Adverse Possession Page 23

  Mendoza nodded politely, just as if he hadn’t thought about doing that himself. He was a lot nicer to me than Grimaldi used to be.

  “And he wasn’t the guy I saw outside Aislynn and Kylie’s house,” I added. “Too big in the shoulders. Also, he’s a bank manager. I can’t see him wearing a plaid shirt.”

  “Not even as a disguise?” Mendoza asked. He kept a straight face, but I think he was laughing at me. Very quietly.

  “No, not even that. Besides, I’m sure he was at work in the middle of the afternoon on Friday. The bank would have been open. And somebody would have noticed if he left. Although I guess you could ask around and find out whether he took a late, long lunch on Friday.”

  Mendoza nodded solemnly.

  I was just about to ask him whether there was anything else I could help him with, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Mendoza called.

  A blond head showed around the door jamb. “Excuse me, Detective.”

  Mendoza nodded.

  “I have Teresa Dixon downstairs in a room when you’re ready.”

  Mendoza smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be right there.”

  The head withdrew, and Mendoza turned to me. “Anything else you remember that might help?”

  “About Terry?” I thought about it. “She has a crush on Aislynn. And I think maybe she was lying about Saturday night.”

  He tilted his head. “What happened Saturday night?”

  “Aislynn told you she was going to spend the night with her family in Bowling Green.”

  Mendoza nodded.

  “But then Terry called and told her she was supposed to work. So she went to Sara Beth’s instead and ended up spending the night with Terry because she didn’t want to go home to an empty house.”

  Mendoza nodded.

  “But what if she wasn’t really supposed to work? I mean... I know she’s a little scatter-brained. And she had a lot on her mind, what with Kylie and the break-in. But I don’t think it’s like her to forget she’s scheduled to work. She isn’t irresponsible.”

  Mendoza didn’t say anything, just watched me.

  “So what if Terry called and told her that because she knew what had happened? And because she hoped that if she played her cards right, Aislynn would spend the night—and the next day—with her?”

  “How would she know what had happened?” Mendoza asked.

  “I’m not sure. Not because she was the one who broke in. She swore she didn’t write the letters, and if she didn’t, then she had no reason to worry about getting them back. And anyway, she was at work until after nine. Sara Beth’s stays open until then, and I’m sure they have to clean things up afterward.”

  Mendoza nodded. “Would you mind sticking around for a bit longer? I have to go talk to Terry Dixon.”

  “How long is that going to take?” Because I didn’t want to have to sit up here for several hours while he interrogated a suspect. He wouldn’t want me messing around on his computer, and there was nothing else to do.

  “I’d like to have you observe the interview,” Mendoza said. “Through the two-way mirror. Just in case Ms. Dixon says something that doesn’t jive with what your friend told you. And then tell me about it later.”

  A chance to sit in—on the other side of the mirror—from a real, honest-to-goodness interrogation?

  “I’d be delighted,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty

  The first time I met Tamara Grimaldi—almost a year ago now, the morning Brenda Puckett was killed—she put me in an interrogation room and interrogated me.

  To hear her tell it, it was more like an interview. She didn’t actually suspect me of having had anything to do with the murder; she was more interested in Rafe for that role. But from my perspective, it was an interrogation. I was in shock, scared out of my wits, and nauseous from the sight of Brenda with her throat slit from ear to ear, and Grimaldi’s very pointed questions about Rafe, and about my (non-existent) relationship with him, only made me feel worse.

  It was much nicer to take in the interrogation from the other side of the two-way mirror. And even better, Grimaldi was right next to me, instead of on the other side of the mirror, asking difficult questions.

  Mendoza was the one inside the room, talking to Terry.

  She was leaned back in her chair, as far away from the table as she could get without physically moving her chair back, peering furtively at him through long strands of hair.

  At the restaurant, both times I’d seen her, she’d had a scarf on her head, to keep her hair out of the way. Aislynn did too, when she was working. I assumed it was part of the uniform. But now the scarf was gone, and I got my fill of Terry’s hair-do. As short as Rafe’s in the back and on the sides—shorter than Mendoza’s sleek, black cap by at least an inch—and with long bangs flopping over her forehead. Above one ear, from the front all the way back, was a shaved stripe of scalp an inch thick.

  She was nibbling on a fingernail, or maybe her cuticles as she listened to him talk.

  “Nervous,” I said. “I wonder why.”

  Grimaldi glanced at me. “You were nervous the first time you were here, too. And you hadn’t done anything wrong.”

  “You intimidated me,” I told her. “And I’d just found a dead body. I was a little shook up.”

  Not to mention that I’d just run into Rafe again, for the first time in twelve years, and had gotten a load of that sex-appeal straight between the eyes. I was torn between being attracted to him, and being horrified by that same attraction, in addition to the—quite natural—concern that he might be a murderer.

  “I’m sure Jaime’s intimidating her, too.” Grimaldi glanced through the glass. “And just being here would shake some people up.”

  Also true. Although Terry wasn’t just shook up. She was shaking like a leaf, and looked ready to pass out.

  “Let’s talk about Aislynn Turner,” Mendoza said.

  Terry gulped. “What about her?”

  “You work together. For how long?”

  “Since she came to town,” Terry said. “More than a year ago.”

  “You knew her before she became involved with Kylie Mitchell.”

  Terry said she had.

  “Were you ever more than friends?”

  Terry shook her head.

  “Did you want to be?”

  Terry bristled. “If I did, that’s not a crime.”

  “Of course not,” Mendoza said. “It must have upset you when she became involved with someone else.”

  Terry shrugged.

  “Enough to take drastic measures?”

  Terry’s face darkened. “I didn’t go to her house and hit her girlfriend over the head on Friday night, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was working! I have an alibi!”

  Mendoza nodded. “Duly noted. And we’ll check, but I can’t imagine you’d be telling me that if it wasn’t true. What time did the café close?”

  “Nine,” Terry said. “But there were guests there until at least a quarter after, and then we had to clean up. I didn’t get out of there until close to ten. And I wasn’t alone. There were two of us, plus the cook.”

  I had no idea when Kylie had come back from Lauren’s house and had been hit over the head. I hadn’t asked Kylie. Mendoza might have. And if he had, he must have decided that Terry’s alibi stood, because he didn’t pursue it.

  “You know Stacy Kelleher,” he asked instead. “Is that correct?”

  Terry hesitated. “Who?”

  “Stalling,” Grimaldi murmured.

  I nodded. “I asked her the same thing this morning. And reminded her who Stacy is. There’s no chance she wouldn’t remember.” Although of course she didn’t know that Mendoza knew that.

  And he didn’t let on. Instead he was patient, or pretended to be. “One of your neighbors. A bartender at South Street Bar.”

  “Oh,” Terry said, and even I could hear how fake it sounded. “Him. Sure. I know him. A little.”


  Mendoza leaned back. Visually backing off. “Do you recall what kind of vehicle he drives?”

  Terry blinked. “A Jeep. The kind with a cloth top.”

  “Do you remember seeing the Jeep in the parking lot when you came home from work on Friday night?”

  Terry hesitated.

  “Calculating the odds,” Grimaldi murmured.

  “Unless she just can’t remember.”

  Grimaldi slanted a look my way. “What are the chances of that?”

  “Probably pretty good. I don’t remember what the car next to ours in the parking lot at the FinBar looked like on Friday. Or for that matter on Saturday.”

  “A red Prius,” Grimaldi said. “But there’s no reason why you should remember who you parked next to at a restaurant. Home’s different. If there had been a car in your driveway Friday night, you’d remember. Or a car parked down the street.”

  Maybe. “Rafe would probably remember the car at the FinBar, too.” The way Grimaldi did. “But he’s been trained to be observant.” Or had trained himself to be. When missing something small can be the difference between life and death, you do whatever you have to do to remember everything.

  On the other side of the glass, Mendoza was prodding Terry, who seemed to have a hard time making up her mind whether she wanted to admit to seeing Stacy’s car or not. Or maybe she was wondering whether she should throw Stacy under the bus—metaphorically speaking—or give him what might amount to a sort of alibi.

  “Let’s move on,” Mendoza said, “and talk about Wednesday night.”

  It might have been the lighting, but Terry looked like she turned a shade paler. “Wednesday?”

  “Did you know your friend Stacy used to own the house your friend Aislynn lives in now?”

  Terry hesitated again. “No?” she said, although it sounded like she wasn’t certain that was the right answer.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t know. I might have heard something about it.”

  “So you did know.”

  “I’m not sure,” Terry said. “I think maybe someone mentioned it once. Maybe not.”

  Mendoza scribbled a note on his yellow pad. Terry watched the pen slide across the paper, but I had no idea how good she was at reading upside down, and whether Mendoza’s handwriting was even legible.

  Hell—heck—I don’t know whether he wrote down anything at all, or just scribbled something illegible to rattle her.

  “Did Stacy and Aislynn ever meet?”

  “No,” Terry said. “Not that I know of.”

  “Did Stacy ever mention the house he lived in before? Or the man he lived with?”

  Terry blinked. “I’m not sure...?”

  “His name was Virgil Wright,” Mendoza said. “He was killed Wednesday night.”

  “Stacy was at work Wednesday night.”

  Mendoza nodded. “What about you?”

  There was another pause while Terry tried to decide what to do. Or at least I assume that’s what she was doing. Trying to figure out how much to admit. “No,” she said eventually. “I wasn’t working. Not on Wednesday.”

  “Can you account for your whereabouts between six and eight?”

  Terry opened her mouth, and then closed it again. “I was having a drink,” she said. “At South Street.”

  “The place where Stacy works? That’s quite a coincidence. Especially since, two minutes ago, you weren’t even sure you knew who he was.”

  Mendoza waited. When Terry didn’t have anything to say to that, he added, “So if I ask Stacy to confirm that, he will?”

  Terry hesitated. “That might have been a different day,” she said. “Maybe Tuesday or Thursday. I think I was home on Wednesday night. Alone.”

  “So no one can confirm your whereabouts.” Mendoza made another notation on his legal pad. Terry looked like she wanted to say something, but she wasn’t sure what. Mendoza added, “Let’s talk about Sunday.”

  By now, Terry was starting to look overwhelmed. “What happened on Sunday?”

  “Nothing,” Mendoza said, and had the nerve to sound surprised. I couldn’t see his face, but he probably looked surprised, too. “You spent the day with Ms. Turner, is that correct?”

  Terry relaxed. “Yes.”

  “You worked together on Saturday night, and when she expressed a desire not to spend the night alone in an empty house, you offered her the use of your second bedroom.”

  Terry nodded.

  “Hoping to get lucky?”

  The question slipped out so smoothly that it took Terry a few seconds to take offense. Then she flushed. “No!”

  “Just happy to be spending time with her?”

  “We’re friends,” Terry said. “I was happy to help.”

  “What did the two of you do to pass the time?”

  “Talked,” Terry said. “Played video games. Watched TV.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Nothing in particular. This and that. Work. What was going on with her.”

  “What about the TV? What did you watch?”

  “Just stuff,” Terry said. “Reruns. You know.”

  “I don’t,” Mendoza told her. “That’s why I’m asking.” He shook his head. “It’s not a difficult question. And no reason why you can’t tell me. I’m not gonna bust you for watching porn. Not unless there were minors involved.”

  “We weren’t watching porn,” Terry said, offended. “And there were no minors. What do you think I am? Some kind of pervert?”

  “Of course not.” Mendoza’s voice was soothing, while next to me, Grimaldi snorted. “We’re just getting some background information on what went on during the day. You played games. You watched reruns. You talked. About the shows you were watching?”

  There was a beat. “Probably,” Terry said.

  “Can you remember what you talked about?”

  Terry shook her head.

  “Did you watch CSI and talk about fingerprints? And about whether it was possible to match someone’s handwriting in an anonymous letter?”

  “I don’t remember,” Terry said. Her lips barely moved, as if they were stiff. The rest of her looked a bit stiff, too. Brittle, as if one good knock could shatter her into pieces.

  “Would you have a particular reason for speculating about those things?” Mendoza wanted to know.

  Terry shook her head.

  “Did you write the anonymous letters to Ms. Turner?”

  “No,” Terry said.

  “Did you break into Ms. Turner’s and Ms. Mitchell’s house on Friday night? Will we find your fingerprints on the snow globe that was used to hit Ms. Mitchell?”

  Terry shook her head.

  “Anything else you’d like to share with me?”

  Terry hesitated, but eventually she replied in the negative.

  “Then that’s all for now.” Mendoza got to his feet.

  Terry didn’t. “Am I under arrest?” she asked, peering up at Mendoza.

  Mendoza sounded surprised. “Of course not. We don’t arrest people for watching CSI. You’re free to go.”

  For a second, it didn’t look like Terry believed him. Then she flushed and got to her feet.

  I turned to Grimaldi. “You’re not arresting her?”

  “For what? Not for asking questions about fingerprinting during a rerun of CSI. If we arrested everyone who did that, there’d be no more room left at the jail.”

  Well, yes. When she put it like that.

  “She didn’t break into your friends’ house,” Grimaldi added. “She didn’t hit Ms. Mitchell with the snow globe. She didn’t keep Ms. Turner against her will. And I don’t think she wrote the anonymous letters. What are we supposed to arrest her for?”

  I had no idea; I just knew I didn’t like this. “What about Virgil’s murder?”

  Grimaldi shook her head. “If you have any evidence at all that she had something to do with it, I’m sure Jaime would be happy to arrest her. So would I. But there’s no proof.”
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  “She knows Stacy. And she doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “That’s not enough,” Grimaldi said. “We have to put her at the scene of the crime during the time the crime was committed. If you can do that, then we’ll talk.”

  Inside the interrogation room, Terry was moving toward the door. Slowly, as if she couldn’t quite believe that Mendoza was going to let her walk out.

  Grimaldi smiled. “It’ll be interesting to see what she does when she leaves here.”

  Yes, it would. “I guess someone will be following her, to see?”

  By now, Terry had made it to the door. She reached for the handle, just as Mendoza said, “Ms. Dixon?”

  Terry hunched like a turtle, pulling her head in. She probably wished she could just yank the door open and make a run for it, but she turned around. “Uh?”

  “Don’t go anywhere. In case we need to talk to you again.”

  “Home?” Terry managed.

  Mendoza smiled whitely. Now that he’d turned around to face Terry—and the mirror, and us—I could see his face, and the smile was positively wolfish. What big teeth you have, Detective.

  “Of course you may go home,” he said genially. “And to work. And anywhere else you usually go. Enjoy your life. Eat, drink, and be merry. Just don’t leave town. I don’t have the time to hunt you down and drag you back, and if I have to, it’ll make me cranky. So just do me a favor and stick around where I can find you.”

  “Urk,” Terry said. Or that’s what it sounded like.

  Grimaldi smothered a chuckle. “I’m surprised she hasn’t peed her pants.”

  “It’s not too late.”

  She smiled. “There she goes. What do you want to bet she’ll be running by the time she hits the sidewalk outside?”