things to do with my time. Why don’t you two try to settle it.
Rothbart looked at the witness. “Now, Ms. Acton, I must warn you. You are in the middle of your cross-examination. That means you are absolutely forbidden to discuss your testimony with anyone. Understood?”
“Yes, but can’t I talk to Mr. Fernandez?”
“Not Mr. Fernandez, not the officer in charge of the case, Detective Kormos. No one.”
Acton took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Good,” Rothbart said. “Back at two o’clock.”
Perfect, Amankwah thought. Bradley Church was going to love this story. He could just see the headline: HOCKEY PLAYER SCORES IN “AFTER DATE” OVERTIME .
6
OFFICER ZEILINSKI HAD HER HAND PRESSED TO HER MOUTH. HER ALREADY PALE SKIN HAD turned white. She was breathing hard.
Kennicott grabbed her free hand.
“Such nice woman,” she said after a moment. “With children.”
Kennicott was trying to think. You’re the homicide detective in charge of this investigation, he told himself. Stay professional. This is a crime scene. He had to get Zeilinski focused.
“I worked on a few cases that she prosecuted.” He squeezed her fingers.
“She is very good lawyer.” She took her hand back. “We need do perfect job.”
“Of course,” he said.
“My team on the way. I get them in. Photograph, videotape everything. Blow out candle. Then iPod too, and take all.”
He pointed to the wig and sunglasses on the floor. “You saw those.”
“Of course. We go through everything. She must have purse. Cell phone. Will find for you.”
He looked around again. For the next few months he’d be staring at photos and videos of this crime scene. But it wouldn’t be the same as being here, right now. Seeing it. Smelling it. Feeling it. What story does this god-awful room tell me? Beside the obvious. She must have been having an affair with someone.
The dent in the bathroom door looked fresh. Forensics would take the door back to the lab and examine it to see if they could get a better read on the tread marks. Someone had wanted to get in that door very badly.
If it was the killer, what was he looking for?
Kennicott checked the bathroom floor. Beige vinyl tiles, worn but clean. There was a dark scuff mark near the door.
It was easy to imagine someone kicking in the door, taking a step in, and looking around. The bottle of champagne was floating in the sink. The empty ice bucket had water droplets in it. A standard-issue toilet looked untouched.And the cheap plastic-lined shower, with a stained curtain pulled to the side, was dry inside too.
There was nothing personal here. No toiletries. And no signs of a struggle.
Did the kicker bust the door in looking for Raglan? Didn’t look like it. Then who broke down the door? And why?
A shudder went through him. It was as if he could feel the murderous, sweaty anger of the killer. But also something else. What it was he wasn’t sure.
In a few steps he was outside, back in the fresh air and the land of the living. The sky was impossibly blue, the wind strong. His skin tingled in the sunshine. Alpine was waiting for him, his notebook in hand.
Kennicott needed a moment to try to process that the murder victim in room 8 was the former head Crown attorney. He wanted to get some background before he told Alpine what was going on. “Do we know who called 911?” he asked.
Alpine shook his head. “Anonymous caller.”
“What did they say?”
Alpine had his finger in his notebook. He flipped it open and gave Kennicott a bored look that said: You homicide guys always ask the same questions. He cleared his throat. “The anonymous caller said, ‘Dead body, Maple Leaf Motel, Kingston Road, room 8.’ That’s it. I talked to the dispatcher. She said he sounded male, was very abrupt, and hung up before she could ask any questions.”
“Traceable?”
He closed his notebook. “No. This isn’t TV. All we know is that it was a cell phone.”
Across the courtyard, Kennicott saw
Rothbart looked at the witness. “Now, Ms. Acton, I must warn you. You are in the middle of your cross-examination. That means you are absolutely forbidden to discuss your testimony with anyone. Understood?”
“Yes, but can’t I talk to Mr. Fernandez?”
“Not Mr. Fernandez, not the officer in charge of the case, Detective Kormos. No one.”
Acton took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Good,” Rothbart said. “Back at two o’clock.”
Perfect, Amankwah thought. Bradley Church was going to love this story. He could just see the headline: HOCKEY PLAYER SCORES IN “AFTER DATE” OVERTIME .
6
OFFICER ZEILINSKI HAD HER HAND PRESSED TO HER MOUTH. HER ALREADY PALE SKIN HAD turned white. She was breathing hard.
Kennicott grabbed her free hand.
“Such nice woman,” she said after a moment. “With children.”
Kennicott was trying to think. You’re the homicide detective in charge of this investigation, he told himself. Stay professional. This is a crime scene. He had to get Zeilinski focused.
“I worked on a few cases that she prosecuted.” He squeezed her fingers.
“She is very good lawyer.” She took her hand back. “We need do perfect job.”
“Of course,” he said.
“My team on the way. I get them in. Photograph, videotape everything. Blow out candle. Then iPod too, and take all.”
He pointed to the wig and sunglasses on the floor. “You saw those.”
“Of course. We go through everything. She must have purse. Cell phone. Will find for you.”
He looked around again. For the next few months he’d be staring at photos and videos of this crime scene. But it wouldn’t be the same as being here, right now. Seeing it. Smelling it. Feeling it. What story does this god-awful room tell me? Beside the obvious. She must have been having an affair with someone.
The dent in the bathroom door looked fresh. Forensics would take the door back to the lab and examine it to see if they could get a better read on the tread marks. Someone had wanted to get in that door very badly.
If it was the killer, what was he looking for?
Kennicott checked the bathroom floor. Beige vinyl tiles, worn but clean. There was a dark scuff mark near the door.
It was easy to imagine someone kicking in the door, taking a step in, and looking around. The bottle of champagne was floating in the sink. The empty ice bucket had water droplets in it. A standard-issue toilet looked untouched.And the cheap plastic-lined shower, with a stained curtain pulled to the side, was dry inside too.
There was nothing personal here. No toiletries. And no signs of a struggle.
Did the kicker bust the door in looking for Raglan? Didn’t look like it. Then who broke down the door? And why?
A shudder went through him. It was as if he could feel the murderous, sweaty anger of the killer. But also something else. What it was he wasn’t sure.
In a few steps he was outside, back in the fresh air and the land of the living. The sky was impossibly blue, the wind strong. His skin tingled in the sunshine. Alpine was waiting for him, his notebook in hand.
Kennicott needed a moment to try to process that the murder victim in room 8 was the former head Crown attorney. He wanted to get some background before he told Alpine what was going on. “Do we know who called 911?” he asked.
Alpine shook his head. “Anonymous caller.”
“What did they say?”
Alpine had his finger in his notebook. He flipped it open and gave Kennicott a bored look that said: You homicide guys always ask the same questions. He cleared his throat. “The anonymous caller said, ‘Dead body, Maple Leaf Motel, Kingston Road, room 8.’ That’s it. I talked to the dispatcher. She said he sounded male, was very abrupt, and hung up before she could ask any questions.”
“Traceable?”
He closed his notebook. “No. This isn’t TV. All we know is that it was a cell phone.”
Across the courtyard, Kennicott saw
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