CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tuesday, March 20, 2018; 10:00 p.m.
Erika Crowley’s body was found in a cobblestone alley near Eighteenth Street in the Shockoe Bottom district of the city. The anonymous call had come in at nine p.m., and the caller sounded drunk on the 911 tape when he reported he’d gone behind the dumpster to urinate and spotted the body. He’d called from an untraceable cell phone.
The police cruisers were nosed in the alley’s entrance, and their lights flashed bright blue onto a fading cigarette ad painted a half century ago on a brick warehouse.
Adler pulled on latex gloves as Quinn came around the side of her car to meet him. “Anyone spoken to Brad Crowley?”
“No. We’ve kept a tight lid on this,” Quinn said.
They crossed the cobblestone street to the alley’s entrance. Each nodded to the uniformed officer and then ducked under the crime scene tape. The camera lights of a forensic technician flashed behind the dumpster.
The tech, Dana Tipton, rose up, and spotting Adler and Quinn, she backed up several steps so they could see the body.
Erika’s body lay propped against the dumpster. Her thick blond hair swooped around her neck and draped over her chest, but she was posed as Jennifer had been. Her clothes were intact, but her legs were spread and each hand rested on the inner thigh. Though Jennifer hadn’t been sexually assaulted, he couldn’t yet rule it out in this case. Some attackers made their victims redress, or they did it themselves postmortem. Again, the medical examiner would have to make the call.
Her manicured hands were scraped, torn, and bruised. Her yoga clothes were soaked in sweat and urine, and her white V-neck pullover was coated in grime, dirt, and blood. Her left slip-on shoe was missing.
Painted on her chest in red marker was a heart that resembled the one found in Jennifer’s shower.
Adler squatted, and using the tip of a pen, pushed back the top fold of Erika’s pullover. One deep knife cut slashed across her jugular.
“Wound is consistent with Jennifer Ralston’s,” Quinn said.
“But there’s no blood around her. Her clothes are soaked, but no blood. And the urine smell and the trauma to her hands suggest she was held somewhere before she was killed. If it’s the same guy, he’s changed tactics.”
“Why hold her for several days, kill her, and bring her here?” Quinn asked.
“I don’t know.” Adler studied the victim’s pale-blue lips. “And unless Kaitlin healed magically and escaped the hospital, she couldn’t have done this.”
“No, she couldn’t,” Quinn conceded.
“You sound disappointed,” Adler said.
“John, I don’t trust her.”
Erika’s engagement ring was still on her finger. “Our anonymous caller didn’t take her rings,” Adler said.
“Maybe he was spooked,” Quinn said.
“Very possible. But down here, a ring like that doesn’t last long. When did the 911 call come in?” Adler asked.
“At 9:02 p.m. A uniform was on scene by 9:07 p.m.”
“Did the officer see anyone loitering around?”
“No.” She studied the large diamond catching the forensic technician’s light. “You think the killer called it in?”
“Whoever killed her wasn’t motivated by her diamonds.”
Her wrists were red and dotted with a sticky substance, suggesting she had been restrained with tape of some kind. The same material dotted her pale and drawn lips. “Where the hell has she been the last few days?” he said, more to himself.
“She wasn’t killed here,” Dana said. “The lack of blood, as well as the lividity on her backside, proves that.” Dana tilted the body forward and lifted the shirt to reveal the black-and-blue markings. When the heart stopped pumping, the blood settled at the lowest point. “In her case, it was her entire back and buttocks, suggesting after she died she was laid on her back. As you can see she’s been propped up here.”
Adler stared around the dark alley. It was a half block off Eighteenth Street, wedged between two buildings, and neither wall facing the alley had windows or a camera. They were less than five blocks from Jennifer’s house and less than a block from Kaitlin’s apartment. It occurred to him it would have been easy enough for the killer to pose her body and leave in a matter of minutes.
“How long do you think she’s been dead?” Adler asked.
“Rough guess?” Dana asked. “Twenty-four hours give or take. Rigor mortis has come and gone.”
“Did cold weather conditions prolong it?” Adler asked.
“I don’t think so. I’m assuming the body was kept in a warm place,” Dana said.
“That puts time of death around two or three p.m. yesterday,” Adler said.
“She bled out quickly,” Dana added. “The knife wound was on target.”
“She’s murdered, he lays her out for twenty-plus hours, and then brings her here. Why the delay?”
“The million-dollar question,” Quinn said.
He rose and stepped back. “Dana, is that heart painted in blood?”
“It’s marker,” she said.
“Thanks, Dana,” he said. “Let me know if you find anything else.”
“It’s going to take us a few hours to process this scene.”
“All right. Keep me posted.”
As he and Quinn walked to the end of the alley, he thought about his conversation with Kaitlin. “Jennifer’s and Erika’s deaths are tied to Gina. Now I need to prove it.”
Adler and Quinn spent most of the night talking to business owners near the alley, hoping someone had seen something. One bartender thought he’d spotted a truck vanish into the alley but had no details to give.
Through the course of the night, Adler placed three calls and left messages on Brad Crowley’s cell before the return call came after sunrise. Adler and Quinn were going through a drive-through and he’d just made twin orders of an egg biscuit, hash browns, and coffee when his phone rang.
He answered, “Mr. Crowley. Thank you for calling me back.” He nodded to the cashier, accepted his credit card, and pulled ahead into a parking spot.
“Have you found my wife?” Crowley sounded annoyed, almost put out. In the background, the downbeat of rock music pulsed.
Adler stared ahead. “I’d like to meet you in person.”
“Can’t you answer my question?” Crowley demanded.
“Not over the phone.”
“Why not? Tell me!”
Crowley sounded more the bully than a man worried about his wife. Quinn heard Crowley’s outburst, and she bit her lip to keep from saying something.
Adler reached for his coffee. “I’ll meet you in person.”
Crowley said in a softer tone, “I’m sorry to sound annoyed. I’ve not slept much in the last couple of weeks.”
“Where can we meet?” Adler said.
“I’ve been staying at my hotel since I saw you last.”
“We’ll meet you there,” Adler said.
“That’s not the place to meet. Can’t you just tell me?”
“No.”
Finally Crowley said, “My attorney’s office is the best place.” He rattled off the address. “I can be there in a half hour.”
So they were playing hardball. Fine. “See you then.” He hung up. “Crowley wants to meet at his attorney’s office, who just happens to be Derek Blackstone.”
“Really?” Quinn said as he handed her an egg-and-bacon biscuit. “This should be fun.”
As he snatched a hash brown from his bag, she took a large bite of her biscuit. It was their first meal in twelve hours. The food was good and satisfying, to a point, but they ate every bite. After tossing their trash, he and Quinn covered the drive to the lawyer’s office in fifteen minutes.
Blackstone’s office was located in a hundred-year-old Colonial Revival building on the Boulevard. It wasn’t glitzy, but every detail was meticulous, from the grounds and trimmed boxwoods to the painted trim around the arched windows and the brick herringbone driveway.
Out of the car, he matched Quinn’s quick, determined strides as she moved toward the front entrance. She pulled off her glasses, taking a moment to clean the lens with the hem of her shirt. “Can I be the bearer of bad news? Normally, I don’t enjoy this kind of thing, but I don’t like Mr. Crowley.”
“He’s all yours.”
She tucked the glasses in her coat pocket. “You’re too good to me.”
They walked inside and showed their badges to a young receptionist with dark hair that swept over her shoulders. She didn’t look surprised by their badges as she picked up the phone and announced them. “I can show you to the conference room.”
“Thank you,” Adler said.
They traveled down a short hallway and into a conference room with a large window that faced the front parking lot. There was no sign of Crowley or his attorney.
The receptionist offered coffee. They both declined. Adler opted to sit. Quinn paced. They waited almost five minutes before the door opened to Crowley. His hair was neatly combed, and he was wearing khakis, a dark V-neck sweater, and polished loafers.
Blackstone stood behind Crowley. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie. A gold Rolex on Blackstone’s wrist caught the sunlight leaking in through the shades.
“Mr. Blackstone, good to see you again,” Adler said.
Blackstone’s welcoming look held steady. “Why don’t we have a seat?”
When they were all seated, Adler looked to Quinn. “Detective?”
“Mr. Crowley, we found your wife,” Quinn said. “She’s dead.”
“What?” Crowley sat back in his chair. His face paled, and he began to tap an index finger on the arm of the chair. After a moment of silence, Crowley said, “How did she die?”
“We can’t say right now,” Quinn said. She was waiting, or in her case, hoping for him to slip up and reveal more than he should.
“Why can’t you say? She’s my wife.” Crowley looked to his attorney. “Blackstone, I want to know.”
“It’s not an unreasonable question,” Blackstone said to Quinn. The attorney’s mannerisms and tone were smooth and controlled, but his eyes burned with keen interest.
Quinn shook her head. She wasn’t answering any questions until hers had been satisfied. “When is the last time you saw your wife?”
Crowley looked to his lawyer. The widower might be an ass, but he was smart, and he knew when the sharks were circling. “We already had this conversation at the station when I came to you looking for my wife.”
“My memory is sometimes faulty. Refresh it.” Quinn’s memory was a steel trap. A fact went in, and it never escaped.
“I told you, about five days ago,” Crowley said.
“Can you be more specific?” she asked. “What time of day was it?”
“Morning.”
“And where did you see her?” she pressed.
“At our house.” He shook his head. “I know how this goes. The cops are always looking to blame the spouse. I didn’t kill my wife.”
“Where have you been the last couple of days?” Adler asked.
“In my hotel room.” His grief appeared to dissolve.
“Can you prove it?”
Now he looked outraged, concerned about himself, and slightly annoyed. “I shouldn’t have to, but yes, I can.”
“What kind of relationship did you have with your wife?” Adler said.
“What do you mean?” Crowley demanded.
“What kind of marriage? Happy, contentious, ambivalent, or what?”
Worry deepened the lines framing his mouth. “We loved each other. We’ve known each other since high school.”
“That doesn’t sound very convincing,” Quinn said.
“What does convincing sound like?” Blackstone asked.
She smiled. “Not like that.”
“Does this have anything to do with Kaitlin’s stabbing?” Crowley asked. “If it does, ask her what’s going on, because clearly she knows more than my wife or I.”
“I did my research on Kaitlin,” Blackstone said. “With her past, she must be a suspect.”
Adler ignored the comment, keeping his gaze trained on Crowley. “I’ve listened to Ms. Roe’s interview with your wife.” He let the statement hang.
Crowley fidgeted with his wedding band. “Whatever Erika thought she remembered from that night is corrupted. She was drunk.”
“She recalled the details pretty well,” Adler said.
Blackstone injected, “What does Ms. Roe’s interview have to do with Mrs. Crowley’s death?”
Adler ignored the comment. “Mr. Crowley, was your wife involved in any kind of lifestyle that might be considered risky?”
“Like an affair?” Crowley asked.
“Boyfriend, swinger, drug use? I don’t know. You tell me. People who live in perfect houses don’t always lead perfect lives. Her yoga teacher said she often parked in the back of the studio, but skipped the class. Did she meet a friend or go somewhere more intimate?”
Crowley’s confusion was enough of an answer. “Erika was a good woman. She was not into any secret kinky shit, and if you spread anything like that about her, I will have Mr. Blackstone sue you and your department.”
“We’re simply asking questions here. No one is passing judgment.”
“I don’t like your tone,” Crowley said.
Adler had touched on a nerve. “Are you engaged in any kind of extracurricular activities that we need to know about?”
“I am not.”
“If I trace your credit card receipts and phone records, I won’t find anything?” Adler asked.
Crowley shifted and looked to his attorney.
Blackstone held up his hand. “Officers, stop with the cat and mouse. You have just shared some very upsetting news with my client. There’s no way he can be completely rational right now. We’re going to have to suspend this interview for another day.” He rose and bade his client to do the same. “You can show yourselves out.”
Adler wasn’t surprised by Blackstone’s request, but he was still frustrated. He’d dealt with too many men like Blackstone who shadowed the truth in words and legal maneuvers. He and Quinn rose but made no move toward the door.
“How well did you know Gina Mason?” Adler asked.
Crowley’s frown deepened with anger, and then as if he couldn’t resist, he broke from his attorney and stepped toward them. “She was a friend of my wife’s. I didn’t know her.”
Blackstone raised his hand. “This ends now.”
“I did not kill my wife.” Crowley punctuated each word with the poke of a finger.
“Good. Whoever killed her was a monster.” Adler wanted to get a rise out of Crowley. “No one deserves to die the way she did.”
“Are you trying to make me feel worse?” Crowley asked. His attorney placed a hand on his arm, but Crowley jerked it away. “I didn’t kill her.”
“Enough, Detectives,” Blackstone said.
“We’ll be revisiting this conversation again, Mr. Crowley,” Adler said. “Are you staying in the same hotel?”
“The Richmond Inn on Broad Street.”
It was an expensive boutique hotel that catered to tourists and business travelers. “And there’s someone who can vouch for you there?”
“Talk to the manager. He knows me well.”
“Anyone else?”
Crowley’s chin lifted and he looked to Blackstone, who nodded. “There’s a woman.”
“Her name?” Adler asked.
“Barbara Austin. She’ll vouch for me.”
Adler scribbled down the name and the phone number Crowley provided. “She’s your girlfriend?”
“Not that formal. But we were intimate.”
“Adultery doesn’t translate into murder,” Blackstone said.
“Your client wasn’t forthcoming about Ms. Austin. What else is he holding back?”
“That’s it,” Crowley said. “I was afraid how it would look.”
Blackstone all but shoved Crowley out of the conference room, leaving Quinn and Adler to saunter out behind them. They pushed through the front door into the bright sunshine.
“On a scale of one to ten, how guilty do you think he is?” Quinn asked.
Adler knew Crowley was hiding something and Blackstone was helping him do it. But was their secret murder? That he couldn’t say right now. “He’s no choir boy.”
“A mistress could be motive for murder.”
“Sure. But what’s the motive for killing Jennifer Ralston?” The two women knew each other and had seen each other occasionally at Saint Mathew’s events, but he believed more than ever that their deaths were linked to Kaitlin’s stabbing and whatever happened to Gina. He didn’t have all the answers yet, but he was getting closer. “The motive goes beyond a girlfriend and a bad marriage.”
“Back to Gina?”
“Yep,” he said.