Terri Reed - Double Threat Christmas

For some reason the whole scenario bummed Paul out.

Megan McClain had definitely become a full-fledged suspect.

“Wallace. Howell.” A man just entering the building called to the detectives.

Paul glanced at Andy and saw the same surprise reflected in Andy’s dark eyes that was shooting through Paul. What was Chief Erickson doing here?

“Chief,” Andy said to the older, balding man.

Chief Erickson shook the snow off his hat as he moved closer. “I heard about our double homicide. I know the victims.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, sympathy coating his words.

Erickson’s brown eyes revealed sadness. “Me, too. So tell me what you have.”

Paul filled the chief in on their suspect Megan and explained what little evidence had been gathered so far. “After we inform the families, we’ll check out the alibi for the owner and find out where the other employees were at the time of the murders.”

“I’ll inform the families,” the chief said, his voice gruff.

A jolt of relief sparked through Paul. Telling the victims’ families of their loved ones’ death was never pleasant.

“You want one of us to go with you?” Andy asked, compassion evident in his voice.

The chief shook his head. “I’ll take Gonzales and a uniform with me. I think I’ll call Shelia Wells, as well.”

Paul thought having a crisis counselor on hand when delivering the heartbreaking news a brilliant idea. And taking Detective Maria Gonzales was also another smart move. Maria’s ability to calm people and at the same time gain information was legendary within the department. The chief knew what he was doing when he called Maria. Paul respected the man and looked forward to many years of tutelage under his command.

“We’ll go do our interviews,” Andy said, and headed toward the door.

Paul followed Andy out the gallery entrance and into the deluge of snow; within seconds Paul’s hair was soaked. They hustled into their unmarked sedan, Andy at the wheel.

“So what do you think?” Andy questioned as he maneuvered the car around some pedestrians hurrying across the street, their heads tucked low.

“It doesn’t look good for Ms. McClain,” Paul stated.

Means, motive and opportunity.

But a niggling of doubt lifted the hairs at Paul’s nape. Somehow he couldn’t see Megan, who exercised extreme sanitary measures, leaving behind such a bloody mess.

The phone rang. Once, twice. Then was answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“It’s done,” the caller said with a slight tremor.

Silence met the announcement, followed closely by a sigh. One of relief or regret, the caller didn’t know. And didn’t care. This was about money, not emotion.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t do this for your gratitude. And I want double the money since it was double the trouble,” the caller stated in harsh tones.

“What? What do you mean double? I am not paying you more than what we agreed on.”

“Oh, yes, you are.” The caller’s voice took on an edge of steel. “Because I’m not going away. If you think I haven’t taken steps to protect myself on this, you’d be wrong.”

A strangled sound came over the line. “I’ll get you the money.”

“I know.” The caller hung up.

“Let’s follow up on Sinclair’s alibi. There’s something about the guy that sets my teeth on edge,” Paul said, thinking how convenient it was that the owner would leave early just in time for the murders to take place.

Within a few minutes, they’d made the trek to Figaro’s. The savory smells of spices filled Paul’s senses, making his stomach rumble. The clinking of expensive dinnerware and hushed voices could be heard over the soft classical music playing in the background. Paul’s gaze swept over the mirrored walls, plush seating and white, linen tablecloths where the powerful came to do business and be seen.

A long, oak bar with high stools and brass appointments ran the length of the restaurant. Men in business suits and women in high-fashion styles nursed drinks while assumedly waiting for an available table.

Paul and Andy flashed their badges to the hostess, a pretty woman in her late twenties with long, straight, red hair, which covered her shoulders and made a stark contrast to the silky green shift she wore.

She blinked, her gaze shifting from Andy to Paul and back.

Andy gestured to Paul. “We have a few questions.”

The young woman beamed and thrust out her ample chest. “Sure, anything for you. I’m Gina.”

“Gina, do you remember a Mr. Lester Sinclair coming in earlier this evening?” Paul asked. “Short, thin, sixties?”

Her head bobbed. “The art guy, sure. He’s a regular.”

Paul pulled out his notepad. An expensive habit. “What time did he come in tonight?”

Gina thought for a moment. “He came in at about six something. He wanted to sit in Angela’s section, so he had to wait for a bit.”

“Why did he want Angela?” Paul inquired.

Gina’s smile turned sly. “She’s more his speed.”

“Can we speak with Angela?” Andy asked.

“Let me get her,” Gina replied, and sashayed away.

A moment later, Gina returned, followed by a tall, regal-looking older woman dressed in black slacks and blouse with a white apron.

Judging by the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, Paul put her at fifty-five-ish, but her figure belied her age. Her dark hair had been swept back into a sleek twist, and the woman exuded a graceful elegance that was indicative of Figaro’s.

“Gentlemen, can I help you?” Angela’s throaty voice held just a hint of mild curiosity.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Mr. Sinclair,” Andy stated.

Angela inclined her head. “Ask away.”

“We understand that Mr. Sinclair was here this evening, is that correct?” Paul asked.

A coy smile played at her red lips. “Yes. He came in and, as usual, waited to be seated in my section. He had the house specialty. Then he moved to the bar for a cocktail.”

“So he is a regular?” Paul asked.

“Yes. Twice a week for the past, oh, gosh, five years.”

“So you know him pretty well?” Andy asked.

She gave him a haughty stare. “Yes. I like to get to know my customers.”

“When would you say he left the restaurant?” Paul inquired, drawing her attention.

“I really couldn’t say. He sat at the bar for a while.” Angela gestured to the bar. “You should ask Rod.”

“We will,” Andy said, and moved to the bar.

“Thank you for your time,” Paul said. “Just one last question. Does Sinclair normally come in on Tuesday nights?”

Angela’s eyebrows drew together. “Now that you mention it, no. Usually Thursday nights and Friday afternoons for lunch. I often sit with him for a while on Thursday nights. But tonight we were slammed, so I wasn’t able to.”

Paul narrowed his gaze. “Do you usually sit with your customers?”

She gave him a bold smile. “Only the ones that tip well.”

“Ah. Thank you. If I have any other questions, I’ll know where to find you.” Paul joined Andy with the bartender, Rod.

“Rod, here, was just saying that Sinclair joined a young woman at the bar tonight,” Andy informed Paul.

Paul recorded the information in his notepad. “Did you happen to hear the woman’s name?”

Rod, a muscular man with a crew cut and a scar on one cheek, shook his head. “No, sorry, dude. She came in and sat here nursing a glass of house wine. When Sinclair got up to leave, she halted him and invited him to sit with her. I got the impression he was surprised. They both drank a scotch and sat talking for about forty minutes, maybe longer. I was busy, so I didn’t hear any of their conversation.”