Adverse Possession Page 27

  Although she had a point: if the bucket of rags had been placed far enough from the wall of the house itself that there hadn’t been any actual fire damage, it seemed like Stacy might have done his very best to mitigate the risk.

  “I really don’t like him,” I said. “Terry at least had some sort of obsession with Aislynn. She’d probably call it love.” Not that she could call it anything now, since I’d killed her. I winced and continued, “But Stacy just seems obsessed with the house. And the money. And getting revenge on Virgil for dumping him.”

  “Sociopath,” Grimaldi nodded. “It’s all about him and what he wants, and he’ll remove anyone who stands in his way. He won’t shed a tear over Terry. She was useful to him for a while, and then she afforded him the opportunity to escape. Right now he’s planning how he can spin the situation to leave all the onus on her.”

  He probably was. Wherever he was at the moment.

  Rafe finished attaching the cardboard to the window, and the M.E. left, with a nod at Grimaldi and the information that the case seemed open and shut and he’d have the death certificate for her in the morning. The morgue attendants carried the gurney carefully down the stairs from the second floor, across the porch and down the outside stairs over to the van. I tried not to look at it as it went by, but it was hard.

  “I should head out, too,” Grimaldi told us. “Check in with Jaime and tell him that Mr. Kelleher might be on foot.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Rafe said. “Wait for your minions to come back. See what they have to say. Then you don’t have to go crawling to Mendoza to tell him you were wrong if it turns out Kelleher isn’t on foot after all.”

  “I don’t crawl,” Grimaldi informed him, but she did come inside with us to wait for Spicer and Truman to return. We made some coffee—the other two drank that; I stuck to milk—and sat around the kitchen table and waited. We didn’t talk much. We were all tired, and there wasn’t much to say that hadn’t already been said.

  It didn’t take long. Ten minutes, and then Spicer knocked on the door. “Two blocks up,” he said, with a gesture with his thumb over his shoulder. “Small gray car.” He pulled out his phone and showed us where he’d taken a picture.

  I nodded. It was obviously the same car Kylie and I had followed earlier today. Or yesterday, since we were well into the dark hours after midnight by now.

  “The plate comes back as Teresa Dixon,” Spicer said. “I called a truck to have it towed to the impound lot.”

  “Good job,” Grimaldi told him. “Thank you. Stay with the car until the tow truck comes, and then go clean up.”

  “We can last until the end of shift,” Spicer said, although Truman did look wistful at the thought of soap and water.

  “C’mon, kid.” Spicer slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get to work.”

  The two of them took their smelly selves out of the house and into the squad car.

  “I’m going to go, too,” Grimaldi told us when they’d left. “Places to go, people to see.” She got to her feet. “Try to get some rest. I’ll let you know when we find Stacy.”

  She headed out. Rafe locked the door after her, before coming back for me. He took me upstairs to bed, and we made love. I think we both needed it. Him to reassure himself that I was OK and that he hadn’t screwed anything up by not being here—as if I’d blame him for being at work and trying to keep Jamal safe—and me for the comfort. I knew Grimaldi was right. I hadn’t had a choice. But it was still difficult to process the fact that Teresa was dead, because I’d pushed her down the stairs.

  I was able to fall asleep for a bit after that. Or at least doze. Rafe wasn’t. He spent the rest of the night prowling the house. Making sure nobody else got in, and probably beating himself up for not being here when I needed him.

  Grimaldi called at seven-thirty to say that Stacy had made it home and into Mendoza’s waiting arms. He was cooling his heels in an interrogation room in downtown—Stacy, not Mendoza; although Mendoza was probably twiddling his thumbs, waiting for things to get underway, too. If Rafe wanted in on the interview, he had to move.

  “Wait for me!” I pushed at the blankets. I was still in bed when he told me, while he was sitting on the edge with another cup of coffee. That was probably what had gotten him through the night.

  “You don’t have to come, darlin’.” Although he moved out of the way so I could scramble out of bed.

  “I want to,” I said. “He was in my house last night. He left Terry behind and ran. And one of them scared the crap out of Aislynn and hit Kylie. Not to mention that one of them—probably Terry—killed Virgil. I want to know how it all hangs together.”

  He shrugged. “Better hurry, then.”

  “I’m hurrying.” I disappeared into the bathroom to pee and splash cold water on my face.

  We got to downtown before eight, something of a record with what we had to do before getting out of the house, plus the beginning of rush hour traffic.

  Only to find, when we got there, that Mendoza had gotten impatient and started the interview without us.

  Like yesterday, Grimaldi was observing through the two-way mirror. She gathered us from the lobby and took us back there. “They just started,” she said as she opened the door. “Jaime figured the more time he gave Mr. Kelleher, the more composed he’d be, so instead he jumped right in.”

  “Wouldn’t sitting around and waiting make Stacy more rattled?”

  “Depends,” Grimaldi said, shutting the door behind us. “Some people use the time to calm down and come up with their stories. For them, it’s better not to give them time to think.”

  We walked up to the window separating us from the interrogation room.

  Like yesterday, Mendoza had his back to us. He was wearing the same shirt, so he probably hadn’t had time to go home and change yet.

  Stacy sat opposite him, dressed in dark jeans and a dark gray sweatshirt with a zipper over a gray T-shirt. It didn’t look sinister now, but in the middle of the night, zipped up and with the hood covering his head, he would have looked just like one of the shadows slipping through my yard.

  If he was nervous, it didn’t show at all. He was chatting with Mendoza as if they were old friends, sipping from a Starbucks cup and gesturing with his other hand.

  And Mendoza was playing right along, talking back as if nothing was wrong.

  “Bastard,” Rafe muttered.

  Grimaldi glanced at him. “Give him time. He’ll get there.”

  Rafe grinned. “I wasn’t talking about Mendoza. I’ve done my own share of building rapport and sweet-talking suspects. I know how it works.”

  “And here I thought you just waded in and let your fists do the talking,” Grimaldi said dryly. “Just watch.”

  We watched, as they talked about the coffee, the weather, Mendoza’s tie—Stacy liked it; he even attempted to flirt a little, although surely he could tell that Mendoza wasn’t batting for his team.

  Eventually he must have gotten tired of it, or just wanted to get the show on the road, because he put down his cup. “What am I doing here?”

  “We’re talking,” Mendoza said.

  “We’ve already talked. You know I didn’t kill Virgil. I was at work. With at least thirty witnesses around.”

  Mendoza nodded. “I know that.”

  “I’m not really sorry he’s dead. He cheated on me. He left me. But I didn’t kill him.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “And I know you think that life insurance policy is suspicious. But I got it when we were still together. And I’ve been paying on it. I have the right to cash it in.”

  Mendoza nodded. “This isn’t about that.”

  “What’s it about, then?”

  “The death of Teresa Dixon,” Mendoza said.

  There was a beat. Then— “She’s dead?” Stacy said. And I could be imagining things, but I swear I heard a note of jubilation in his voice. Maybe he’d been afraid that Terry was still alive and could implicate him. />
  “You know who she is? Or was?”

  “Of course,” Stacy said. “One of my neighbors.”

  “You grew up together, too. Didn’t you?”

  I glanced at Grimaldi. “Did they?”

  She nodded. “We took your husband’s advice and looked for juvenile records. Neither of them had one, but we did discover that they grew up in the same small town in Mississippi. And went to the same schools.”

  Inside the interrogation room, Stacy was explaining the same thing, and explaining it away as no big deal.

  “One of your friends died when you were in high school, didn’t he?”

  “I wouldn’t call him a friend,” Stacy said, “but yeah. One of our classmates died.”

  Mendoza checked the file in front of him. “Beaten to death with a rock.”

  “Like Virgil,” I said. Grimaldi nodded.

  “I was at work,” Stacy said.

  “In middle school?”

  He giggled. “Of course not in middle school. I was at home. Grounded, if you have to know. For getting into a fight with that same kid. So I couldn’t have killed him.”

  “The police talked to you?”

  He tossed his head. “Of course they did. But I was home. My mom saw me. She told them. And I’m not a killer. I’ve never killed anybody. Give me a lie detector test if you want to.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mendoza said. “It’s all here.” He tapped the folder. “The police cleared you. You were at home.”

  Stacy nodded.

  “What about Teresa?”

  Stacy blinked.

  “Where was she the night Virgil Wright was killed? Or the afternoon Marcus Jefferson was beaten to death?”

  “That’s a long time ago,” Stacy said. “I have no idea where Terry was that day. Or last week, for that matter. I was at work. I didn’t see her.”

  “Do you know where she was last night?”

  Stacy shook his head. “What happened? You said she’s dead.”

  “She fell down a staircase,” Mendoza said, “and broke her neck.” I winced. “Death was almost instantaneous.”

  “Almost?”

  I turned to Grimaldi. “What does he mean, ‘almost?’ She died instantly. You said so.”

  “He don’t know that,” Rafe said, nodding to Stacy. “Watch.”

  I turned back to the interrogation room.

  “She had time to say a few words,” Mendoza said. “Specifically, about you.”

  Stacy was quiet for a moment. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  “She said you were there together. That you set a fire at Aislynn Turner’s and Kylie Mitchell’s house—your old house, the one you shared with Mr. Wright—and then you drove to Mr. and Mrs. Collier’s house.”

  He waited to see if Stacy wanted to say anything, but when he didn’t, Mendoza continued.

  “You might remember her better as Ms. Martin. Savannah Martin. The real estate agent who helped Ms. Turner and Ms. Mitchell buy your house. The house you wanted to keep, but that you couldn’t afford when Mr. Wright was no longer paying the bills.”

  He paused, but Stacy still didn’t have anything to contribute.

  “The same Ms. Martin who knocked on your door on Friday and asked you about anonymous letters someone had been sending to her clients.”

  “I remember her,” Stacy said. “Why would Terry go to her house in the middle of the night?”

  “She had a gun with her, so we assume it was with the purpose of doing harm to Ms. Martin.”

  “Why?”

  “We were hoping you’d be able to tell us that,” Mendoza said; Stacy shook his head, “but we assume because Ms. Martin works for Ms. Turner and Ms. Mitchell, and was instrumental in bringing them back together after the attack on Ms. Mitchell and the last letter you sent Ms. Turner.”

  For a second I wasn’t sure he was going to pick up on it, but then Stacy said, “The last letter I sent Ms. Turner? Why would I do that?”

  “Something else we were hoping you’d explain,” Mendoza said genially. “We assume it was something of a game of tit for tat. You wanted the house back, and you wanted Mr. Wright out of the way so you could cash in on the life insurance policy. But you knew you couldn’t kill him yourself. You had to be far away, with an unbreakable alibi, in order to get that money. So you recruited Terry.”

  “Why would Terry kill Virgil for me?”

  Stacy tried to sound insouciant, but it didn’t quite come off. His voice had an ever-so-slight edge.

  “You knew she was the one who killed Marcus Jefferson all those years ago? You threatened to turn her in? There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  He waited a second, but when Stacy didn’t take the bait, he added, “Or maybe you simply convinced her that the letters would make Ms. Turner and Ms. Mitchell break up, and Teresa would have her chance to woo Ms. Turner back. They were involved, weren’t they?”

  “They lived together for a few weeks last year,” Stacy said, distractedly, “but I don’t think it was serious. Not on the girl’s part. Terry was crazy about her, though.” He giggled. “Crazy. Get it?”

  We got it. I’m sure Mendoza did, too, but he didn’t comment.

  “So maybe that was enough. Just the promise that she’d get Ms. Turner back if she went along with your plan. She’d kill Mr. Wright while you were provably somewhere else, with a solid alibi, and in return, she got a second chance with Ms. Turner. Maybe you offered her money on the back end, after you got the payout from the insurance. And if everything went well, and Ms. Turner and Ms. Mitchell broke up and put the house on the market, you’d have the money to buy it back. Mr. Wright’s house, that he took away from you.”

  Stacy smiled and shook his head. “You can’t prove any of that, Detective. And anyway, Terry’s dead.”

  “But she didn’t break into Ms. Turner’s and Ms. Mitchell’s house on Friday night,” Mendoza said. “She didn’t hit Ms. Mitchell over the head and leave with the anonymous letters. Teresa worked that night. And she certainly didn’t show up at the hospital the next day in an effort to try to finish the job. Were you afraid that Ms. Mitchell had seen you? That she’d recognized you from last year, when she bought your house?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stacy said.

  “I’m sure you don’t. We’ll see if the doctor you spoke to at the hospital recognizes your face when we show him your mug shot.”

  Stacy pushed his chair back and shot to his feet. “What mug shot? You can’t arrest me. You have no proof. And I didn’t break into the house and take the letters. Terry did. I told her where the key was, OK? In the thermometer on the back porch. Virgil and I kept a spare key there. She could come and go when nobody was home, and dig through the girl’s underwear or do whatever she wanted. But she’s the one who wrote the letters. Not me. And she’s the one who went there on Friday night to get them back. I told her that what’s-her-name came to talk to me about the letters, and that made Terry nervous. So she went there that night after work to get them back. The restaurant is only open until nine. Not like South Street. When I work, I’m there until two in the morning. Terry could close up early and leave. She’s the one who hit the other girl. Not me. And she’s the one who set the fire. And she probably killed Virgil, and Marcus too. But it has nothing to do with me.”

  “You were with her last night,” Mendoza said. “Ms. Martin saw you.”

  Stacy shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

  “Can you prove where you were?”

  “No. But you can’t prove I was there, either.”

  Rafe and Grimaldi both looked at me. I shook my head. I had no idea whether it was Stacy who had been with Terry at the house last night. I hadn’t seen his face. I hadn’t seen him well enough to recognize him in any way. He’d just been a shadow outside, and inside the house, he’d stayed on the first floor. Terry’s partner in crime could have been anyone. I was sure it was Stacy, as I’m sure we all were, b
ut could I prove it?

  No.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Get him out here,” Rafe said.

  Grimaldi turned to him. I did, too, but she was the one who spoke. “Who?”

  “Mendoza. Get him out of there.”

  Grimaldi arched her brows, but pulled out her phone and sent a text. Inside the interrogation room, Mendoza’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the display and pushed back his chair.

  “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  Stacy nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  He sat back down in his chair. Mendoza let himself out. A few seconds later, the door to our little room opened and he came in. “Bastard,” he growled, his face dark and his brows lowered. “Sitting in there smirking at me. He’s behind this whole thing. I know he is. Probably was back in Mississippi, too.”

  “He might be right about Teresa Dixon being the one who hit Ms. Mitchell,” Grimaldi said. “Hitting people with rocks seems to have been her M.O. And we can’t be sure when the attack happened. Ms. Mitchell doesn’t remember, and Ms. Dixon isn’t around to tell us. It could have been after she got off work.”

  Mendoza directed a fulminating glare through the two-way mirror, to where Stacy was sitting calmly, one leg folded over the other, sipping his probably lukewarm coffee and waiting for Mendoza to come back. He looked calm and confident, although I think there was an ever so faint tremor in the hand that held the cup.

  “Maybe,” Mendoza admitted. “But even if she did, it’s been all about him. Everything comes back to him. He wanted Virgil dead. He wanted the money. And the house. He probably wanted that kid in Mississippi dead, too. Killing him might not have been his idea, but if he knew about it, I’m sure he didn’t do anything to talk Teresa Dixon out of the idea.”

  He fisted his hands. “I want him behind bars. I want him to pay.”

  “You really can’t prove any of it?” I asked. “I know he didn’t kill Virgil. He has an alibi. And he might not have hit Kylie or written the letters. Or killed the Marcus Jefferson kid in Mississippi all those years ago. But he was at my house last night. Wasn’t he?”