Page 25 of Don’t Say a Word (Angelhart Investigations #2)

She left, and I sat at my desk and looked through our shared drive at the background reports for pending employees at Logan Monroe’s resort.

Tess had already confirmed all information that could be confirmed by phone or online, but left a note that one of us needed to drive up to Prescott to talk to a reference who hadn’t been reachable.

Maybe I’d have time tomorrow or Thursday.

It had to be done by Friday. It was a nice drive, but would take me half the day to get there and back.

But since Tess had done everything else and was hosting mom’s birthday party, I sent her a note that I’d go to Prescott.

At quarter to four, Detective King walked in, solo. I had considered leaving at 3:31 p.m., but figured that was petty.

I walked out of my office and said, “Detective King?” I had no intention of bringing her into my office so she could snoop, so I offered, “Water? Soda?”

“I’m fine,” she said brusquely. “I just have a few questions.”

I plopped down on one of the waiting area couches. “Shoot.”

She hesitated, then sat across from me. Made a point to take out her notepad, flip through the pages.

King was in her forties with wide hips and what appeared to be a perpetual sour expression.

Highlights in her brown hair had grown out well past the point that she needed a touch-up because her gray hair was obvious.

I wasn’t being judgy—okay, maybe a little—but she looked tired and preoccupied, and she definitely didn’t want to be here.

“How do you know Lena Clark?”

“I don’t, I met her yesterday.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“In her office.”

“Did she hire you?”

“No.”

“Who hired you?”

“For what?”

She frowned. “Why did you meet with Clark?”

“To get her opinion about Elijah Martinez.”

King did a double take. “What?”

“To get her opinion about Elijah Martinez,” I repeated.

“I heard you. Who are you working for?”

“I have a lot of clients.”

“Why are you being evasive?”

“I’m not. I do have a lot of clients.” Right now, only two—three if I counted Mrs. Martinez—but I have had a lot of clients in the past, and anticipate having a lot in the future. She didn’t need to know any of that.

“Who hired you to investigate anything surrounding Elijah Martinez’s death?”

I flirted with the idea of telling her it was confidential because I didn’t like her attitude, but then decided she’d probably find out anyway since it wasn’t a secret.

“Alina Martinez.”

She blinked, surprised. This woman would never be able to play poker with an Angelhart.

“His mother?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I wanted to say, To do your job , but I didn’t, no matter what I thought of her half-assed investigation.

I also didn’t want to give her so much information that she might pull the you’re-interfering-with-a-police-investigation card. So I said, “Alina doesn’t know where Elijah was after he left work Friday night until he died in the park. His phone and backpack are missing. I’m retracing his steps.”

Which is what you should have done , I thought.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. What was she going to say? There was nothing in the police report that indicated she had investigated that angle.

Then she said something that surprised me. “We believe that someone in the homeless community came across his body and took his possessions. This has happened in the past in similar situations. He died between one and three a.m., and wasn’t discovered until after five in the morning.”

“That wasn’t in the report.”

“An oversight, but ultimately unimportant. The chances of recovery are slim to none. We added the cell phone serial number to the list of stolen items we regularly provide to pawn shops and secondhand stores. If it shows up, we’ll know.”

It wasn’t unimportant if Elijah was murdered, but I didn’t say that.

Rachel changed gears. “Lena Clark called you yesterday at 5:14 and you spoke for three minutes.”

“Yes.

“What did you speak about?”

I knew Angie had told them I planned to meet with her today, so there was no harm in sharing that information—and it might help Angie. “Lena offered to facilitate a meeting between myself and another student who had insight into Elijah’s state of mind in the days leading up to his death.”

“Why?”

“Like I said, I’m looking into his last days in order to give his mother closure. You closed the investigation and she still has questions.”

We were getting into the repetitive phase of the interview, and I was ready to send her packing.

“He died of an accidental drug overdose,” King snapped.

“You can request the autopsy report. I explained it to Mrs. Martinez.” She cleared her throat, softened her tone just a bit.

“It’s a tragedy, and I understand why she might find it sudden and unexpected, but I don’t know what you might be able to learn that will give her peace. Her son is still dead.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “filling in blanks helps the survivors.”

Defensively, she said, “If I had found any information about where he obtained the drugs or who he had been partying with, I would have included it in the report and forwarded the case to the Drug Enforcement Bureau for further investigation.”

“Why didn’t you?” I asked bluntly.

“Because there were no leads and I couldn’t investigate indefinitely. I’m sure you know, considering your brother used to be a cop, that we’re severely understaffed. I don’t have the luxury to pursue investigations when there are no signs of foul play.”

“Sure.”

“What’s with the attitude?”

Her overreaction was unexpected and made me curious. “I don’t have an attitude.”

“I have been getting shit about this case. A cop who spoke to the student body created untold problems for me—I’ve had to field dozens of calls from school administrators, students, teachers, parents.

I’ve finally had to send them to the PIO because I can’t do my job if I’m explaining over and over that an accidental drug overdose doesn’t warrant further investigation.

And that’s probably why Mrs. Martinez is spending her hard-earned money on you. ”

I didn’t correct her that I was working for free. I doubt she would care.

“Why do you care if a PI is trying to find out where a teenage honor student obtained drugs that resulted in his death? Whether he took them voluntarily or not, that’s a dealer on the street who’s going to sell more drugs to more kids who are going to end up dead.”

“I don’t care,” King said in a tone that belied her words. “Do whatever you want, Margo. But Lena Clark was murdered. It was after-hours, most students and faculty were gone. Her ex-husband lives out-of-state. Her boyfriend, a colleague, found her body at 5:25—only minutes after she talked to you.”

“Have you looked at her boyfriend?”

“We are. We are looking at several people. This investigation is less than twenty-four hours old. And I don’t understand why you are so closemouthed about what you and Lena Clark talked about.”

“I told you what’s relevant.”

“I doubt that.”

I bristled. “Not my problem.”

Tess and Theo walked in laughing. Theo was carrying a box. Tess looked surprised to see the detective, her eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“Is there anything else?” I asked King as I stood.

“I hope you’ll make yourself available if I have follow-up questions,” she said.

I didn’t say anything because she didn’t phrase it as a question.

She left, and I rolled my eyes. “Wow.”

“You were rude,” Tess said.

“She was rude first,” I said. “I don’t like her.”

“You think she’s dirty?”

“No,” I said and meant it. She didn’t have the vibe of a dirty cop. “Overworked, angry, hates her job, and doesn’t like anyone questioning her decisions. But not corrupt. I told her what she needs to know.”

“Remember, Margo—more flies with honey,” Tess said, and Theo laughed. I shot him a dirty look.

“Generally, I would agree with you,” I said, “but with her, no. Did you learn anything about the Bradford case?”

“A lot, but I don’t know how it’ll help. We just picked up the files from the court. It’ll take all night to go through it.”

“I can do that,” I said.

“No, I want to,” Tess said.

Tess loved research and paperwork. I didn’t, so I certainly didn’t offer twice.

I followed Tess and Theo to her office. Theo put the box down on the corner of her desk.

Her office was tidy, like mine, but where mine was functional, hers had a charming, almost too-cute vibe.

A thriving plant sat on the windowsill, artwork adorned the walls, and bookshelves were neatly organized.

A framed photo of Tess’s college graduation and several pictures of Tess and Gabriel decorated her desk.

A file cabinet doubled as a display for more photos, fresh flowers, and whimsical Hobby Lobby knickknacks.

Instead of a lone office chair like me, she had comfy guest seating, and a table draped with a frilly cloth held a stack of artfully arranged books about old-time private investigators, both fictional like Sherlock Holmes and real like the Pinkertons.

Tess sat down and pulled out handwritten notes from her research. “I’ll type this up for you,” she said, “but here’s the gist. And Theo, if you ever decide you don’t want to work in the crime lab, you would be a whiz in the research department.”

He grinned widely, eating up the praise, and leaned back to stretch his long legs.

“You know the basics, right?” Tess asked me.

I nodded. “I met with Rick today, he served the warrant on the family, so I have his insight as well.”

“It started local, they brought in the feds after they started investigating. The wife is in federal prison, Bradford is in state prison. Eyman,” she added.

The same prison our dad was in. We locked eyes for a moment, both thinking the same thing, but we didn’t say anything about it.