Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

He leaned toward me, arms folded on his desk. “Okay. You think you’re a detective? Why don’t you just tell me what you know about the cold case?”

I took a deep breath and exhaled, realizing this was not about egos—his or mine. This was about murder. And if I could help, I wanted to. More than anything.

“Here’s what I know.” I told him what I had taken from the attic, then said, “I think Cloris Grayson was actually a teenage runaway named Connie Kramer. She may have had a child out of wedlock that she gave up for adoption thirty-odd years ago. I believe she was looking for the adoption agency when she was murdered.”

“She waited fifteen years to look for her kid?” said Kline.

“No Internet back then. And from what I can tell, the lady was poor. It might have taken her that long to get a lead.”

“So maybe Ben killed her because of this baby rather than for the insurance money?” he said. “That doesn’t work for me.”

I wanted to shake the man by his ears, but I stayed calm. “Read my lips. Ben did not kill Cloris.”

“If I accept that as fact, tell me how this ancient history relates to his murder. You think he started looking for his dead wife’s child after all these years?”

“Yes. He had money after the insurance paid out.”

He nodded, seeming to consider this. “And someone didn’t want him snooping around in old business. Not out of the realm of possibility. Still doesn’t explain why he showed up at your place using a fake name.”

“I’m working on that,” I said.

“See, that’s a huge problem,” he said. “You have no business working on this. I can’t afford to keep a man on you.”

“You didn’t need one ‘on me’ to begin with.”

“You just don’t get it. I can foresee arriving at a crime scene to find you’ve become the victim of an ingenious new method of killing with cyanide. And I wouldn’t like that, okay?”

I crossed my arms. “So now I’ve gone from suspect to potential victim?”

He closed his eyes, looking frustrated and tired. “There’s a whole lot about this case neither of us knows. But let me explain something. I’ve got six fresh homicides right here.” He slapped a stack of folders. “That means I can’t spend all my time on one case. Especially one with ancient connections.”

“Oh. So you’ll slide this case over to the ‘too tough to solve’ column and move on to another murder?”

As soon as the words left my lips, I knew I’d gone too far.

He stared at me for a full ten seconds, chewing the life out of that gum. “You know,” he finally said, “you’ve got way too much time on your hands. I have priorities, Ms. Rose, and I’m sure you do, too. Difference is, no one’s judging yours.”

Sometimes I can accept the truth, even when I’m upset. This happened to be one of those moments, but I wasn’t willing to give Kline the satisfaction of knowing that. Instead, I stood and turned to leave.

“I like that,” he called after me.

I stopped, still facing the other direction. “You like what?”

“A woman who knows when she’s wrong.”

I whirled. “I never said I was wrong.”

“Bet you never do, either. I can’t spend any more time and manpower watching you, even if you might need protection.”

“Protection?” I craned my neck toward him. “Why should I believe you care one ounce about my safety, Sergeant Kline?”

“Because I called you here to warn you. Not to arrest you for interfering in an official investigation, like I could have. Do me a favor and stick to computers. Something you know about.” He removed two more sticks of gum, unwrapped them, and aimed the wadded-up papers at the neighboring trash can. He missed.

“You hate it, don’t you?” I said.

He smiled. “On the contrary. This sparring match is the best time I’ve had in a while.”

And that was when I really noticed him for the first time—through this, his first real smile. Those tiny creases surrounding his eyes probably signaled too many sleepless nights and his having been the bearer of bad news day after day. But right now his smile was young and his stare had softened to one more simple and honest.

In a quiet voice I said, “No... I mean you really hate giving up on something, even though you may have to close this case.”

The smile faded. He averted his eyes and grabbed a handful of papers, shoving them angrily into a manila folder. “This case will not be closed. And what the hell, do you know about it, anyway?”

“More than you could hope to comprehend. I had to give up on my marriage, a decision that still keeps me awake nights. I appreciate your concern for my safety, Sergeant, but I have priorities, too.”

Later that evening, when the doorbell rang, I was actually looking forward to Aunt Caroline’s and Willis’s arrival. I usually went along reluctantly with these Sunday dinners Kate planned, but I’d been examining canceled checks for hours, hoping to unearth a clue to the mysterious safe-deposit box, a task that had progressed from downright humdrum to seriously tedious. Visiting with Willis and Aunt Caroline seemed a stimulating alternative in contrast.

“Abby, leave this stuff and join us for a drink,” Kate said when she entered the study with Willis on her heels.

“You won’t have to twist my arm.” I rose from the desk chair.

“Whatever are you doing?” Willis took in my pile of checks.

“I figured I could locate the bank where Daddy rented that safe-deposit box by hunting through these. He had to pay for the lease, right? Unfortunately, Kate and I didn’t put the checks back in chronological order after the break-in on P Street, so those from 1960 to the present are all mixed together. A rabbit in a frying pan could have more fun.”

“What will you glean from all this sleuthing, Abby?” said Willis.

“ ‘Gleaning’ and ‘sleuthing’? Is that what I’m doing? Gosh, that sheds a much more interesting light on this thankless task. They never taught you about gleaning and sleuthing in East Texas, did they, Willis?”

He flushed and took a gulp of his club soda.

The doorbell rang again, and Kate left to let Aunt Caroline in. From his expression, Willis didn’t appreciate my jab at his humble beginnings—beginnings he had spent a lifetime disguising with fancy cars and expensive suits.

“Let me be straightforward, Abby,” he said. “What do you hope to find inside this safe-deposit box?”

“Something linking Daddy with Ben’s murder.”

“Do I need to remind you that your father died three months before Ben’s murder?”

“Daddy may have known more about Ben’s past than he let on,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Ben’s using an alias, for one thing. Maybe Ben told him why, and Daddy hid away anything concerning Ben in that box—maybe for Ben’s protection.” I wouldn’t bring up my theory on the adoption connection again—not until I had hard facts rather than guesses.

Willis smirked. “Abby, you’re cooking up stuff to entertain yourself now.”

I stacked the checks I’d just gone through back in the box. “Okay. Sure. Whatever you say.”

“I didn’t mean to discount your very creative ideas,” he said. “But have you considered the much simpler possibility that Ben owed someone some money and was murdered when he didn’t pay that person back? I’d say that’s much more plausible than your speculation about Charlie and Ben’s relationship.”

“Are you implying Ben was a mob hit? Aren’t they more into assault weapons and concrete? I can’t remember the last victim they rubbed out with poisoned spaghetti, can you?”

He raised both hands. “Obviously you’ve abandoned common sense completely.” Willis turned his attention to the lime sliver floating in his drink.