Page 16 of In the Bones
Next to Shana, Tim’s eyebrows twitched. Mac knew why, despite being the more senior investigator, Shana didn’t want to conduct the interview herself. Mac was friends with both Shana and Tim, but her relationship with Shana was deeper, more personal, and that created a potential conflict of interest. Investigator Valerie Ott had never met Nicole. She’d be the one handling the interview, with Tim looking on.
Mac said, “Don’t worry about me, or about Nic. She’ll help you however she can.” Even as she spoke the words, though, the idea of her sister in an interview room twisted her stomach, and Mac knew it showed on her face. She reminded herself that she trusted Valerie and Tim implicitly. Nicole was an innocent bystander, in the wrong place at the wrong time and entirely free of blame.
Mac was sure of it.
FIFTEEN
Tim
The contrast between the menacing basement and the sunny great room upstairs was almost as jarring as the difference between the skeleton and living, breathing Jenny Smith. Jenny’s face was full, her body shapely. She was classically attractive, a woman likely to turn heads. It wasn’t looks that interested Tim, though, but the witness’s ongoing angst. Since sitting down, Jenny hadn’t stopped twisting her wrists against the cuffs that held them in place.
Next to Solomon on the L-shaped sofa, Tim cleared his throat. “Ms. Smith,” he said, “we have some questions about what you found in the basement.”
“You need to talk to him.” Jenny’s right eyelid convulsed like a fish on a dock.
“Who is it you think we should talk to?” asked Tim.
“The guy who owns the house. Mikko.”
So she knew who Mikko Helle was. Once again, Tim wondered if the man’s status as a celebrity athlete might have something to do with Jenny’s presence in the house. He hadn’t had time to google the guy, was working off what Nicole told him, but it seemed plausible that Mikko’s fame—or his money—had made this particular home a target.
“Do you know him?” Tim asked now. “Mikko Helle?”
“You have to talk to him. Please, just make him talk.”
“Do you believe that Mr. Helle’s responsible for this?”
Her eye twitched yet again. “It’s his house.”
“A house,” Tim said, “that you were in too.”
She was squirming again, straining against the cuffs until the effort left her panting. Tim dragged two fingers along his browbone. He had so many questions, so much to make senseof. “Let’s back up a minute, Jenny—can I call you that? Why don’t you tell us how you ended up in that ceiling.”
She blinked at Tim, and shook her head.
“There have been a number of break-ins recently, Jenny. All homes in Cape Vincent like this one. Did you spend time in those other homes too?”
The woman looked down at the white rug under her sneakers. She ground her toes into the thick pile, leaving two dirty ovals behind.
“Look,” Tim went on, softening his tone, “we get it. People fall on hard times. It happens to the best of us.” He gave a sympathetic shrug. “Maybe you needed a place to stay and realized those other homes were empty. Maybe you thought this one was vacant too. Is that what happened, Jenny?”
Raising her chin slightly, she said, “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
“You’re gonna have to give us more than that. If you explain the situation, we might be able to help you.”
“You can’t help me. She’s dead,” Jenny said. “You can’t bring her back.”
She. Tim’s head felt weightless, a helium balloon bobbing on a string. He’d heard it, clear as anything. Jenny knew the remains in the basement belonged to a woman. With no clothing on the skeleton, even the medical examiner could only hazard a guess, but Jenny had referred to the skeleton as a female. And that revealed a lot.
In his earlier days as a state police detective, there had been moments when Tim’s eagerness to ferret out information meant he moved too fast. Occasionally, he’d resort to scare tactics in an effort to hurry things along. Sometimes it worked, but he’d since learned to customize his approach. Jenny Smith was looking at multiple felony charges ranging from burglary to criminal trespassing and theft. For the moment, though, Tim had no intention of pointing this out. Some people could be coaxed into a confession with a handful of kibble, while others needed a yank on the leash. Tim felt certain Jenny was the former.
“You’re right,” he said. “We can’t help with that, and I’m sorry. How well did you know her?”
The smooth planes of Jenny’s forehead and cheeks puckered like scorched skin. “Better than him,” she said. “Better than anyone here.”
“How did she get down into Mikko’s basement?”
The way Jenny struggled in place reminded Tim of Darcy when he tried to pull PJs over her hot, bath-damp skin. The kid hated the feeling of the fabric, fitted to protect against pajama fires, compressing her limbs.
