Lisa Black - Evidence of Murder

“Oh, there she goes. Probably filled her diaper again.”

“Did they move after that?”

“Oh, heavens no. They lived there until the kids were long gone and then they retired to Florida. Never got another dog, though, even though he nagged his mother for one something awful. At first I thought he wanted to make his brother feel better-it was sort of the older boy’s dog, see-but he told me he wanted to make sure his machinery worked right. He couldn’t test it right without a dog, he said, and I told him that’s ridiculous, just push on the stupid thing, but you know boys, once they get something in their heads…here, I’ll take her back, she’s deciding to be fussy. There, there, baby. Nothing to cry about here. Would you like a cup, dear? It’s so cold out.”

“No, thank you, I’d better be going. I-I hope everything goes well with Cara.”

“Oh, sure. There’s nothing wrong with this little tyke.” She rocked the infant with a swooping motion as she closed the door behind Theresa with a quick good-bye.

The hallway had grown darker in the meantime, or perhaps it only seemed so, to keep pace with her thoughts.

Every child loses a pet more or less tragically. It didn’t mean anything.

But why did she say Evan must have felt terrible? She came upon the incident seconds after it had occurred. Wouldn’t you say “Evan felt terrible”?

Unless he clearly hadn’t, more focused on perfecting his invention than on the death of the dog. Just as now he was more focused on marketing his virtual-reality sphere than on the death of his young wife.

It didn’t mean anything.

She corrected herself. It didn’t prove anything.

She made her way down the staircase in the darkening hall and headed for the outbuildings. The sun, still on winter time, had half set already, so that now she could wander through very large and increasingly dark buildings alone, seeking a man she believed had murdered his wife. The man’s partner, actually, but according to the nanny, Evan would be there as well. She pulled out her cell phone and called Frank, just so he would know where to look for her body.

“You’re where?” he demanded, and then cautioned her not to collect any evidence unless Evan gave her permission to, otherwise it would not be admissible, and he had to go, he had three more houses to canvass for Sanchez’s Cultural Gardens murder, and that he hoped she-Theresa-knew what the hell she was doing.

That I can answer, she thought. And the answer is no.

Maybe I’m saving an innocent child from her impending murder.

Maybe I’m just ready to think about something besides Paul.

She yanked on the door handle of the closest building, the one where the tech show had been held. It did not open. Apparently Evan did think about security now and then.

Rounding the corner, she saw lights in the windows of the next two buildings farther down the line. A shadow moved behind her, on the sidewalk, but it proved to be a hulking orange tabby that paused to fix her with that look cats have, the one that says plainly, Who exactly do you think you are?

“Good question,” she told it, and walked past. It watched her go.

She approached the door of the second building slowly, her Reebok-clad feet silent on the thin cushion of snow. A small chock of wood maintained a quarter-inch opening between the door and the jamb. Steady but not heated conversation wafted out to her ears. The cat watched from a safe distance.

Was she legally permitted to eavesdrop? Since she was not a sworn officer, she was not bound by Miranda warnings or any other rules of interrogation. She put her face up to the door. Evan and Jerry worked on either side of a central row of machinery. Jerry threaded a bolt through a curved plastic hood as Evan sprayed the underside of a conveyor belt with a can of silicone spray. The machinery span appeared to be only four feet wide but at least forty feet long. Gas tanks lined one side of the building, and two reality spheres sprawled open on the other side.

Evan, unsurprisingly, did most of the talking. He stopped to gesture with the can of silicone.

But could she be considered, as a defense expert had recently charged, an agent for the prosecution? Would her testimony be admissible?

No matter. Eavesdropping might be legally permissible, but she could not feel comfortable with it. Besides, she didn’t feel like standing in the snow for an hour listening to Evan debate the relative merits of letting the vampires use axes instead of crossbows once in the Sanctum of Sacrifices. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Both men noticed her instantly and straightened from their work.

“Hello.” She patted her pockets with her fingertips, searching for the pack of cigarettes that hadn’t been there for over ten years, a residual habit she could not break.

“What are you doing here?” Evan asked, sounding considerably less than friendly.

She forced her hands still and moved to the end of the line of machinery. “We’re still trying to complete your wife’s report, Mr. Kovacic. I had a few more questions about Jillian’s habits and state of mind. I also need to speak with Mr. Graham.”

She had hoped Evan would be courteous, wanting to keep up the pretense of a really nice guy who had suffered a tragedy. He did not seem so inclined. “I’ve got nothing to say to you, and neither does Jerry.”

“I know you’re stressed, Mr. Kovacic, but I’m trying to determine exactly how Jillian came to die.”

He dropped the can of silicone on the conveyor belt and came closer. She resisted the urge to back up, but he stopped on the other side of a low workbench fitted with magnifying lamps, exactly like the ones she used at the lab. “Jillian killed herself, and you and your pack of ghouls won’t let her rest in peace.”

She noticed the two wireless cameras mounted at opposite corners of the building. At least if Evan attacked her, she would have it on tape. If the cameras weren’t just dummies, if they recorded as well as monitored, and if she could figure out where the hell the recorder would be and could get to it before Evan. He would be good at that sort of thing, rewriting the story, making every detail fit his vision.

Jerry Graham had not moved. He spoke in a sympathetic tone, saying, “Evan just wants to bury his wife and raise his child, Mrs. MacLean.”

“I understand that, and we’re doing the best we can, but Jillian didn’t leave a lot of clues as to her state of mind.”

Evan knocked one of the lamps aside, so that it seemed to freeze in the air like a wounded crane. “Jillian didn’t have a state of mind! She was blond hair and implants!”

The words hung in the air, unfortunate and infuriating. Theresa had worked hard to maintain some doubt of Evan’s guilt and now watched it crumble into dust. She no longer considered retreat. In fact, she felt ready to rip his head off and spray the silicone down his neck. “That seems like a rather cold way to describe your late wife.”

He did not become more circumspect at this rebuke. “You cut people open and you think I’m cold? You’re trying to take Cara from her home and you have the nerve to look down on me?”

She didn’t bother to explain that she did not perform autopsies, distracted by the latter charge. “What?”

“Drew Fleming has applied for guardianship of Cara,” Jerry Graham told her, and let his mien do the rebuking. “Evan will have to go to court and ask for custody of his own daughter.”

Oh, boy. “He would have had to go to court anyway, but-I mean-that’s got nothing to do with me. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Evan moved beyond the magnifying lamps to within two feet of her. Her fingers slipped around the edge of the table, an anchor to keep her traitorous body from giving in to the flight instinct. “Come on. You and I have that little conversation about Cara on Saturday and first thing Monday morning Drew goes to the courthouse? You think I’m stupid?”