Swingin' in the Rain Read Online Free PDF

notebook, clicked his ballpoint pen and looked at me.
      “I understand you and your ex-husband were involved in a heated custody battle.”
      “Well . . . yes.” I had been royally pissed off when Randy said he wanted to share custody. I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to want to be Sarah’s father again after stealing our money, leaving the country and not even having to pay for it. Heated. That was a good word for it.
      “When was the last time you saw him?”
      “Last weekend.”
      “Under what circumstances?”
      “He came to pick up our daughter to spend the day with her.”
      “Did he bring her back on time?”
      “Um, yes, he did . . . for a change.”
      “So there have been times when he didn’t bring her back promptly.”
      “Well, yes.”
      “And how did that make you feel? When he brought her back late?”
      How did it make me feel? Terrified? Livid?  After all, he took off with our money, was gone for a few years. What was to keep him from taking off with our daughter? And yet, until the final decision, the court had given him one day a week with her.
      “Angry?” he asked.
      “Yes.”
      “Scared?”
      “Oh, yes.”
      “How late was he bringing her back?” Rockland asked.
      “About an hour.”
      “So, then, not late enough for you to start looking for him?”
      “What do you mean?”
      “I mean making calls, to his home, or getting in the car to try and find him?”
      “No,” I said, “not that late.”
      “Miss Peterson,” her asked, “where were you the night before last?”
      “What time?” I asked.
      “All night,” Rockland said. “I’ll make the question easier. Did you see your ex the night before last, at any time?”
      “No,” I said. “I was working all night on location in Griffith Park.”
      “Sounds like you have lots of witnesses.”
      “Yes.”
      “All day and night?”
      “I took my daughter to school in the morning,” I said, “ran some errands, and then went to work.”
      “Errands?”
      “I went to the bank, bought some groceries, took my lap top to be fixed, and then went to work.”
      “I see. And did you pick your daughter up from school in the afternoon?”
      “No,” I said, “I had to work.”
      “So, did your ex pick her up, then?”
      “No.”
      “Why not?”
      “It wasn’t his day,” I said.
      “Then who did pick her up?”
      I paused for a second. I couldn’t fathom what any of these questions had to do with Randy being murdered. Was there a method to this? “Detective Jakes did.”
      “Ah . . .”
      “Detective Rockland,” I asked, “am I a suspect in my ex-husband’s death?”
      “A suspect?” he asked. “Did I give you that impression?”
      “Sort of.” He knew he had.
      “Well, I‘m sorry, then,” Rockland said. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I was just asking some routine questions. It’s true when a man or woman is killed, the spouse is often the main suspect. But I don’t believe that’s the case, here. In fact, I don’t have any more questions for you.”
      “That’s it?” I asked. “We’re finished?”
      He nodded and said, “We’re finished.”
      I stood up, still unsure about whether I could leave or not. I was pleased to find out I wasn’t a suspect in Randy’s death, but was Detective Rockland telling me the truth?
      “Thank you,” he said. As he stood up he dropped the folder on the ground. I bent over to pick it up. Photos fluttered to the floor. Dead Randy photos at the scene of the mud slide.
      “Sorry about that, Miss Peterson.” He reached to take them back, but my expression must have gotten his attention.
      “Are you all right?”
      I shook my head. It was disturbing seeing Randy like that. Then I noticed something when I was handing the photos back. “I never knew Randy had a tattoo.” One was clearly visible on the inside of his lower forearm. “He never had one