Questions
Colton remained quiet during the drive to the precinct, and I didn’t break that silence. I was increasingly worried that the unresolved tension between us could hurt my defense.
Entering the precinct made my skin crawl.
We were taken to the same interview room I’d been in before.
Detective Stanek, in a slightly frayed suit, sat across from me, his forehead slick with sweat despite the cool air.
He set down a case file twice as thick as I remembered it being.
Then he shook Colton’s hand over the table.
“Let me start by stating that my client is here against my advice,” Colton said.
Stanek shrugged, the indifference in his eyes mixed with curiosity.
“Thanks for seeing us today,” I said, forcing myself to smile. “I have a few questions regarding this investigation.” He nodded, while Colton stared at me intently, seeming ready to pounce if I said anything wrong. “Let’s start with my car. It’s in police impound, yes?”
“Correct,” he said. “I believe they’re done with it.”
“Was there any trace of methamphetamine found anywhere else in that car? Other than in the eye-drop bottle?”
Stanek’s curiosity turned to annoyance as he flipped through his notes. “No. No traces of meth were found in the car.”
“Why was this information not included in discovery?” Colton asked, interrupting my flow.
Stanek sighed, interlacing his fingers over his abdomen and leaning back into his chair. “We send everything to the district attorney’s office. It’s their job to disclose. If you have a problem, take it up with them.” He looked at us impatiently. “Is that it?”
“No, please, I have a few more questions.”
He gestured toward me, inviting me to speak, but I could tell his patience was wearing thin.
“How about on my person? The day I was arrested, my clothes were tested, my hands and face were swabbed, and I gave permission for a blood test. Was there any meth found on me or in my blood? Or in my house, where you turned everything upside down looking for evidence?”
“No,” he said, leaning forward and putting his hands on the table. “No meth anywhere. What’s your point?”
“No point yet, Detective. Just some questions about the evidence in my case.” He nodded. “Were any of my fingerprints found at the crime scene?”
That question made Colton stare at me intently, while the detective sifted through his notes. For whatever reason, Colton wasn’t happy I’d asked this particular question.
“No, there were not.”
“Have you dusted the door handle?”
“Yes, that’s standard procedure.”
“Well, then, how do you explain that they weren’t there, when the surveillance photo shows the woman you say is me entering that suite without using gloves to open the door?”
Stanek pressed his lips together and stared at me for a moment, then proceeded to go through about an inch of case photos until he found the one in question. “How did you—”
“It was in discovery.”
He stared at the picture for a while, and then jotted something in a small notepad fished out of his pocket. “Anything else?”
“Did you check Claire Donovan’s alibi?”
His bushy eyebrows ruffled as he started flipping through notes again. He breathed loudly, every exhale sounding like a frustrated sigh.
“Yes, and it’s rock solid,” he said eventually, reading from some handwritten notes.
“She was at the mall the entire afternoon, appearing on countless cameras, shopping and having chocolate truffles with some friends of hers.” He closed the file and put his hand on it as if to protect its content.
“What kind of job do you think we’re doing here?
Of course I checked. We took statements from her friends.
We interviewed shopkeepers. We checked her receipts against her credit card charges. ”
“What was she wearing?” I asked, my throat going scratchy and dry.
He frowned and shifted his eyes to the wall for a moment, probably trying to remember. “Um, a black skirt and a red top. Not anything white, like you were wearing that day.”
With every word he spoke, my throat tightened, and a tremor ran through me, too deep to control.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking under the wave of despair.
How was this possible? My last shred of hope was sinking faster than a boulder in a river.
“It’s just that she had a motive while I didn’t, Detective.
And I know I didn’t kill Winston. She had a lot to gain from his death, while I had everything to lose. ”
He leaned even farther forward, frowning again. “What do you mean?”
I steeled myself with a deep breath. “If you recall, I told you Winston had proposed to me that day. You have the video surveillance stills from the restaurant. Ask the waiters. Believe me, I had nothing to gain from killing him. I told you all this before.”
“Okay . . .” Stanek sighed, running his chubby fingers through his hair. Then he scratched the roots of his hair near his right temple, seemingly thinking. “So, you’re saying Winston Donovan’s wife found out he was planning to divorce her and marry you?”
“Yes.”
“How, exactly, did she find out?”
I opened my mouth to reply, then clammed up.
I couldn’t tell him the truth, so I stuck with the same rehearsed lie I’d used before, when he hadn’t listened.
“Um, Winston said his lawyers were handling the divorce with her lawyers, which meant that she knew. He said they’d been talking separation for a while, that it wasn’t something new to her.
I asked, because I was feeling bad for, um—”
Colton’s hand clasped my forearm. “That’s enough, Olivia.”
But I didn’t look at him. I was looking at Detective Stanek, who seemed a little intrigued by my statement.
“Ah, if Winston said it, then it must be true.” His voice was only slightly sarcastic. “Was there a prenup?”
“My client should not answer this question,” Colton said, giving me a warning glance.
“Ask her,” I replied, afraid of what opening the Claire can of worms would mean.
Was I right, sending Stanek to poke Claire?
Or was I making a huge mistake? What if the detective found out about the ransom?
It seemed like a risk I had to take, considering I had no other way to save my life than make the jaded, stubborn detective see Claire Donovan for the cold-blooded killer that she was.
“We’re leaving,” Colton said, grabbing my shoulder just like Stanek had done on the day of my arrest.
I stood, unwilling to wrestle with him. “Ask her,” I said again, not breaking eye contact with the detective, while my stomach twisted into a painful knot. “See what she says.”
“Yeah, okay,” Stanek replied as we were walking out the door. He sounded eager to be rid of me, not at all committed to uncover the truth. Because, in his mind, he had Winston’s killer pegged.
I couldn’t let that misconception seal my fate.
“Which mall?” I suddenly shouted over my shoulder, because Colton was keen on dragging me out of there. “Claire Donovan’s alibi—which mall was it?” I stopped and waited for the answer, ignoring Colton’s disapproval.
Breathing heavily, Detective Stanek caught up with us in a few heavy steps.
“Miracle Mile.”