Seth chased after Cara, leaving them alone with Jacobson. “Are you staying, Ron?” Jake asked.
“Yes.”
Jake stood outside the door of Chelsea’s bedroom to get an impression of the woman while Louie went out to their car to grab the evidence kits and gloves. As soon as Louie came back they started their search. A neat woman with good quality clothes in muted colors, shoes, and furniture, nothing flashy for Chelsea. Not an overabundance of anything. It looked as if she lived within her means. All of Chelsea’s jewelry was fourteen-karat gold. Everything in the room was precise, organized to an inch of its life. Clothes were color coordinated in both the closet and the drawers. He hadn’t expected to get much and they didn’t.
The top drawer held her functional underwear. Jake discovered the sexy lingerie in the second drawer. He couldn’t tell if they were new or old. She took care of everything she owned. Her bathroom, free of clutter, was shined to a gloss. In her closet, her shoes were lined up under matching outfits. A high-end-looking fabric covered the bed without all the fuss of throw pillows. It told Jake a lot about Chelsea.
Chelsea Adams was a practical, confident, organized woman, who wasn’t afraid to show her feminine side. But who was she showing it to?
He didn’t get into details too much with the kids. They weren’t up to it. After the search, they headed over to Chelsea’s office.
* * * *
A social worker for the state, Chelsea had worked in an office on Thomaston Avenue in a long, gray concrete, unimaginative office building. The structure was divided in half. The unemployment office was situated on one side, social services occupied the other. Leaving the sunshine outside, he and Louie walked into the gray SS office. The receptionist didn’t bother to look up. She pointed to a sign-in sheet as she continued to talk into the phone. On principle, Jake didn’t sign in. He held his shield under her nose until she acknowledged him.
“What can I do for you, Officer?” she asked, after a couple of moments.
“That’s Lieutenant. I need to speak with Mrs. Adams’s supervisor.” Instead of calling the supervisor, the woman got up, walked to the back of the room, and disappeared around a gray partition.
“You sure got used to ‘Lieutenant’ fast.” Louie elbowed him.
“You bet,” Jake said.
The rest of his comment was cut off by a small man of about five-four with a rounded pot belly in, of all things, a gray suit. He looked as if he’d swallowed a basketball. His gray hair kept to the color scheme, or lack of it, and he was sporting a comb-over. It always amused Jake what people did for vanity.
“Lieutenant, I’m Angelo Torres, Chelsea’s supervisor. Please follow me to my office. It’s a terrible tragedy. We heard a little while ago she’d been found.”
He led the way through a maze of cubicles to an office the size of a postage stamp. The tight, small space told Jake Angelo’s status in the department—a low-level manager.
“How did you hear?” Jake asked.
“Her daughter called here to speak with Sara, who then told all of us. Please have a seat,” Angelo offered.
“Did Chelsea work for you, Mr. Torres?” Jake sat and jumped right in with his questions.
“Yes. I distribute the work load. I oversee everyone’s files, including Chelsea’s. If an employee has a problem or issue they can’t resolve, it’s handed over to me.”
“Did Chelsea routinely have problems?” Louie asked.
“No, her clients respected her and she was fair to everyone, no bias. Never ran out of patience, like some do. She didn’t make people feel uncomfortable or embarrassed for being here either. Chelsea had compassion for her clients. We’ll miss her,” Angelo concluded in a monotone voice.
“Did she ever have a client who wasn’t satisfied? Or felt they deserved more than what was offered?” Louie asked.
“Once, about two years ago, a man who was denied benefits. He wouldn’t leave her alone. In her best interest, we had her file a complaint with the police. After she filed, he didn’t bother her anymore. His intimidation didn’t work. Chelsea was a tough nut,” Angelo said.
“Anything else? Any other information about Chelsea you might have that would help us catch whoever did this to her, Angelo?” Jake used his first name, hoping for some personal input on Chelsea, but got none.
“No, Chelsea didn’t date anyone from the department. She did her job. I wish I had more workers like her. My life would be easier.”
“Okay, thanks. We’re going to need to interview her coworkers. Is there a place we can do the interviews in private? Here in your office or in a conference room?”
“Why don’t I show you to the break room? I’ll get you a list of employees who worked with Chelsea,” Angelo said.
* * * *
He and Louie interviewed ten coworkers. All were shocked or sickened over Chelsea’s death, but couldn’t offer a reason why someone would hurt her. Her friends—the ones she went out to dinner with on April sixteenth—weren’t at work. They left after being notified of her death, finding it too difficult to deal with their grief and their clients. Angelo gave Jake and Louie their home addresses and phone numbers. They started with the one closest to work. Jake wanted them interviewed as soon as possible.
First on the list was Sara Hurdle. She lived in the west end of town. Jake knocked on Hurdle’s door. It opened only a couple of inches. A swollen green eye surrounded by red peered out at them through heavy security chains. “Ms. Hurdle, can we come in?” Jake asked as they identified themselves and offered their badges.
She pushed the door closed. He heard the rattle of chains as the door reopened. Though it was eighty something degrees outside, Sara stood there in a ratty, terry cloth bathrobe, bathed in grief. A grief he understood too well. The woman also looked scared.
“Some of my questions will be difficult but your answers will help Chelsea. May I call you Sara?” Beforehand, he and Louie had agreed he’d start the questioning.
“Yes, Sara’s fine.” She wiped at her eyes with a crumpled up tissue.
“We need to ask you about Friday night,” Jake said still standing by the door.
“I’ve racked my brains for the last two hours trying to find answers. Nothing. I don’t have any.” Sara sobbed. “If we thought Chelsea was in any kind of trouble or someone was bothering her, we wouldn’t have let her leave by herself.” She wiped her tears. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no reason for you to be sorry, Sara. Chelsea’s death is a tragedy. Are those new locks on your door?” Jake asked, as they walked into the living room. Sara sat on the couch, Louie sat beside Sara on the burgundy sofa. Jake took a well-worn easy chair with a zig-zag print that dated back to the fifties.
“Yes, I changed them out last week when Chelsea went missing. It doesn’t make any sense, but her disappearance scared me. I thought the new locks would help put me at ease.”
“Why are you frightened, Sara?” Louie took over the questioning.
“This is something you read about in the newspapers, not something you expect to happen to you or anyone close to you. Deep down I knew something bad happened to her. Chelsea disappearing is out of character. When I say it out loud, it sounds stupid…”
“No, it doesn’t. What we need to do is go through the whole night piece by piece. Are up to it?” Louie gentled his voice.
“I’ll do anything I can to help. Chelsea was the best person in the whole world. We were friends as well as coworkers. I can’t believe she’s