“Maybe,” Hank said. “It could also be a nutcase. Some guy could have walked through your house when it was up for sale. Then when he heard about a probation officer being murdered, he reasoned that someone who knew you would go to the morgue, or someone at the morgue would know you and get the note to you.” He paused. “The local station broadcast the story live not long after I called you. The clerk at the front desk notified them before he called us. What a bastard, huh? Everyone wants to be on TV. I hate the damn media. All they do is cause problems for us. They’re still out here at the motel with their camera crews. We haven’t had a tsunami, an earthquake, or a hurricane lately, so I guess they’ve got to find some way to give the tragedy junkies their fix.”
“I don’t care about the media,” Carolyn shouted. “Get someone over here, damn it! My best friend got her head blown off, for Christ’s sake, and someone just threatened to kill my entire family. I demand that you take this seriously. One of the morgue attendants may have seen this person. We’re trying to get in touch with all of them now.”
“I’m about to clear here. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Where’s Veronica’s husband?”
“At the house,” Carolyn told him. “Haven’t you spoken to him yet?”
“No,” Hank told her. “Mary Stevens called about thirty minutes ago. A woman named Linda Cartwright answered. She said Drew went out looking for his oldest daughter. You think he had anything to do with Veronica’s death?”
“Absolutely not,” Carolyn said. “Drew’s a great guy.”
“No problems in the marriage?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she told him, remembering the dark circles under Veronica’s eyes. “I’ll talk to you when you get here.”
Once she concluded her call with Hank, Carolyn saw she had four messages from Marcus. They were both busy people, and made it a habit not to call and disturb each other at work unless it was absolutely necessary. Realizing how late it was, she dialed their home number. “I’m sorry,” she said after telling him what had transpired. “I just couldn’t tell anyone else. I’m at the morgue. The more I talk about it, the more upset I get.”
“I understand,” Marcus said. “Rebecca saw it on the news, though, and was terrified it was you.” The line fell silent. “Is there anything I can do? When are you coming home?”
“I’m not sure,” Carolyn said. “Don’t wait up for me. Once I leave here, I’m going back to Veronica’s house. We dumped the kids on a woman from work. She needs to go home to her family.”
“I’ll stop and pick up some food and meet you over there,” he said. “Rebecca is upstairs studying.”
“No,” she said, her voice elevating. “Don’t leave her alone!”
“Rebecca isn’t a baby. She drives all over the place in her car. And we have security. Why won’t you let me help you get through this?”
“Please,” Carolyn pleaded, “if you want to help me, stay at the house with Rebecca.”
“You can’t take on the responsibilities of Veronica’s family,” Marcus said. “This is a terrible tragedy, honey, but you need to think of yourself. We’re getting married in two weeks.”
“We can’t get married now. Veronica’s my maid of honor. How can I have a wedding when my maid of honor is on a slab at the morgue?”
“But, darling,” he said, tension crackling in his voice, “we’ve been planning this for almost a year. Brooke and Ethan are flying in from the East Coast. We’ve already received a ton of gifts. Rebecca can be your maid of honor.”
“I can’t talk about this now,” Carolyn said, clicking off the phone. Brooke and Ethan were Marcus’s children by his first marriage. They both attended Princeton, and were only a year apart in age. He’d been estranged from them for years, so she knew how important this was to him. He didn’t understand how deeply she cared for Veronica. Since they’d been seeing each other, she hadn’t socialized with her outside of work. Veronica and Drew couldn’t afford to eat in expensive restaurants. When she’d explained this to Marcus, he suggested inviting them to his house. She was embarrassed by Marcus’s wealth. How could she flaunt her future lifestyle to people she knew were living from one paycheck to the other?
Carolyn hadn’t told Marcus about the letter. Everything had happened too fast. How could she protect John when he was so far away? She couldn’t ask him to drop out of school. Attending MIT had been his dream, and he’d worked hard to make it a reality. An event like a wedding would offer the killer the perfect opportunity to make good on his threats.
She went to check with O’Malley. The attendant told her he’d managed to contact everyone, and no one recalled seeing anything even remotely suspicious.
Seeing Hank and a striking black woman step off the elevator, Carolyn rushed toward them. “None of the day attendants recall anyone giving them the letter, nor did they see it on the desk. The man on duty now came to work at four. He found an envelope addressed to me underneath his clipboard. He had his clipboard with him when he took me to the back to identify Veronica’s body. That’s when the person must have placed the envelope on his desk.”
Detective Mary Stevens was tall and shapely, with luminous brown eyes and flawless skin. She wore a red shirt and jeans that hung low on her hips. Carolyn knew she must have been at the motel where Veronica was murdered, as she always changed into a red shirt when she responded to a homicide. She called it her murder shirt. “Forensics is on their way,” Mary told her, reaching into her pocket for a pair of gloves. “Can we take a look at the note?”
At fifty, Hank Sawyer stood just under six feet. At one time, he’d been heavy, but he’d gone on a fitness program a few years ago, and now took pride in his physique. He still had a thick head of hair, although the gray strands outnumbered the brown. His face had a rugged look to it. Lines shot out around his mouth and eyes. “You touched it, I presume,” he said, watching as Carolyn handed Mary a plastic evidence bag. After Mary removed the letter from the envelope, Hank looked over her shoulder to read it. “Since it was hand-delivered, we might find fingerprints or other evidence that could help us identify this creep.”
“What about the man who rented the motel room?” Carolyn asked. “He could have been lying about his credit card being stolen.”
“Not likely,” Mary said, placing the note back in the plastic bag. “He was at work. At least five people saw him. He came in at eight and worked until six this evening. He brings his lunch from home, so he never left the building. He’s an underwriter at National Insurance.”
“Drew used to work for National Insurance,” Carolyn said, her face flushed with tension. “That was years ago, though. He works at Boeing now. Where was this man’s credit card stolen from, and why didn’t he report it until after the murder?”
“He claims he didn’t realize it was gone until we called him,” Hank said, chomping on a toothpick. “He left his wallet in a locker at the Spectrum Health Club last night. The only thing missing was his MasterCard and about thirty bucks in cash.”
Mary spoke up. “The motel clerk claims he rented the room to a black male in his early twenties the night before. Jonathan Tate, the man whose card was stolen, is a Caucasian male in his forties. That rules Tate out even without the alibi. It’s interesting that Veronica’s husband may have worked for the same company. People in the insurance business jump around a lot, though, and since you say it was a long time ago, it’s doubtful if Tate and Campbell knew each other.” She shrugged. “We’ll check it out, though. I’d follow a snail right now if I thought it could lead me to the killer.”
“Why don’t you go home, Carolyn?” Hank suggested “When the crime lab gets here, we’re going to have to clear