If She Fled. Блейк Пирс
nod when they approached his car. He was dressed in uniform, and the star-shaped badge indicated he was the sheriff. If Kate had to guess, he would not be holding that position for much longer. He was easily pushing sixty; it showed the most in his brow and the almost completely gray sheen on his hair.
“Agents Wise and DeMarco,” Kate said, showing him her badge.
“Sheriff Bannerman,” the aging policeman said. “Glad you could make it up here. This case has us baffled as hell.”
“Care to walk us inside and give us the details?” Kate asked.
“Of course.”
Bannerman led them up the wide stairs onto the minimally decorated porch. Inside, the house was equally minimalist, making the already huge house look even larger. The front door opened onto a tiled foyer that gave way to a wide hall and a set of curved stairs leading to the second floor. Bannerman led them down the hallway and to the right. They entered a spacious den, the far wall occupied by a single enormous built-in bookcase. The den itself held a single elegant couch and a piano.
“The victim’s office is right through here,” Bannerman said, leading them through the den and into an area tiled in the same fashion as the foyer. A simple desk sat against the far wall. To the right, a window looked out onto a keyhole garden. A large vase of cotton plant fragments sat in the corner. It looked simple and was clearly fake, yet it fit the room nicely.
“The body was discovered at her desk, in this very chair,” Bannerman said. He was nodding toward a very plain-looking desk chair. But it was the sort of plain that would usually boast a steep price tag. Just looking at it made Kate’s back and backside feel comfortable.
“The victim was Karen Hopkins, a local for most of her life, I believe. She was working when she was killed. The email she never finished was still on the screen when her husband discovered the body.”
“The reports say there were no signs of forced entry, is that right?” DeMarco asked.
“That’s right. In fact, the husband told us all the doors were locked when he got home.”
“So the killer locked up before he left,” Kate said. “Not unusual. It would be a surefire way to try to throw off any investigation. Still, though…he had to get in somehow.”
“Mrs. Hopkins is the second victim. Five days ago, there was another. A woman of about the same age, killed in her home while her husband was at work. Marjorie Hix.”
“You said Karen Hopkins was working when she was killed,” Kate said. “Do you know what she did?”
“According to the husband, it wasn’t really a job. Just a side hustle to make some extra cash to speed up retirement. Online marketing or something like that.”
Kate and DeMarco took a moment to look around the office. DeMarco checked the waste bin by the desk and the few pieces of paper in the small tray at the edge of the desk. Kate scanned the floor for any possible fragments, finding herself once again standing by the vase of fake cotton. Almost instinctively, she reached out and touched the soft head of one of the stalks. Just as she imagined, it was fake but its softness was almost calming. She noted a few broken stalks before returning her attention to the desk.
Bannerman kept a respectful distance, meandering back and forth between the edge of the den and the window, looking out to the garden outside of the office.
Karen noted right away that the office desk was facing the wall. This wasn’t too uncommon; as she understood it, it was a great way for people with short attention spans to improve their focus. She also knew it meant she likely never even knew what was coming until it had happened.
Her suspicions automatically turned to the husband. Whoever had killed her had entered the house quietly and made very little noise.
That, or they were already in here and she wasn’t suspecting a thing.
Again, all signs pointed to the husband. But that was a dead end because based on everything they knew, the husband had a solid alibi. Sure, she could check up on it but history told her that when someone had alibis pertaining to work, there were seldom any cracks in those alibis.
Before stating such a thing to DeMarco or Bannerman, she stepped into the den. In order to get into the office, one had to pass through the den. The floor was covered in a very nice Oriental rug. The sofa looked like it was rarely used and the piano looked as if it were an antique—the sort that was never played but was nice to look at.
The books on the walls were an assortment of titles, most of which she assumed had never even been opened…just coffee table books to look nice on shelves. Only near the end of the furthest shelf did she see any books that showed signs of wear and tear: some classics, a few thriller paperbacks, and some cookbooks.
She looked for anything odd or out of place but saw nothing. DeMarco stepped into the den as well and gave her a frown and a shrug.
“Thoughts?” Kate asked.
“I think we need to speak with the husband. Even with the rock solid alibi, maybe he can uncover some small nugget of information.”
Bannerman stood by the entryway of the den, his arms crossed as he looked at them. “We’ve questioned him, of course. His alibi is pretty much bulletproof. At least nine people at his work saw him and spoke to him while his wife was being killed. But he’s also stated that he’s willing to answer as many questions as we have.”
“Where is he staying?” Kate asked.
“At his sister’s place, about three miles from here.”
“Sheriff, do you have a file on the first victim?”
“I do. I can have someone email you a copy of it if you like.”
“That would be great.”
Bannerman’s age brought with it experience. He knew the agents were done in the Hopkins home. Without being told, he turned and headed for the front door with Kate and DeMarco behind him.
As they walked back to their cars, thanking Bannerman for meeting with them, the sun had finally reached its place of permanence in the sky. It was just past eight o’clock and Kate felt as if the case were already on the move.
She hoped that was a good omen.
Of course, when they got into the car and she noticed a few gray storm clouds meandering in, she tried to ignore them.
CHAPTER THREE
Bannerman had called ahead to give the husband a heads-up that the FBI was coming by to speak with him. When Kate and DeMarco arrived at his sister’s house ten minutes later, Gerald Hopkins was sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee. As they climbed the stairs to meet him, Kate saw that the man was exhausted. She knew what grief looked like, and no one wore it well. But when exhaustion was part of the equation, it made it so much worse.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Mr. Hopkins,” Kate said.
“Of course. Anything I can do to find who did this.”
His voice was haggard and wispy. Kate imagined he had spent a great deal of the last two days crying, sobbing, and perhaps even screaming. And getting very little sleep in between. He gazed into his cup of coffee, his brown eyes looking like they might droop closed at any minute. Kate thought that if he had not been overcome with such horrendous grief, Gerald Hopkins was likely a rather handsome man.
“Is your sister here?” DeMarco asked.
“She is. She’s inside, handling the…arrangements.” He stopped here, took a deep breath to fight off what Kate assumed was a bout of weeping, and then shuddered a bit. He sipped some coffee and went on. “She’s been amazing. Handling it all, fighting for me. Keeping the nosy assholes in this city away.”
“We know the police have already questioned you, so we’ll keep it brief,” Kate said. “If you can, I’d like for you to describe the last week or so you spent with Karen. Could you do that?”
He shrugged. “I guess it was like just about any other week. I went