Sullivan's Justice by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg Page A

“Won’t know what it is, of course, until the lab processes it.”
    “What about time of death?”
    “Charley’s pretty sure the victim’s been in the water for at least four hours. Your brother claims he was in love with the woman. Is that true?”
    Carolyn felt bad. Neil had been calling her a lot lately. Because of her work, she’d been lucky to exchange a few words with him. When she’d come home that evening around eight, John and Rebecca said they hadn’t seen or heard from him. He’d promised to stop by and look at Rebecca’s drawings. He was flaky, but he seldom went back on his word.
    She looked up at the detective. “They only recently started seeing each other. Neil cared a great deal for her, though. Have you notified her family?”
    He skipped over her question. “Charley found only one injection site on her left arm. We’ll know more when he gets the body to the morgue. The rain isn’t helping us much. Whatever evidence there is outside will more than likely be worthless.”
    “Did you find any signs of a forced entry?”
    “Not yet,” he said, pausing and staring at her. “Are you sick or something? You’re really pale.”
    Damn men, Carolyn thought, how did he expect her to look under the circumstances? “I didn’t have time to put on my makeup. You want to talk about my appearance or the crime? Were there any prints on the doors or windows?”
    “Nope,” Hank said. “Whoever did this is a tidy person. Most of the prints we lifted, outside of the victim’s, are probably your brother’s. I don’t know any killer in the world who would leave that many fingerprints. Did he have a housekeeper?”
    “Yes,” Carolyn said. “I’m not sure which day she works. Can I have a few minutes alone with him?”
    Hank frowned, moving his feet around on the marble entry. “The victim’s father, Stanley Caplin, thinks your brother’s a drug dealer. He claims he personally witnessed him using narcotics. The narcs say there’s some potent smack floating around. Two junkies have overdosed in the past week. Maybe he gave his girlfriend some killer heroin.”
    Hank looked as if he were about to collapse. The stress must be getting to him, she thought, or he would never have made such an inflammatory statement about Neil. He might have been teasing, though. Individuals who dealt with death on a regular basis frequently used humor as a way to cope. Either that, or he was trying to test her reaction.
    Carolyn knew Laurel’s parents. Ventura wasn’t that big and they’d all gone to the same schools. “The man’s lying,” she snapped. “Neil doesn’t use drugs, let alone sell them. He’s a successful artist.” She raised her arm toward the row of large canvases mounted on the walls. She could understand why some people didn’t appreciate contemporary art. Her brother, however, had been trained in the classical style of painting and his work was renowned. “His paintings usually sell for between ten and twenty thousand. A few years ago, one of them went for fifty.”
    “I thought those were prints like they sell at those museum stores.” Hank gazed at the lifelike physiques, the exquisite draping in the folds of fabric, the detailed backgrounds.
    “When did Caplin say he saw Neil using drugs?”
    “I didn’t ask,” the detective told her. “The guy just learned that his daughter was dead.” He sucked in a deep breath before continuing. “I’ll give you ten minutes, Carolyn. I need to get your brother out of here, one way or the other. I just sent one of my men over to pick up the parents so they can identify the body.”
    “Why put them through that?” she asked, running her hands through her wet hair. “Neil has already identified her. I know Laurel, if you need a second ID. Anyway, this is supposed to be a crime scene.”
    “Don’t you have any sympathy for these people?”
    “Of course I do,” she answered, a chastised expression on her face. “I’ll talk to Neil in the