More Heat Than Light: Carter Peterson Mystery Series Book 4 Read online

  James turned and stared at me as if he were trying to burn a hole in the side of my head. “Was that meant to be helpful?” he asked as I pulled into his driveway.

  “Just playing the Devil’s advocate.”

  James got out of my car without saying another word, gave me what looked to be a half-hearted wave, and shuffled off toward his house.

  Chapter 18

  For the first time since meeting him nearly two years prior, I felt sorry for Detective Ron James. As far as police detectives go, I held him in the highest regard. He’d always impressed me with the way he’d attack a case until it cracked---which was likely a factor in why his department had such a high percentage of crimes solved, and large number of bad guys behind bars.

  But this case seemed to have him by the cajones. And he was taking it personally.

  Not that I thought any less of him for it. I didn’t feel like I was any closer to solving the mystery of who’d ended the rising radio star’s life than James was.

  My only advantage was I wasn’t tired like he was. I’d left the force with some life left in me. Becoming a private investigator had been one of the best decisions of my life.

  As I made the turn onto the street where I lived, I realized another big difference between us. I had a good woman in my life, and she was a pretty fair investigator, to boot.

  James had no one---as was eventually the case with most career cops. It was just too hard a life for most spouses to bear.

  The silver lining in all of it was that tomorrow was a new day, and the case wasn’t even 24 hours old, yet. James would bounce back after getting some rest, like I’d seen him do many times before, and Sarah would give me the extra incentive I needed to bring my A-game.

  Between the three of us, I felt confident we’d gain the upper hand on the person or persons responsible for murdering Amanda Enright, a young woman who’d been robbed of the bright, shiny future she’d built for herself.

  I pulled into my driveway, shut the motor off, and sat staring at the warm glow coming from the windows of my house. I didn’t do it often enough, so I took some time to reflect on how lucky I was to have a successful career, my health, and a woman like Sarah in my life.

  I said a little thank-you under my breath and headed inside.

  “Where the heck you been?” Sarah asked as she met me half way across the kitchen and wrapped her arms around me.

  “Didn’t you get my note?” I asked.

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “It was a rhetorical question.”

  “You’re sexy when you use those big words,” I said and planted a kiss on her lips.

  “Were you at the station with James all this time?”

  “Yep. Observed the questioning of Kayla Brock. Her story seems to check out. And mirrored the timeline Corey Anders gave in his interview.”

  “Good,” Sarah said. “Now Kayla can concentrate on coping with the loss of Amanda.”

  “Right. In other news, James cut Lee Sands loose. Meghan McCue, too.”

  “Huh. Can’t say I’m all that surprised, where Sands is concerned? Did you ask what prompted James to let him go?”

  “Sure did. His men found enough video footage showing Sands’s orange Mustang---some even capturing his face behind the wheel---to back up his alibi. Ultimately, his car was seen an hour away from Bridgeport at the time the ME said the murder took place.”

  “And McCue? Sarah asked.

  “James got sick of being harassed by her lawyer,” I replied. “But he has nothing solid to prove she was inside her home at the time of the murder. He told the lawyer that McCue wasn’t to leave town.”

  “Does that mean James intends to charge the contractor with Amanda’s murder?”

  “Not necessarily. He’s having a tough time with this case. Said the same thing you did about Troy Webber. No clear motive.”

  Sarah nodded, a slight smirk on her face. “Guess neither of us can take a victory lap about who the killer is just yet, huh?”

  “Guess not. But I’m still leaning toward Webber. James said the Scarborough cops located Webber’s son. Busted him on the spot for drug possession. Seems he’s been selling meth and smoking the profits.”

  “So, no corroboration of Troy Webber’s alibi?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Guess someone had better find some hard evidence soon.”

  “James has got until midday tomorrow to charge Webber, or let him go. James said he’s going to get an early start in the morning. My guess is he’ll lean on Webber harder, now that his son’s in jail. Even if they don’t find compelling evidence at Webber’s house, James will come up with a new angle to get Webber to talk. If Webber is guilty, James will find out.”

  Chapter 19

  My ringing cell phone managed to vaporize a dream I was having. A dream involving a tropical beach. And lots of ice cold beer. I groped around for the device then tried to focus my bleary eyes on the painfully bright screen.

  Detective James, calling at 6:20 am.

  “You weren’t kidding about getting up early,” I mumbled as I stumbled out of bed and into the hallway, doing my best to avoid waking Sarah.

  “Sorry. Sounds like I woke you up,” James said. “I just wanted to give you the opportunity to come down and sit in on round two with me and our boy Webber.”

  “You found something at his place?”

  “Not in terms of anything concrete, but judging by the porn magazines, raunchy videos, and girlie posters all around the interior of this scumbag’s house, I’m convinced Webber and his son are a women-hating tag-team.”

  “Can’t say I’m a bit surprised. Give me five to throw some clothes on and I’ll be on my way.”

  “No problem,” James said. “I’ll wait till you get here before I start hammering on this reprobate.”

  I ended the call then snuck back into the bedroom to grab my things. I heard Sarah’s voice as I turned to leave. “Want me to make coffee?” she asked.

  “No time, but thanks. James is waiting on me down at the station.”

  “OK, love you,” she said in a whisper and rolled over.

  I got myself dressed then headed downstairs toward the door. A glimpse out the kitchen window revealed a white layer of frost covering the hood and roof of my car. I turned heel and went for the hall closet. It was jacket weather again.

  I stepped out into the crisp, early morning air thinking about the case. Detective James had sounded rested over the phone, and eager to rattle our material witness-turned-prime suspect’s cage hard enough to shake some sort of actionable confession out of him.

  Assuming Webber was our man.

  It was a huge assumption, but until we had better information, or irrefutable evidence pointing us in a different direction, he’d be the focus of our energies.

  I got under way and turned on the radio to discover the Red Sox had won last night’s game, which likely factored into James’s good mood. I was a little jealous of his ability to find so much joy in such a simple pleasure.

  So, I decided he’d be all right with me taking a few extra minutes to find my own joy.

  It was, after all, partially his fault---along with Sarah’s---that finding a quick fix of my own simple pleasure was on my mind: hot coffee.

  Who was I trying to kid? It was a need.

  I wheeled my car into the long, but fast moving, drive-thru lane at a local favorite coffee haunt of mine, Aroma Joe’s. I ordered a large AJ’s Witches Brew, one half hazelnut, the other French vanilla. Two minutes later I was back on the road toward the PD, feeling much better about being awake.

  Traffic was heavier than I was used to. Locals who commuted to Boston were already on the road, knowing they’d be sitting at a standstill, an hour late for work, if they didn’t make an early start.

  I pulled into the PD’s visitor parking lot at 6:45 am and double-timed it into the building.

  James was standing in the hallway, just outside the interrogation room, coffee mug in one hand,
case file in the other. He looked at his watch when he saw me coming down the hall. “What’d you do, decide to play a quick round of golf before coming down?”

  “Yep,” I said with a smile as I ducked inside the viewing room. I caught my first look at contractor Troy Webber through the glass, already seated at the table inside the interrogation room. He was big, roughly 6’-2” and 240 lbs. He was dressed just as James had described yesterday: hunter’s camouflage-pattern work pants, a red flannel shirt, leather work boots, and a cap that matched his outdoorsman’s pants. Webber’s hands were huge, scarred, and cracked---likely from years of hard manual labor.

  “Mr. Webber. Quite a home you’ve made for you and your son up there in Scarborough,” James said. “Guess you like looking at the ladies, huh?”

  “Why you cops diggin’ ‘round my place?” Webber asked. “I told you yesterday I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. You ain’t got no right keepin’ me penned up in this place.”

  “Actually, I do,” James said. “I asked you yesterday where you were between the hours of 10 pm Sunday evening and 2 am Monday morning. You claimed to have been at home with your son.”

  “I told you so ‘cause that’s where I was,” Webber growled. “What’s the friggin’ problem?”

  “The problem, Mr. Webber, is this. When the Scarborough Police located your son he was high as a kite and in possession of enough methamphetamine to qualify as a felony. Your son is being held, awaiting arraignment.”

  Webber’s head fell forward, chin to chest, and stayed there for a long period of time.

  James sat back in his chair and waited Webber out.

  “He … he’s a good kid.” Webber said after a few moments. “But I ain’t gonna lie. I’ve had a tough time with him since his momma left. Been a dozen or so years since.”

  “I’m not sure you understand what this means, Mr. Webber. You told me that your son was the only individual who could vouch for your whereabouts during the time period in question. So I want you to think real hard. Is there anyone, other than your son, who can confirm your story? Because, under the circumstances, I can’t use any statement I get from him on your behalf.”

  “How come?” Webber asked.

  “Because he’s got an arrest record as long as my arm,” James replied. “And because he was picked up while under the influence of a schedule II substance. With enough of the drug in his system to disqualify any statements he might make. His corroboration of your story would be legally unacceptable. In other words, we have reason to believe he was high during the hours in question. As a result, he’s what our legal system considers to be an unreliable witness.”

  Webber shook his head. “There ain’t nobody else. He’s the only one I saw late Sunday night. Like I told you, we was home together. Nobody else.”

  “Mr. Webber, you have the right to remain silent,” James said, then proceeded to recite the remainder of the Miranda warning to him. “Do you understand these rights as I’ve described them to you?” James asked when he was done.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Webber said.

  “Did you make any phone calls, send any emails, or send any text messages between the hours of 10 pm Sunday evening and 2 am Monday morning?”

  “Why you asking me that again?” The volume and intensity of Webber’s voice was on the rise. “I already told you no when you asked me that yesterday.”

  James shot up out of his chair. Though 4” and 50 lbs. south of Webber’s respective stats, I wouldn’t have bet a dime against James being able to take Webber down if the need arose. “Maybe you’re not smart enough to fully understand the reality of your circumstances at the moment, so let me make a few things clear to you, Mr. Webber,” James said. “You’re sitting inside of a police station, being interrogated by a detective. That only happens when an individual is a suspect, pertinent to a specific and serious crime having been committed. Or, more simply put: when an individual is in custody, being questioned by the cops, he’s likely in a heap of trouble.”

  “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong, so I ain’t worried about nothin’ you got to say. I seen that woman all sprawled out inside my job site, so I called the police. End of story.”

  “How do you know Amanda Enright?” James asked.

  “You ain’t gonna get no different answer today than you got yesterday,” Webber said. “I told you, I don’t know no Amanda Enright.”

  James pulled a large photograph out of his case file, held it up toward me so I could see it was a photo of Amanda Enright, taken at the crime scene, then slapped it down on the table directly in front of Webber. “Why did you do it? Tell me right now,” James commanded.

  Webber stared at the picture for a few seconds then up at James. “What happened to her, anyhow? You ain’t never told me that. How she died, and such.”

  “That’s what I’m asking you,” James said. “How and why you killed Amanda Enright.”

  “I didn’t kill nobody. I ain’t never even seen this woman before yesterday mornin.’ I don’t know her from a hole in the wall.”

  “Of course you know her,” James said. “WTLK talk radio. WTLK Presents, with Amanda Enright. The talk radio personality. You took the breaker bar out of your ratchet set and you killed her with it. Why?”

  It was as if someone had thrown a switch inside Troy Webber’s brain. His facial expression. The look in his eyes. The way he sat in the chair. It all changed as a result of something James had said.

  “You sayin’ this chick did some radio talk show?” Webber asked, the pitch of his voice now a full octave higher.

  “That’s right,” James replied.

  “That crazy head shrinker woman---the one they got me doin’ that office fit-up over there at Briarwood for,” Webber said, talking faster now. “She was jabberin’ bout some radio talk show chick that she was gonna be tryin’ to hyponotise, or whatever it is she does to folks. She was askin’ me if I knew her. Askin’ if I heard her show on the radio.”

  “So you do know Amanda Enright?” James asked.

  “Nah, man, just listen to what I’m sayin’ for a sec, will ya? So, I told the ole girl I weren’t in to all that jibber-jabber crap. So she says I was prolly smart for not payin’ no mind to this radio chick, anyhow. You know, ‘cause she was always tryin’ to stir up trouble, and such. Said folks like her was just takin’ up valuable space, or some such thing. Anyhow, I didn’t give no heed to what the ole bat told me---till you said that thing ‘bout her breaker bar.”

  “What are you talking about?” James asked. “What about the breaker bar?”

  “Her breaker bar,” Webber repeated. “She was so friggin’ proud of that dang socket set, you’d a thunk it was the only one in the whole world. All actin’ like it was plated with gold, or somethin.’

  James sat back in his chair and stared at Webber for a few seconds. “You expect me to believe that the ratchet set we found inside that office condo belongs to a 60 year old woman, and not to you? That’s the most ridiculous line of crap I’ve heard all day.”

  “No lie. She done told me she bought her some of that put-it-together-yourself furniture for her house. Said her arthritis been flarin’ up, so she snagged them sockets at the hardware store. Told me them tools made things so much easier, she was thinkin’ ‘bout buyin’ more of them furniture kits for that office of hers.”

  “Sounds like you and Meghan McCue hit it off pretty well.”

  “Yeah. McCue. That’s right. That’s the headshrinker’s name. Like an Irish pool cue,” Webber said while nodding and chuckling, seemingly pleased with his own unique brand of wit.

  I saw James take some notes while Webber let go another chuckle.

  “I feel sorry for you if you find any of this amusing,” James said while tapping on the photo of Amanda Enright’s lifeless body, “because you may be going away for a very long time.”

  James slid his chair out, stood up, and headed for the door. Meanwhile, Webber’s demeanor changed again. He was no longer chuckling.<
br />
  James entered the viewing room where I was sitting. “Well, that sort of throws a wrench in the works, as far as how I thought this interrogation was going to play out.”

  “Yep,” I said. “I have my doubts Webber’s clever enough to make up a story like that. Any guy who doesn’t ask for a lawyer after having his rights read to him isn’t hovering around inside genius territory, as far as criminal masterminds go.”

  “I agree, James said. “But is it enough to warrant dragging McCue and her lawyer back in here?”

  “Seems to me you’ve got enough,” I said. “McCue’s statements to Webber definitely hint toward motive. She’s got no verifiable alibi, so there’s your reasonable proximity to the crime scene. And now, we have reason to believe the murder weapon belongs to her? Where I come from that’s called three strikes, baby.”

  “You know, Carter, when you’re right, you’re right.”

  Chapter 20

  Meghan McCue’s pencil-straight, shoulder length, graphite grey hair swung and swayed with her labored movements as she coaxed her tired 5’-6”, 200 lb. body toward the steel table and chairs located in the center of Bridgeport PD’s interrogation room. I got the impression she and her 40-something, designer suit-clad lawyer were engaged in a frown-off, the two women looking very unhappy about being back here.

  “Ms. McCue, Ms. Cordite, thank you for coming in on such short notice,” James said as he followed the pair into the space. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Can we try to make this quick, Detective?” Cordite snapped, making her request sound more like a demand.

  James responded accordingly. “Answer my questions thoroughly, efficiently, and without an argument, and I’m sure you’ll be on your way in no time,” James said.

  “I’m a lawyer,” Cordite replied. “Arguing is my job. My client also has a job, the description of which does not include sitting inside of an uninviting, body-odor laden room, being harassed by this department about committing an act she is in no way capable of committing. Meghan McCue is a healer. She helps people. Let’s end this charade so she can return to doing just that.”