“The incentive for murder tends to have a proportional relationship to the overall estate. You wouldn’t murder an oil tycoon for fifty grand, right?” Goldman said.
“I’d need at least a million for murder,” Burns said, deadpan. “I’ve got to put two kids through college.”
“We’re missing something,” Goldman said.
“Let’s go over it one more time before I’m too drunk to follow,” Burns said.
Goldman opened a file on his phone and reviewed the basics. “A victim shot once with a 9mm weapon from at least ten feet, probably closer to twenty. There was no weapon at the scene, no footprints, no cameras on Dover Cemetery, and, as far as we know, none of Irene’s friends or family were gun owners. The shooter would have had to have some practice, right?” Goldman said.
“He or she knew what they were doing. Irene was likely jogging at the time, a moving target.”
“It was planned. Shooter follows her, waits until she’s in an isolated locale. Or an accident? Maybe some kid is using the cemetery for target practice?” Goldman suggested.
Margot shrugged. It was possible, she thought, but unlikely.
“Let’s go over alibis again,” Margot said.
“Carl Hendricks, the ex-husband, was on vacation in California. I talked to his wife, who confirms. And I have digital confirmation of their plane tickets. Irene’s nonprofit had a few employees. All of them can be vouched for, and I’m not seeing a motive there. None of them seem to’ve had a personal relationship with Irene. And, as far as I can tell, she was well-liked. Whitman says he was home alone but probably couldn’t have made the shot anyway. Amy Johnson said she was home in bed. She sent me a selfie of her in bed. It wasn’t for the date in question, so I’m flummoxed as to why she sent it.”
“She was flirting,” Margot said, laughing. “Just out of curiosity, would you date a woman like her?”
“She’s only twenty-three,” Noah said.
“Not answering my question.”
“No.”
“Are you confirming that you’re refusing to answer my question or was that a no-you-wouldn’t-date-her?”
“I would not date someone like Amy,” Goldman said.
“Wow. So judgmental, Noah,” Burns said, smirking. Quickly, back to business: “Why would Owen risk his marriage for someone like Amy? What is it about her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on,” Margot said. “Explain the appeal.”
“I don’t like it when you ask me to explain men to you, like I have special insight into lascivious behavior,” Noah said.
“Fine, don’t answer,” Margot said.
“Luna and Owen don’t have alibis. According to the timeline, Luna was the last person to see Irene alive,” Goldman said.
“Right. She’s the last person to see Irene alive, she finds the body. She doesn’t call the police. She runs to Owen’s house and tells him. He goes to the crime scene, contaminating the evidence.”
“It’s convenient,” Goldman said.
“What do they get out of it?”
“Freedom. Some money,” Goldman said.
“Maybe it isn’t about money,” said Burns. “Or money is just part of it.”
“Then what?”
“Maybe he wants to see if he can get away with it.”
“Maybe he’s done it before?” Noah said.
Burns nodded, thinking. “It’s hard to ignore that incident at Markham. What are the odds?”
Burns stared at her empty glass, trying to decide if she should get another. Noah went to the bar and got another pint.
“I’ll drive you home,” he said.
Burns smiled in appreciation. “Best partner I ever had.”
Goldman felt pleased and embarrassed. “So, back to the Markham thing,” Goldman said. “Are you suggesting that maybe they’re in this together?”
“No. Not necessarily,” said Burns. “But if Owen did it, Luna knows.”
* * *
—
Margot entered the station the next morning a walking hangover cliché—coffee in hand, sunglasses indoors, cautious gait.
“You’re the worst partner I’ve ever had,” she said.
“Please take off your sunglasses,” Noah said.
Margot tossed the glasses onto her desk. “Happy?” she said, revealing bloodshot eyes.
“You only had three pints, right?”
“Give it ten years,” she said. “You’ll see.”
Noah’s hair was a bit damp, and Margot noted the faint scent of baby shampoo.
“Did you go to the gym this morning?” she said.
Noah had and still arrived an hour before Margot.
“Course not,” Noah said.
Noah had already skimmed through a third of Owen’s emails, along with a printout of his search history for the past three months.
“What are you working on?” Margot asked.
“Mann’s emails and search history,” Noah said.
“Anything of interest?” Margot said.
Noah wasn’t sure how to answer. He hadn’t reviewed enough of the material to provide an educated opinion. Margot understood his reluctance, but she wanted his gut.
“Tell me,” she said.
“We’re not going to find a smoking gun here.”
“Because he was smart and didn’t leave evidence?”
“If he was deliberately keeping his computer clean, I don’t think there would be so many emails between him and his girlfriend. Also, if I thought someone was going to be searching my computer in the near future, I’d at least clear out the porn-site search history.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Hypothetically,” Noah added.
“Tell me the truth. How much porn would I find on your laptop?”
Noah shook his head. “No. Not talking about that.”
“I can’t decide if you’re genuinely square or a closet perv.”
“Which would you prefer?”
“I really don’t know,” Margot said, then, recognizing the imprudence of their conversation, “I shouldn’t talk to you like that. I apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” Noah said.
“Because if a male superior inquired about his female partner’s porn-viewing habits, that would be…highly inappropriate. If you want to report me, I’ll understand.”
Burns’s mobile rang. She answered.
“Detective Burns,” she said into the phone. “Okay. Thank you. When? Right. Goodbye.”
Margot ended the call and turned to Noah. “They released the body last night. To Mather and Sons. There’s no service planned,” she said.
“Nothing?” Noah said.
“No.”
“Where is she being buried?”