“I’m not accusing you of anything. It’s just that there were no signs of forced entry.” Adler smiled. “Did Mrs. Crowley have any friends?”
“None. For the longest time she kept to herself. She told everyone she was an artist, but she never painted. Her art studio was as pristine as the day she set it up. The canvases were all blank.”
“There’s a woman in town named Kaitlin Roe who’s interviewing people related to a cold case. Do you know if she ever met with Mrs. Crowley?”
“I heard Mrs. Crowley talking to a reporter on the phone once. But I think that reporter was a man.”
“You’re sure?” Adler asked.
“Yes. She was speaking on her cell, and his voice carried.”
“Any other visitors or callers?” Quinn asked. “You work in this house every morning. You hear and see things.”
“No. It was a good job and it paid well, but every day I was glad to get out of that house.” She shook her head. “And now she’s dead.”
“Did you ever hear the name Jennifer Ralston?” Adler asked.
“Yes, she was a friend of Mrs. Crowley’s. She visited the house sometimes. I cleaned for her once a few months ago.”
Adler tensed. “You had a key to Jennifer Ralston’s house.”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear what happened to Ms. Ralston?” he asked.
“No.”
“She was murdered in her home.”
Mrs. Wallace sat back, and her face tightened with tension. “I don’t have time for much television. I didn’t know.”
“What did you do with the key to Ms. Ralston’s house?” Adler asked.
“When I receive my work assignments from the central office, they give me a key. I turn it in at the end of the day with my time sheet.”
“You do that even for regulars like the Crowleys?”
“Yes. The company is very security conscious.”
“Did you ever bring any keys home?” he asked.
“No, never. I’d get fired for that.”
“Who else lives in this house with you?” Quinn asked.
“It’s me. Sometimes my grandson comes over to play.”
“Who’s your boss?” Adler asked.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No, ma’am, you’re not in trouble. You’re actually a big help.”
“My boss is Kelly Dixon.” She supplied her number.
“Thank you,” he said.
The detectives thanked Mrs. Wallace, and once in the car, Adler called Kelly Dixon at Margie’s Maids. His call went to voicemail, and he left his name and number.
He drove directly to Café Express, a funky shop with purple walls, modern art, and beads hanging over the front window. It looked as if it belonged in the city near the university and not in the suburban West End.
Out of the car, they crossed the lot and stepped inside. The scents of coffee and cinnamon greeted them. The shop had a collection of round tables and wooden chairs all painted vibrant colors. The place was empty.
Quinn glanced at her watch. “It’s almost closing time.”
A young woman holding two clean pitchers came out from the back. She glanced up and smiled. “Can I help you?”
Adler showed his badge and introduced them. “We’re trying to retrace the last few days of a murder victim.”
Her smile fading, she set down the pitchers and dried her hands on her green apron. “I’m Dot Lawrence, and I own the shop. I’m here a good bit of each day.”
Adler pulled up Erika’s picture on his phone. “Have you seen her?”
Dot studied the picture, nodding almost immediately. “Sure. That’s Erika. Are you saying Erika is dead?”
Adler accepted his phone back and tucked it in his breast pocket. “She is. When was Erika here last?”
“My God, that’s awful.” Dot brushed a loose strand away from her flushed face with the back of her hand. “Last Wednesday. She missed Saturday.”
“When she was here, did she meet with anyone?” Adler asked.
“Yeah. A guy. Had a young face, nicely dressed. He seemed very into her when she spoke. He was always taking notes during each of their meetings.” She shrugged. “Erika looked nervous.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No, sorry. He always paid in cash. I do remember his order: black coffee, heavy cream, and a couple of sugars. I don’t suppose that helps you too much.”
“You have security cameras?”
“Can’t afford one. But there are shops around here that do. I can tell you Erika was always here at 8:15 a.m. on Wednesdays and at 6:00 a.m. on Saturdays. He came in right after.”
“Did she meet with anyone else?” Quinn asked.
“No, just that guy.”
“Ever overhear them?”
“He was after something,” Dot said.
“Why do you say that?” Adler asked.
“A feeling. You stand behind this counter long enough and you learn to read people.”
Adler nodded. “We’ll check into the cameras, but if we can’t find one that monitors this store, would you be willing to sit down with a sketch artist?”
“Absolutely. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
INTERVIEW FILE #23
NOTHING TO LOSE
Monday, May 21, 2018
When Gina, Jennifer, Erika, and I crossed paths with Randy, he was a twenty-one-year-old man already showing signs of substance abuse. He had dropped out of college with no plans to return, and his relationship with his parents was already strained.
“The plan started simple,” Randy tells me later from his jail cell months after the police closed the case. “I just wanted to have some fun with the girls.”
“What was the plan?”
“Erika would do anything for Brad, and when Brad asked her to spike the bottle of lemonade with Ecstasy, she did. Later, when the shit hit the fan, Brad warned her not to tell, because if she did, she’d go down as an accessory. So she kept quiet.”
“What did you plan to do once we were drugged?”
“Nothing terrible. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
“But you were high, too, that day, right?”
“It was supposed to be fun, and no one was going to get hurt.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Friday, March 23, 2018; 6:00 a.m.
Margie’s Maids was located on Midlothian Turnpike and housed in a small industrial-style building. Parked out front was a collection of cars and trucks, each bearing a magnetic sign with the company’s name on the side.
Adler strode toward the front door, opened it, and paused as two women dressed in pink Margie’s Maids shirts hurried past him. He crossed the room to the front desk, where a stocky redheaded woman wearing one of the company’s pink shirts checked off what looked like the morning’s assignments.
Adler pulled out his badge. “I’d like to speak to the owner,” he said.
The woman peered up over pink reading glasses. “That’s me. I’m Margie Smith.”
“Ms. Smith, your company cleans for the Crowleys, and you did a job for Jennifer Ralston a few weeks ago.”
“That’s right.” She pulled off her glasses. “I heard about Ms. Ralston. She was a nice lady, and I was sorry to hear about it.”
Adler pulled a notebook from his breast pocket. “You have keys and security system codes for all your clients, correct?”
She frowned. “We do. But we’re very careful with alarm codes and keys around here. I insist that my cleaning professionals log out and log in all keys each day. I check them in myself.”
He flipped a page in his book. “I ran a check on your business in our police database. Did you report a breakin four weeks ago?”
“Yes, my assistant manager opened that day, and she thought we’d been robbed. She called the cops before I could stop her.”
“Why stop her?”
“Like I told the officer, nothing was taken.”
“Are you certain?”
“I accounted for all the cash in the safe, and every client key was on its hook. Nothing was missing.”
“Was anything disturbed?”
“Only thing my manager noticed was her mug.”
“Her mug?”
“She always keeps it on the right side of her desk, and she found it on the left. In my book, that wasn’t worth calling the cops.”
“Did you alert your clients?”
Her shoulders stiffened. “No. I didn’t see cause. We service over one hundred homes. That’s a lot of locks to be rekeyed and security codes changed.”
“A key can be made using a molding compound. Where do you keep the security codes?”
She drew in a breath. “In my assistant manager’s desk.”
“And she noticed her desk had been disturbed.”