Page 18 of Once Broken
At the mention of Veronica’s name, something shifted in Hartley’s expression—a flicker of emotion that Riley couldn’t immediately identify.Fear?Anger?Satisfaction?It was gone before she could be certain.
“Turn around,” Hayes instructed, rotating Hartley to face the wall.“Hands behind your back.”
The security chief complied without resistance, his earlier flight instinct apparently exhausted.As Hayes secured the handcuffs, the metallic click echoing in the confined space of the alley, Riley studied their suspect’s profile.Malcolm Hartley bore little resemblance to the passionate obsessive suggested by his disturbing photo collection.In person, he seemed small somehow, perhaps diminished by capture.
“Malcolm Hartley,” Hayes began formally, turning the man to face them, “you’re under arrest for evading police and interfering with an investigation.You have the right to remain silent.Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law...”
As Hayes continued reciting the Miranda rights, Riley watched Hartley’s face.His initial panic had faded, replaced by a calculating stillness that concerned her more than his desperate flight had.His eyes met hers, holding her gaze with unexpected steadiness.
“...Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”Hayes concluded.
“I understand,” Hartley replied, his voice surprisingly composed.Then, without prompting, he added: “I didn’t kill Veronica Slate.”
The declaration was neither a plea nor a shout but a simple statement delivered with unsettling certainty.Riley studied his expression, searching for the tells of deception she’d observed in countless interrogations throughout her career.His gaze remained level, his breathing controlled despite the recent exertion.
“No one accused you of that yet,” she noted carefully, watching his reaction.
“You will,” he replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.“But I didn’t kill her.”
The absolute confidence in his tone sent a whisper of doubt through Riley’s mind.The evidence against him seemed compelling—the shrine of mutilated photographs, his absence from work after the murder, his flight upon seeing them.Yet something in his demeanor suggested either remarkable acting skills or genuine innocence.
“We’ll discuss that down at the station,” Hayes said, taking Hartley’s arm to guide him back toward the café’s rear entrance, where they’d left their vehicle.Rather than escort their prisoner back through the café, the detective led them out of the alley and back to the car.
On the way, Riley thought of the words with those defaced photos on Hartley’s bulletin board —“LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER.”Those words were certainly incriminating.And if Hartley hadn’t killed Veronica, who had?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The fluorescent lights of the fast-food restaurant cast an unnatural pallor across Riley’s half-eaten burger.The vinyl booth squeaked beneath her as she shifted, checking her watch for the third time in ten minutes.An hour had passed since they’d brought Malcolm Hartley in to Atlanta Police Headquarters, and the waiting game had begun—a familiar limbo in the rhythm of an investigation, yet no less maddening for its predictability.
Across the table, Ann Marie methodically arranged her french fries by length before selecting the longest one to dip into a small plastic cup of ketchup.“They’re taking their time,” she observed, her voice pitched low though the restaurant was not crowded at this mid-afternoon hour.
Riley nodded, pushing her burger and fries away.Food was the last thing on her mind.Between the bulletin board of mutilated Veronica Slate photos and the persistent worry about April, her appetite had vanished entirely.
“Hayes knows what he’s doing,” she said, though her tone lacked conviction.“He’ll call when they’re ready for us.”
“Do you believe Hartley’s denial?”Ann Marie asked, selecting another fry with surgical precision.“That board in his office seems pretty damning.”
Riley considered the question.The contrast between Hartley’s calm declaration of innocence and the violent hatred displayed on that bulletin board created a dissonance she couldn’t quite resolve.Her instincts, usually so reliable, were sending mixed signals.
“Obsession doesn’t always equal action,” she said finally.“Plenty of people fixate on celebrities without crossing the line into violence.”
“But making use of that celebration to recreate the murder fromThe Night Walker,the same strychnine poisoning—that suggests intimate knowledge and planning.”Ann Marie’s eyes lit with analytical interest.“And most obsessive fans wouldn’t have access to the Magnolia Gateway soundstage beforehand.”
“Unless they worked there,” Riley countered.“As head of security, Hartley would have had both the access and the opportunity.”
“True,” Ann Marie conceded.“But if he wanted to kill Veronica Slate so badly, why wait until she was surrounded by witnesses?Why not choose a more private moment?”
The question lingered between them, underscoring the puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit.Riley was formulating a response when her phone vibrated against the table, the screen lighting up with Bill’s name.
“Bill,” she answered, unable to keep the concern from her voice.“Any news?”
“I’ve been at Jefferson Bell most of the day,” Bill’s steady voice came through clearly.“Spoke with Professor Elena Winters about an hour ago—she’s the one teaching April’s American Politics class.”
Riley straightened, instantly alert.Ann Marie’s attention sharpened as well, her methodical fry-sorting abandoned.
“What did she say about Leo?”Riley asked.
“She confirmed he was auditing her class, though he wasn’t officially registered with the university.”Bill’s voice carried a note of professional frustration.“Apparently he told April the same thing that he had told Professor Winters—that he was working in a bookstore and saving money so that he could enroll.”
