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  Emily scribbled in her notebook, and Wallace noted the missing alibi for the precise time of the sniper shooting.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know the location of your sister’s cell phone, would you?”

  “I found it in her apartment. Still plugged into the charger on the wall. Looks like she forgot to take it the morning of the accident.”

  “Is there any chance we can take a look at Beth’s apartment?” Emily asked.

  “Sure,” Liz replied. “Follow me. It’s the last building on the left, at the end of the sidewalk.”

  *

  At the apartment door, Liz fumbled with the keys. “You’re going to have to excuse the mess,” she offered.

  The detectives stepped into the apartment and Liz put Quinn on the ground. His small sneakers touched the floor and the boy quickly disappeared into the obstacle course of an apartment in the middle of a move. Toys littered the living room. Half-packed boxes were stacked four feet tall along the wall.

  “The week has been crazy. Trying to figure out what to keep. What to sell. Quinn is moving into my place with me. Well, he’s already moved in, but we have stuff here, stuff there, stuff in the car.”

  Liz’s eyes bounced around the room and she suddenly seemed overwhelmed.

  “I can only imagine,” Emily offered.

  “You know, the funny thing is I always wanted to be a mom. And I would do it all by myself if I had to… but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind. And with my sister’s cancer, well, I’d been preparing myself for the eventuality of it, but reality accelerated my timeline.”

  “So it was decided before your sister passed away that you would be the guardian of her son?” Emily asked.

  “That’s correct. Beth had a will created after the first round of chemo failed. She was considered terminal, but initially there was hope. As time passed and treatment failed, she became more pragmatic.”

  “I’m not sure how to broach this subject, so I’m just going to come out and ask. Was her son provided for, financially?” Emily probed.

  “Beth had a thirty thousand dollar group life insurance policy through the grocery store. Not much. Enough to cover some expenses. I’m not sure what medical bills she may have had, but you can’t collect from the dead. For the last couple of months she seemed less concerned about bills and didn’t talk about them. But she was always concerned about Quinn.”

  “You sure she didn’t have money or property stashed away?” Wallace asked.

  “I haven’t gone through everything yet, but no. As of now, the only thing she had stashed away was a tablecloth collection. Found it in storage in the basement of the building. It’s up on eBay right now.”

  “Was your sister into anything else? Drugs? Bad men?”

  “She hadn’t dated in a while. Balding and bone thin isn’t a popular look with the guys, as it turns out.”

  “Did you sister own a gun?” Emily asked.

  “No. Not that I know of.”

  “Did she ever go shooting?” Wallace added.

  “If she did, she didn’t tell me. We were sisters, we talked about everything… but I honestly don’t think guns was ever a topic of conversation.”

  “What about her ex-husband? Was he a gun owner?”

  “I can’t say. They weren’t married long.”

  “Can we speak with him?”

  “He isn’t in the picture. At all. I only met him a few times before he skedaddled. Wouldn’t recognize him if he walked into the room. Beth had his legal rights removed and he signed the papers. The guy didn’t blink. He never paid child support. Nothing. Rumor has it he passed away down south somewhere. Now if he is alive and he shows up looking to be a father, well, that’s something the courts will have to decide on.”

  “What about an old boyfriend? Someone from her past. Did she have someone who may have been interested in guns? Maybe taught her to shoot?”

  “Am I missing something? I don’t understand the connection between my sister and the questions about money and guns?”

  “We’re looking into all angles of a murder in the District. The morning your sister died, there was a shooting in Northwest DC. Someone was killed. The medical examiner’s office found a .223 bullet casing in your sister’s pocket. It is possible the casing found on your sister was the same type of casing for the bullet used in the killing.”

  “You think my sister murdered someone?”

  “We are looking at all possibilities.”

  “That is insane.”

  “We can understand why you would think the line of questioning is unusual.”

  Liz paused. “You found a bullet shell in her pocket?”

  “Yes, any idea where it might have come from?”

  “I never saw her with a bullet. Or with a gun. And she was definitely not the murdering type. Besides, between cancer therapy, working, and raising a son, she didn’t have time.”

  “Anyone else we should talk to?” Emily asked.

  “Talk to the people at her work. Other than that, the only people she spent time with were doctors, nurses, and people in the medical field.”

  Wallace and Emily both extended their business cards and Beth’s sister took them. “If you think of anything that may help, please let us know.”

  “I’m not sure I understand. You mean if I think of anything that may indicate my sister killed someone?”

  Emily felt her face go flush. “If you think of anything that may help us determine her state of mind, anything, really.”

  Liz shrugged her shoulders. “I can do that.”

  “Before we leave, can we look in her storage in the basement?”

  Liz tilted her head to the side. “Sure. It’s downstairs. Across from the laundry room. The second cubicle on the right, on the bottom level. You can help yourself. There’s a small lock on the door, the combination is 4-5-6. I assume you can be trusted with that information.”

  “Thanks,” Emily said, turning towards the door and pushing gently on Wallace’s shoulder.

  *

  On the way down the stairs into the basement, Emily chastised her partner. “See what happens when you lie to people? It comes back to bite you in the ass.”

  “Lying is part of the job,” Wallace said, his large frame casting a shadow over his partner as they headed down the stairs.

  “That is an awful thing to say,” Emily retorted.

  “You’ll come around to the reality of it.”

  Emily pushed the door to the storage room open and looked at the small storage cubicles built from plywood. Each cubicle was split horizontally into two. Wallace pointed at the cubicle on the lower level, the second one on the right, as directed by the sister.

  Emily entered the combination and pulled the door open. Both detectives bent at the waist and peered in.

  “It’s empty.”

  “That wasn’t very nice of the sister. Leading us down here to an empty storage bin.”

  “That’s karma,” Emily conceded. “You can’t really blame her.”

  Wallace stood. “You can shut it.”

  “You want to go talk to the sister again?”

  “About what? An empty storage bin?”

  Emily didn’t respond.

  Wallace looked around at the two-tiered storage room. “I do think we learned something here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The manager at Trader Joe’s mentioned Beth had bruises from boxes falling out of storage, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, how could that happen with a storage bin located on the floor?”

  “It couldn’t. Either the manager misunderstood or Beth lied,” Emily said.

  “And if she lied about that, she probably lied about other things.”

  “Now you’re questioning the integrity of a liar? An interesting turn of events, don’t you think, Detective Wallace.”

  Wallace grunted and scowled. “I’m done talking to you,” he muttered, exiting the room.

  Ch
apter 12

  Dan Lord walked down the street, around the block, and then up the alley behind a short row of old townhouses. He completed his lap of the location before finally ducking into Born Again, a used clothing and furniture shop just off Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown.

  Dan noted the security cameras protruding from the ceiling of the store and the sticker in the front window that indicated, in plain print, the presence of an alarm system. Dan stepped forward and ran his fingers along the rack of clothes near the front window as he assessed the business prospects of the store. He checked the handwritten price tag on an Asian step chest in the corner and swallowed. Twelve grand seemed pricey, unless the chest was sporting the first few steps of the stairway to heaven. The candle display in the corner, and the stack of rugs near the rear of the store completed Dan’s preliminary assessment.

  Sherry, blonde hair cut at shoulder length, was in the back of the store, sitting at a large wooden table with ornate legs that served as the establishment’s desk and checkout counter.

  Dan could feel the intensity of Sherry’s stare as he parted the sea of goods and approached the large wood table. He smiled to disarm and charm, and quickly assessed that Sherry, his potential client, was nervous. She had one hand in plain view on the desk. Her other hand, her right, was hidden under the desktop. Unless the woman was left-handed, Dan assumed his family jewels were in the line of fire. The dominant hand usually fires the gun. And in normal circumstances, the dominant hand would likely be the one on the table.

  Dan announced himself as he approached the desk. “Dan Lord. I’m here to meet Sherry Wellington. She called me. I have an appointment.”

  Sherry sighed slightly, removed her hand from beneath the desk, and stood to introduce herself. She extended her right hand.

  Definitely a weapon there somewhere, Dan confirmed to himself.

  “Please have a seat. Can I get you a coffee?”

  “That would be great. Black,” Dan answered, sitting in a chair on the side of the large table so he had a view of the store and the front door.

  Sherry Wellington picked up the phone on the table and made a ten-second call, ordering two coffees. She placed the phone back on the table and threw her head in the direction of the wall to her left. “Coffee shop next door. Free delivery. They let me run a tab.”

  “Nice perk.”

  “They offered, I accepted.”

  Dan looked at Sherry’s hands and noted their rough texture. Dan moved his eyes from her hands, and then ran his glance up her arm to her face. Her attire was eclectic, a mix of wealth and hippie, a style very much in vogue throughout Northwest DC for women who wanted to be cool without being snobby. But Sherry Wellington’s face was the cherry on the sundae. Dan had no doubt that one look at her blue eyes, high cheek bones, pouty lips, and perfect teeth, framed by natural blond locks, made most men weak in the knees. One glance and he understood why John Wellington, congressman from New Mexico, had chosen her. There were trophy wives and then there were just plain trophies.

  “How can I help you, Mrs. Wellington?”

  “Please, call me Sherry.”

  “Okay. And you can call me Dan.”

  “You are a hard man to reach, Dan.”

  “I’m particular about my clients. Finding me is the first hurdle.”

  “What are the others?”

  “That’s what we’re here to discuss.”

  “Good. A mutual interview. I have a few questions to ask you.”

  “I’m sure you do. You mentioned that the former wife of a certain judge referred you. How is she?”

  “Great. She’s moved on. Found a good man. Living in the suburbs and loving it. Strip malls on every corner.”

  “The real American dream.”

  “For some.”

  “And for you?”

  “I guess I found my own version on the American dream. From waitress to congressman’s wife.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “I was working in a restaurant on M Street, known as The Friendliest Saloon in Town. I met my husband when I was doing some catering for the restaurant.”

  “Some would call marrying a congressman a fairytale. A step up from the American dream.”

  “I love him. He loves me, too.”

  “Then very well done.”

  “Then thank you. I’m glad you approve.”

  Dan nodded.

  Sherry forced a smile. “Excuse my forwardness, but do you know how to keep a secret, Dan?”

  “Of course. What’s the secret?”

  Sherry paused and wringed her hands. “I want you to find out who killed the father of my son.”

  “I assume we are not talking about the congressman.”

  “No. John is alive and well. Busy. Running for the Senate next year, but still alive.”

  “Who is your son’s father?”

  “Marcus Losh.”

  “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “There’s no reason you would. He was murdered in his apartment earlier this week. The police don’t have a suspect yet.”

  “Why do you think he was murdered?”

  Sherry pulled out the Metro section of The Post and pushed the folded page in Dan’s direction. Dan read the article and handed the page back to Sherry. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “We were estranged. If you can use that term for people who weren’t married.”

  “You can use the term.”

  “I have been known to flub the occasional word. Not very good at telling jokes either.”

  “This is not an English test and I’ll handle the jokes.”

  Sherry smiled, this time it was less forced.

  “But I’m afraid I don’t understand what the secret is,” Dan said.

  “I don’t want my husband to know I’ve hired you. I don’t want anyone to know I’ve hired you.”

  “Then no one will know.”

  “Good. It’s of paramount importance.”

  Dan nodded, though he was now adding curiosity as a reason to take the job being offered. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “Sure. I assume you’ve already looked into my background.”

  “I’m a private detective. I did a cursory search. Checked public records. I know you were born in Kalamazoo and moved to DC twelve years ago. It’s not important, but I am curious as to why…”

  “A chance at a different life. Excitement. Glamour. All the dreams and ideas that bounce around the heads of small town girls.”

  “So you packed up and moved to DC?”

  “I moved in with a great aunt in Takoma Park. I enrolled at the University of Maryland and got a part-time job waiting tables. I had a plan.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “My parents divorced. My father vanished and my mother moved back to Northern Minnesota to live with my grandmother. She died within the year.”

  “So there was no going home for you.”

  “Home was erased. At least the home that I knew.”

  “That can be hard. But it can be motivating.”

  “I understand the difficult part, but not the motivating part so much.”

  “Historically speaking, burning bridges as they crossed them was one way for military leaders to motivate their men. Burning ships once they reached new land was another. When faced with no other options, there are no other options.”

  “Well, my plans for success took another hit when my great aunt also passed away.”

  “You know, there’s also an expression for the plans that people make.”

  “Oh yeah? What is it?”

  “Talk about your plans and the devil laughs.”

  “I haven’t heard that one.”

  “Just a reminder that life is full of surprises.”

  “Indeed it is. Anyway, my great aunt had been nursing a reverse mortgage for years. She died broke, as it turns out.”

  “And there went your second home.”

  “There w
ent my only home. There went everything. There went school. Suddenly, I needed a place to stay and money to pay the rent. School wasn’t in my survival routine. But I always wanted to go back.”

  “You could now.”

  “I’ve considered it.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I waited tables and worked as a bartender. Worked long nights. Barely saw daylight during the winter.”

  “And then you met your son’s father?”

  “I did. But my life didn’t really change until a bathroom break at the bar where I was working. Nothing is scarier for a single woman than peeing on a little white stick and seeing a pink X in the test result window. I was unmarried and had limited finances. Hell, it took me a half hour to find the strength to pull myself out of the toilet stall. I walked into that bathroom a woman with a few issues and walked out of that bathroom with the weight of the world on my shoulders. Funny how a few minutes can define your life.”

  “Life can be determined in the blink of an eye,” Dan said. “What can you tell me about your son’s father, Marcus?”

  “He was ex-Army. After he got out of the service, he worked as an electrician. Until he got injured.”

  “How was he injured?”

  “Car accident. Late at night. On one of the exit ramps from 395. It was bad. Broken vertebras. Nerve damage. Bruised kidneys. He never really recovered. Spent the last few years doing odd jobs. Hard to be an electrician when you have to use crutches.”

  “I imagine.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “We met online. Match.com. Getting dates wasn’t hard, as a waitress. Getting good dates was.”

  “So you weren’t swept off your feet by a man in uniform?”

  “More like I was swept off my feet by a man with a keyboard. We fell in love, had a child. One right after the other.”

  “But never married?”

  “No. We talked about it. Until the accident.”

  “And then?”

  “Like I said, he never recovered. Got hooked on painkillers. Oxycodone. Then booze took over to steal the remaining good bits the drugs left behind.”

  “Oxycodone is some bad stuff. The downside is way, way down.”

  “It was too far down for him to climb out. I tried. I really did. I wanted it to work. But between the booze and the oxy, well, I just couldn’t keep it all together by myself.”