Page 67 of Dead Air
"And if he's involved in Blackwell's disappearance?" Claire blocked the doorway. "You'd be walking into the lion's den alone."
"Then I'll bring a chair and whip." Lawson gently moved past her. "I've faced worse."
Further arguments followed her to the door. Professional concerns from Claire. Practical cautions from Fiona. Lawsonabsorbed their warnings without altering her course. Some confrontations couldn't be delegated or delayed.
The drive to Richardson's house consumed forty minutes. Magnolia Way looked different in daylight—manicured lawns and carefully pruned trees creating a façade of ordered tranquility. Richardson's colonial revival still projected authority with its imposing columns and symmetrical windows.
Lawson parked across the street, studying the property for signs of activity. Richardson's car was missing from the driveway. Newspapers collected on the porch. Window blinds partially closed against morning sunlight.
She approached cautiously, professional instincts cataloging potential threats despite her suspended status. The doorbell chimed inside the house, its sound muffled through thick wooden doors. Footsteps approached from within.
Amy Richardson opened the door halfway, security chain still in place. The former captain's wife looked older than Lawson remembered—new lines etched around eyes that remained sharp with intelligence.
"Detective Lawson." No surprise colored her voice. "I wondered when you might appear."
"Mrs. Richardson. Is your husband home?"
"Tom's on his annual fishing trip." Amy's expression revealed nothing. "Chattooga River. Same week every year."
"Convenient timing."
"Scheduled months in advance." Amy's gaze remained steady. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"When did he leave?"
"Three days ago. Returns Friday." Amy's hand rested on the door edge, ready to close it if necessary. "I can give you the name of the lodge if it's important."
"It's important." Lawson studied the woman's face for signs of deception. "A podcast host investigating your husband's connection to Monica Landry's murder has disappeared."
Not even a flicker of reaction crossed Amy's features. Either she knew nothing or possessed remarkable control. "That sounds like a matter for the police."
"I am the police."
"Not according to this morning's news." Amy's matter-of-fact delivery carried no malice, just acknowledgment of widely broadcast information. "Your suspension was mentioned specifically."
"Administrative leave pending investigation." The correction sounded hollow even to Lawson's ears.
"Then I suggest you allow active officers to handle their duties." Amy began closing the door. "I'll tell Tom you stopped by."
"Did he ever mention Monica?" Lawson asked quickly, before the door could close completely. "Or Ray Hutchinson?"
Amy paused, door half-closed between them. "My husband mentored dozens of officers during his career, Detective. He rarely discussed individual cases or personnel matters at home."
"Even after Hutchinson's suicide?"
"Especially then." Amy's expression softened slightly. "Tom believed in maintaining professional boundaries. Something you might consider during your administrative leave."
The door closed with quiet finality. Lawson stood on the porch, frustrated by the encounter's lack of productive information. Amy Richardson either genuinely knew nothing or had mastered the art of polite stonewalling through decades of marriage to a police captain.
Three days ago. Before Blackwell's abduction. Before Hutchinson's murder, staged as suicide. The timeline potentially provided Richardson with an alibi.
Unless the fishing trip was a fabrication. A cover story maintained by a loyal wife while Richardson operated from the shadows.
Lawson returned to her car, mulling possibilities. Richardson could have orchestrated everything from a distance. Digital communications. Trusted subordinates carrying out orders. Physical absence providing plausible deniability while events unfolded according to plan.
Her phone vibrated with an incoming call. Fiona's number.
"The article just published." Fiona's voice carried the excited tension of a journalist who had just fired a significant shot across powerful bows. "Chronicle's server traffic quadrupled in five minutes."
