up about an hour ago.
The notion that she might have to spend time in jail gnawed at her. She’d never been away from Joey for a night, not since coming home from the hospital with him.
Laurie tried to convince herself that everything would be all right. Considering she was a manslaughter suspect, they were certainly treating her well. Of course, being the widow of a local football star and a war hero helped. Plus most of the cops were regulars at the diner. They’d clearly seen she’d been traumatized by what had happened. At the apartment, they’d let her wash her face and change into a black V-neck top and jeans. Once they’d arrived at the station, they’d photographed her, and gotten her coffee and a Croissan’wich from Burger King. But her stomach was on edge, and she’d only been able to eat a few bites.
Eberhard covered the mouthpiece of the phone and peered across the desk at her, one eyebrow raised. “The guys at your place want to know if they can have some of that chocolate cake you left on the kitchen counter.”
She shrugged. “Actually, the cakes are for the restaurant. I was going to take them to work this afternoon.”
“Nope, they’re not evidence, Mike,” the detective said into his phone. “I need one of you guys to run the cakes over to the Superstar Diner, and let them know Ms. Trotter probably won’t be coming in today. And don’t sample the evidence on the way. Got that? Now, anything else?” He paused.
Laurie watched for any change in his expression. The detective was a handsome man in his mid-thirties. He had a slight five o’clock shadow, which suited him well, and dark brown hair that probably had too much hair product in it. At least it looked kind of stiff. His navy blue shirt was slightly rumpled and his black tie was loosened around the collar.
She couldn’t help wondering if the cop at her place was telling Eberhard about some new discovery. So far, everything they’d found backed up her story about the bizarre, predawn home invasion and the dead naked man on her living room floor. Taped to his lower back was a holder for the hunting knife found on the floor near his body. The screens had been removed from one window in the kitchen and from another in her bedroom. The police on the scene uncovered two sets of footprints around the outside of the house—one matched Tad McBride’s bare, dirty feet. The other set of footprints appeared to belong to a woman. Most of those prints were on the ground outside Laurie’s bedroom window, and some on the bedroom carpet. Compared to the shoes found in Laurie’s closet, there didn’t seem to be a match. Finally, there were the neighbors who had heard the screams and commotion. One neighbor in particular was pretty certain she’d seen someone dressed in dark clothes running across the lawn in front of Laurie’s duplex around 3:30 A.M.
Perhaps making her story even more believable was her report to the police earlier in the week that someone in a silver minivan had been stalking her. The detective told her that Tad’s brother in Cle Elum owned a 2004 silver Town & Country minivan. The local police had already had several brushes with Ryder McBride. “Him and his gang on that farm off Highway 97 have been a major thorn in my side,” Don Eberhard had said earlier, switching off the tape recorder on his desk for a moment. “McBride’s been arrested several times—and each time he’s walked. We couldn’t make any of the charges stick. The scumbag is as slippery as a greased flagpole.”
Laurie figured whatever Ryder had to say, it would be the scumbag’s word against that of the war widow. Still, that didn’t boost her confidence. So far, all she’d told Eberhard about Tad McBride was that he’d been a regular customer at the diner for a while—in the fall of the year before last.
They’d been interviewing her for nearly five hours now. But the detective still hadn’t asked the ten-thousand-dollar question, the
The notion that she might have to spend time in jail gnawed at her. She’d never been away from Joey for a night, not since coming home from the hospital with him.
Laurie tried to convince herself that everything would be all right. Considering she was a manslaughter suspect, they were certainly treating her well. Of course, being the widow of a local football star and a war hero helped. Plus most of the cops were regulars at the diner. They’d clearly seen she’d been traumatized by what had happened. At the apartment, they’d let her wash her face and change into a black V-neck top and jeans. Once they’d arrived at the station, they’d photographed her, and gotten her coffee and a Croissan’wich from Burger King. But her stomach was on edge, and she’d only been able to eat a few bites.
Eberhard covered the mouthpiece of the phone and peered across the desk at her, one eyebrow raised. “The guys at your place want to know if they can have some of that chocolate cake you left on the kitchen counter.”
She shrugged. “Actually, the cakes are for the restaurant. I was going to take them to work this afternoon.”
“Nope, they’re not evidence, Mike,” the detective said into his phone. “I need one of you guys to run the cakes over to the Superstar Diner, and let them know Ms. Trotter probably won’t be coming in today. And don’t sample the evidence on the way. Got that? Now, anything else?” He paused.
Laurie watched for any change in his expression. The detective was a handsome man in his mid-thirties. He had a slight five o’clock shadow, which suited him well, and dark brown hair that probably had too much hair product in it. At least it looked kind of stiff. His navy blue shirt was slightly rumpled and his black tie was loosened around the collar.
She couldn’t help wondering if the cop at her place was telling Eberhard about some new discovery. So far, everything they’d found backed up her story about the bizarre, predawn home invasion and the dead naked man on her living room floor. Taped to his lower back was a holder for the hunting knife found on the floor near his body. The screens had been removed from one window in the kitchen and from another in her bedroom. The police on the scene uncovered two sets of footprints around the outside of the house—one matched Tad McBride’s bare, dirty feet. The other set of footprints appeared to belong to a woman. Most of those prints were on the ground outside Laurie’s bedroom window, and some on the bedroom carpet. Compared to the shoes found in Laurie’s closet, there didn’t seem to be a match. Finally, there were the neighbors who had heard the screams and commotion. One neighbor in particular was pretty certain she’d seen someone dressed in dark clothes running across the lawn in front of Laurie’s duplex around 3:30 A.M.
Perhaps making her story even more believable was her report to the police earlier in the week that someone in a silver minivan had been stalking her. The detective told her that Tad’s brother in Cle Elum owned a 2004 silver Town & Country minivan. The local police had already had several brushes with Ryder McBride. “Him and his gang on that farm off Highway 97 have been a major thorn in my side,” Don Eberhard had said earlier, switching off the tape recorder on his desk for a moment. “McBride’s been arrested several times—and each time he’s walked. We couldn’t make any of the charges stick. The scumbag is as slippery as a greased flagpole.”
Laurie figured whatever Ryder had to say, it would be the scumbag’s word against that of the war widow. Still, that didn’t boost her confidence. So far, all she’d told Eberhard about Tad McBride was that he’d been a regular customer at the diner for a while—in the fall of the year before last.
They’d been interviewing her for nearly five hours now. But the detective still hadn’t asked the ten-thousand-dollar question, the
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