Page 42 of 4th Silence
She pins me with a heated look that takes me back to my childhood when I decided I wanted a mural and took a marker to my freshly painted bedroom wall.
“Or hiding a murder weapon,” Mom says.
“Whoever that is,” Matt says, “knew where the blind spots were.”
Mom smacks her hand against the credenza. “Yes! That’s our killer! I’m sure of it!”
“Relax, Mom,” Charlie says. “Let’s think about this.”
Matt peers at us and cocks his head. “Someone who lives—or works—at the house might know the camera locations.”
Charlie angles her chair toward my murder board. “Meg, let’s list all the people who lived or worked at the house who might know the security system.”
With Mom’s help, we identify six. Mary and her husband. Alex and his sister, Christina. The full-time housekeeper and nanny.
“Those are only the ones who have regular access to the house,” Matt says. “There could be landscapers or maintenance people. Whoever installed and/or monitors the system would know. Plus, there are the guards at the gate.”
The guards. During our previous meeting at the U.S. Attorney’s office, Alex had said that his family had been receiving threats due to financial issues and layoffs.
“I forgot about them,” I say. “The Hartmans had a rotation that operated the gate.”
“Were they there 24/7?” Matt asks.
“For the most part,” Mom says. “From what I saw, it was rare that there wasn’t someone there. And they always had someone at the gate during events.”
“They would all know,” Charlie says, “from viewing the footage, what the camera angles were.”
I tap my timeline. “Playing devil’s advocate here. Let’s assume this person is the murderer and they’re leaving the house at nine-twentyish, that means the murder happened before nine-thirty.”
“The nine-one-one call.” Mom marches to the corner where we’ve stacked her research boxes. “I have a transcript somewhere. Everyone, take a box.”
Then we’re all in motion, and Matt hefts them onto the table, each of us taking one.
I lift a lid and groan at the number of files. We might be here a while. “Mom, do you remember who placed the initial call?”
“Of course. It was Mary.”
13
Charlie
* * *
Gordy Jarrett’s hands tremble as he pours coffee into three mismatched mugs. The clink of ceramic against ceramic echoes through his modest living room, where faded security certification plaques compete with fishing trophies for wall space. I called Gerald but got his voicemail. I debated leaving a message or trying again later, but even though the case is thirty years old, I feel like I’m on the clock. Time is slipping away. I left a brief voicemail, asking him to get in touch.
My skirt pinches at my thighs as I perch on the edge of the worn leather sofa, and the designer heels feel wildly out of place for this part of town.
“Fired, not retired,” he says, handing me a mug with a fishing quote that reads, The best way to catch a fish is to let him think he’s escaping. Huh. Same for criminals. “I was with the Hartmans for sixteen years, and one dead kid later, I’m bagging groceries part-time.” He settles his substantial frame into a recliner that creaks in protest. “Didn’t get back into security until I took a guard job at a bank.”
I’ve interviewed enough suspects to know when someone is constructing a narrative that casts themselves as the victim. It’s a classic deflection technique, but that doesn’t mean he’s guilty of anything beyond self-pity. “Why did they fire you?”
“I was head of security. My job was to keep the family safe.” He picks at a snag on the arm’s upholstery. “I failed, but God’s truth, I never thought that girl was in danger.”
“Mr. Jarrett?—”
“Gordy, please. Mr. Jarrett was my father, God rest him.”
“Gordy,” I continue, trying not to make a face at the bitterness of the coffee. “Who do you think killed her?”
