“Why isn’t she in jail?” Collins asked. “Why isn’t she in jail if she admitted she shot him?”
“The judge didn’t deem her a flight risk,” Kins said, “and she has no prior criminal record. She’s out on bail. That doesn’t mean she’s out of the woods. It’s not uncommon for the prosecutor to wait until all the evidence is gathered to charge someone.”
“But you indicated she came in and reconfirmed what happened.”
“She did,” Kins said. “But we have reason to doubt she’s telling us the truth.”
Collins exhaled, clearly exasperated. “It wouldn’t be the first time she’s lied. Far from it.”
“Sometimes these things take time, Mr. Collins,” Tracy said, “but in the end, the system usually delivers justice.”
Mark Collins looked somber. “Maybe so, Detectives, but the judicial system doesn’t ordinarily deal with the likes of Angela.”
CHAPTER 9
Kins dropped Tracy back at the Justice Center, telling her he had an appointment to talk with his son Eric’s high school counselor. Tracy set her purse in her cubicle, scanned the documents Mark Collins had provided, then e-mailed them to Cerrabone with a note for him to call her.
She’d no sooner hit “Send” when Faz materialized. “You have lunch plans?” he asked.
“No,” she said, sensing that he was interested in cashing in on his free lunch. “What did you have in mind, Faz?”
“I took the liberty of booking us a reservation at Tulio,” he said. “Best clams in the city.”
“Very considerate of you. My Visa card thanks you. It has cobwebs on it, but I can use the air miles.”
“Wait till you get the bill,” Del said, pushing back his chair. “You’ll have enough miles for a trip to Europe.”
Tulio was within walking distance, north on Fifth Avenue. The nice weather was holding, midfifties with clear skies. As they walked, Tracy filled Faz in on the interview with Mark Collins.
“So what did you think?” Faz asked.
“I think he sounded like someone trying to protect his brother. I’ve never bought the ‘she threw herself down a staircase’ theory.”
Faz held the door for her, and they stepped inside. The dining area consisted of half a dozen tables draped with white cloths, and booths along the walls. The kitchen was at the back, and diners could watch the two chefs at work.
“I can taste the clams already,” Faz said.
“While you salivate, I’m going to wash my hands.” Tracy spotted the sign for the restrooms and started for the back of the restaurant.
Halfway there, she thought she heard a familiar voice and glanced to her left, into the dining area. Kins sat in a booth near a window, leaning forward, engaged in conversation. Opposite him sat Amanda Santos, the FBI profiler who’d worked the Cowboy investigation, and a dead ringer for Halle Berry.
Del was waiting when Tracy and Faz returned. “All right, Fazio, get it over with. Tell me how the clams were the best you’ve ever had.”
“Garlic and onions, a little salt and pepper.” Faz kissed his fingers and let them bloom. “Magnifico.”
It was a worthy performance. Maybe Faz could have been in the movies. He didn’t have the clams. They didn’t eat at Tulio. Tracy had done a one-eighty when she’d spotted Kins and returned quickly to the front of the restaurant. She’d had no idea what excuse she’d use to convince Faz they had to leave, so she was glad when she didn’t need one.
“I saw him,” Faz had said, already opening the door for her and stepping outside. “I figured something was up. I’ve heard him on the phone a couple times keeping his voice low. Then the suit. Who wears a suit anymore if you don’t have to?”
“I knew things weren’t great at home,” Tracy said, now wondering if Santos was the reason she’d beaten Kins to the Collins crime scene. “But he said he and Shannah were working things through.”
“Hey, we don’t know he’s done anything.”
“No,” she said. “But he lied and said he was meeting his son’s high school counselor.”
“Not our place to judge,” Faz said. “Nobody knows what goes on between a man and a woman in the privacy of their own home.”
“Agreed, but I’m not his wife. I’m his partner.”
When Tracy made Homicide, her first partner quit, not willing to work with a woman. The second asked to be reassigned when his wife complained. Kins had readily accepted her, and for the eight years they had worked together, they’d agreed to a policy of total honesty.
Back at her desk, still upset, Tracy busied herself going through the Collins file and trying to catch up on all the reports. The neighbors said they all knew the couple had separated, though they didn’t know the reason. No one had ever heard or seen anything to confirm Angela Collins’s accusation of physical or emotional cruelty.
Nearly two hours later, Tracy turned from her computer when Kins returned. She watched him hang his coat on a hanger and hook it to the top of his cubicle.
“How was the meeting?” she asked, drawing a glance from Faz.
Kins shrugged. “You know, same BS. Took a bit long, but Eric’s doing better. He’s got his algebra grade back up to a B.”
“That’s got to be a relief.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is. You got that list of names from the brother? I’ll start making calls.”
Tracy handed Kins the list without further comment, and he went to work. So did Tracy. She made good progress talking to Tim Collins’s friends and other relatives. Each confirmed, to varying degrees, what Mark Collins had told them—that Angela isolated Tim, seemed to pick unnecessary fights, and could be particularly “difficult” when she didn’t get her way. That, however, was a double-edged sword, since it also confirmed the couple’s relationship could be volatile.
The emergency room doctor had also returned Kins’s call, and Kins relayed the substance of their conversation. The doctor didn’t specifically remember Angela Collins, but he’d pulled her chart, which confirmed that Angela had minor bruising along the right side of her torso and near her ribs. Angela had told the doctor that her estranged husband had shoved her into the door frame and she fell over a table, but X-rays didn’t reveal any fractures. He’d sent her home and told her to take an anti-inflammatory for the pain. He said he’d never questioned whether or not Angela was telling the truth about how she’d been injured, or if her injuries were consistent with her explanation.
Early evening, Kins grabbed his suit coat, draping it over his shoulder. “I’m going to hit it. Will has a soccer game.”
“You don’t want to miss that,” Tracy said.
“Shannah will have my head.”
“Before you go, there’s something I need to talk with you about,” Tracy said. “My friend, Jenny Almond—”
“The one who became sheriff?”
“Right. She’s asked me to take a look at a 1976 case her father worked.”
“Cold case?”
“Not exactly. The facts are complicated. I don’t want to keep you from the soccer game. Just wanted you to know I’m going to ask Nolasco to let me work it, and I wanted to make sure you’re all right with it.”