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CHAPTER 16
“Wouldn’t you know?” Johnson said as the body bag carrying
Merritt Margrove’s corpse was slammed into the back of the ambulance. “The lieutenant finally hands you the case that has consumed you for years and a primary witness, the damned attorney for the man convicted of the crime, has his throat slit before you even have a chance to question him. How’s that for irony?”
“Or convenience,” Thomas said as he eyed the trailer where the attorney had lost his life. The place that probably had looked peaceful, an aging single-wide mobile home nestled in the snowy woods, was now crawling with cops, vehicles parked between the trees, yellow tape strung around the perimeter, the quietude disturbed. Inside the aging mobile home was a bloody crime scene, the forensic team and ME already having examined the mobile home and surrounding area. All the while, snow just kept falling, disturbing any footprints and tire tracks.
And it was cold as a mother up here.
Despite his down jacket and gloves and hat, he felt the chill, the bitter wind harsh against his face.
Johnson didn’t seem to notice as she studied the grounds, watching the ambulance roll away. Things had been tense between them since the meeting in Gleason’s office when he’d felt as if his own partner had been holding out on him. He’d confronted her in the hallway, telling her that she’d crossed a line with him, that either they were a team of equals who shared info and worked together, or they weren’t.
Johnson hadn’t seemed chastised as they’d walked down the crowded hallway, jostled by a steady stream of cops heading the opposite direction. Instead, she’d thrown him a disbelieving look. “Wearea team,” she’d said, skirting a potted plant in the reception area. “We share information, but that doesn’t mean either of us is looking over the other’s shoulder. I guess I should have told you about asking for new DNA results. I thought you trusted me.”
“We just need to work together.”
“I was just being efficient. I figure that’s a good thing, right? We weren’t just spinning our wheels.”
“But you didn’t let me know.”
“Oh, Christ, Thomas, I wasn’t keeping anything from you! Jesus! It’s just there’s a lot going on and we were called in to report to the lieutenant before I could share.” She’d let out a huff. “Get over your bad self. Let’s just solve the damned case. Together.”
“That’s all I want.”
“Is it?” She’d pushed open the outside door, letting in the cold air before he’d had a chance to open it for her. “Then open your mind. You and Gleason both. It could just be, you know, that Jonas McIntyre isn’t the killer.”
“You weren’t here then.”
“Precisely,” she’d said. “Fresh eyes. Could be the department could use a pair.”
“Just don’t undercut me again.”
“Ouch. Undercut? Seriously? Is that the sound of wounded male pride I’m hearing?” She’d reached his SUV. “Wow.”
And then, before they’d had a chance to drive to Kara McIntyre’s place to interview her, Thomas had received the call from dispatch after Kara had phoned 9-1-1. They’d ended up here at Margrove’s mountain retreat. It had taken them longer than anticipated because of some accident that had clogged the main highway and they’d been diverted to a secondary road that had barely been plowed.
As Kara McIntyre had reported, the lawyer had been murdered, his throat sliced, bleeding out in the space between his coffee table and a couch. A cigarette had smoldered in the futon, though the place hadn’t burned down, the TV was still on low, a near-empty bottle of scotch on the table with an ashtray full of butts, a paper plate with the remains of a slice of pizza, just the nearly burned crust.
But there were things missing.
Important things.
Blood spatter had stained the coffee table, red beads visible on a pair of glasses, the ashtray, glass and bottle, the greasy paper plate, even a pen. But there were clear spots where the marred table showed no signs of blood, a square patch about the size of a laptop computer, a smaller one that could have been where Margrove’s cell phone had rested, and then a larger area, not as defined. Notes? A legal pad with some pages having been torn out. Maybe.
He hadn’t been robbed.
His wallet was still in his jacket pocket in the parka hanging on a hook near the front door, his wedding ring and another one, with what appeared to be diamonds, still on his fingers. And a small safe in the bedroom hadn’t been disturbed. It had been closed, but unlocked, a loaded pistol and a bag of marijuana left, though there had been no personal documents.
“You think this is Jonas McIntyre’s work?”
He hesitated. Rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. “Not sure. But it seems a little too pat. Yeah, someone close to McIntyre was killed, the weapon of choice being a blade of some kind, like before, but it seems almost like a setup. First of all, why would Jonas McIntyre kill his lawyer? After all, the guy was the one person who stood by him, worked for a couple of decades trying to get Jonas out, so why turn on him?”
“Anger issues?”
“I don’t know.” Thomas wasn’t buying it. “The word is that Jonas McIntyre is a new man, found God and all that.”
“Maybe an act.”