Susan Peterson - Primary Suspect

Denner snorted. “You don’t mind if we check that out for ourselves, right?”

Michael shrugged again, trying for a casualness he didn’t feel. “Do whatever you need to do. Nothing I say has had much impact on your obsession that I’m the one who killed these women.”

“Yeah, well, it’s hard to believe a guy who is intimately connected to all the murder victims but keeps insisting he’s as innocent as pure driven snow.”

Off to the side, the crime scene photographer moved to a position directly across from Michael, snapping off pictures in rapid succession. The flash of the camera renewed the pounding in Michael’s head. He glanced away, a part of him unable to comprehend the brutality of Corinna’s death.

He reached up and rubbed his temple, trying desperately to clear his head. He needed his wits about him right now. This was not the time for headaches or the ugly sensation of fogginess that seemed to cloud his brain. The mist swirled around them, wet and clinging.

Although he’d been able to provide an iron-clad alibi for each of the murders, he knew it frustrated the hell out of Denner and the other members of the special task force assigned to the case. They wanted him to confess. Wanted the case closed with him behind bars for life or a needle in his arm.

“When was the last time you talked with Ms. Hamish?”

“Two weeks ago. We had lunch at Kristoff’s.”

“And that’s when you gave her your typical kiss-off?”

“If you’re asking if we discussed the direction our relationship was going, then yes.”

“Not getting enough, huh, Emerson?”

Michael’s hands tightened into fists at the crudeness of the remark. But he didn’t bite. He’d gotten used to the detective’s technique, familiar with Denner’s tendency to try to push his buttons. No way did he plan on giving Denner the kind of ammunition he was fishing for.

“Corinna wanted more out of our relationship,” he said. “She was a classy woman who always put things on the table. She was honest about her desire to see things between us go to the next level. I told her that as much as I liked her—enjoyed her company—I didn’t see our relationship going any further.”

“So you took her out and finished her off because she wasn’t willing to accept your brush-off, right?”

“Actually we parted quite amicably. Corinna is—” he swallowed hard “—was a beautiful woman. She didn’t want for male companionship. She knew how to move on. I have no illusions that she saw me as the only fish in the ocean.”

Denner laughed, the sound harsh. Grating. He nodded in Corinna’s direction. “You call a sharpened ski pole shoved through her chest amicable?”

Michael fingers tightened into fists, but again he kept his voice reasonable. “Of course not. But that doesn’t prove I killed Corinna.”

“Funny how every woman you’ve ever had a relationship with seems to be turning up dead. You don’t find that unusual? Significant in some way?”

“As hard as this is for you to grasp, Denner, I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t kill Corinna or any of the other women.”

At least he was pretty sure he hadn’t. God, please let me be innocent.

“Where have I heard that pitiful claim before?” Denner snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah, that’s right, four weeks ago, following the unfortunate demise of Ms. Karen Pearson—another of your former companions.”

“You’ve already checked and rechecked my alibi for that night. You know there was no way I could have killed her.”

“Not how I see things. I just haven’t found out how you managed to slip out of your meeting without being missed.” Denner smiled again, a barracuda eyeing his prey. “But rest assured, I haven’t given up.”

“No big surprise there.”

Denner pulled out his notebook. “Give me the names of those prominent people who can vouch for your whereabouts this evening.”

Michael rattled off a list of names and watched as Denner carefully recorded them. If he had any friends left after the completion of this investigation, it would be a miracle. Neighbors and friends were beginning to look at him with an unmistakable glint of uneasiness in their eyes. Not that he could blame them. He was beginning to suffer from his own doubts.

The crime scene photographer moved off, but still no one came to remove the pole and take Corinna down. Michael’s stomach tightened into an unmanageable knot.

He couldn’t stand seeing her hang there one more minute, her designer dress fluttering gently in the night breeze, revealing her slender white thighs in the harsh glare of the streetlights. Someone needed to cover her up. Give her the dignity she deserved.

Denner seemed oblivious to the stagnant stench of death hanging between them. He stood slightly hunched over, his hooded eyes seeming to bore gaping holes into Michael’s. The man’s suspicion and hatred was blatant, unmistakable.

Finally, unable to take it any longer, Michael ran up the steps. Before Denner or anyone else could stop him, he grabbed the pole and yanked it out. The end had been sharpened to a lethal point, explaining how it had pierced Corinna’s slender frame with ease. He caught Corinna’s body as she fell.

Denner rushed forward. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Michael ignored him as he gently laid Corinna’s seemingly boneless body on the cold cement. He shrugged off his dinner jacket and laid it carefully over her face—a once classically beautiful face that had graced more than a few covers of high-end fashion magazines.

“It isn’t right to leave her hanging like that,” Michael said, squatting down to tuck the corner of his coat around Corinna’s slender shoulders. “She deserves better.”

“You should have thought about that before you nailed her to your front door. And quit messing with our crime scene or I’ll have one of my guys run you in just on principle.”

Michael sighed. There would be no convincing the police of his innocence. They had zeroed in on him like vultures on fresh meat. They’d work this angle until they found a way to pin the murders on him. Something told him their focus on him was so intense that there was a strong possibility they’d miss any clues to the killer’s true identity.

He blinked, momentarily blinded by a flash of light. He glanced up to see several reporters gathering behind the crime scene tape. Another group of vultures had caught the scent and arrived right on cue.

No doubt they’d gotten a good picture of him leaning over Corinna’s body. He knew that within a few hours photos of him would be splashed across the front page of all the local papers and on the early morning news.

He needed to think. To get away. Things were getting out of control. There had to be a reason for all these killings and he needed to figure out how he’d become the catalyst.

He straightened up and glanced at Denner. “Am I permitted inside?”

Denner paused and then nodded. “Sure. Just ignore the men dusting and tearing the place apart.”

No surprises there. They’d done the same thing after each murder, attempting to find something, anything, that would firmly implicate him in the murders.

As he reached for the doorknob, Denner followed close on his heels. Obviously the man wasn’t done with him yet.

His housekeeper, Hattie, met him at the door, her tiny hands clenched in front of her, an expression of concern cramping the lines of her bony face. “I’m sorry, sir. They have a warrant.”

Michael patted one of her thin shoulders. This was the fourth time they’d searched his house. He was almost getting used to the indignity of the police invasions, but from Hattie’s expression, he could tell she was more than a little unnerved.