Charley suddenly broke off. Marc was still down for the count, fuming with outraged temper. She kept her eyes on Paul.
“Only that Ronnie Bailey—she’s an Agatha—wears wigs sometimes. Her hair’s light brown, but I’ve seen her go brunette. It could’ve been a wig. Oh, and the woman was poking around in the glove box.”
“The glove box?” Marc almost shouted. “Doing what, exactly?”
“Stop yelling at me.”
“I am NOT—”
“I know why you’re mad,” Charley hurried on, “but I didn’t mean to conceal evidence. I would have told you sooner, but I didn’t know it was important.”
And I knew you’d yell at me.
Marc glared. “I decide what’s important.”
“Hang on a sec.” Paul opened a file and flipped some pages. “Here we go. An inventory of the contents of Serena’s car. There wasn’t much…” He fell silent, staring at the list. Wordlessly, he pushed it across the table to Marc. Charley and Zehring leaned in to read over his shoulder.
The fourth item on the list was a brand-new copy of
Rattlesnake Crossing
by J. A. Jance. A notation by the technician indicated that page twenty-six, the page containing their crime scene, had been folded down.
Charley’s pulse picked up. “If this woman was planting a copy of that book in Serena’s car…”
“Then she’s probably the killer,” Marc finished. He was in full cop mode now, outrage temporarily in check. “And not only that. If she planted that book, she wanted us to find it. She wants us to know what she’s doing.”
Both of these implications were so enormous, they took a few moments to absorb in silence. Their double murderer was almost certainly a woman, and she was taunting the police.
It could be one of us,
Charley thought, filled with dread.
Someone I know. Someone I’ve spoken to, shared a drink with, someone who invited Frankie and me into her home.
She felt sick.
She sat bolt upright, struck by a thought that swept her mind clear of dread and left her breathless. “Marc, if she flagged the crime scene in one book…”
He was already punching keys on his cellphone. “Cooper. You still at the scene? I need you to check a piece of evidence. It’s a book. A novel called
Mallets Aforethought
. Dr. Krugh had it with the—I’ll hold.”
He kept his eyes on Charley, his expression unreadable. She could feel herself blushing and cursed her redheaded complexion.
“You got it?” Marc glanced at Paul. “Glove up and check if any of the pages have been flagged. Corner folded down, bookmark, anything.” He listened for another moment. “No, I want it to go to the lab with everything else.” He closed his phone. “The corners of pages one
and
forty-three are folded down.”
“That clinches it,” Paul declared. “The killer is someone who knows about the Agathas, either a member or a husband, or—”
“Bradley?” Charley spoke up hopefully.
“We questioned him first thing. It pains me to say it, but his alibi is rock solid. I’ve spoken with three of his associates. Wyndham’s working on closing arguments for a big trial, and he didn’t spring them until after two a.m. The boss was there the whole time, running a strategy session. No quick trips out for coffee.” Paul looked wistful. “That would’ve been nice.” Marc and Zehring looked equally disappointed. It was evident that none of these men had any warm feelings for the most voracious defense attorney in the Miami Valley.
“I checked his financials personally,” Marc confirmed, “and there’s no indication he contracted someone. Nor,” he added, glancing at Charley, “did I find any evidence Serena hired a private investigator.”
“So your killer is this mystery woman, someone preying on Ms. Carpenter’s book group,” said Zehring.
“Preying? None of the Agathas have been harmed,” Marc pointed out. “Serena wasn’t a member, and neither was Lisa. On the other hand, our two victims were known to most of the
“Only that Ronnie Bailey—she’s an Agatha—wears wigs sometimes. Her hair’s light brown, but I’ve seen her go brunette. It could’ve been a wig. Oh, and the woman was poking around in the glove box.”
“The glove box?” Marc almost shouted. “Doing what, exactly?”
“Stop yelling at me.”
“I am NOT—”
“I know why you’re mad,” Charley hurried on, “but I didn’t mean to conceal evidence. I would have told you sooner, but I didn’t know it was important.”
And I knew you’d yell at me.
Marc glared. “I decide what’s important.”
“Hang on a sec.” Paul opened a file and flipped some pages. “Here we go. An inventory of the contents of Serena’s car. There wasn’t much…” He fell silent, staring at the list. Wordlessly, he pushed it across the table to Marc. Charley and Zehring leaned in to read over his shoulder.
The fourth item on the list was a brand-new copy of
Rattlesnake Crossing
by J. A. Jance. A notation by the technician indicated that page twenty-six, the page containing their crime scene, had been folded down.
Charley’s pulse picked up. “If this woman was planting a copy of that book in Serena’s car…”
“Then she’s probably the killer,” Marc finished. He was in full cop mode now, outrage temporarily in check. “And not only that. If she planted that book, she wanted us to find it. She wants us to know what she’s doing.”
Both of these implications were so enormous, they took a few moments to absorb in silence. Their double murderer was almost certainly a woman, and she was taunting the police.
It could be one of us,
Charley thought, filled with dread.
Someone I know. Someone I’ve spoken to, shared a drink with, someone who invited Frankie and me into her home.
She felt sick.
She sat bolt upright, struck by a thought that swept her mind clear of dread and left her breathless. “Marc, if she flagged the crime scene in one book…”
He was already punching keys on his cellphone. “Cooper. You still at the scene? I need you to check a piece of evidence. It’s a book. A novel called
Mallets Aforethought
. Dr. Krugh had it with the—I’ll hold.”
He kept his eyes on Charley, his expression unreadable. She could feel herself blushing and cursed her redheaded complexion.
“You got it?” Marc glanced at Paul. “Glove up and check if any of the pages have been flagged. Corner folded down, bookmark, anything.” He listened for another moment. “No, I want it to go to the lab with everything else.” He closed his phone. “The corners of pages one
and
forty-three are folded down.”
“That clinches it,” Paul declared. “The killer is someone who knows about the Agathas, either a member or a husband, or—”
“Bradley?” Charley spoke up hopefully.
“We questioned him first thing. It pains me to say it, but his alibi is rock solid. I’ve spoken with three of his associates. Wyndham’s working on closing arguments for a big trial, and he didn’t spring them until after two a.m. The boss was there the whole time, running a strategy session. No quick trips out for coffee.” Paul looked wistful. “That would’ve been nice.” Marc and Zehring looked equally disappointed. It was evident that none of these men had any warm feelings for the most voracious defense attorney in the Miami Valley.
“I checked his financials personally,” Marc confirmed, “and there’s no indication he contracted someone. Nor,” he added, glancing at Charley, “did I find any evidence Serena hired a private investigator.”
“So your killer is this mystery woman, someone preying on Ms. Carpenter’s book group,” said Zehring.
“Preying? None of the Agathas have been harmed,” Marc pointed out. “Serena wasn’t a member, and neither was Lisa. On the other hand, our two victims were known to most of the
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