A Beeline to Murder

Abby walked past a second glass window, which separated the waiting area from the office cubicles, the locked property room, and the interrogation rooms. She saw the department’s female crime-scene investigator hobbling toward her on crutches. They met on opposite sides of the security door.

The woman pushed open the heavy door, and Abby and Philippe walked through. “Goodness, Nettie. You’re injured. Line of duty?”

Nettie Sherman snorted. “If you want to call it that. Chief Allen didn’t want to buy a new desk and chair for me, so he dragged in his brother-in-law’s old metal desk and had a chair brought up from the basement, where, as you know, stuff goes when it’s broken. First day in it, I leaned forward and heard that chair crack like someone had snapped a bullwhip. Next thing I know, my body was flying into a file drawer.” Nettie adjusted the crutches under her arms and glanced down at her right leg. “My knee had an old injury. Now it has a new one.”

Abby couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Oh, Nettie, I’m so sorry.” She clamped a hand over her mouth. “It’s not funny, but you’re such a fabulous storyteller.”

“Well,” Nettie continued, “I’m stuck with that dang dinosaur of a desk, but I did get a new chair.”

Abby chuckled. “What happened to the old one?”

Nettie rolled her eyes. “Where else? Back to the basement.” She pointed down to the end of the corridor. “Chief is expecting you.”

“Yes.” Abby drew in a deep breath and tried to exhale the tension that had suddenly claimed her body.

“I’m supposed to escort you there, so follow me.” Nettie hobbled on her crutches ahead of Abby for a few steps and then stopped to whisper, “What is it? Twenty-five feet? I could have watched you walk there from here. But he won’t bend the rules for anyone.”

“Of course he won’t,” Abby replied, following Nettie again as she hobbled ahead.

Before Abby could say another word, the chief’s office door flew open from the inside. He glowered from the doorway. “Mackenzie, you’re late. Your fault . . . or Nettie’s for yammering on about that knee of hers?”

“Mine,” Abby said. “I apologize, Chief. Mr. Bonheur and I were unavoidably delayed.”

Chief Bob Allen uttered one of his customary grunts, spun around, and marched back to his desk. “Take a seat.” He gestured to the two black metal institutional chairs in front of his desk, then sat down in his own chair.

“Chief,” Abby said, knowing that the chief preferred to set the agenda and that by speaking first, she was preempting his privilege. “You’ve met Mr. Bonheur, and you know we are here because he has asked me to dig a little deeper into his brother’s untimely death.”

“Waste of time. We’ve closed it.” The chief leaned back in his chair and turned a steely-eyed stare upon Abby. “It’s what we do when it’s a suicide. You know that, Mackenzie.”

“Yes, sir, you’re very likely right, but we would like to review the police file as soon as it is possible.”

“It hasn’t been redacted yet.”

“When can we expect that to be completed?”

“We’re shorthanded,” he said, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes.

Abby met his gaze . . . waited.

“A few more days,” he finally offered. The chief then addressed Philippe. “As I said before, Mr. Bonheur, we’re sorry for your loss. You can hire Ms. Mackenzie here if you want to, but there is no great mystery to unravel, so delving further into this would be a waste of Mackenzie’s time and your money.”

“Thank you, Chief, but my family has many questions. I believe Ms. Mackenzie will help me answer those questions.”

“Up to you.” Chief Bob Allen leaned back in his chair again, then laced his fingers together over his stomach. “Are we done here?”

Abby stood up. “Not quite. I’d like to review that surveillance tape the officers acquired from the pastry shop and any tapes from other businesses in the area. Philippe and I will also be compiling a list of the chef’s known associates. Your officers would already have started such a list. I’d like a copy of that. Finally, we’d like to take with us any property the department has belonging to Jean-Louis Bonheur.”