, maybe Valentine’s Day, but it was awfully insolent of Ralf to break up with me on New Year’s Eve.”

“Can anyone confirm you remained in your residence all night?” Jenna followed up.

“I said I was alone,” Brett reiterated in irritation. “Which means no, I don’t have an alibi for the time of dear old Dad’s murder. I also don’t own a gun, and if you want to come to my crappy, cheap apartment to look for one, be my guest. He had millions, Detective, many times over, but couldn’t spare a dime for me because I didn’t live up to his expectations of what a son should be. He would tip the barista with a Benjamin, but nothing for disappointment Brett.” Heat rose in her voice and her cheeks as her authentic emotions surfaced. “I didn’t kill him. What good would it do me? I wasn’t getting anything from his will. But I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone. Maybe he provided well for my mother and sister and I when we were children, but he’s the one who kicked me out of the family, not the other way around.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t profit financially from his death,” Jamison pointed out. “But payback can be mighty satisfying to some people.”

Brett shook her head. “I’m not some people. Do I need a lawyer? Am I under arrest?”

“No,” Jenna replied. “You may obtain an attorney if you wish, but you are not being charged with anything at this time. However, I must instruct you not to leave town until our investigation concludes. We could have more questions for you and might take you up on the offer to search your residence. It would also be helpful if you could provide Ralf’s contact information.”

Brett jotted it in the notebook Jenna slid across the table before standing and smoothing the lines of her dress. “There you have it, ladies. I have nothing to hide.”

“What do you think, Jamison?” Jenna asked after the interview concluded.

“We can’t cross her off the list, boss. She had a motive and no alibi. I want to think it wasn’t her, but facts count, not my feelings.”

“Facts are what we build a case on, Tricia,” Jenna agreed. “But we also have to listen to our instincts, especially when the facts are so sparse. We got her fingerprints so we can compare them to the unknowns from the Mercedes. But Mrs. Lockwood said the attacker was wearing gloves, so it is unlikely prints from the car will be relevant. However, if they are hers, it’s proof she lied about something.”

“Little lie, big lie,” Jamison quoted and smiled at Jenna. “Thanks. Do you think it was her?”

“No. I won’t rule her out, but if she was going to kill him, it would have been in the heat of the moment, not three years later. True, getting dumped is a stressor, but if you’re going to go all homicidal, why not knock off the guy who ditched you on New Year’s Eve? And call this Ralf character and corroborate her statement.”

“I’m on it, boss!”

* * *

Randi’s cell rang at eight o’clock. She had finished the dishes, taken her shower, and was lounging in a deep blue silk kimono embroidered with a gold, green, and red dragon, finishing the steamy lesbian romance novel she had started a few days ago. She glowed from the inside out to see Jenna’s number and carried the phone to her bedroom to lie down. “Good evening, sexy woman,” she purred. Byron settled on the floor in the open doorway and twitched an ear.

“Good evening, foxy lady,” Jenna returned. “How was your day?”

“I got a lot accomplished, had lunch with this fine, steaming hot professional badass, played throw the squirrel with a big hairy guy, and kicked a little butt of my own on the matt.”

Jenna laughed. “If you keep meeting hot chicks for lunch, I’m going to get jealous.”

It was Randi’s turn to laugh. “You know I’m talking about you, silly. I enjoyed getting to meet your team, too. The four of you seem to have a good dynamic.”

“We do,” Jenna answered in a considering tone. “You aren’t still worried about Mrs. Lockwood, are you?”

“I’m not worried you’ll run off to Hawaii with her, but she still concerns me,” Randi admitted. “Don’t let your guard down around her, please.”

“Honey, I never let my guard down,” Jenna rang back. “Well, almost never,” she amended seductively. “I’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable with you and lived to tell about it, so I might could see my way clear to do so again.”

“You are safe with me, Jenna,” Randi vowed. “At least where most things are concerned.” She felt a flutter through her chest and her extremities tingled with electricity at her tease.

“Tell me more about these exceptions from safety when I’m with you,” Jenna nudged. “What dangers should I watch out for?”

“You may be in jeopardy of being thrown onto a couch or bed and ravished by a sex-starved teacher.”

Jenna’s laugh was music to Randi’s ears. “That’s the kind of danger I live for! Would this sex-starved teacher happen to have light brown hair, brilliant brown eyes, and long, enticing legs?”

“She might.” Randi delighted in the ease with which she and Jenna engaged in playful, suggestive banter and the rush it sent through her body. “But since you aren’t here, I guess I’ll have to settle for a bunch of dead poets who can’t appreciate the silk kimono I’m wearing… and nothing else.”

“I swear, Randi!” Jenna’s voice took on an incredulous quality. “Are you sure you haven’t done this before? You’ve got me so turned on right now, I’m considering hopping in my car and driving over there.”

Laughing in pleasure, Randi shook her head and could sense a glow encompass her face. “Not like this. Not with a real-life woman spurring me on. Jenna, you have freed so much in me that’s wanted to burst out and experience every tantalizing nuance of the fantasies I’ve created in my imagination for such a long time. I feel like I can be myself with you and you won’t say, ‘oh what a nerd.’ Well, I don’t know,” she quipped. “Maybe you’re thinking it right now.”

“What I’m thinking now is how adorable and irresistible I find you,” Jenna replied. “You’re funny and sweet and undemanding. Do you know how refreshing that is? I’m thinking I want to kiss you and hold you in my arms, and possibly rip off my clothes and let you ravish me.”

“I look forward to it,” Randi affirmed. “I’m beginning to think I won’t even be terrified.”

“No pressure, sweetie.” Jenna’s tone turned soft and supportive. “It’s a duet, not a performance. Don’t you realize I’m nervous, too? Though far from my first time, it will be my first time with you. As far as I’m concerned in this red-hot minute, nothing from before matters.”

Randi felt her heart swell at Jenna’s words, and she wished she could reach through the phone and touch her. “Haply I think on thee, and then my state, like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven’s gate.”

“Shakespeare or McLeod?”

Letting out an adoring laugh, Randi answered, “Shakespeare, from Sonnet Twenty-nine. It means just thinking about you makes me feel divine.”

“Funny how the same works for me, too.”

Randi and Jenna talked for another hour before declaring it time for sleep, and then it took them ten more minutes to bid each other goodnight. Randi settled under her blanket, feeling as if she indeed lay at Heaven’s gate.

CHAPTER 8

Tuesday, January 4

Jenna and Owens sat across from Charles Branson in the interview room while Bauman ran the recording equipment monitoring from behind the two-way mirror. Studying through the legal documents Mrs. Lockwood’s attorney had presented them led to some interesting discoveries, including the obvious—Branson would inherit Lockwood’s half of the company upon his death.

“Mr. Branson, does Blue Ridge Cleaning Supplies have any enemies you are aware of? Any threatening letters, emails, angry competitors, disgruntled customers?” Jenna began by steering the questions in a general direction to not cause him any alarm.

“There’s always going to be someone who isn’t satisfied,” the man in his fifties confessed. He wore a brown suit, and gray dusted his blond hair. He appeared quite average in height and weight, with the tanned skin of an outdoorsman. “But we hadn’t received threats.” Then his expression took a turn to the anxious side. “You don’t figure I’m in danger, do you? Do you think Mitchell’s killer will come after me next?”

“We have no reason to suspect such at this time,” Owens inserted. “But it wouldn’t hurt for you to take precautions.”

“Do you know who killed my partner, my friend?” Mr. Branson inquired in a troubled tone. “This has been so awful. I’m not sure what to do.”

“It is always difficult to lose someone close to you,” Jenna consoled. “Especially a business partner. If something were to happen to Detective Owens, here, I would be very distressed, but I would also do everything I could to help identify and catch his killer.”

“I want to help,” Branson affirmed, as he shifted in his seat. “But I can’t imagine who would have wanted to kill him. Mitchell had money, but he was generous, you know? He donated to his church, to lots of charities.” With an inspired finger raised, he added, “He paid for a modern science building at the community college. He said companies like ours needed a new generation of chemists to improve our products.”

“Mr. Branson, did you know Mrs. Lockwood very well?” Owens questioned.

“Which one? Do you mean Carla or Audra? I know them both.”

“Tell us about both, then.” Jenna leaned forward attentively while Owens took notes.

“Carla was good friends with my wife,” he began. “Our kids were about the same age, and we socialized, you know—barbeques, fishing trips, getting tickets to a ball game and stuff. But things became strained between them after a while. Some marriages simply don’t work out.”

“Do you know what they disagreed about?” Jenna pressed.

“Oh, the usual things—how to raise the kids, what to do with the money, growing apart in their interests. Mitchell devoted a lot of time to the company, and she thought he should retire early to spend time with the family. It’s not like they needed his salary to get by. But Mitchell would have been bored to sit around the pool with nothing to challenge him, so they ended up divorced. You don’t think Carla—” Mr. Branson began.

“We are considering all leads but are not focused on anyone in particular,” Owens specified.

“I thought it was a burglar.” Mr. Branson’s face drew up in dissatisfaction.

“As Detective Owens said, we are considering all angles in the case,” Jenna replied. “Which is why we asked for your fingerprints when you arrived, so we can determine if you were in his garage on New Year’s Eve. Were you, Mr. Branson?”

“In Mitchell’s garage?” Surprise lit his face. “No. My wife and I were at the same charity ball, but we stayed later.”

“Is there anyone who can testify you were at the party from midnight to one o’clock, other than your wife? It is not a far distance from the Corinthian Ballroom to the Lockwoodss residence,” Jenna pointed out.

Mr. Branson pushed back in his chair and blinked. “Well, I’m sure someone will remember seeing me. You don’t think I had anything to do with it?”

Owens slid the pad and pencil across the table. “Could you please write the names of acquaintances who might swear to your whereabouts at the time of the murder?”

“Well, I’ll give you a list of people I recall seeing,” he said and wrote with a shaky hand. “I wouldn’t kill my partner. We’ve been friends for over twenty years.”

“Friends can have a falling out the same as married couples,” Jenna asserted. “And you had millions of reasons to want him dead.”

“You mean his half of the company?” Mr. Branson stopped writing to glance up at Jenna. “I would stand to make more with him still doing his part. Now I have to find a new person to help run it. There is too much for one man to handle.”

“But you could hire someone for a salary,” Owens suggested, “rather than a guy who owned half of everything.”

“If you are going to point to money as a motive, what about Audra?” Mr. Branson wrote a few more names before passing the pad back to Owens. “She’s sure to inherit more than me. Have you examined his will?”

“We are researching everything,” Owens stated. “Including this newspaper article from three years ago which reports the two of you got into a fight at the Country Club Golf Course and security had to be called.”

“It was nothing.” Mr. Branson waved it away. “We had a few too many drinks and started arguing over who’s ball was closest to the hole. I said he was blind, he insulted my manhood, maybe a few punches were thrown, but it blew over and didn’t injure our friendship.”

“What can you tell us about Audra and Mitchell’s relationship?” inquired Jenna. I’ve been giving more thought to her as a suspect, especially since Randi is suspicious of her.

“She enjoys his money!” Mr. Branson proclaimed. “She had him wrapped around her little finger and he bought her whatever her heart desired, but that’s not all.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “She flirted with everybody, and I mean everybody,” he added with a wink.

“Do you have knowledge Mrs. Lockwood was cheating on her husband?” Owens queried.

Mr. Branson sat back, his features falling into a frown. “No. It’s just… you have to wonder.”

“We wonder about a lot of things,” Jenna professed. “Including testimony from one of your employees stating the two of you argued constantly, often with raised voices and slammed doors.”

“Who’s speaking out of turn?” Anger flashed in Mr. Branson’s eyes, and he balled his hand into a fist.

“We are not at liberty to say,” replied Owens. “If people at the party can place you in their presence at the time of the murder, you have nothing to be upset about. But if such is not the case…”

“I’ve had enough! I do have something to be upset about—my partner was murdered and you two are trying to blame me, a sure sign of desperation if ever there was one!” Mr. Branson pushed to his feet. “I came in here of my own free will and I am walking out the same way. I didn’t kill Michell and you can’t prove I did. The next time you want to talk to me, call my lawyer.” Without another word, Charles Branson straightened his tie and stomped out.

“My, my, Ferrari,” Owens commented with amusement. “I think we struck a nerve.”

“Indeed.” Jenna’s phone buzzed, and she read the note. “Marcus just matched one of the unknown sets of prints off Lockwood’s Mercedes to Charles Branson.” They exchanged inspired glances before heading back down the hall.

Collecting Bauman in the hallway, Jenna instructed, “Write up a request for a search warrant for Charles Branson’s home, office, and vehicle for a gun, and let’s add documents. He may have something Lockwood’s attorney didn’t know about. Site the fingerprints on his car and all the millions he’s getting. Owens, start calling these supposed witnesses. If we don’t get a reliable alibi for the time of the murder, I’ll move forward on the search warrants.”

“I’m on it, Lieutenant,” Bauman responded with a nod.

“I found something,” Jamison announced as the three entered their office. She popped up eagerly and skipped to meet Jenna in the center of the space, holding Mitchell Lockwood’s will. She handed it to Jenna to study. “Okay, the normal parts. Mrs. Lockwood gets plenty—the house, the Mercedes, the vacation home at Virginia Beach, and half of the cash, stocks, and bonds. All business shares go to his partner, Mr. Branson. A lump sum of one million goes to his church and the other half of the cash, stocks, and bonds are divided evenly between Carla, James, Tiffany, and Brett. I thought, what the heck? Brett and Audra both said she was completely cut off. So I looked at the date. Ferrari, this will is five years old. Either he didn’t update it after his falling out with Brett and she still stands to inherit approximately eight million dollars, or there’s a newer version of his will hiding out there somewhere.”

Jenna zeroed in on the date, then eyed the other details. “Good catch, Jamison. And Brett has no alibi. She stays on the list, but it’s not enough for a warrant. Give her a call and say we’d like to take her up on her offer to search her place. Of course, if she had a murder weapon, she’d get rid of it before we got there but take Wilcox. She might find gun oil or GSR or some evidence a gun was there. Did you find out where ex-wife Carla was on New Year’s Eve? It would be eight million for her, too.”

“She was in Fredericksburg, Maryland, with her new husband,” Jamison answered. “Unless he’s lying to protect her.”

“We can hold off on pursuing her until we get more on Branson and Brett, not to mention the one who has the most money to gain,” Jenna concluded. “Audra Lockwood. Did we ever get ahold of his brother, James?”

Bauman answered, “He flew back from Brazil yesterday, but he wasn’t in the country at the time of the murder. It’s confirmed.” Jenna gave him a nod. He wasn’t on her radar anyway.

They all got to work, and it wasn’t long before Owens had interesting information. “I called everyone Branson claimed as a witness, other than his wife. I got one guy says he shared a drink with Lockwood at eleven-thirty, and another who swears Branson and his wife left the party at one, but no one can place him in the building between eleven-thirty and one. Without traffic, it’s less than fifteen minutes to get to Lockwood’s house, five minutes to shoot him and run back to his car, then be back at the party.”

“But what about his clothes?” Jamison asked.

“If he left his suit or tux coat in his car and put on the hoody, it would take only a few seconds. If any blood splattered back on him, it would be on the hoody, which he could have tossed or taken home and washed,” Jenna speculated.

“How’s this, Lieutenant?” Bauman presented her with a properly worded warrant request.

“Add on he has no witness to testify as to his whereabouts at the time of the murder,” Jenna instructed. “Then give it to Jamison. She’s good at convincing judges to sign warrants.” She gave the officer a wink, which made Trish blush.

“Good work everyone. We have three viable suspects,” Jenna counted. “Let’s see if we can find the gun.”

* * *

Randi met Jo for lunch at a sandwich shop and deli to catch up on how the new year was getting started. “How are things going with you and Madison?” Randi asked after placing an order for a panini and cup of soup.

“Good.” Jo shrugged. “She’s fun and energetic, but we aren’t exclusive or anything. I’d like to go out with her a few more times, though. She knows exactly where to touch me, and she thinks my nerdy side is cute, but she has issues.”

“You mean about her previous drug problem?” Randi asked.

“No, she’s clean,” Jo stated. “The reasons she used drugs to begin with.”

“Everyone is going to have issues, Jo,” Randi assured her. “There is no perfect woman.”

She quirked her head and narrowed her eyes at Randi. “I haven’t discovered your issues yet—except you’re way too conservative. But I have to say how proud I am of you for finally coming out!” A friendly laugh followed, along with a kick under the table.

“You have commitment issues,” Randi responded. “And ow, that was my leg!”

“I’m too young to be thinking about commitment,” the blue-haired, tattooed tech geek announced. “You’re just getting so old you’re worried you’ll end up dying alone.”

Randi laughed. “Look who you’re calling old, woman! You’re thirty and you’re calling me old at thirty-five? Do the math, kid. Besides, I’m never getting old, so there!”

“And maybe I’m never going to settle down, so there!” she quipped and flashed Randi a grin.

“Seriously, Jo, what’s the deal? As long as I’ve known you, you’ve never had a steady girlfriend. I know there’s more to it than wanting to have fun. Wouldn’t you like someone to share your life with?”

“Which is what I have you for—unless you get so tied up with Jenna, you forget about me.” She made a little pout and sipped on her straw.

“You know I won’t forget about you,” Randi assured her. “Really, though. You always find things wrong with your girlfriends and I know it’s a cover for something deeper, even if you don’t realize it.”

Jo sighed and cast a glance around the bistro. “My best friend from high school married this man, a popular football player, great guy, during their senior year in college. They were all in love and everything, and he was set up with a good job. They even bought a house within a year of graduation. She had all these dreams of having a family and a happy life and then one day he was in a motorcycle accident. It didn’t kill him; it turned him into a quadriplegic, like Christopher Reeve. All her dreams were shattered, and at only twenty-three years old, she became her strong, handsome, successful husband’s caretaker. Forget about kids, travel, everything they planned. She has to change ostomy bags, put food and liquids in his mouth for him, dress and bathe him, move him around so he doesn’t sit or lie in the same position too long, physical and occupational therapy… even if he could get her pregnant—which he can’t—she couldn’t possibly keep up with a baby and her husband, nor would she want to. Taking care of him is a full-time job, and now they have to do it on the pitiful little disability checks, because if she got a job all the money would go to pay a caregiver anyway, so what’s the point? It’s all too sad.”

Jo seemed as if she was about to cry. “I admire her so much. I don’t know how she does it. We’re the same age and I’m really moving into horny town; you know how you get when you hit your thirties. She takes a few hours a week to go to her art classes and paints at home as a release, but I just couldn’t do it, Randi. I mean, it’s the rottenest, most despicable thing to get a divorce because your spouse becomes disabled, but she’s so young and now see what she has to look forward to?” Sighing and shaking her head, she confessed, “It terrifies me… the idea I could really fall for someone and get married and then something like that happen… and you went and fell for a cop for cryin’ out loud! Randi, she could be shot on the job, then what? Maybe it would kill her and leave you broken-hearted, but worse, it could cripple her or turn her into a vegetable or something.”

Randi reached a hand across the table and laid it over Jo’s. “I am so sorry about your friend,” she professed. “I know it must be difficult. Yes, Jenna could be killed or injured on the job. Then again, I could get schmucked by a Mack truck this afternoon, or be stricken with some dread disease, or if I lived in Wile E. Coyote’s world, an anvil could fall on my head. But it’s no reason to hold back from living the life I desire. No one is guaranteed tomorrow. All we have is now… this moment, this breath. We dream and plan and hope, but like Robert Burns wrote, ‘the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men. Gang aft a-gley’—or in our English, the best laid plans of mice and men can still go wrong. You can’t live in fear of something which may never happen, sweetie.”

“And what if it does happen?” Jo’s gaze sought Randi’s with a pained plea.

“Then we cross that bridge when and if.” Randi raised her chin with a bittersweet expression and patted her friend’s hand. “One day at a time, Jo. It’s the only way any of us go through life.”

Randi pulled back her arm when the waitress laid plates in front of them. Randi’s grilled turkey with tomato and pesto on sourdough bread was smothered in melted provolone cheese while Jo’s Greek salad looked fresh, crisp, and loaded with olives, Feta, and chicken bites. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, this looks delicious,” Randi answered with a pleasant smile.

“I know in my head,” Jo allowed. “But whenever I start to actually like someone—and sometimes they are duds, and you’ve even agreed they had to go.” She pinned Randi’s focus and lifted a brow. “But yeah, I get scared. I like Madison, but… I’m not ready.” Jo cocked her head, giving Randi a scrutinizing assessment. “Maybe when I’m your age. I didn’t see you settling down at thirty!”

Randi laughed and shook her head. “Touché.”

CHAPTER 9

Jenna and Ron Owens sat on opposite sides of a circle of seven chairs in a multipurpose room with four other officers and Dr. Jane Grayson for their first group therapy session. She had time to down a bagel and another cup of coffee while rehashing the case and interview notes, photos, lab reports, and the bizarre five-year-old will before dashing down the hall to her obligatory meeting.

“I’m glad you could all attend today.” Dr. Grayson’s tone was soothing and professional, dipped in assured authority. Jenna had resisted participating in the shrink routine and initially looked for any reason to dislike the department’s psychiatrist but had realized things that happened on the job could cause psychological wounds as frequently as physical ones. She wanted to learn to deal with tragedies positively so she could have a shot at a normal relationship and not suffer burn-out as law enforcement officers frequently did. Jenna might roll her eyes and groan at the impeccable fifty-something year-old bisexual therapist, but during their private session last week, she hadn’t been able to negate the wisdom of her words nor foster anything but admiration for the Columbia University graduate. Dr. Grayson drew every eye in her brushed wool powder-blue blazer, navy silk blouse, with a coordinating color patterned skirt and navy heels.

“I would like us to begin by taking several deep breaths from your diaphragm,” she instructed in a welcoming tone. She sat up straight and placed a hand on her abdomen. “You should feel your diaphragm push out as it makes way for your lungs to expand to full capacity. Then slowly let out the air.”

Seeing others begin the exercise, Jenna inhaled her own slow, deep breath, sparing a glance at Owens, who seemed mesmerized by the doctor. Can’t say I blame him. I think this whole gorgeous, sophisticated, multi-sexual thing she’s got going on is all just a ploy to lure patients to buy into all the mumbo-jumbo. But the breathing did make Jenna feel more relaxed, so no point complaining.

“That’s it, very good,” Dr. Grayson praised. She adjusted her refined glasses and smoothed back a lock of her neat dark bob streaked in silver. “Next, let’s go around clockwise and tell everyone your name, why you are here, and one thing you are grateful for.”

Of the other officers, one was a woman, the rest men of a variety of ages. The youngest had to have been a rookie and the oldest near retirement. The kumbaya circle reminded her of scout camp—if she had ever attended scout camp.

“Hi, I’m Janet, patrol and traffic.” A young woman Jenna had seen in the station but didn’t know personally addressed the group with a weak smile.

Got to give it to the gutsy girl for going first, Jenna thought. She felt so… broken. She should be tougher than this; she shouldn’t need help. But every time little Kiley Johnson’s image flashed before her eyes, covered in blood, dying while she pressed her hand against her neck in a futile attempt to stop her bleeding, she understood why she required counselling.

“You think I’d be here because I see so many gruesome crash victims, but it was when we arrived on the accident scene of someone I knew, my best friend’s mom and dad who were like second parents to me… I am grateful my parents are both alive and well, even if they aren’t married anymore.”

“Hi, I’m Curtis, I was told by my sergeant I had to be here, and I’m grateful I got to eat lunch before this.” The officer around Jenna’s age leaned back in his seat with his arms and ankles crossed, letting everyone know how he felt about group sessions.

“Ron.” Jenna’s teammate tried to avoid everyone’s attention but was less confrontational than Curtis. “I’m here to find the balance between caring enough and not caring too much, you know, so I can be a decent human and a badass cop. I’m grateful for my wife—twenty years on the job and she hasn’t left me.”

“Lucky you,” the older man beside him chuckled and shook his head. “I’m Gavin, most of you know me, and you know my CI got killed last week.” He dropped his gaze and worked his jaw before he shrugged a shoulder. “My operation, my fault. She was seventeen, only a kid. I’m grateful my kids never used drugs, were never involved in gangs, and all grew up.”

When the young, African American officer beside Jenna didn’t speak, Dr. Grayson prompted him. “Travone? Can you introduce yourself to everyone?”

His knee began to bounce, but he nodded. “I’m Trevone, and my dad was on the job for thirty years. He retired last fall, up in Arlington—my parents live in Arlington. I wanted to be a cop like him, but he fixed it so I started here, where my grandma lives, in a smaller, safer city. On Christmas Eve, he committed suicide and my mom found him. I just got back and… well… I don’t understand why he would do that, and it’s really gotten to me. I’m grateful my sister lives in Arlington to be there for my mom.”

Jenna felt her emotions wiggle across the room like the invisible tentacles of an octopus reaching to coil around each shattered police officer. She wasn’t the only one warring with guilt or striving to derive meaning from senseless acts.

“Hi, I’m Jenna. I failed to rescue a little girl from a sexual predator, and he killed her and himself while I stood fifty feet away. I’m grateful…” She had been preparing her response but kept changing this part. What was she thankful for? She was in good health, had enough money to meet her needs, lived far enough from her biological family they couldn’t get to her, and Randi. But they had only been together a few weeks. Would saying she was glad to have a wonderful woman in her life this soon jinx it? And what business was it of these people’s? But she had to say something. “I’m grateful for good friends who care about me.” There. Her statement included Randi without singling her out, so no jinxing.

“That was very good, everyone.” Dr. Grayson smiled and crossed her legs, sending her modest full skirt swirling around her knee. “Before we move on, does anyone have a question or something further to share?”

“Yeah,” Curtis growled. “When can I get out of here and go back to doing my job?”

“I understand you are frustrated, Curtis, but in the past month, your mother died, your wife left you, you were involved in a car accident which put you in the hospital, and you were written up for abusive behavior toward a suspect—twice. Your sergeant could have brought you up on disciplinary action, but he believes, as do I, you have some displaced anger and grief to deal with before you can perform your job well. Would you agree?”

“I can do my job,” he grumbled.

“Of course you can,” Gavin concurred. “But the doc’s right. I feel your negative emotions from here, and I’m swimming in my own. Let’s try to open our minds and see if any of this works. How about it?”

Curtis sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and gave his head a meager nod.

“I have met with all of you privately before today,” Dr. Grayson confirmed, “and I thought this would make a productive group because all of you have witnessed or had an experience with death and traumatic loss. Some of you harbor misplaced feelings of guilt or other forms of self-defeat which hinder your ability to move forward in a positive atmosphere.”

“But it is my fault,” Gavin interjected. “If I hadn’t sent Georgia in there wearing a wire—”

“Detective Jenson, did you pull the trigger on the gun that shot your confidential informant?” Dr. Grayson pinned him with an intuitive gaze.

“No, but—”

“Did you or anyone in your division suspect someone in the warehouse would kill the young woman?” she continued. “Did your team believe she would be safe to do what you asked of her?”

“Yeah, but there’s always a risk.” Jenna recognized the haunted expression in his eyes; she had seen it in the mirror for the past two and half weeks.

“There is,” Owens agreed. “There is always a risk. Any of us could be killed on the job any day, and teens who do drugs and hang out with gang members could wind up dead whether they agreed to help us catch bigger fish in exchange for leniency or not. We aren’t fortune tellers. When I drove out to the farm, I didn’t know some nutcase was going to slice a little girl’s throat and there be nothing I could do about it. Yeah, I’ve been feelin’ some guilt, too, but we’re here to get past it.”

“Thank you, Ron,” Dr. Grayson responded. “However, we are not just trying to get past it, but rather acquire skills to help us do our jobs and keep our sanity intact moving forward. Today we are going to learn about self-monitoring. To address a problem or a symptom, we need to first be aware of it. Self-monitoring can help with this. With this perception, we can take action to regulate our behaviors and produce more positive outcomes.”

As Jenna glanced around the circle, she observed everyone, even Curtis, was paying attention to Dr. Grayson. Having read the material beforehand, she had some idea what the process entailed.

“Consider the fact your thoughts and emotions have momentum,” Dr. Grayson continued in a tone which pulled in her attention. “The more you dwell on a thought, be it positive or negative, the more powerful it becomes in your mind. If you were to park your car at the top of a steep hill, put the gear in neutral and give it a little push, what would happen?”

“It would roll down the hill,” Trevone replied.

“And it would get faster the farther it went,” Janet added.

“Precisely!” Dr. Grayson raised a finger in triumph. “That is called momentum. What would happen if you somehow raced to the bottom of the hill, got there before the car, and tried to stop it?”

Owens snorted and stated the obvious. “You’d get run over.”

“Indeed. It is also very difficult to curb our thoughts and emotions once we have allowed them to run amuck,” Dr. Grayson explained. “Often we don’t realize what is happening until we start punching out suspects or drowning our sorrows at the bottom of a bottle, and by then it’s too late to do anything about it. But what if we could get out ahead of it?” She passed a hopeful look over the group. “What if we make a conscious decision to pay attention to our thoughts and emotions and get out ahead of them? Go back to the car on the hill. What if you gave it a little shove, then ran around in front of it before it plummeted over the edge? Could you stop it then?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Trevone speculated with interest. “If it was barely moving, I could stop the car.”

“You could. And you can interrupt blaming, guilt-ridden ideas if you catch them before they have enough momentum to run you over. When you feel rage start to heat up or despair drag you down, halt what you are doing and engage in some diaphragmatic breathing to hold it in check.”

“But how do you stop negative thoughts?” Jenna inquired. “Especially when they just keep coming?”

“By arresting them.” Dr. Grayson’s smile was warm and eager. “You take the self-defeating thought and place it under arrest. Control your mind—don’t let it control you. Change your focus by thinking about anything positive, something you enjoy, that you are grateful for, or at least something neutral. It is a skill, a process, and you can train your thoughts like you can train your bodies to perform certain exercises. But this next instruction is vital.”

Dr. Grayson paused to catch everyone’s eye. “If you slip up—and you will—and find yourself at the bottom of the hill being run over by a ton of anger, regret, frustration, or self-doubt, don’t beat yourself up about it. Think of yourself as a toddler, just learning to walk; you’re going to fall down, but it’s okay. It’s all part of the process. What I am asking you to do is simply set an intention to be more aware of what you are thinking and feeling and try to get out ahead of it. Like I advised you in our one-on-one meetings, I want you to keep a journal, which will help you focus. Each day, make notations about the instances where you caught yourself early experiencing negative thoughts and emotions and what you did about it, as well as the occasions when you got slammed with self-defeating feelings and ideas. We won’t discuss them here but remember to bring them to your individual sessions where we can fine-tune. Curtis, can you do that for me?”

The reluctant officer shrugged and resumed his bored manner. “I suppose.”

“Good. Next, we will go around the circle and I want each of you to brag on yourselves. Tell the group about a major success you achieved either on the job or in your personal life so all the other group members may congratulate you. After all, we are here to support each other, because none of us should have to go it alone.”

Jenna would discuss job-related issues with her team members, but never personal stuff like her recurring nightmares since the incident or the underlying reasons she couldn’t make a relationship work. She always figured strong people went it alone—it’s what made them tough. But Dr. Grayson could be onto something. Perhaps her reluctance to allow those close to her to glimpse an ounce of vulnerability was, in fact, a major factor contributing to her failed relationships. Randi said her church supported her mom and dad while her mother had cancer, so they didn’t have to go through it alone. She also said I don’t have to be strong twenty-four-seven, but I do, don’t I? Or is such an expectation impossible from the get-go? It served me growing up, but maybe it doesn’t serve me anymore. I’m a cop, damnit! I must stay strong. No wimpy, weepy feelings for me. Then again, a good cop, a decent human being, cares. I don’t want to be a passionless stone and I don’t want to fall apart every time something happens to a child. It’s like Owens said—I have to find a balance.

Later in the afternoon, while Officer Jamison and CSI Wilcox conducted a search of Brett Lockwood’s apartment with her permission, Jenna, Owens, and Officers Murphy and Stone arrived at the Blue Ridge Cleaning Supplies Company unannounced with a warrant. They started with Mitchell Lockwood’s office, his computer, and files, then moved on to Charles Branson’s. Branson paced the hall with an angry scowl, on the phone with his lawyer complaining and demanding he get over there at once. Other employees watched with worry or tried to perform their jobs while the officers collected boxes of documents and downloaded data onto thumb drives.

They had been at it about half an hour when Murphy strode through the office door with an evidence bag and a triumphant gleam. “Lieutenant, I found this under the front seat in Mr. Branson’s car.” He held it out to her with a smile akin to the proverbial cat who ate the canary.

Jenna examined the contents through the clear plastic. “Well, well, Mr. Branson,” she chimed. “What do we have here? Oh, yeah, a Ruger GP-100, small .22 caliber revolver, 10-shot model with a short 4-inch barrel. A pricy, durable, accurate handgun consistent with the murder weapon.”

Mr. Branson stopped pacing, lowered the phone from his ear, and stared at it in horror. “That’s not my gun! I’ve never seen it before in my life. I don’t own a handgun, only hunting rifles and shotguns. You can check my registrations.” All color drained from his face as he rushed to his own defense.

“Be assured, we will check,” Jenna stated. “However, Virginia law does not require guns purchased from private owners or gun shows be registered, so that by itself doesn’t mean anything. Do you still have your lawyer on the phone?”

“No, officer, I’m here.” A silver-haired man in a three-piece suit strode in wearing a stern expression. “I am Calvin Thornton, Mr. Branson’s attorney.” He raised his chin and radiated arrogance.

Jenna regarded him as no threat to her or her case. “It’s Lieutenant Detective Ferrari, and Mr. Thornton, I’m sure your client will want you to accompany him downtown to the station. We have some more details to discuss with him while the gun found in his car is being processed. If ballistics matches it to the slug that killed his partner, he will be placed under arrest for murder.”

“It’s not my gun!” Branson insisted in a screech. “I didn’t kill Mitchell!”

“Be quiet, Charles,” Mr. Thornton commanded. “Let me see your warrant.”

Owens handed him the signed paper specifying the right to search the office, computers, vehicle, and home of Charles Branson for documents, photographs, bank-records, blood, and small-caliber firearms and to collect his DNA. He frowned and shoved the warrant back at Owens.

“We will meet you at the police station, Mr. Thornton,” Owens responded. “Mr. Branson, you need to come with us.”

“Murphy, Stone, finish collecting all this stuff and bring it to my office,” Jenna instructed. “After we take him in, Owens and I have to check his residence in case something is hiding there.”

Murphy straightened his shoulders with pride and gave her a nod. “Yes, Lieutenant. We will be exceedingly thorough.”

With an amused chuckle, Jenna granted, “I bet you will!”

* * *

Jenna called Randi around six o’clock as she drove home because she wanted to check in with her and because she found herself wanting to be with her.

“Hey, Jenna!” The enthusiasm in Randi’s voice tickled Jenna’s heart, intensifying the attraction she already felt for the woman. “Catch any bad guys today?”

“As a matter-of-fact,” Jenna posed. “Maybe, but we haven’t made an arrest yet, have to wait on the lab and we have a ton of documents to sort through.”

“I’m making chicken soup,” Randi said. “Want to come over?”

“Randi, you have no idea how much I want to come over,” Jenna confessed. “But I can’t tonight. I’ve got so much homework, it would bury even you. Besides, I have court tomorrow. I have to testify in the trial of a guy I arrested back in August, and I have to go back over all my notes and the testimony, try to get a decent night’s sleep, and the mayor is still all over us to solve Mr. Lockwood’s murder. Hopefully, I’ll be done by tomorrow night.”

“Wow, if you can nail a high-profile case down by tomorrow night, you’re a detective wizard,” Randi exclaimed. “I’ll have to look into getting a T-shirt made for you. It will have to be black—your favorite color.”

“Hey!” Jenna protested.

“Well, it is.”

Jenna laughed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“And it will have a cartoon image of you wearing wizard robes with a detective’s badge, holding a magical staff, with a shackled dragon at your feet, and the words, Jenna the Case-slaying Wizard.”

It was hard to focus on driving with the laughter erupting from Jenna’s belly. “A staff? I don’t even get a sword?”

“Okay, we’ll have a sword in its sheath on your belt, because you were so brilliant you didn’t even need to use it,” Randi added in inspired humor.

In an aspect of delighted amazement, Jenna proclaimed, “God, Randi, you just make every day magical for me.”

“You have to eat,” she noted. “Why not drop by for half an hour and get something better than frozen or takeout?”

Jenna sighed, a deep longing rising up inside her. “Because I couldn’t stop by for half an hour, sweetie. The moment I arrive in your presence, I won’t want to leave, and right now, I don’t think the powers of heaven and hell combined could drag me away if I was with you.”

“Sorry,” Randi issued in an embarrassed tone. “I don’t want to tempt you away from your work, but it does do my heart good to hear you say it.”

“Once I close the door on this case, you get some well-deserved, full-attention,” Jenna promised. “So, I’ll be sure to let you know by five if I can make it, but I really hope to be enjoying dinner with you tomorrow night.”

“So do I,” Randi confirmed. “Can you tell me if it is that siren, Audra Lockwood?”

“It seems like she may only be guilty of flirting,” Jenna concluded. “Someone else was caught holding the smoking gun. But, not final yet, so I don’t want to jinx it. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow night.”

“Me, too.”

CHAPTER 10

Wednesday, January 5

Jenna returned to the criminal investigations office after spending all morning in court to a room abuzz with activity. She set her bag with its half-eaten lunch on her desk.

Owens offered her a whistle and laughed. Jamison’s smile lit up. “You’re wearing the dress I picked out for you!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jenna, who never wore dresses, had been reading studies which showed juries and judges formed more favorable opinions of women witnesses if they had on a dress or skirt than slacks. As much as she loved her masculine suits, Jenna loved winning cases more, so she had enlisted Jamison to assist her in selecting appropriate attire for the courtroom. As a result, she outshined the defendant’s lady lawyer.

“I didn’t want to take time to change. What have we got?”

Bauman grinned. “There’s a lot more money in their cleaning supplies company than we previously discovered. I’ve been digging and Lockwood’s fifty-percent shares amount to over thirty million, so Branson will end up with more than Mrs. Lockwood. Not that it matters, but I also found a little clause saying Lockwood’s attorney gets the sports car. Still haven’t come across a more recent will, though.”

“I don’t think it matters,” Owens announced and handed Jenna a report. “Ballistics confirmed the Ruger from Branson’s car is the murder weapon. Unfortunately, your guy Marcus couldn’t pull any prints. The gun was wiped down, except Wilcox recovered a few foreign particulates. Dr. Gupta is running them now.”

“Yeah.” Jenna studied the report with furrowed brows. “And why would a smart guy like him think to wipe off his prints yet keep the gun? And in such an easy to find place? Is he in holding?”

“Bennet is bringing him over now,” Jamison said. “The DA plans to charge him based on the evidence we’ve collected and verified. The mayor really wants to go on TV and announce we have Mitchell Lockwood’s killer.”

“I know.” Jenna understood the political pressures at play. “But it shouldn’t cause us to rush to judgement. I want to talk to him again before the lawyers try to hash out deals. Bauman, what about their phone records? Anything interesting there?”

“Mrs. Lockwood, the second one, places and receives dozens of calls a day,” he reported. “There are well over a hundred contacts in her phone, but she doesn’t seem to text, so I can only tell you who she talked to, not what they discussed. Nothing jumps out as suspicious. Mr. Lockwood, on the other hand, seldom used his cell phone. He must have conducted most of his business over a landline, either at work or home. The only calls on his cell are from family, close friends, and Branson. No calls to or from either of their phones on New Year’s Eve after six o’clock. Branson’s phone, however, is full of numbers belonging to stockbrokers, attorneys, financial advisors, real estate agents, and some guy with a nice yacht for sale over at Virginia Beach. And then the family and friends’ thing. He didn’t have any calls while the party was in progress either.”

Jenna lowered herself into her chair with a pensive expression. “Did he know he was about to come into a large sum of money?”

“It sure looks like it, boss,” Jamison supposed.

“Lieutenant Ferrari?” Officer Stewart peeped into their office. “Mr. Altman is here with your suspect and his lawyer.”

“Thanks, Stewart. Okay, Owens. Sorry, Jamison, but I don’t want you and lover-boy making eyes at each other in interview.”

“Hey!” Jamison pouted and stamped a foot. “We can be extremely professional. You aren’t giving us a chance.”

“Before we go in there,” she addressed Jamison. “Did you and Wilcox find anything at Brett’s apartment?”

Resuming an investigator's air, Jamison shook her head. “Lots of pills and lotions and health food stuff, a broken picture frame in the trash set out to the curb of her and presumably the tactless ex, but no sign a gun was ever there. No bullets, boxes, cases, gun oil—not a trace of firearms. But she had this beautiful custom rainbow color painting—”

“I’m sure it was lovely. Thanks.” With a nod to Jamison, Jenna followed Owens into the interview room.

After formal greetings to all present, Jenna and Owens sat beside the up-and-coming assistant district attorney across from a nervous-looking Charles Branson and his smug lawyer, Calvin Thornton.

“My client has no clue how a gun got in his automobile,” Thornton began. “It spends all day parked in a public space where anyone might have access to it.”

“Mr. Branson, are you in the habit of leaving your car unlocked while you are at work?” Jenna inquired, avoiding speaking to the lawyer.

“Not usually, no,” he answered. “But occasionally, I may push the wrong button on my key fob. People do, you know. All this upheaval over Mitchell’s murder has had me distracted.”

“I’m sure it has,” Owens concurred. “Mr. Branson, when were you planning to disclose the recent acquisition which doubled the value of the business you and Mr. Lockwood ran as a joint partnership?”

Mr. Branson’s gaze fell to his folded hands on the table, and Mr. Thornton answered in his stead. “Blue Ridge Cleaning Supplies is not a publicly funded company. Therefore, the only disclosures they are required to make are to their private shareholders and have up to ninety days to do so. As it happens, I was working on drawing up a statement to send out at the time of Mr. Lockwood’s unfortunate death.”

“You didn’t think it was relevant information to share with the detectives investigating his unfortunate death?” Jenna inquired.

Branson shrugged and Thornton answered for him. “Under the fifth amendment to the Constitution, my client does not have to make any statement which may be construed as self-incriminating. Mr. Branson maintains he did not shoot and kill his partner, but disclosing the fact an even larger sum of money than supposed was coming his way would increase your probability of assuming his guilt. Were my client’s fingerprints found on the murder weapon? Were any bullets fitting said weapon found when you searched his residence? Is the gun registered to Mr. Branson?”

“No,” Owens replied. “The murder weapon, confirmed by ballistics, was unregistered, therefore could have belonged to anyone. Just because no boxes of .22 caliber cartridges were discovered at Mr. Branson’s home does not demonstrate his innocence. He only needed one round to kill the victim.”

Mr. Thornton raised his chin and pronounced, “I am not required to prove my client’s innocence. You are obliged to prove his guilt. Can you put the gun in Mr. Branson’s hand at the time and place of the murder?”

“Our witness said her husband’s killer wore a ski mask and gloves,” Jenna countered, “intentionally hiding his identity, which presumes someone the Lockwoods were acquainted with. The general description she gave includes a man of Mr. Branson’s approximate height and build.”

“Well, then, by all means!” Mr. Thornton spread his arms with a humorless grin. “Why not accuse half the citizens of Roanoke? Have you researched how many men between five-foot-eight and five-foot-ten at a hundred forty to one-sixty pounds reside in the city? But the killer could have been from out of town. Did you interview everyone in central Virginia?”

“Mr. Thornton.” Bennet Altman interrupted his study in sarcasm. “The murder weapon was not found in any of those men’s cars, and none of them stood to gain tens of millions of dollars. Add in the numerous fights between your client and Mr. Lockwood and the fact not one of his so-called friends and acquaintances can place him at the benefit party during a ninety-minute window encompassing the murder, and we have established means, motive, and opportunity. I believe it is time for us to start negotiating a deal.”

“No deals!” Mr. Branson yelled. “I didn’t kill Mitchell and I won’t say I did to spend ten fewer years in prison. They can’t win a case on this circumstantial evidence, can they, Calvin?”

“No, they cannot,” his attorney replied, and crossed his arms over his chest. “You people kept a prominent citizen in jail overnight on this flimsy argument. Either charge him so I can arrange bail and make you a laughingstock at trial or let him go home.”

Jenna traded glances with Owens and the snappy Altman, who shook his head at her. “I do have another question for you, Mr. Branson,” she stated. “What do you know about Mr. Lockwood’s will, or the last time he had it updated?”

“There wouldn’t be anything for me in his will,” Branson said. “Our business agreements were separate—”

“You don’t have to answer their questions,” rebuked his lawyer.

“I realize that,” Jenna confirmed. “But the only will his attorney gave us is five years old, when his children were still minors. Did he say anything to you about having it changed since then?”

“Let’s go, Charles.” Mr. Thornton pushed to his feet, but Mr. Branson remained contemplative in his chair.

“I’m certain he updated it,” he considered. “Mitchell confided in me about the problems he was having with Brett. He mourned the loss of his son as if he had died. He must have written a new will since their rift. Lieutenant Ferrari, I know it looks like I killed Mitchell—”

“Stop talking, Charles!” the lawyer barked and yanked him up by his arm. “This interview is over.”

But Mr. Branson turned a weary countenance to Jenna. “I didn’t.”

“Can’t put the friggin’ gun in his hand!” Owens blasted as they stepped back into their office. “He doesn’t have an alibi, has millions of reasons, the murder weapon is in his possession, but he walks because we can’t prove he fired it?” The blocky detective plopped onto his desk chair, causing Jenna to cringe for fear it may collapse beneath him.

“Dr. Gupta is running DNA now,” Jenna reminded him. “Maybe his newest testament will turn up somewhere.”

“His fingerprints were on the victim’s car,” Bauman recalled.

“Yeah, but we can’t determine when he touched it. His prick lawyer was right,” Jenna conceded. “Our entire case against him is circumstantial. And we won’t get a confession.” Jenna thought his claim of innocence seemed genuine, but some folks were great liars.

“So, what now?” Owens threw his hands in the air. “The mayor’s office is breathing down our necks for an arrest and there’s no point if we can’t convict. We need more, something to put him in the Lockwoods’ garage at midnight New Year’s Eve. Jamison, let’s go through your mountain of photos again.”

She pulled out a thick manilla envelope and passed it to him. “Unless he isn’t our killer,” Jamison ventured to suggest.

“I want to see a copy of his new will,” Jenna declared. She picked up the phone and dialed Audra Lockwood’s number. “Mrs. Lockwood, this is Lieutenant Ferrari; we spoke the other day.”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I remember you,” she cooed on the other end of the line. “Did you find who killed Mitchell?”

“We are devoting our full attention to your husband’s case, I assure you,” Jenna confirmed. “There is something you might could help us with, though.”

“Anything. What do you need to know?”

“When did Mr. Lockwood last update his last will and testament? Do you recall seeing a copy of it? Is there a home safe, lockbox, safety deposit box, or somewhere else he may have put it?” Jenna rattled off in quick succession. “The one your attorney gave us is five years old, before his children were twenty-one. It still lists you as guardian for Tiffany, who was not yet eighteen when it was written.”

“My goodness!” A slight gasp sounded on the other end of the line. “Surely he updated it since then. I do recall Mitchell saying he was changing his will after his falling out with Brett and he would have had to have updated it when Tiffany became an adult. She’s twenty-one now and things fell apart with Brett about three years ago, so he must have made some changes since then. Did Cedric give you the wrong one?”

“He gave us a will dated five years and three months ago. It still lists Brett as receiving a large sum of inheritance.”

“That can’t be right…” Mrs. Lockwood’s voice trailed off. “I’ll give him a call. He must have the new one somewhere or know where it is. I remember them working on it late one night. Poor Mitchell was so upset over Brett, and he had been drinking. I recall I had come home from my yoga lesson and was so loose and relaxed, so ready to enjoy a nice evening, but he ordered me upstairs. When he finally came to bed, he just fell asleep—a rare occurrence, if you know what I mean.”

She does flirt with everyone! Jenna realized. Or at least anyone who matters, like the lead detective on her husband’s murder investigation. “Thank you, Mrs. Lockwood. Please call us as soon as you have spoken with Mr. Dugan and have him bring us the most recent will. One more thing. How long has Cedric Dugan served as Mr. Lockwood’s attorney?”

“Oh, they go way back,” she dismissed casually. “I believe Mitchell said they went to high school together. I’m sure he gave you the wrong version by mistake. I’ll check with him right away, Lieutenant Ferrari, and will call you back.”

“So?” Jamison’s voice raised with her expression of curiosity.

“Why would a family lawyer who’s known Mr. Lockwood since high school and worked for him for many years bring us an outdated copy of his client’s will?” she asked her team.

“Picked up the wrong one?” Bauman suggested.

Owens smirked. “Maybe he’s not a very good lawyer and Mitchell felt obligated to hire him on.”

“Maybe.” Jenna’s brain ticked. “Jamison, pull up the copy he gave us. Doesn’t it mention Dugan getting something?”

Jamison flipped through a folder on her desk and pulled out a page. “Yeah. It says he gets the Mazzanti and a fifty-thousand-dollar tip.”

“That car is easily worth a million dollars new,” Bauman predicted. “And his was in excellent condition.”

“Yeah, but maybe Dugan thought he deserved more,” speculated Jenna.

“I thought we were trying to find something else to nail Branson with,” Owens complained. “He’s the one with the murder weapon.”

“And maybe there will be another rung on the motive ladder in Lockwood’s newest will,” Jenna offered, “but it still doesn’t put the gun in Branson’s hand.”

“The particulates Dr. Gupta is analyzing,” Jamison recalled. “And there’s a chance she can find DNA somewhere on the weapon.”

Jenna’s face lit. She picked up her phone and punched in the number for the lab. “Dr. Gupta. Please swab inside every crevice of the Ruger GP-100 for possible DNA. We couldn’t get prints, but –”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” sounded the calm, professional tones of the scientist’s pleasing accent. “I already did. I’m not sure if there were enough biologicals to render a complete sample, but it’s running anyway. I do have the report back on your particulates, though. Non-organic particles of sand, silt, and clay, with organic traces of peat moss, coconut coir, perlite, vermiculite, composted plant matter, and bovine manure.”

“In regular English?” Jenna prompted.

“Potting soil. The gun had been wiped down, appeared to be clean, but CSI Wilcox recovered trace amounts of potting soil from the grooves around the cylinder and inside the barrel.”

“Inside the barrel.” Jenna’s brain raced. “Someone put the murder weapon in potting soil after it was fired. This is excellent. Thank you and call the minute you have the DNA results.

“Owens, is our warrant for Branson’s house still good?” Jenna asked, her words infused with energy. “I recall seeing a flowerbed. We need soil samples for comparison. Maybe he had hidden the gun in his flowerbed or a large pot and had it in his car to dispose of yesterday after work. If we can match the exact combination of ingredients to what was on the murder weapon, we’ve got him!”

CHAPTER 11

“Something smells delicious!” Jenna enthused as Randi showed her into her home that evening. The crime scene unit had gone back to Mr. Branson’s house and collected soil samples for the lab to compare while the suspect’s lawyer raised holy hell. But their warrant had not expired, so there was naught he could do beyond complain. With nothing remaining but to wait on the analysis, Jenna deemed there was no reason to cancel dinner with Randi.

Delight danced in Randi’s eyes, and she greeted Jenna with a kiss. “I waited for you to arrive to put the shrimp on the barbeque because they only stay a couple of minutes,” Randi explained as she led her through the front to the main living space of the house.

Byron sat expectantly, swishing his furry tail across the hardwood floor with his ears perked and a hopeful gaze pleading for acknowledgement.

“And hello to you too, big guy!” Jenna patted his head and ruffled his neck allowing him to greet her with a lick on the hand before she shrugged out of her jacket. She had changed into casual clothes to be comfortable because, who knew what the night would hold?

Randi hung her coat on a hook, jabbering about the meal the whole time. “I made stovetop garlic and herb potatoes because roasting them in the oven often dries them out, but I sautéed them in virgin olive oil, so they are still just as healthy. I brought the corn ears off the grill already, but they’ll stay hot wrapped up in their aluminum foil. Now, for shrimp on the barbie.” She grinned and picked up a plate loaded with skewered, seasoned prawns. “I used the Outback recipe with the dipping sauce and some nice multigrain garlic toast and small side salads, but no dessert because I’m cutting back on sugar after the holidays.”

“Everything looks and smells great. You didn’t have to go to so much trouble,” Jenna said as she followed Randi through the back door onto the lighted patio, the aroma of barbeque permeating the air. Bryon raced out ahead to investigate the yard.

“It’s no trouble,” Randi assured her as she lay the skewers on the flaming gas grill. “I love to cook. The reason most people’s shrimp don’t come out like a fine restaurant’s is because they overcook them. You want them to just have turned pink, which for regular size is about three minutes. I got the big ones, so maybe two minutes on each side,” she explained in schoolteacher fashion. “So I need to stand here and flip them at the right moment. If you’re cold—”

“I’m plenty warm next to you, sweetie,” Jenna chimed in. “Heat from the grill, heat from lots of places.” She grinned and wrapped her arms around Randi’s waist as she pressed up behind her, peering at the sizzling prawns over her shoulder.

“Did you catch your killer?” Randi turned one skewer, and satisfied with the pinkness, flipped the others.

“We collected more evidence today, but until it gets processed, we can’t charge him,” she answered. “Everything’s circumstantial.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t Audra,” Randi confessed. “I had this feeling it might have been. Too much rereading of Macbeth, I think,” she added with a laugh.

“It’s cool you have a new course to be excited about. Do you have your spring schedule yet?”

“Yes. I have a Monday night class and everything else is normal. English Lit One and Two, English Novels and Novelists, and Introduction to Shakespeare,” she listed them off. “I have several of the English Lit Two classes, as most people took the first half in the fall, but only one class each of Novels and Shakespeare. There!” she announced. “All done.” Using tongs, Randi plopped the hot shrimp skewers onto the dish, and they went back inside to load up their plates.

After taking only a few bites, Jenna formed a fresh appreciation for her girlfriend. “I know people say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but are you trying to test the premise out on women, too? This is better than any Outback Steakhouse. Everything is seasoned and cooked to perfection. How’d you make the corn so great, and in wintertime when it’s imported from South America or someplace?”

Jenna was impressed by how Byron laid calmly on the floor beside the table not bothering them and supposed he had already eaten his dinner.

“You are so sweet,” Randi responded with a blush. “You can actually get greenhouse corn in the winter from some growers in Virginia, but this came from the store. I merely buttered it, sprinkled on a little Old Bay seasoning, wrapped it up in foil, and kept turning it on the grill so none of the sides burned. Again, don’t overcook your corn on the cob or it gets mushy.”

“And these potatoes?”

“I boil them for a few minutes before draining and adding them to the pan of hot olive oil and chopped garlic, sprinkle them with my special garlic and herb blend, and stir them often over medium heat to prevent sticking. After about five minutes, I toss in the green onions. When a toothpick slides in, they are ready.”

“Well, if you ever get tired of making lesson plans and grading papers, you could become a chef,” Jenna suggested.

Randi laughed. “Too much pressure. It wouldn’t be fun anymore if I had to worry about critics.”

“I suppose, but you’ll only receive praise from me.” Jenna lingered over the fat, succulent shrimp, enjoying the tastes on her tongue, and fantasied about other flavors she wished to experience. “I should have some time off as soon as we wrap this murder investigation. What are you doing this weekend?”

“I only have one thing planned, and it’s for Saturday from nine to about four,” Randi replied between bites. “I signed up to work on a Habitat for Humanity house a month ago and I can’t back out last minute. Our church partners with Habitat for Humanity and it’s a ministry I can engage in because they always do their projects on weekends.”

Jenna considered Randi with a curious expression. “You build things? Like construction work?”

“Yeah. I do framing, siding, insulating, plumbing, electrical, painting—but not drywall, which requires an expertise I do not possess. I’ve assisted with roofing, too, but usually they just want the few women who show up to be goffers or do simple stuff. I built the chicken hutch out in the backyard. You can’t see it in the dark, but I’m proud of it.”

Eyes dancing from enticing mental images, Jenna asked, “Do you wear a tool belt?”

Randi beamed back at her. “I do. Do you like a girl in a tool belt?”

“I have fantasies…” Between the pleasure of delicious food, Randi’s company, and the visualizations playing across Jenna’s mind, she sensed an unmistakable arousal shoot through her body. “I would love to see you in a tool belt… and nothing else.”

Pink rose in Randi’s adorable face, while her smile confirmed she was not opposed to the notion. “I have some nice muscle tone but have always been a little self-conscious about my lack of physical perfection. I would hate to disappoint you.”

“Honey, no one’s body is the picture of perfection,” Jenna declared. “From what I’m seeing now, I can guarantee I will not be disappointed with you. But if you are more comfortable starting out with the lights off, it’s okay, too.”

“Lights off sounds safer.”

Jenna perceived the shift in Randi’s breathing and heartrate and was pleased to be creating the effect in her. “I think I’d like to come along, see you in action. I can swing a hammer if they let people who didn’t sign up chip in.”

“Oh, this group is so laid back,” Randi expounded. “They would love to have an extra pair of hands to help. Most of our projects are in the summer and fall, but people need houses in winter, too. And I’d love to have you there with me.”

“So the only question remaining is whether we’d be able to pull ourselves out of bed if I stayed over Friday night.” Jenna saw desire flash across Randi’s face, and it tickled her soul. “I mean, it’s easier for Bandit to spend a night alone than for Byron, since he doesn’t have a litter box and I can leave out extra dry food for my kitty’s breakfast.”

“No, I’d be thrilled for you to stay over.”

A sudden panic shot through Randi at the thought. She wanted this, and she wanted Jenna, but she was also scared out of her mind. She had been intimate with one other person in her whole thirty-five years, and the experience had not turned out well for either of them. Randi presumed it was because Eric Crane, her ex-fiancé, had been a man, but what if it wasn’t? What if she simply wasn’t good at it? After all, there’s only so much she could learn from books and movies without actual life experience. This she knew for certain: she ached with desire for Jenna in a way she hadn’t for the cute math professor. One step at a time, Randi; one step at a time.

“I’m actually eager for a little preview of coming attractions tonight, if you’re up for it,” Randi suggested. Maybe a trip to second or third base would help ease her into the idea of a grand slam.

“Is that right?” Jenna’s brow rose and a mischievous grin crossed her lips. Randi reveled in the sensual gaze Jenna raked over her. No woman had ever looked at her in such a way before, and it sent a tingle of anticipation cascading through her nerves.

Before Randi could compose a witty reply, Jenna’s phone buzzed. She pulled it from her jeans pocket and peered at the number before accepting the call. “Ferrari,” she answered in her professional cop style.

Well, her case isn’t closed yet, which is why we are making future plans, Randi supposed. You knew this could and would happen, so no reason to be disappointed. Or maybe it isn’t work…

“Are you sure?” Jenna’s tone rang with drive and attentiveness. “No, no, I need to see it now. Have you opened it?”

Definitely work. At least she loves my cooking!

“Just sit tight. I’ll be right there.” Jenna clicked off her phone, laid in on the table by her plate, and took a big gulp of her ice water. “This shouldn’t take long,” she said as she pushed up from her seat.

“Your lab results?” Randi stood with her, to walk her to the door.

“Better.” Jenna flashed her a grin. “Mrs. Lockwood found the updated version of her husband’s will.”

A sinking sensation plummeted into Randi’s stomach, and she supposed a shocked expression had wiggled its way onto her face. “Audra called you? And you’re rushing off to her mansion in Poages Mill Estates?”

“This will is a key piece of evidence I’ve been waiting on,” Jenna replied as she yanked her leather coat from its hook near the door.

“I could go with you,” Randi offered.

Jenna shook her head. “This is police business and whoever the killer is, he or she isn’t in custody, so it could be dangerous.”

Randi glanced over Jenna in her jeans and button-up shirt. “Where’s your gun, then? Who’s meeting you there as back up?”

Jenna smirked at her. “Are you jealous of Mrs. Lockwood again? Stop being ridiculous.” She pushed her arms into the ebony jacket and flipped down the collar. “I’ve got a gun in my car, and if you want, I’ll come back after I get the will.”

“You know I want you to come back, and I’m not jealous or ridiculous.” Randi’s already soaring emotions shifted into a defensive gear. “Don’t you think it’s odd for her to call your private number this late at night and ask you to drive to her house? And then you drop everything to run over there?”

“See, I knew this would be a problem.” Irritation tore at Jenna’s tone.

“That isn’t it. If you would please listen to what I am saying instead of what you think I’m saying.” How could Randi explain the dread wiggling in her gut. “I’m not jealous and I understand you are always on call, but my Spidey senses are screaming something isn’t right.”

“Don’t worry.” Jenna took a moment to swivel toward her before rushing out the door. “I promise not to fall into the Black Widow’s web of erotic deception. I need the will pronto. It may be the key to solving the case, so I can get the weekend off. I’ll be on high alert. Really, Randi.” Jenna sighed and shook her head.

Randi didn’t prefer Jenna leave perturbed at her; she didn’t want her to leave at all, but she had to be flexible, and she had to trust her. After all, she’s been doing this job for many years successfully without my input. Lifting a hand to cup her cheek, Randi brushed her lips to Jenna’s and gave her an apologetic look. “I’ll wait for you.”

The corner of Jenna’s mouth quirked, and her expression softened. “Thanks.” Then she was gone.

“Well, Byron.” Her faithful shepherd stood with his head cocked and his soulful eyes fixed on her as she ambled to where he waited. “At least she got to finish eating.” A bolt shot through her when she spotted Jenna’s cell phone lying on the table. Snatching it up, she raced back and threw open the front door, holding the phone up and calling after Jenna’s car as it drove away. She didn’t see her; she didn’t stop anyway. Hoping she wouldn’t need it, Randi closed the door and returned to the open concept living room. “And now I know she’ll be back,” she stated, and set Jenna’s phone down where she had found it.

Randi cleared the table and did the dishes, trying to focus her thoughts in a positive direction, making mental rehearsals of flirtations and foreplay she might enjoy with Jenna later, but unease roiled in her gut. She had finished everything when Jenna’s phone vibrated with an incoming message. Randi stared at it in indecision. Then a second message came through.

I wonder if I should look at those messages. No. It’s Jenna’s phone and it could be private. But what if it’s important? It could be the police lab or Officer Jamison… or another girlfriend… or her dry-cleaning could be ready. I get junk texts all the time. She peered at it while wrestling with a minor moral dilemma. It’s not such a big deal, probably nothing. But it could be something. I could glance at the texts without opening them and she wouldn’t know. At least then I can see who they are from and if relevant or not. But it’s still an invasion of privacy.

Randi frowned at the phone, started to walk away, then spun and snatched it up.

The sender’s name said Gupta, and the first line of the message read, ‘The samples were not a’. The second text, also from Gupta, stated, ‘Male DNA also not’. Feeling a little guilty, Randi replaced it on the table.

“So, it isn’t the guy they suspected,” she mused, “but it isn’t Audra either. Does that mean Jenna is in no danger to go to her house alone?”

Byron left the room while Randi paced, and he returned with his favorite toy. He jogged in front of her path and sat, holding the not stuffed furry squirrel in his mouth. Halting, she considered him—his faithfulness, loyalty, and persistence. “It could be important information for her, Byron. I could drive over there to take her phone. She needs her phone. She didn’t leave it here on purpose. I could just drive it over, give it to her, and leave, which wouldn’t be too intrusive, would it?”

Randi felt like a helicopter was warming up its blades in her stomach. She didn’t know Jenna well enough to predict how she would react. Randi didn’t want to be a needy girlfriend with the compulsion to not let her woman out of her sight. Is that how Jenna would see her if she drove out to Audra’s? Or would she be like, “Oh, thank you so much for bringing my phone. I never leave it anywhere but in my pocket. Imaginings of getting my hands on you must have clouded my mind for a second.” Well, maybe not the last part. Or hopefully…

The inability to be decisive in personal matters had plagued Randi since elementary school. If she was at a tournament sparring with a karate opponent, she would know what to do. Her body would react without needing the nanosecond to run the move through her brain, but this was different.

“I don’t want Jenna to be mad at me,” she said to Byron. “And I don’t want her to decide I’m too clingy and give up on us. But she may need Gupta’s reports and she may need her phone and I would rather know she is safe, even if it means I lose my shot with her. If I’m going to mess up, I’d rather it be because I acted out of concern than because I didn’t act at all.”

Randi scooped up Jenna’s cell phone, grabbed her coat, and headed out the door.

CHAPTER 12

Relief flooded Audra Lockwood’s face when she opened the front door and ushered Jenna inside. “Lieutenant, I’m so glad you came tonight,” she gushed. The woman was dressed like she was heading out to the opera—diamonds, pearls, and all.

“Were you planning to go out?” Jenna asked in confusion. Mrs. Lockwood engaged the locks behind them and led her into the formal living room with white couches and windows facing the street.

“No.” Now Mrs. Lockwood took on a confused aspect. Jenna supposed it’s what she wore around the house.

“Well,” she fudged, not wanting to appear ignorant regarding the fashion choices of the mega-rich. Jenna suddenly felt very underdressed. “I’m glad you found the will. May I ask where it was seeing how your attorney couldn’t find it before?”

Mrs. Lockwood lit on a sofa and reached graceful fingers to play with the jewel dangling at her throat, which drew Jenna’s gaze to the low cut of her gown flashing milky cleavage at her. “I searched everywhere, Jenna, is it?” Limpid eyes caught Jenna’s as she opted to sit across and out of the vixen’s reach. Randi was right. This woman does give off a ton of sexual energy. I guess I was too focused on the murder to notice before.

“I scoured through Mitchell’s home office, every drawer,” she continued when Jenna didn’t reply to her query. “And in his wall safe, all the places you would think an important document would be. And do you know where I found it?”

“No, ma’am,” Jenna answered. “Where was it?”

“In the glove box of his silver sports car,” she announced in surprised dismay. “Whatever was it doing there? If he was going to see Cedric about any additional changes, I would have thought he would at least inform me, even if I wasn’t consulted. But no wonder Cedric couldn’t find it. Who would search there?”

“May I look at it?” An unsettled concern germinated in Jenna’s gut as she puzzled over the odd location of the will. Opening the single drawer of an antique end table, Mrs. Lockwood drew out a fully stuffed envelope and rose to hand it to her.

“It wasn’t sealed,” she avowed, and shifted to sit on the couch beside Jenna.

Her feminine proximity made Jenna uncomfortable, but Mrs. Lockwood could be useful. She should recognize anything out of place in the will, if such wording was in it, so she took a deep breath and tried to ignore her all-consuming presence.

“Thank you.” Jenna slid on a pair of rubber gloves she perpetually carried in her pocket and removed the folded bundle of papers from the envelope. She scanned the pages for anything which stood out as different from the one she had already studied. “Here’s the part about what the family gets,” she stated, and held the page where Mrs. Lockwood could see it. “No mention of Brett here.”

“So sad.” Mrs. Lockwood lowered her chin and shook her head. “I’m going to give her a portion of mine. I know he couldn’t accept how different she is, but he was still her father, and she deserves to be included.”

Jenna turned the next few pages until she noticed a line buried in a garble of lawyer speak. “What do you know about this?” Mrs. Lockwood leaned in close, pressing up against Jenna’s shoulder. She disregarded the virtual sparks of electricity, settling her attention on the unfamiliar passage. “‘If the primary beneficiary becomes disqualified for inheritance or deceases before the execution of this last will and testament, her portion of the estate transfers to the aforementioned legal executer to dispense at his discretion.’ Does this mean if you can’t inherit for some reason, your lawyer gets the twenty-five million?” Jenna’s heart was racing, but not because of the wealthy widow’s vicinity.

“I don’t understand.” Mrs. Lockwood straightened and stared at the page with her mouth agape. “Mitchell wanted Cedric to have the Mazzanti and a nice tidy sum, but he wouldn’t have put this in his will. If I died before him or at the same time, he would want my half to be split between his children, brother, Carla, the church, but… this doesn’t look right to me.”

Jenna flipped to the last page. “Is this your husband’s signature?”

She peered at it and nodded. “Yes, I’m positive, but I don’t understand. I need to call Cedric and ask him.” She started to stand but Jenna grabbed her arm.

“I don’t think you should. Isn’t Mr. Dugan the executor who stands to inherit all this money? And note the date. He signed this version only a week ago. Why would Mr. Lockwood require a new will if he made one after Tiffany turned eighteen?”

“Last week?” Mrs. Lockwood’s expression became more anxious as she pivoted on the cushion to face Jenna. “Mitchell and Cedric took a quick golfing trip to Florida. They go at least once every winter, so they don’t lose their swings while there’s snow on the ground. I recall Mitchell confessing he must have drunk too much on the trip, because he couldn’t even remember his golf scores. He felt bad because he never gets drunk, Jenna. Mitchell rarely drank at all.”

Jenna slipped her hand into her left jeans pocket to a startling realization. “My phone! I must have left it…” She jumped up and patted down all her pockets.

“I have a phone you can use.” The glamorous blonde bombshell whisked to her feet and turned toward the interior of the house. A gasp escaped her lips, and she seized Jenna’s arm. Releasing it, she breathed a sigh, her other hand pressing to her heart. “Oh, Cedric, you frightened me. But what are you doing here? Did you need something? I found the newest version of Mitchell’s will and was showing it to Lieutenant Ferrari. We wanted to ask–” She stopped talking the instant she realized he pointed a gun at her.

“Getting greedy, Mr. Dugan?” Jenna asked in a stern voice. “A million-dollar car and a reasonable amount of cash wasn’t enough for you?”

“Reasonable?” The common looking middle-aged balding man seemed entirely out of place in the sparkling white and gold living room. He bit the word with resentment and narrowed his glare on Jenna. “You didn’t know him. Arrogant holier-than-thou business tycoon with his one lucky break betting on Google.”

“Which I presume you did not?” Jenna’s brain ticked as she schemed how she would get the gun away from him. Hers was still in the car. Randi, I swear I’ll never ridicule your instincts again!

“Nobody knew what kind of profits those early dot coms would rake in,” he railed. “Mitchell was a regular guy before then. In fact, I was the one with the advanced degree making more money, and he was only a business major trying to gain some experience. But even in high school, it was always Mitchell Lockwood. The girls had fan clubs for him, stupid jock. They thought he was handsome, and he played baseball, but I had the brains. I was the one who was going places.”

“Mitchell was handsome!” Mrs. Lockwood exclaimed in protest. “You killed him?” For the first time since Jenna had met the woman, her sexual attraction machine switched off and she glared at Dugan with righteous fury. “Why? Because he had more girlfriends in high school?”

“No,” he snapped back, keeping his aim trained on Jenna, the person who presented him with the greater risk. “For a lifetime of insults, berating, and having to play second fiddle to a man who had fewer brains and did less work than me.”

“But he was always your friend,” Mrs. Lockwood protested. “He retained you and paid you very well to represent us and his business interests.”

“Yeah,” Dugan retorted. “Like his lawn guy or pool boy or one of the maids. Just the hired help, but not a member of his exclusive circle.”

“That isn’t true!”

Jenna feared for Audra when her angry outburst resulted in Dugan’s barrel veering in her direction. “So, you put the murder weapon in Mr. Branson’s car,” Jenna stated, drawing his attention back to her.

“I had to,” he explained. “You cops were too stupid to find it in Audra’s rose garden. I knew it would be suspicious if I left it somewhere too obvious, but I was sure real detectives would dig around in the flowerbeds. Aren’t those favorite hiding places for murder weapons and bodies and stuff? But no. You looked everywhere else. I retrieved it and was going to try another conspicuous hiding spot to implicate Audra, but y’all weren’t treating her like a suspect at all. Aren’t you supposed to accuse the spouse first? Then, when I went to Blue Ridge Cleaning to go over the business paperwork with Branson, I noticed he left his car unlocked like an idiot, so I figured I could frame him for the murder and arrange a little accident for the poor, bereaved widow.”

“You want to kill me too!” Audra blasted as her perfectly manicured fingers balled into fists at her sides.

“You are the one who drove me to all this,” he snarled and waved the pistol. “No one can maintain their sanity around you. You are a tease, leading me on, flirting with everyone, making unspoken promises you never keep. You didn’t even turn to me for comfort after Mitchell died. Instead, you throw yourself at the detective!”

“I did no such thing! I never promised you any sexual favors and I have always been true to my husband,” Mrs. Lockwood claimed. “I can’t help it if people find me attractive or think because I am being politely attentive, I have some ulterior motive. It’s simply the way I am.”

Well, they said she flirts with everybody. Jenna needed to seize control of this situation, and fast.

“But why now, Mr. Dugan?” she inquired. “If you’ve held this grudge against Mr. Lockwood, why not kill him sooner?”

“Because of what happened on our trip to Florida last week. I resented him for years but didn’t always wish to kill him. It was the final straw, and I couldn’t take it anymore. We were with two millionaire buddies of his and their caddies, and these mosquitoes wouldn’t leave me alone. I hit a slice into a sand trap, and he laughed at me. They all laughed. Goofy Cedric. Too bad he can’t attract women the way he does bugs. Too bad all his investments go down the toilet. Poor Cedric always missing the mark. Well I didn’t miss the mark on New Year’s Eve, by God! But if he was getting payback, I wanted to be paid. So I helped him celebrate his golfing victory with a little something extra in his champagne, then typed up a new version of his will and got him to sign it. I didn’t plan on killing you, Audra. You were expected to take the fall for his murder. No one was supposed to take you seriously.”

“What about me?” Jenna demanded. “You know what happens when you kill a police officer.”

“Which is why Audra is going to kill you before she commits suicide. If you hadn’t come over here to get the new will, I’d have been able to help the grieving widow fall down the stairs, but now I must improvise. Hopefully your lab will be astute enough to determine the traces of potting soil originated from Audra’s garden, pointing the finger back at her.”

“But why would she kill me when we haven’t made the determination yet?” Jenna asked. “And why on earth would she go to all this trouble to get her hands on Lockwood’s money only to blow her brains out? My team won’t buy this. She should be on a plane to Cape Verde or Cyprus with her money by now, not sitting around doing the murder-suicide nonsense.”

“I can testify how unbalanced she was, how she confessed to me and how guilty she felt over it all,” Dugan asserted. He took a step closer, taking aim at Jenna.

She sucked in a breath, tensing her muscles. I can dive for the floor, throw a lamp at him. I’ll bet he can’t hit a moving target. But if he turns the gun on Audra…

A shadow behind the deranged lawyer caught Jenna’s attention, but she maintained her poise so as not to alert Dugan. Randi crept up behind him on silent feet gripping a cut-off broom handle in her fists.

“Wait!” Jenna shouted, raising an empty palm to him. “I have another idea!”

He snarled with impatience. “What?”

“This!” Randi shouted and whacked him in the head with the wooden rod. The man about her height spun around in a daze and Jenna leapt to wrench the pistol from his hand before he teetered to the floor, probably seeing some cartoon stars circling overhead.

“Am I ever glad to see you!” Jenna’s face lit with the joy and relief flooding her being. “But what on earth are you doing here?”

Jenna wanted to hug and kiss Randi until the sun came up, but not in front of Mrs. Lockwood. She must maintain some professionalism.

“Who are you, and how did you know we needed help?” Audra added.

“This is my girlfriend, Dr. Miranda McLeod,” Jenna introduced.

“And you ran off and left your phone on my table,” Randi replied. Laying the broomstick aside, she pulled the phone from her pocket and held it out.

Jenna stepped closer and took it with a grateful grin. “Excuse me while I secure the perp.” She didn’t have metal cuffs, but Jenna always had some zip ties and strapped them on his wrists behind his back.

“I parked a couple of houses down the street,” Randi explained. “There were two cars already in the driveway and my truck is so big. Anyway, when I walked across the front yard, I could see through the window. I wasn’t spying on you or anything,” she assured Jenna with a hesitant expression of dread. “Really.”

Jenna straightened and glanced at Mrs. Lockwood. “Randi thought you were hitting on me, too.” She flashed Randi an amorous grin.

“No, Dr. McLeod.” Audra took a step back and tried to appear innocent. “I was just telling them, that’s me. It’s the only way I know how to relate to people. I’m not trying to steal your girlfriend. Really.”

“I am relieved to hear it, Mrs. Lockwood,” Randi admitted. “And while I’m here, I am so sorry about your husband. The Lockwood Science Building is a tremendous asset to the college where I teach. Anyway, seeing what was going on in here, I knew I couldn’t bust in the front. Fortunately, your perpetrator, I presume, left the back door unlocked. I spotted the broom handle lying in the sliding glass door track and figured it would do better than bare hands and feet to take him out.”

Dugan rolled on his side and moaned. “What the?”

Seeing the nervous look on Randi’s face beckoned Jenna, reeling her in like a bass on a hook. She took her hands and kissed her cheek. “I suppose this makes us even,” she declared, in reference to the time she had rescued Randi from a similar situation. “Cedric Dugan, you are under arrest for the murder of Mitchell Lockwood, the attempted murder of Audra Lockwood, and the attempted murder of Roanoke Police Lieutenant Detective Ferrari. You have the right to remain silent.”

* * *

Friday, January 7

Wrapping the case had taken all day Thursday and most of Friday, but the mayor got to give his announcement and Captain Myers overflowed with pride in his detectives. Jenna declared it had been a team effort, and while only she was present to make the arrest, it would not have been possible without her fellow officers and the dedicated lab workers who provided the forensic evidence required for a conviction. Lawyer Cedric Dugan had immediately initiated his own plea bargain.

Jenna had been hesitant to mention Randi’s part but included in her report how she had interrupted Dugan’s lethal plans by coming to return the phone she had left at her house. Now, as she lay on Randi’s couch wrapped in her arms, she felt guilty for not giving her more formal recognition. “I didn’t want you to be stuck at the police station filling out paperwork all day long,” Jenna justified. “It isn’t because I thought you played a minimal role in apprehending him. To be honest, Randi, you may have saved both mine and Audra’s lives.”

Randi gave her a squeeze and bathed her in radiant affection. “I don’t care about credit. Besides, I’m sure you had a plan, had everything under control, and were never in any actual danger.”

Jenna smiled at Randi’s use of her own words from a month ago. “I had some ideas, but I was in real danger,” Jenna admitted. “More so because any move I might take could have gotten Mrs. Lockwood killed, and I just couldn’t go through that again—not this soon after Kiley. You not only saved my life, sweetie; you preserved my sanity. I’m sorry I didn’t put enough trust in your Spidey senses. I won’t make the same mistake twice. But why did you look so nervous at the Lockwoods’ house?” She twisted to face Randi and smoothed back her hair. Randi had laid her glasses aside, and Jenna gazed into eyes more clouded with doubt than she would like to see in them.

“Because…” Randi leaned her forehead to touch Jenna’s, avoiding scrutiny. “I know you don’t need my help, you are the best at what you do, and you don’t want a clingy, needy girlfriend to follow you around. You were upset with me when you left, and… and when the lab buzzed your phone with the analysis results, I may have snuck a little peek.”

Jenna’s brows knit together, and she stroked Randi’s cheek. “You may have? The messages hadn’t been opened.”

“Yeah, but I could tell they were saying nothing matched your suspect, so I knew the real killer was still out there somewhere. I didn’t want you to think I was checking up on you and Audra because I didn’t trust you or something lame, because I do trust you. I was worried and I just couldn’t do nothing.”

Jenna’s lips found Randi’s, indulging herself in the feel and taste of them. Each time she engaged like this, she found herself more irresistibly drawn to her, more satisfied and impassioned, more desirous to remain in her company.

“I’m glad you cared enough to drive out there and risk my disapproval to check on me. And it sure worked out well when I forgot to grab my phone, giving you the excuse you needed, because I never leave it anywhere. Maybe there are guardian angels, and maybe yours was watching out for me, too.”

Jenna sensed Randi relax somewhat, doubt being shoved aside by hope. “I’m new at this and I don’t want to mess it up, Jenna. Everything was so easy in my relationship with Eric because… I guess it simply didn’t matter as much to me, and I knew he wasn’t going anywhere. But with you…”

She touched her lips tenderly to Randi’s before releasing a pleasurable sigh. “Sweetie, you don’t have to try so hard. You’ve already caught me—hook, line, and sinker. And, yeah, I display a wide range of emotions, and I may get ticked off or say stupid things, but I’m not going anywhere either. So if I’m acting out of line, just say so, or pop me one, or drag me into a passionate kiss and see how fast I shift gears. I’m still a little shattered, so you’ll have to be careful not to cut yourself on the pieces, but don’t be nervous you’ll say or do one wrong thing and I’ll stop wanting to be with you, because that’s not going to happen.”

A deluge of joy rushed through Randi bathing her in a wave of euphoria. Her body was aware of Jenna’s touch and her heart danced with giddy delight at her words. With one arm holding her close, Randi combed the fingers of her other hand through Jenna’s short inky crop, adding more stimulation from the feel of its silky softness. “In my church there are these stained-glass windows, but they aren’t merely painted scenes on panes. The artist fashioned them from a mosaic of tiny bits of broken glass in an array of colors, each nothing by itself, all fitting together in the most dazzlingly beautiful display. They are the thing I admire and appreciate most about the building because they are so unique and when the sun shines through them, each of the little jagged tiles refracts its own light in a spectacular symphony of color. I guess what I’m trying to say is, sometimes broken things shine the brightest, and you are so beautiful to me, like the mosaic of the church windows. I’ve always given my heart easily, but this is different. It’s real, not just a mental conjuring. You are here holding me in your arms, wanting me despite all my nerdy quirks and inhibitions.” She trailed her fingers from Jenna’s hair to press her hand to her heart and savoured the pulse beating beneath her palm, adjusting her own heartrate to keep time with it.

A soft glow encompassed Jenna’s face. “I love your quirkiness.”

“And I love your dedication.”

Jenna’s mouth closed over hers possessively. As the kiss deepened, Jenna guided Randi’s hand from the center of her chest over her breast, sending euphoric shivers of desire surging through her, urging her to relinquish control, forsake insecurities, and abandon herself to the moment she had waited for all her life.

When Jenna released her lips, she breathed huskily into her ear, “Whatever you want, however fast or slow you want to move, tonight is all about you, Randi.”

“No,” she moaned with longing, her voice a thick intoxicating seduction. “It’s all about us.”

That night, Randi lingered at every base before sliding into home plate, delirious with ecstasy, content to soar high above the mundane on the wings of Jenna’s love. She broke every boundary, staked unexplored territory, and endeavoured to comprehend a tacit language she had never encountered before. And as she held on through the amazing rollercoaster ride, to Randi’s surprise and delight, she felt completely safe to lay herself bare in Jenna’s hands.

OTHER BOOKS BY EDALE LANE

Merchants of Milan, book one of the Night Flyer Trilogy Get It Here

Secrets of Milan, book two of the Night Flyer Trilogy Get It Here

Chaos in Milan, book three of the Night Flyer Trilogy Get It Here

Missing in Milan, book four of the Night Flyer Series Get It Here

Shadows over Milan, book five of the Night Flyer Series Get It Here

Heart of Sherwood Get It Here

Viking Quest Get It Here

Daring Duplicity, the Wellington Mysteries, Vol.1 Get It Here

Perilous Passages: The Wellington Mysteries, Vol. 2 Get It Here

Walks with Spirits Get It Here

Sigrid and Elyn: A Tale from Norvegr Get It Here

Meeting over Murder Get It Here

Skimming around Murder Get It Here

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Edale Lane is an award-winning author (Rainbow Awards, Imaginarium Awards, Lesfic Bard Awards) who is realizing her dream of being a full-time writer. She is the alter-ego of author Melodie Romeo, (Tribute in Blood, Terror in Time, and others) who founded Past and Prologue Press. Both identities are qualified to write historical fiction by virtue of an MA in History and 24 years spent as a teacher, along with skill and dedication regarding research. A native of Vicksburg, MS, Edale (or Melodie) is also a musician who loves animals, gardening, and nature. After driving an 18-wheeler cross-country for eight years, she now lives with her partner in beautiful Chilliwack, B.C. Canada.