Robert Ellis - Murder Season

Lena caught Vaughan’s grin and smiled. “They fixed it before they opened.”

“How ’bout in your new place?” he asked.

“The builder got it right this time. I checked.”

She watched him turn away from the window and lean against the sill. He was gazing at the conference table as if he might be replaying the meeting in his head-as if he’d finally realized his fate and knew that it was time to start putting things back together again. His anger was dissipating. A certain spark was returning to his eyes.

“How do you want to work this?” she said.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Let’s see what happens at Hight’s place.”

Vaughan nodded. “He’s had some time to think things over. Maybe he’ll feel the need to get it off his chest.”

“Or maybe we’ll find the gun.”

Vaughan popped open his briefcase. “I’ll be in my office,” he said. “It’ll take me a day to go through my cases and clear my schedule. We should talk when you get back.”

They traded business cards. Then the door opened and Barrera entered, waving a sheaf of papers in the air.

“We’ve got the warrants,” he said. “Let’s roll.”

The front door opened. Tim Hight’s eyes hit the bright daylight but remained dilated. They were hollow, almost colorless-a faint, even decayed blue. They swept across the group of detectives and criminalists assembling on the porch, moved to the tow truck inching toward his Mercedes in the drive, then slid back to Lena.

“Tim Hight?” she said.

“You already know who I am.”

“We have warrants. We’re coming in.”

“I didn’t do it,” he said.

Barrera held out the warrants. “We’re still coming in.”

Hight moved away from the door. As the team pushed past his slight figure and split up, Lena remained with Hight and Barrera in the foyer. She noted Hight’s rumpled clothing, didn’t see any signs of blood, and wondered if he had changed. It didn’t look like he’d showered or shaved, and he seemed groggy and burned out. She checked the kitchen and saw the bottle of vodka still on the counter, then took a quick look at the living room. The fine carpets. The art on the walls. The shutters blocking out the light. The house had a definite feel about it. Dark and empty.

“Where’s your wife?” she said.

“Visiting her sister in Bakersfield.”

“When did she leave?”

“About three a.m. this morning.”

“Seems like an odd time to go on a trip.”

Hight gave her a look that mirrored the feel of the house. “I knew you’d come,” he said. “I didn’t want her to see this.”

Barrera cleared his throat. “How did you know we’d come? How could you at three a.m.?”

“I heard what happened on my scanner.”

Hight pointed to the sunroom on the other side of the French doors. Gazing through the glass, Lena cataloged the items she saw and cut them against what she remembered from last night. An armchair was pointed toward the windows facing the Gants’ house. Hight’s drink sat on the sill more than half empty. On a shelf within reach of the chair, she spotted the scanner and an ashtray overflowing with spent butts. The LEDs on the scanner were blinking, the unit still on.

“It’s the only room I’m allowed to smoke in,” Hight said.

Lena knew that victims’ identities weren’t broadcast over the air, but let it go for now.

“We’ll need the keys to your car,” she said.

“I didn’t do it.”

“Everybody says that, Mr. Hight. We’ll need your keys.”

Hight grimaced, digging his hand into his front pocket and fishing them out. As he fumbled with the key ring-his fingers trembling-Lena tried to keep her mind focused on the job.

It wasn’t easy.

No matter what she thought of him, no matter what he’d done, the fact that he had lost his daughter was impossible to ignore. Barrera was standing just off the foyer in the living room. She could see him struggling with it, too. It didn’t help that an array of framed photographs of the man’s daughter were arranged on the baby grand. Lily Hight’s gentle face and bright eyes were more than striking, her intoxication with life set against her horrific fate more than palpable. It almost seemed as if the girl was watching them build the case against her father-keeping an eye on them from somewhere on the other side.

Lena turned away. Tosh Mifune, a criminalist from SID, was standing in the kitchen doorway.

“We’ll do it in here,” he said. “The light’s good.”

She ushered Hight into the room, Mifune pulling a chair away from the breakfast table. Hight started to protest, but finally sat down, perhaps due to Mifune’s patient and well-seasoned manner. As the middle-aged criminalist unpacked his evidence kit and laid the items on the table with great care, Lena could see the concern growing on Tim Hight’s face. Mifune’s tools appeared better suited for a doctor’s office than a crime lab.

Hight began fidgeting in his seat. He glanced at Barrera leaning against the stove, then turned back to Lena. “Aren’t you gonna read me my rights?”

“You’re not under arrest,” she said. “But yes, I’d be happy to.”

She hoped that she didn’t sound too confrontational. Hoped that she could light a fire beneath the man and the flame wouldn’t burn out. But when she finished, Hight started to get out of the chair.

“So I’m allowed to call my attorney,” he said.

“You can do anything you want, as long as you do it from that chair.”

“You mean you’re holding me here? I can’t leave?”

“We’ve got a body warrant, Mr. Hight. We’re gonna take a sample of your hair, swab your mouth, and get a set of your fingerprints.”

“You already have my fingerprints. You took them when Lily died.”

“We’re doing it again. Were you wearing these clothes last night?”

He nodded.

“Then we’ll need to take them as well,” she said. “There’s nothing your attorney can do to stop it.”

Hight fell back into the chair, shaking his head as he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. Unfortunately for him, the pack was empty. Lena watched him crumple it up in disappointment, then traded a quiet nod with Barrera on the other side of the room. They had talked it over before their arrival. Barrera had more experience than any detective he supervised. He had a way of seeing things, and wanted to keep his distance.

She turned back to Hight, acknowledging the man’s distress. “You could make things a lot easier on yourself,” she said. “A lot easier on everyone.”

“How?”

“Tell us what you did with the gun.”

“What gun? I didn’t shoot Jacob Gant.”

“Would you be willing to take a polygraph?”

He ran his hands over his head, ignoring the question. His hair was a mix of blond and gray, cropped short enough to stand on end.

“If you didn’t shoot him,” she said, “then why are you afraid to take a polygraph?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged.

Lena took a step closer. “When was the last time you saw Jacob Gant?”

“Not since the trial,” he said. “Not since he walked out of that courtroom a free man.”

“Do you expect anyone to believe that?”

“People believe what they want to. I’m guessing you’re no different. I haven’t seen him.”

“But he lived next door, Mr. Hight.”

“He hasn’t been around. Maybe he got a job. Or maybe I wasn’t looking for him. Maybe I didn’t want to see him.”

She glanced at the nicotine stains on the first and second fingers of his right hand. Hight noticed and buried them underneath the fold of his arm.

“How many cigarettes do you smoke a day?” she asked. “How much time do you spend in the sunroom? How often do you sit in that chair by the window with the lights out?”