The older woman nodded. “If you can believe it, some of the tissue samples haven’t been run yet. Though the case was ruled SIDS, the official COD hasn’t been stated. There are still some outstanding tests. We’ve asked for them to be finished and sent as soon as possible.” She checked her watch, a large dial with a white band. “Speaking of...I’m off to go run them down. Welcome to the team, Graham.”
“Thanks. Good luck.” She turned back to the rest of them. “What about the phone? Ivy Brookes told me we’d find photos of physical abuse on Sutton Montclair’s phone.”
Jim opened a new screen. “It’s not enough for court, but there are some indications. Have a look.”
She watched him open the pictures. Most were impossible to identify. They looked like blurry smudges, though one was clearly a female forearm with two distinct fingerprints denting the flesh, and another showed a bruised and swollen nose.
“If this is Mrs. Montclair’s arm, that’s a nasty bruise made by someone’s hand. That nose looks broken. But that’s all I’ve got on here. The rest are selfies and sunsets.”
“What about the baby?”
“Nothing. Not a single shot.”
“Strange.”
“Not really,” Moreno said. “When you lose a child, it’s often difficult to have the constant reminder. Some people get their energy from looking at the old photos, setting up shrines. Some just want to forget.”
“How sad,” Holly said. “Well, we know she got hurt at least twice, and we’ve had a number of domestic calls to come out and defuse fights, though Mrs. Montclair always claimed she didn’t call the police in the reports. We should look and see where the calls originated.”
“Already did,” Jim said. “They all came from the house, from her phone.”
Moreno stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “She was probably lying to save face. That happens. I see it all the time on domestic calls. The woman’s already been scared and beaten up. By admitting she called for help, she can be signing her death warrant.”
The MP detectives chimed in. Walt spoke first. He had a gentle but distinct Southern accent. Holly knew he was from West Tennessee. “We’re going to be doing a full-on grid search through the area. I’ll be leading the exterior team, Alex will be in charge of the house itself. We’ll start in the house and its proximity, then move everywhere around the neighborhood, and start working our way out. With your relationship to the suspect, you should stick with Alex. You’re already somewhat familiar with the house. You can guide us there.”
“Actually, I may want you here to interview Mr. Montclair,” Moreno said. “Depends on how he reacts when we show up to toss the place and bring him in for questioning. You’ve definitely developed a rapport with him. He might just admit it all once we get him inside an interview room.”
“Assuming his lawyer is going to let you talk to him,” Walt said. “Joel Robinson isn’t anyone’s fool.”
Moreno shrugged. “With any luck, Montclair is so convinced we’ll never figure out he’s behind this that he’ll come on in like a good little boy and leave Robinson out of it.”
Holly listened carefully to everything, nodding, taking notes, thinking. When they’d finished running her through the plan, she pocketed her notebook and crossed her arms on her chest.
“Sir, I appreciate that I’m new to the investigative field, but I have to say, something feels very strange about all of this. Mr. Montclair either has a split personality or he doesn’t know all of this is on his computer. He’d never give us the goods to arrest him. He’s too smart for that.”
“You don’t think he did it? We have a preponderance of evidence the man is playing a serious long con game, first with his wife, and now with us. His friends are abandoning ship. The second we name him as a suspect, they will all come forward with stories. Trust me. I’ve seen this before,” Moreno said.
“I know you have, and trust me, I appreciate your experience here. But...why bring us in? To what end? If he wanted to get rid of his wife, why didn’t he just kill her and dump her somewhere far away, and not call us in?”
“Pretty boy wants to play,” Jim said.
“Come on. I don’t buy it. I don’t disagree that everything is pointing to a purposeful murder, and all of this looks really bad for him. But there’s something bizarre about it all. For example, the video of Sutton Montclair at the reviewer’s house. Both Ellen Jones and Mr. Montclair agree that it isn’t Sutton.”
“How hard is it to hire an actress to go do something stupid for you?” Jim said.
“Let me guess,” Holly quipped. “There’s a receipt for a hired actress for the date in question?” She looked at Moreno. “Sir. Something’s weird here. This is so pat, so convenient. I don’t buy it.”
“Hey, Golightly, there’s nothing convenient about this. I said I’d use small words, Graham, but trust me, this wasn’t an easy hack. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing, exactly where to hide the files.”
“Why keep evidence that can be used against you? Montclair is a writer. I’ve talked to him at length, researched everything I can find about him online. I won’t go so far as to say I know how he thinks, but it’s clear from our conversations that he thinks through every permutation. I can’t buy the idea that he’d be so dumb as to leave a trail of bread crumbs to his own door.”
Moreno smiled. “And yet, young Graham, this is exactly what we have. Here’s the thing about criminals. They’re stupid. They think they’re brilliant. They think they can get away with it. Some of them are total sociopaths who can, but the vast majority are ego-driven little psychopaths who get their jollies trying to out-puzzle us. The thing is, we’ve been trained. We know how they think, how they pretend. In the end, a small bit of evidence, a hair, a fingerprint, a flake of blood, is all it takes to catch them in their lies.
“Now, it’s going to take a little time to set everything in motion. You’ve been at it for two days nonstop. Go get a shower, get some food, get some rest. We’re going to hit this hard very soon, and you won’t have a chance to breathe for a while.”
“But, sir—”
“No buts. You earned yourself a couple of hours off. Go. And, Graham?”
“Yes, sir?”
“We will find the truth that Mr. Montclair thinks he’s hiding. Believe me.”
When he put it that way, so vehemently and so plainly, she almost did. Almost.
A CRY, BUT NOT FOR HELP
Another nasty, empty morning. Ethan thought he might still be drunk. He was definitely hungover. His hands and wrists ached. He had crawled into bed somewhere around three in the morning, after writing nearly eighty pages of material. He’d never tapped in so completely. His previous one-day record was fifty pages and that had taken sixteen hours, with regular breaks, when he was young and dumb and didn’t know any better.
He’d written almost a third of the story in one sitting. And it was good. Solid. Usable.
He did some light stretching, popped a few Advil and drank a liter of water, made tea, choked down some cereal, and reopened the manuscript.