Rite of Wrongs Read online

  “Oh, Miriam,” her mother said, puttering around in the background. The sounds of water running, the refrigerator door opening, and plates clattering reached Miriam’s ears. Sounds of home. Sounds she brushed off before they made her sad. Then she heard her mother calling to her father: “Cyril, talk to your daughter.”

  Good grief. “Mom, I don’t need to talk to Dad—”

  “Miriam.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Caught a case?”

  “Yep. Just now.”

  “Be a hero. Love you.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Love you, too.” From the distance came her mother’s “Don’t hang up!” just as her father hung up.

  Man, she loved her dad.

  Slipping her phone into her sports bra and making a mental note to buy yoga pants with pockets, she signaled toward two of the uniforms standing near the front steps. One came down the walkway to meet her, handing her a pen and clipboard. She scribbled her name while asking, “Who was first on scene?”

  “I was, ma’am. Sergeant Robert Vince, ma’am.”

  His eyes were big and as brown as his skin, and he made a formidable shadow. “Don’t call me ma’am. Call me Rome.”

  “Yes, ma—I mean, Detective Rome.”

  Close enough. “Do we have a warrant yet?”

  “It’s on the way.”

  Good. Until then . . . “Walk me through it, Vince.”

  “Yes, ma—Detective.” Vince cleared his throat and flipped open his notepad. His voice was a deep, resonant bass as he ran through the particulars. “Female victim. Gina Gardner. Fifty-five. Appears she was surprised after her morning run, as she’s still wearing her workout clothes. This, according to the husband. He’s on his way to the station.”

  Miriam hoped he hadn’t destroyed any evidence before they got him clear. “The husband’s the one who found her?”

  Vince nodded, avoiding another awkward choice between Rome and ma’am. “Came home at lunch. Says it’s their daily routine. He’s a pediatrician. Dr. Jeff Gardner. Shares a practice with two others. Grocery bags of greens on the kitchen counter. I went ahead and called in the techs. There was enough evidence. Interesting evidence.”

  Interesting. Miriam hated that word. She also hated other people’s assumptions. She wanted to walk in to the scene without being told anything was apparent.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” She headed for the front door, stopping to don latex gloves and slip booties over her flip-flops, looking up at the second detective who’d just arrived and was snort-laughing at her footwear.

  “I guess the rumors are true,” Ike Ballard said, bending to cover wingtips that cost more than her Kate Spade crossbody. His suit was pricey, too, and his tie, no doubt his socks and, uh, other things. He was a good detective, if a little too pleased with himself, though she wasn’t without faults of her own. Right now, all that mattered was her seniority.

  She opened her notebook to a new grid insert, pulled her pen from the loop, and clicked it to jot a few keywords from Vince’s narrative, then dug her sweaty smartphone from her bra and readied the camera. “What rumors?”

  He gave her a smirk. “That they’ll let anyone work a crime scene these days.”

  “Appears so,” she said, as she looked him up and down, earning another snort. “You have the warrant?”

  He patted his breast pocket. “Fresh out of Dropbox. Signed by Judge Parkman.”

  Man, she loved technology. “Then let’s do this.”

  Walking into the house, Miriam exhaled, only breathing in once she had her notebook in front of her nose to filter the smell. Blood was like that: rusty, metallic, strong. Blood was thick. Blood was her bête noire. And there was a lot of blood.

  Most was pooled next to the body on a bright-blue industrial tarp a few steps inside the door. Convenient for evidence collection and the scene cleaners. Family photos lay scattered on the entryway floor, frames broken, glass crushed.

  The victim was indeed wearing workout clothes—pink shoes, pink shorts, pink sports bra, and tank. Her dark hair was still bound with a pink elastic, though her ponytail appeared to have been loosened, whether by exercise or a struggle, hard to say. Her sunglasses were hooked on a pink lanyard. Their frames were pink.

  The gash across her throat was the obvious source of the blood loss, as well as the most likely cause of death. There were spatters on her skin, handprints Miriam imagined belonged to the husband on her clothing, and what looked to be arterial spray on the foyer wall. Her eyes were wide-open, as if she’d been staring there as she died.

  Miriam could understand why. The wall and the rest of the blood . . . okay. She’d give Vince interesting. On top of the spray—some of that smeared, droplets of the blood running like tears down the wall—were written the words: Honor thy father and thy mother. Exodus 20:12

  Except written wasn’t exactly right. They were painted in blood, the brushstrokes neat, the letters blocky and five to six inches tall.

  Paint it red.

  The thought played in her head like a Rolling Stones tune. Funny how the subconscious worked, picking up on the speed of her pulse and dissociating. Though the survival mechanism kicking in only served to remind her of why she hated blood.

  She should just give this one to Ballard.

  “Hey, Detective.” The greeting came from Karen Sosa, Miriam’s favorite tech, as she straightened from where she’d been shooting close-ups around the victim’s head. She was only five feet tall and swore that being close to the ground helped her see things other techs missed.

  “The glass from the picture frames.” Miriam pointed toward the front door. “Was it crushed like that when you got here?”

  “Yep, but not by the uniforms. Or so they say. I’m guessing the husband.” She gestured toward an evidence bag next to her gear kit holding a pair of men’s brown-leather dress shoes. “He hadn’t walked but from here to the living room before I got him out of ’em. Could be the suspect made the mess, though it’s doubtful there’ll be any trace if so.”

  “But you’ll look.”

  “I will look,” Karen said, and went back to work, her long black braid swinging as she swiveled to take more photos.

  “Good woman,” Miriam replied, then turned as Vince appeared at her side. “What else?” she asked, and he led her to the kitchen.

  “Victim’s purse is there on the counter where we found it.” Vince nodded toward a pile of mail, a cell phone, car keys, and the handbag. “We haven’t moved or touched anything.”

  “And the husband?” Miriam asked, noticing the door leading out of the kitchen to the driveway and detached garage.

  “Said he never made it past the foyer. Found the body. She was on her side. He was the one who rolled her to her back.”

  Miriam thought about the vehicles in the driveway, the bikes in the garage. Her stomach tightened as she pictured her tiny little niece and her tiny little pigtails.

  “Which car is hers?” she asked, though she knew the answer.

  “The minivan. The Mercedes is his.”

  Looking from the door to the stovetop back to the counter, Miriam jotted more notes. When Ballard stepped into the room, she moved past the granite-topped island to the door.

  She tried the knob and the dead bolt. Each was locked, and she snapped pictures of both. Karen would photograph the scene for the record, but Miriam liked having her own reminder.

  Ballard was the one to speak next. “So . . . she took the kids to school, bought groceries before working out, came home, unloaded the car . . . maybe went back to answer the front door? Was it locked when the husband got here?”

  “Yes, sir,” Vince said, adding, “and according to him, that was her schedule, sir.”

  “He came in from there.” Ballard frowned and gestured toward the front of the house. “He parked in the driveway but didn’t use the side door into the kitchen?” He nodded toward the one Miriam had just checked.

  “No, sir. Said he always backs in and stops wher
e the front walk connects. Said it’s quicker.”

  “Huh.” It was Ballard’s only response. Then, “Did she go to a gym? To work out?”

  “No, sir. She runs their dog, a shepherd-Lab mix, Bongo, on the trails at Copper Acres Park.”

  “Where’s the park from here?” Miriam asked, thinking the weather too hot to leave the dog in the van while grabbing the groceries, and too hot to leave the groceries in the van while running the dog. Ballard had it wrong. “She dropped off the kids, grabbed the groceries, unloaded the car here, then went back out with the dog.”

  Ballard grunted his doubt. Or maybe his annoyance with her contradicting him. “And just left the grub on the counter?”

  “Greens, right?” she asked Vince, and he nodded. “They’re okay here, just not in the car. Where’s Bongo now?”

  “Dog’s in the backyard. Park’s two blocks north, then six blocks west.” Vince gestured in the various directions. “Soccer fields. Baseball diamonds. Several hundred acres. County owns the property. Leases it to the various sports organizations.”

  Miriam let that sink in. While Ballard dug through the grocery bags, she thought about the finger- and palm prints decorating Gina Gardner’s pink top. “The prints on the victim’s clothes . . . anyone here touch her besides the husband?”

  “No, ma’am, Detective.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” she said, and left the kitchen for the rear of the house, climbing the stairs to the second floor and making her way down the hall.

  There were three bedrooms: one with posters of David Beckham, Tim Howard, and Brian Ching. One with musical-note cutouts suspended by pink ribbons from the ceiling. One with a shelf displaying worn—collectible?—ballet slippers in multiple colors.

  The gender divide matched that of the bikes. Two girls. One boy. The fourth room on the floor held three desks with laptops and lamps. Miriam wondered if the kids had a nanny, or tutors. Or if the victim had been the one to help with school projects and homework. She jotted a note to find out, then glanced at her watch.

  Elementary school got out at three o’clock. Middle school at three thirty. She’d have Vince call the station, find out from the doctor which schools his children attended, then bring them to their father there. That problem solved, she made her way back to the first floor and the rest.

  The master suite was located downstairs. Miriam spent some time looking through the victim’s belongings but found very little worth noting. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. The jewelry box on the vanity dresser held more than a few pieces with precious stones. Three gold watches sat on the doctor’s chest, along with a money clip thick with bills.

  The deceased’s purse and cell phone were in the kitchen, and Miriam wanted to get her hands on those ASAP. She returned to the front of the house, catching a glimpse through the kitchen windows of Ballard in the backyard with the dog, and found the tech in the living room.

  “Karen, there’s a diary on the bedside table in the master suite. Can you put a rush on printing that? I’d like to make a copy as soon as I can.”

  “Sure thing, Detective.” Karen was crouched low, photographing the footprints fading from red to brown and leading from the entryway across the living-room carpet. She’d set up bright-yellow evidence markers along the path.

  Dress shoes, Miriam decided. The husband’s, most likely. She thought she saw a sliver of glass. “And the purse and cell phone, too.”

  “Will do.”

  “Call me or Ballard if you need anything else,” she said, heading out to talk to Vince about the children. “We’ll be at the station with the husband.”

  Wondering what kind of sicko was motivated by the Bible to kill.

  FOUR

  Monday, 2:30 p.m.

  Back at the station, Miriam stopped at the restroom to wash her hands and face. She needed a shower. Yoga didn’t wear so well two hours later, but there was nothing to be done save for fixing her hair.

  Pulling the elastic band from her ponytail, she grabbed the comb she kept in her locker. As she worked it through the thick mass, she gathered her wits, along with the list of questions she needed to ask the grieving man. Then she bound up her hair again, swiped deodorant under her arms, and headed off to make the best of a really shitty situation.

  At the door to the soft-interview room, she silently counted to ten. It was a calming trick, a focusing trick. It allowed her to get her bearings. She’d learned it from her ex-partner and wondered if he had use for it in his new line of work.

  Or if being employed now by God, he relied solely on prayer.

  Ballard arriving at her side brought her back to the present. He gave her a single nod, indicating he was ready. She turned the knob and walked into the room. Ballard followed, standing behind a chair in the near corner.

  “Dr. Gardner. Jeff. I’m Detective Miriam Rome. This is Detective Ike Ballard.” She closed the door behind them. “Please accept our condolences. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  Dr. Jeff Gardner reminded Miriam of a crane. Wearing a polo, sandals, and blue jeans, his dress clothes now in the hands of Karen Sosa, he sat perched on the edge of the room’s sofa, his knees knobby, his legs gangly and bent as if in preflight.

  His elbows were tucked close to his body, bony like his knuckles and hair-dusted wrists. His arms were long, and capable of gaining lift should he and his long neck decide to move.

  She wasn’t sure he ever would. He appeared frozen, arrested, his life brought to a screeching, bloody halt.

  She pulled a rocking chair from a decorative side table, where a leather-bound Jane Austen book sat on top of one by James Patterson. As if anyone waiting in this room to be interviewed would have a desire to read.

  Legs pressed together, Miriam opened her traveler’s notebook on one thigh. “I know you told the patrol officer what you found when you arrived home, but can you walk me through it? I may have questions in addition to those Sergeant Vince already asked.”

  Dr. Gardner’s chin came up slowly. His glasses had slid nearly to the tip of his nose, and a shock of hair fell to cover his forehead. He left everything where it was. “I came home for lunch. It’s our time. Gina’s and mine. Breakfast is so busy getting everyone out the door, and dinner is filled with homework questions. Our children—”

  That was when he finally stood, his angled legs locking into place, his arm-wings poised to propel him to the door. “I need to go to the school. I need to get our children. I can’t have them getting off the bus and finding their home a crime scene.”

  He was at least six feet four. Ike Ballard was six two and broad-shouldered. He held up a hand that would have no trouble palming a basketball. “Hold on now, Dr. Gardner—”

  Miriam kept her voice calm and inclined her head for Ballard to guide the doctor back to his seat. “Jeff, we’ve got an officer picking them up. They’ll be here soon.” And since she hadn’t learned them from Vince, she said, “Why don’t you tell me their names.”

  “Eloise, Imogene, and Theodore.” He twisted his hands together. “Eloise is nine, Imogene eight. Theodore’s seven.”

  She rolled the ages around. Nine, eight, seven. Yet Vince had given Gina Gardner’s age as fifty-five. Miriam looked up at Ballard as he left the room to check on the kids’ ETA.

  Once he was gone, she took a deep breath. “Tell me about your wife, Dr. Gardner.”

  “I told the other officer—”

  “I know.” But the more he talked, the more he would say, and the more she’d have to work with. “Your children are fairly young.”

  He nodded briskly. “Gina is ten years older than I am. Eloise was . . . unplanned, but turned out to be the biggest joy of our life.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple like a whole boiled egg, choking him. “We decided we wanted more children. To give Eloise siblings. As long as they were healthy, and Gina wasn’t at risk.”

  And if they hadn’t been healthy? If Gina had been at risk? The questions remained on the tip of Miriam’s ton
gue while she asked another. “What about her family? Brothers or sisters? Cousins? Parents? Was she close to them? Is there anyone you would like us to contact for you?”

  “She doesn’t know her family,” he said, rubbing his palms down his thighs. “She grew up in foster care.”

  Hmm. Clicking the end of her pen, Miriam asked, “How old was she when she was taken from her parents?”

  “Five,” he answered, and she made the note, circling the words foster care and thinking about who in social services she’d need to tap for records that old.

  “Do you know the circumstances?”

  The doctor shook his head and buried his face in his hands. “She never talks about it. I’m not even sure she knows about it.”

  Miriam set that aside and moved on. “Your marriage. Was it the first for both of you?”

  He nodded again.

  “What was her maiden name?”

  “White. Gina White.”

  “Was that her parents’ name?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so.”

  “Is your wife . . .” She stopped herself, started again. “Was your wife involved in the PTA? Are your children enrolled in dance or gymnastics classes, or sports leagues? Anyplace where she would interact with the parents of other children?”

  “Of course. Our children are Gina’s life. We give them every opportunity. Imogene plays the piano. Eloise studies ballet. Theodore plays soccer and takes fencing lessons. Gina has served as room mother for all of them at one time or another. She volunteers to chaperone field trips. Takes cupcakes and cookies to class parties.”

  He really needed to stop talking about his wife in the present tense. Miriam reached back to lift her damp hair from her neck. “Did she ever mention getting into arguments with anyone at school? Other parents? Teachers? Maybe she bumped another car in the parking lot?”

  Finally pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Dr. Gardner blinked, then narrowed his gaze almost angrily. “You think someone would write Scripture on the wall in her blood because of a fender bender?”

  Stranger things had been known to happen, but Miriam pressed forward. “Have any of your kids been bullied? Or had a falling out with friends?”