Mick walked in requesting an update on King Tut. He leaned against the door frame while Sam retrieved a file folder.
“We’ve confirmed that the overpass was rebuilt twenty-one years ago,” Sam explained. “The CAT-scan didn’t reveal any gunshot or stab wounds. Right now Benny’s calling it asphyxiation. He thinks the skin pads should be ready to go to the Crime Lab sometime today.”
“I want him to do an autopsy, even if it’s a partial,” Mick said. He turned to Frank. “Any I.D. on that pin?”
“Not yet. I showed the picture to several jewelry stores but it isn’t anything the jewelers recognize. I also checked out Decker Construction who did the work on the overpass. Business has been shut down for quite some time.” A wicked smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “Little problem with using substandard materials. Haven’t located the owner yet.”
Jake clasped his hands behind his head and rocked back on his chair. “Maybe we should check for more bodies in the overpass.” This brought a hardy laugh from Frank.
A commotion in the outer office interrupted the meeting. Sergeant Scofield could be heard calling out after a dowdy brunette.
“Aw, jeezus, not again,” Mick said.
“What’s going on?” Sam asked as they filed out of her office.
“Camille Carter, Brandon’s wife. She’s made a couple trips here in the past to confront her husband,” Mick replied.
“You know the rules, Camille,” Sergeant Scofield yelled. “You need a pass.”
But the brunette kept walking. Gelatinous thighs stretched the fabric of her yellow jogging suit. Her straight pony tail swayed across her back. When she reached down into the handbag hanging from her right shoulder, every cop in the place reacted to the familiar move and headed for cover.
“Holy, shit.” Mick motioned for the clerical staff to get down. The brunette approached to within twenty feet of Brandon Carter, who was bending over a cute blond seated in front of a computer. The blond took off for the safety of the filing cabinets. Brandon looked up, slightly annoyed.
“I warned you, Brandon,” she cried out. Camille, Brandon’s wife of ten years and mother of his four children, pointed a. 357 Magnum at him.
“Camille, you don’t want to do this,” Scofield called out.
“Get away,” she screamed, “all of you.”
“I’m not moving, just stay cool.” Scofield stopped in his tracks sending his bifocals bouncing to the tip of his nose.
“You lousy son of a bitch,” Camille yelled, a rush of tears streaking down her face.
Sam didn’t know Brandon but she knew his type. He had Hollywood good looks and a swagger to his walk. She had seen him earlier in the break room hanging over one of the part-time clerical workers, a petite redhead with green eyes and dimples.
He was a beat cop with aspirations for Internal Affairs. Unfortunately, no one had told him affairs didn’t mean his own. Seeing Brandon sweat gave Sam a perverse pleasure. She cautiously approached Camille eager to get a front row seat.
Brandon, his face red from embarrassment and anger, slowly raised his hands in front of him. Gone was the arrogant, self-assured smile, the cocky tilt to his head. Even his hair, which was never out of place, lay matted to his forehead by beads of perspiration.
“Just take it easy, Camille. You know you haven’t been feeling well lately. Just a little PMS.” He tried a nervous laugh to ease the tension. But the room was silent, except for the droning of the ceiling fans.
Camille raised her left hand to help steady the gun. “How the hell should I feel after your high school girlfriend called to tell me the results of her pregnancy test?”
Gasps could be heard from some of the women crouched behind their desks. Scofield maneuvered himself to where he could be seen to Camille’s right while Sam approached on Camille’s left.
“I’ve been true to you, Camille.” Camille’s voice mimicked him. “I’ve been faithful, Camille.” Several sobs escaped her throat. “You lying sack of shit.” She squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet directly over Brandon’s shoulder and into a picture hanging on the wall. Shards of glass sprayed in all directions.
“Are you nuts?” Brandon yelled, moving away from the desk with sudden boldness.
Sam smiled and casually walked up to Camille, first looking at the gun and then Brandon’s nervous face. She placed her left hand on Camille’s wrist and lowered the gun until it pointed well below Brandon’s waist. “That was a little too high, Camille. I bet if you spend some time at the range, you could improve your aim dramatically.”
Some of the observers couldn’t contain their laughter. She could hear Frank’s deep, resonant chuckle somewhere behind her. Camille’s hands began shaking as she started sobbing uncontrollably. Sam took the gun away from her.
Brandon walked over, smoothing his hair down. “Baby, she’s lying. You know how these teenagers are,” he whispered.
Sam handed the gun to Scofield and turned to Brandon. “All she asks for is a little honesty. You’ve slept with half the women in this building. Why don’t you just admit it?”
Camille let out another sob and sank into the nearest chair.“Sarge, what are you doing?” Jake asked.
“Stay out of this,” Brandon yelled at both Sam and Jake.
“Why don’t you just divorce the jerk?” Sam asked.
Camille shook her head, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “I still love him.”
Sam threw up her hands in disgust as Murphy approached, his overpowering scent of aftershave trailing behind.
He shook his head at Sam saying, “You’re not even here a week, Sergeant, and already you’re causing us grief.”
Chapter 15
Jake and Frank stood on the front steps of Sam’s house looking back at the three-hundred-foot-long brick drive.
The home, nestled in a partially wooded area near Lake Michigan was surrounded by a black wrought iron fence with a remote control gate, which Abby rarely closed.
A variety of colors welcomed them in the shape of peonies, potentillas, roses, and spireas. Flowering magnolias and red buds hugged the fence along the brick drive.
Frank let out a long whistle and said, “Shit, I never knew the sarge lived in a mansion.”
The house had been constructed with flagstone and a concrete mixture that gave it a stucco appearance. A large overhang by the front door protected them from the noon sun.
“It certainly didn’t look this huge last night.”
Frank gave him a puzzled look. “You were here last night?”
Suddenly, the door pulled open and Jake found himself staring into the mysterious eyes he had met on the patio.
“Jacob.” Abby greeted him warmly.
“Frank Travis, Abby. My partner.”
Abby reached out and shook Frank’s hand.
“Nice to meet you,” Frank said.
She turned and led them into the house. Her patterned skirt hung to within inches of her moccasins and her printed blouse was accented by some of the most eye-catching turquoise jewelry they had ever seen.
“I’m sorry, Abby. I probably should have called first,” Jake said.
“No problem,” she replied. “I was expecting you.”
Frank gave Jake another puzzled look. He then inhaled deeply. “Damn, somethin’ smells good.”
“I’ve been baking.”
“This REALLY isn’t a good time,” Jake apologized.
