Page 115 of Passions in Death
As Jack began to shake, sob, laugh, she decided a dressing-down, deserved, would only delay the process.
“He needs medical and the tank. Get medical to meet you at Processing, for God’s sake. His system’s wrecked, he needs Psych, and now his nose is bleeding. In your charge,” she snapped, and made her way to the glides.
How the hell did two rookies get tossed out on the street together? she wondered. They damn sure needed a trainer.
She sniffed at her shirt, just in case that brief contact had contaminated her clothes.
Seemed clear enough.
By the time she made it to Homicide, she was more than ready for another damn coffee.
She walked in to see Jenkinson wearing the same mouse tie as the day before.
“What, you got two of them?”
“Huh? Hey, morning, boss. Reineke’s hitting the break room for coffee. We got his ass. The best friend. Fucker killed his friend, for nothing.”
The cold case, she remembered. The trip to Boston she’d authorized.
“Got him as in he’s in a cage?”
“Oh yeah. Boston gave us the lever, Dallas. Once we got a face-to-face sit-down with the widow, she opened up about some of the inconsistences in the bastard’s statements. How she didn’t think of all that when it happened, but later.”
Reineke came out of the break room with two mugs of cop coffee.
“But she didn’t believe he’d do anything to hurt her husband, them being such good pals and all.” Reineke picked up the report, handed Jenkinson a mug. “How broken up he’d been.”
“How he’d been there for her,” Jenkinson continued. “Helped her plan the memorial. How he’d come up with flowers to try to cheer her up.”
“How they’d sit and talk for hours about the dead guy, and cry on each other’s shoulder.” Sipping coffee, Reineke sat on the corner of his partner’s desk. “And he never made a move on her, just comforted, supported.”
“Add she felt guilty because they’d had a fight,” Eve assumed.
“Oh yeah. He’d say how the dead guy loved her, and knew she loved him. Married people have fights.”
Jenkinson gestured with his mug. “Wove in there how he felt so sorry he’d let the dead guy walk home when he’d had so much to drink. How he’d live the rest of his life wishing he’d talked him into staying the night.”
“Then she’d automatically tell him how it wasn’t his fault.”
Jenkinson nodded at Eve. “Got that in one. He gives it some time, then he takes her out—just friends. She’s got the money, and the society rung, so it’s fancy parties and the gala shit.”
“And it’s ‘Oh, you don’t have to, no, you shouldn’t,’ when she insists on buying him a tux and shit like that.” Reineke shook his head. “Playing the long game. Takes his time, rakes some fancy stuff in before he makes any move on her.”
“She falls for it,” Jenkinson said. “She’s ripe for it, and he sweet-talks her, romances her, though she’s paying the freight. Even after she marries him, everything stays nice and sweet awhile.”
“Then he starts pushing for more,” Reineke added. “More trips, a boat, buys himself big-dollar crap with her money, and gets pissy when she draws some lines.”
“He starts making mistakes.” Jenkinson looked at his partner. “They always do. Saying the wrong thing if they’re arguing. Like how miserable she made the dead guy, how he wanted a divorce. And the kicker?”
“How the night it happened, dead guy wanted to stay with the best friend, but friend made him go home to his bitchy wife.”
“Inconsistencies,” Eve concluded.
“She starts thinking about that, and how the dead guy used to say best pal used to whine about money, how his good friend had more than he needed. How he’d made some loans the pal never paid back.”
“‘You got that rich wife in your pocket.’” Reineke nodded. “She remembered her dead husband telling her the friend said shit like that. How he’d know how to live, and how to help out his pals if he had a rich wife.”
“Bloom went off the rose.” Jenkinson fluttered his mouse tie. “Took awhile, but that rose lost its bloom. Best pal, talking trash about the dead guy, drawing out money until she blocked him off her portfolio.”
