Susan Peterson - Primary Suspect

“Everything is going to be fine,” he reassured her. “You did the right thing letting them in.”

“But they’ve torn everything apart again, sir.” Her frightened birdlike gaze darted nervously toward the body behind him and then back. “It took us days last time to get things back to normal.”

“Your boss should have thought of that before he went on his little murder spree,” Denner said.

Hattie’s face reddened, but before she spoke again, Michael guided her back into the front hall. “We’ll about it later, Hattie. Just let the police do their job. Things will be back to normal eventually.”

In spite of his reassurances, Michael wasn’t sure normal was something he’d ever experience again. His life was a mess.

Hattie glanced at Denner and sniffed her disapproval. “They could at least have put things back where they belonged when they were done pawing through them.”

“Not our job, ma’am,” Denner said. “But then, I’m sure your boss has the money to hire extra help if he needs it.”

Hattie gave another sniff of blatant disapproval and moved away, heading into the living room where a group of investigators were dusting every conceivable surface of her usually sparkling clean room.

Michael was sure she was watching the CSI staff’s every move, suspicious that someone might pocket one of the expensive treasures tastefully scattered about the room. Treasures he’d obtained on his world travels, something he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be doing again anytime soon. Not when he was the prime suspect in a series of four brutal murders.

“You have a loyal staff.”

“Hattie’s been with me a long time,” Michael said.

“Long enough and loyal enough to lie for you perhaps?”

Michael didn’t bother responding. He knew it was useless. Denner’s mind was made up and nothing Michael said would change it

He headed for the marble staircase leading to the second floor and his bedroom. Denner didn’t back off and followed him up.

“Quite a collection of artwork you have hanging on the walls around here, Emerson. Aren’t you worried about someone breaking in and ripping it off?”

“I have a good alarm system.”

“Yes, you do. And that brings up an interesting point.” Denner paused on the middle of the stairs, and Michael stopped, too, glancing back. Waiting.

“There’s no sign of a break-in. Whoever entered the house with Ms. Hamish, fetched a ski pole and then nailed her to the front door. The killer had to have a key or someone let him in.”

“How do you know they even entered the house? That is a common enough ski pole. Maybe the killer brought it with him.”

“Possible. But there’s one tiny detail that tells me that isn’t the case.” Denner looked down into the front hall, nodding at the Windsor chair standing in one corner of the front hall. “That’s Ms. Hamish’s coat lying across the back of that chair. Any thoughts on how it got there?”

Michael shook his head, his heart thudding hard in his chest. The coat put Corinna inside his house. The trap was closing tighter with each passing moment. “I have no idea. Did you question my staff?”

“Of course,” Denner said. “No one seems to remember anyone stopping by.”

Michael continued up the stairs, turning right at the top and entered the master bedroom. The technician dusting the window sill glanced up briefly and then returned to his work.

Michael surveyed the room, assessing the damage. It was a total disaster. Every dresser drawer was open, the contents dumped on the floor. All his clothes in his closet were pulled off their hangers and lay in a heap in front of his closet. The boxes on the shelf pulled down and emptied on top of the clothes.

Someone had tossed the mattress of his king-size bed to the side. All the pillows were split, the feathers spread across the sage carpet. It looked as though someone had slaughtered a truckload of geese. A few of the feathers still floated in the air.

Michael spied his suitcase sitting open in the corner of the room and the urge to get away hit him hard. He needed to get out of here and sort things out. Get his head on straight.

There was no way in hell he could stay in the house another night, another day. If he was somehow the catalyst in these murders, he needed to get as far away from the city as possible. Somewhere isolated. Quiet.

“I’m leaving town for a few days,” he said, standing in front of the suitcase, his back to Denner.

“Like hell you are. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m conducting a murder investigation here. You’re to stay put. I want to know where you are every minute of the day.”

Michael turned around. “Are you charging me with murder?”

The beefy detective shuffled his feet, frustration flickering across his craggy features. “We’ll go downtown for one of our little chats. Maybe we’ll get lucky and you’ll have a flash of conscience and admit to your guilt.”

“Not likely. I’m not inclined to confess to something I didn’t do.” Michael swung his suitcase on top of the box spring. “But once you’ve checked out my alibi and found out I’m not lying about where I was all evening, I’m leaving town. I’m going to my house outside of Keene. You know the one. Your men have been up there to search it more than once.”

“Yeah, I know the one, along with your three other homes outside the country, too.”

“Don’t forget the one outside of Park City,” Michael added, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Not a chance.” Denner laughed, the tone adding to the pain shooting through Michael’s brain. “But then, you haven’t been out to Utah in over a year. Of course, I had it checked out.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Michael walked over to the clothes left in a heap on the floor and grabbed what he wanted. He stuffed them carelessly into the suitcase before glancing back at Denner. “I’ll turn my passport over to the D.A.’s office in the morning. No passport, no chance that I’d leave the country, right?”

“I’m not a fool, Emerson. You have the financial means to leave the country with or without a passport.”

“So, put a tail on me. Notify the State Police. Do whatever you need to do.” He grabbed a few more items of clothing and threw them on top of the others. He zipped the suitcase shut and swung it off the bed, facing Denner head on. “But unless you’re prepared to arrest me tonight, I’m leaving for Keene after our little chat downtown.”

The look on the detective’s face confirmed his frustration, but Michael knew there wasn’t much Denner could do. “Ready? The sooner I answer your questions, the sooner I can leave town.”

“You might want to put on a hat as I have no plans on sneaking you out the back door. No doubt the press is waiting to get more pictures of that famous face of yours.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, you’re doing just fine, aren’t you? Cool as a cucumber and too damn sure of yourself.”

Resentment shot through Michael. The man didn’t get it. He never would. “In case you’ve forgotten, all the victims of these murders meant something to me. I cared about each and every one of them.”

Denner smirked, his disbelief obvious. “Yeah, right.”

“No matter what you want to believe, their deaths, the way they died and the agony of their families has been first and foremost in my mind.”

“Spare me, Emerson. I have more feeling for these women in my little finger than you do in your entire body.” Denner rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, his hands clenching into fists. “Don’t bother trying to make yourself out to be the victim. No one buys it, least of all me.”

“That wasn’t my objective. There’s enough blame to go around, and that includes you and your elite task force.”