And Lauren. As far as reporters went, he’d come to tolerate her. But when she was in pit bull mode, like this morning, he wanted to give her a flat “no comment” and shut the door in her face. Instead, he’d been polite but evasive, promising she’d be the first to know when he had anything to release to the public.
Then he shut the door in her face.
Seth and Abby returned from the accident scene and retreated to their desks in the bullpen to complete their reports. No bickering. No angry looks exchanged. But also none of the easy banter he’d become used to from the partners. Instead, they were extremely professional.
Too professional.
How long had this been going on without Pete noticing? He’d been so wrapped up in his own personal business—getting his house on the market, moving his stuff to Zoe’s farm, trying to not think too much about the wedding itself—that he’d missed all the nonverbal clues that his officers were having issues. Zoe’s whispered warning told him nothing. And everything. There was definitely something to talk about.
A half hour later, his graveyard shift officers clocked out and gave him a terse, “See you tomorrow.” They left without the usual chatter between them.
The bells on the front door jingled as Pete tried to console a local resident over the phone about her son constantly skipping school. Pete had talked to the same kid last fall and had scared the boy straight. For a while.
Wayne Baronick appeared in Pete’s office doorway, a pair of Starbucks cups in his hands. Pete motioned for him to take a seat.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said to the distraught mom on the phone. “I’ll track him down and have another talk with him.”
She thanked him and ended the call.
Baronick set one of the coffees next to Pete’s mug of Maxwell House. “I thought you could use this.”
More caffeine? Always. “You come bearing gifts. Why am I worried?”
“No need. I wanted to touch base with you about the Landis case. Frattini wants to know what we’ve come up with so far.”
“It’s been less than a day on a case that’s nine years old.”
“You know our DA. He wants everything done yesterday.”
Pete drained his mug and set it on one of the existing coffee rings on his desk. “You first. I understand you talked to Franklin Marshall yesterday.”
The detective leaned back in his chair. “If you could call it that. They had him on some meds that were making him loopy. He did make it pretty clear he wasn’t convinced of Landis’ guilt.”
“Marshall and Frattini nearly came to blows over it.”
“He failed to mention that part.”
“As coroner, his job was to determine cause and manner of death.”
“Zoe gave me copies of the autopsy report and photos. COD was a single gunshot to the head. Tox screen was clean. No signs of a struggle. She didn’t have time to react to seeing the gun in her face. Obviously, he ruled it a homicide.”
“And that was all Frattini needed him to testify to on the stand. As far as our DA was concerned, determining who fired the shot was outside of the duties of the coroner’s office.”
“Franklin’s not usually one to overstep. What were his reasons for believing Landis was innocent?”
Pete pictured the scene that night. The blood spattered across the inside of the windshield. “The trajectory of the bullet indicated it was fired from the backseat while Elizabeth sat in the front. She got in. Closed her door. Must’ve heard someone behind her and started to turn around. That’s when he shot her. Marshall felt if the husband had done it, he’d have had no reason to lurk in the backseat and would’ve sat in the front.”
“That’s pretty flimsy.”
“No argument,” Pete said. “But Rick Hirst, Landis’ attorney, ran with it. You’d have thought Franklin Marshall was a witness for the defense by the time Hirst was done. Marshall’s well respected in this county. Hirst felt the opinion raised reasonable doubt.”
Baronick rubbed his chin. “I wonder if time has changed Franklin’s mind. If not, Imperatore will have two forensic experts on his side. You heard about Charles Davis?”
“Zoe told me.” As much as Pete disliked Davis, Baronick had a point. If two known opponents shared the same translation of facts, the district attorney might have his hands full.
Baronick reached for his cup and took a sip. “How’d your visit go with Dustin and his lawyer?”
Pete pulled the crumpled pages from his desk drawer where he’d stashed them. “Imperatore handed his defense strategy over to me.” Pete slid the photocopied news articles to Baronick. “What do you make of these?”
The detective eyed him. “Imperatore showed his hand? To you?” Baronick set his cup down and picked up the papers. “Is he ill?”
“Didn’t appear to be. But Dustin seems to believe I’m the person most likely to prove he’s innocent.”
“You? You’ve been nothing but adamant about his guilt.”
Pete gazed into his coffee. He could feel the detective watching him.
“You have been adamant about his guilt, haven’t you? Or am I missing something?”
“Just read the articles and give me your thoughts.”
Baronick fell silent as he scrutinized the newspaper articles.
The detective was right on both counts. For most of the last nine years, Pete remained unabashedly convinced that Dustin Landis murdered his wife. But Baronick was indeed missing something.
Pete had, at one point, been equally convinced of Landis’ innocence.
Nine
Nine years earlier
Pete rolled up to the modest single-story brick residence, dreading what he had to do next. The porch light was on, awaiting the return of Elizabeth Landis. A return that would never happen. Most of the house’s windows were dark, but one glowed from inside. Pete steeled himself against the task at hand and strode to the front door. Pressed the doorbell. Faint chimes echoed through the walls. A moment later, another light clicked on, and the
