Page 35 of Beyond Her Reach (Bree Taggert #10)
His boss’s girlfriend, Olivia Cruz, was a former investigative journalist turned true crime writer. Her career depended on her ability to make people trust her. She was also female, petite, and not physically intimidating.
“Good idea.” Morgan turned back to Troy. “Did you see anyone else yesterday afternoon? Did you get any deliveries or take a video call with anyone in your home office?”
Troy shook his head. “I spent the day looking for a code error.”
Not helpful.
They arrived at the station, and Lance navigated the vehicle through the throng of news crews in the parking lot. Reporters peered into the minivan as it crawled to a parking spot.
“Don’t say anything,” Morgan reminded Troy. “But do hold your head up. Act like you haven’t done anything wrong.” She wished optics were less important than evidence.
They stepped out of the minivan into a crush of reporters. Lance moved to the front of the trio and took point. The crowd yielded to his size.
“Is your client a suspect in last night’s murder?” a man yelled.
Morgan answered without stopping. “This is a routine follow-up interview. We have no reason to believe this morning’s interview has anything to do with an additional crime.”
A reporter tried to step between Lance and Morgan. With barely a motion, Lance body-blocked him by simply pausing his step, letting the reporter’s momentum carry him directly into Lance’s much larger frame.
“Oof.” The reporter stumbled, then snapped, “ Excuse me.”
Morgan ignored his extended phone. She never rewarded rudeness. Instead, she addressed a woman on her other side. “We don’t know anything about what happened to that poor woman yesterday, but our thoughts are with her family.”
At the entrance to the station, Lance opened the glass door and held it for Morgan and Troy. Then he shut it pointedly before any reporters could follow them inside.
“If you don’t need me in there,” Lance said, “I’ll call Olivia and get her to clear her calendar for later today. I assume you want to track down the cleaners ASAP.”
“Yes. I’d appreciate that.”
Lance backed away as a deputy escorted them to an interview room.
Morgan took her seat, drew out her legal pad, and set her tote at her feet.
Troy had barely settled before Bree and Matt entered.
Bree set a manila folder on the table and faced Troy with an intense expression.
She listed the people present and time of day for the record, then went through the Miranda warning process again, crossing all the t’s and dotting all the i’s to ensure the interview’s admissibility in a future courtroom.
Then she rested her forearms on the table, leaning closer to Troy’s personal space. “Where were you yesterday afternoon between the hours of noon and four p.m.?”
The question lifted the hairs on the back of Morgan’s neck. The interview request was related to yesterday’s murder.
Thankfully, Troy had apparently listened to Morgan’s warnings because he looked at her instead of answering.
“Don’t answer that.” Morgan kept her gaze on the sheriff. “Why are you asking?”
Bree, however, leveled her focus entirely on Troy. “Because another woman was killed yesterday. Someone broke into her home and cut her throat. Sound familiar?”
Morgan ignored the ending quip. “What does that have to do with my client?”
Bree blinked, her gaze darting to Morgan momentarily before returning to watch Troy as she answered. “The victim’s name is Janet Hargrave.”
Troy froze. The color drained from his face. He knew her.
“Janet?” he whispered in a hoarse voice.
Morgan touched his arm to silence him.
Bree shifted her focus to Morgan. “Mr. Ryder dated the victim.”
Well, shit. Morgan had not expected that. She opened her mouth to request time alone with her client, but Troy shook his head and kept talking. “Yeah. We dated, but we broke up months ago.” His tone was incredulous.
“Who broke up with whom?” the sheriff asked.
Troy shook himself, clearly trying to recover from the shock. “Janet ended the relationship, but it wasn’t a long-term thing. We’d only been seeing each other for a few months.”
“Why did she break up with you?” the sheriff asked.
Troy’s shoulders lifted a hair and dropped again. “We weren’t compatible.” He paused. When he continued, it seemed like the words physically hurt him to say. “She wanted kids. I can’t have any.”
“Were you angry?” the sheriff asked.
He lifted a shoulder. “No. Our relationship was pretty casual.”
“Did you see other people?” the sheriff asked.
“We never discussed being exclusive,” Troy evaded.
“When did you last talk to her?”
Morgan interrupted the sheriff’s line of questioning. “Do you have any actual evidence against my client in this case? Surely you didn’t bring him in just because he casually dated the victim months ago.”
“Not yet,” the sheriff admitted.
“Then why are we here?” Morgan asked.
The sheriff talked directly to Troy. “The DNA test results on the box cutter found in your Porsche came back. The blood is Kelly’s. If I searched your house today, would I find the blade used to kill Janet Hargrave?”
“No!” Troy leaped to his feet. Morgan touched his arm, and he eased back into the chair. He settled himself, smoothing the front of his shirt. “I had all my locks changed and a security system installed yesterday.”
“That was fast,” the sheriff said. “How did you get that done?”
This time, Troy didn’t hesitate. “I paid a premium. Someone had clearly been in my house. Someone stole my car. I didn’t want to think about that happening again.
Though even with the new alarm, I don’t know if I want to stay there.
The idea that someone was in my house without me knowing is disconcerting. ”
“I’m sure it would be.” But the sheriff’s tone didn’t suggest she believed him.
Morgan realized the sheriff hadn’t given all the DNA results. Sometimes what wasn’t said was just as important as what was. “What about the sock?”
The sheriff blinked. Finally. Could this be a chink in the case? “The blood on the sock did not belong to Kelly.”
“Do you have a picture of the sock?” Morgan asked.
The sheriff drew a photograph out of her folder.
“That’s not mine,” Troy said. “I only wear black socks.”
Morgan had to work to keep the relief from showing on her face, but if the DNA from the sock had matched Kelly Gibson’s, then Troy would likely be in handcuffs at that very moment.
The sheriff slid a paper from her folder. “I have a warrant to obtain a DNA sample from your client.” The sheriff rose and opened the door. A forensic tech entered with a DNA collection kit.
Morgan glanced over the warrant. Everything was in order, so there was nothing she could do except watch as the tech swabbed Troy’s cheek.
The process was invasive and humiliating.
Being forced to open your mouth and allow someone to collect a sample of your body was intimate and humbling.
Troy seemed to shrink as the tech finished up.
Morgan’s mind whirled. The blood could have come from the cut on Troy’s forehead, but then why didn’t he just say that? If the blood wasn’t Troy’s, then whose was it? The actual killer’s, she hoped.
“My client wasn’t driving his vehicle when the box cutter was found in it.”
“You say,” Bree said.
“You can’t prove otherwise,” Morgan returned. “And without a DNA match, there’s no evidence that the sock is relevant to the murder.”
The sheriff’s head tilted at Troy. “So, I’ll ask again. Where were you yesterday between the hours of noon and four p.m.?”
“I was home, working,” Troy said.
“Alone?” the sheriff asked.
“No.” He paused. “My house cleaners were there.”
The sheriff picked up the hesitation. Her focus tightened. “They were with you the entire time?”
“They were at my house from about twelve thirty to three thirty,” he said.
“I’ll need their contact information.” The sheriff pulled out a notepad and pen. With a pointed stare at Troy, she clicked the pen.
Troy swallowed. His Adam’s apple undulated. “There are two women. I text with Maria.”
The sheriff’s brow rose. “Do you know her last name?”
Troy shook his head. “No.”
“The second woman?” the sheriff asked.
“I don’t know her name.” Troy winced. “Maria’s English isn’t great. I don’t think the other woman speaks anything but Spanish. At least, that’s what they speak when they talk to each other.”
“How do you communicate with Maria?” Doubt laced the sheriff’s question.
“We text. I use a translator app.”
“Do you know where she lives?” the sheriff asked.
Troy shook his head. “No.”
Bree asked, “What can you tell me about her? How old is she? Is she married? Kids?”
Troy’s face flushed, and he looked at his hands. “Married, I think. When you have to digitally translate your conversations, you don’t have many.”
The sheriff deadpanned, “You let people you don’t know anything about into your home?”
“That’s why I don’t leave them alone,” Troy retorted.
The sheriff poised her pen over her notepad. “I’ll need Maria’s number, and we will contact her.”
Morgan thought she would have a better chance of getting the cleaner to cooperate. She would do her best to make contact with Maria first, before a call from the sheriff spooked her.
Troy read the number from his phone.
“Are you arresting my client?” Morgan asked, gambling that the sheriff wasn’t ready to do that.
They had the bloody box cutter, but the circumstances under which they’d found it were strange.
Morgan could interject reasonable doubt as to whether Troy had been the driver of the car at the time.
Sheriff Taggert liked her cases tied up with a tight bow.
She wasn’t the sort of cop to arrest someone prematurely, only to be forced to drop the charges and release them later.
Arresting people without enough evidence looked sketchy.
“No.” The sheriff tapped a finger on the table, then added, “Not yet .”
“Then this interview is concluded.” Morgan rose.
The sheriff stood. “We’ll be talking again soon.”