Alex Barclay - Time of Death

Everett shook his head. ‘No. I’m sure we both saw each other in the media…’

‘Deathstyles of the Rich and Famous?’ Ren tilted her head. ‘What do you know about Douglas Hammond’s death?’

‘Nothing more than what I read in the paper. A car wreck…’

‘OK. Well, Denver PD will talk to you about all that when I bring you in.’

‘What about it?’

‘It wasn’t an accident. It was homicide.’

‘What…why would Denver PD want to talk to me?’

Ren gave him a patient look. She stood up from the sofa. ‘Let’s go.’

‘This is not me,’ said Everett. ‘None of this. It’s just not me. The person who did that to Trudie.’

‘If that makes you feel bett-’

Ren broke off as she caught a shadow passing by the glass in the dining room. She took another step, but stopped again. She could hear the faint sound of ceramic rocking on a shelf, as if something had been disturbed.

There is someone in the other room. She looked at Peter Everett.

Did he know? Was someone here all along?

Keeping him in her sight, Ren slowly reached for her sidearm and began moving toward the door. Suddenly the doors burst open, knocking her gun from her hand and sending her sprawling to the floor. Seeing two masked men, she reached for her ankle holster but a boot slammed down hard on her thin wrist and she lost her grip. She kicked out and caught the intruder in the knee. He buckled. She stood up and moved to punch him in the face, until the hot pain of her wrist shot up through her arm. Shit. As she raised her leg to kick again, she caught sight of Peter Everett charging her way. Oh my God: he’s trying to help. Everett grabbed the man by the shoulders and tried to spin him around. But the room seemed to fill with more people. Just two more . But it was enough.

The last thing Ren saw was Peter Everett being dragged, unconscious, from the room.

Ren woke up on Peter Everett’s sofa. It looked like nothing had happened. No signs of a struggle . But two people had struggled…against four others. She glanced at her watch. Two hours had gone by…and now nothing. The only disturbance was the pounding inside her head. She sat up and slowly brought her feet to the floor. It was dark and clear outside. There was no snow falling. She let her head rest back against the sofa.

Douglas Hammond and Peter Everett killed Trudie Hammond. Now Douglas Hammond was dead. Peter Everett would have been dead, too, if that was what the intruders had wanted.

And so would I.

Ren made a call to Gary Dettling and held the phone an inch from her ear.

There was no evidence of a break-in in Peter Everett’s house. The rooms were undisturbed, the intruders had worn gloves, the back door had not been smashed in. There were no footprints — no fresh snow to hold them. Everett’s car was in the driveway where he had left it. Ren’s car was outside on the street.

Gary arrived at the scene with Colin, Cliff and Robbie. Ren went through everything twice. Cliff took her aside gently.

‘How are you doing? Are you OK?’

Ren nodded. ‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Just a heads-up — I called Glenn Buddy myself, to…lessen the blow.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Ren. ‘I never even thought of that. He’s going to-’

‘Hello,’ said Cliff loudly. ‘Glenn, how are you doing?’

Glenn came up behind Ren and shook Cliff’s hand. He reached out for Ren’s as an afterthought.

I am the ground zero of all things bad in Denver. ‘Hey,’ said Ren.

‘What happened here?’ said Glenn.

‘Nothing that you’re going to find any evidence of, I’m afraid,’ said Ren.

Glenn walked past her. ‘Well, we’ll see about that. Follow me in here, please.’

Everyone arrived back at Safe Streets at around the same time. Ren made a pot of coffee for ten and drank most of it. The television flickered in the corner. Every media outlet in Denver had heard the news of the missing millionaire…minus the detail that he and the dead judge had killed the woman they loved. Ren sat miserably in front of her computer.

The only man who can confirm all that is gone.

She opened a file and began typing in everything Peter Everett had told her. It was seared into her brain.

It was seven a.m. by the time Ren made it back to Annie’s in a hazy painkiller glow. She went into the living room and slumped on to the uncomfortable sofa, dragging a magazine off the table. It fell open at: How to De-clutter Your Home . Ren looked around the room and decided to leave the magazine out for when Annie got back.

Just like mom left the ‘Telling Your Children the Facts of Life’ article from the Times on the coffee table when I was eleven years old.

Ren read about de-cluttering and decided to apply some of the tips to her mind. She also read about finding hidden treasures in your home. Annie, you must have millions. Ren got up and wandered over to an oak cabinet by the wall. She idly opened the door and made to close it again. But something caught her eye: four boxes marked The Bryces were lined across a shelf.

The rest were from another family Annie had been close to. Ren pulled out the Bryce box and opened it. It had photos, letters from her mom to Annie, postcards from vacations. Ren recognized her own writing. She picked up the letter.

June, 1981

Dear Annie

It is SO hot. I am SO happy we’re not in school. I’ve been out on my bike, roller-skating, playing jump-rope. Last night, we went to a concert in the park — in a tent! It was fun!!! Before it, we had hamburgers, fries and milk for supper. Yummy!!! At the concert, we had popcorn and ice-cream. Matt dropped his on his leg and we could not stop laughing. Beau was mad. We were not paying attention. Mom got mad too. We stayed in the park after. I went on the carousel and the bumper cars. It was fun!!!Love and hugs,

Orenda XOXOXOXOXO

The innocence . Nine years old with no cell phone, no computer games, no lip gloss, no designer clothes, no staying indoors in the summer. But it was the last summer the kids in the neighborhood had the joy of roaming free. She remembered one little girl saying she hated Louis Parry. Hated, hated, hated him for ruining everything.

Ren put the box away as soon as she saw the corner of a photo with Beau’s sneaker in it.

Not tonight. Not alone.

She went up to her room and put on her iPod. Chopin Nocturnes. This is what my sore head needs. She fell asleep to it. And two hours later, she jerked awake to it.

Louis Parry. Louis Parry. Louis Parry. The Catskill police had focused on the amusements. But Louis Parry was into music. And at the other side of the park, an orchestra was in a tent playing Mozart and Schubert. And Louis Parry had no money…so Louis Parry had sneaked in…or Louis Parry had stolen the money to get in…or someone had given Louis Parry the money to get in…or Louis Parry had been promised a free pass in exchange for something else. Ren’s stomach lurched.

She grabbed her cell phone and dialed Daryl Stroud.

‘Daryl, it’s Ren again.’

‘Hey, Ren.’

‘Sorry for bothering you. I’m…’ Wired to the moon.

‘No problem,’ said Daryl. ‘How are you doing?’

‘A little better,’ said Ren. ‘I think I know what happened to Louis Parry.’

Silence.

‘OK,’ said Ren, ‘But if you could hear me out…’

‘Sure,’ said Daryl. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Everyone focused on Louis having gone to the amusements that day. Do you remember there was a concert too? I think he went to the concert. Or tried to go and didn’t get there.’