Chapter Nine
CJ paced the interview room where Braddock had insisted she wait.
The coffee one of his colleagues had delivered sat untouched on the table.
She’d asked to observe the questioning. Back when she’d had time to watch television, they did it on the cop shows all the time.
But Braddock had let her know in no uncertain terms that her demand was out of the question.
That had been more than an hour ago.
What was taking so long?
Ricky Banks wasn’t that complicated. CJ had been going head-to-head with him for more than two decades.
Shelley had been three months away from her fifteenth birthday and the scumbag had finagled his way into her pants.
Another popped cherry to add to his scorecard.
Afterward, poor Shelley had just kept crying and saying the same thing over and over.
I don’t want to be like Mom.
So CJ had plotted the perfect revenge to boost her sister’s spirits. With a pair of old Widow Daniels’s late husband’s golf clubs in hand, CJ and Shelley had released years of pent-up frustration and anger on Ricky’s piece-of-shit Camaro.
Ricky had been pissed. He’d growled and threatened for a couple of weeks, but he’d finally let go of his grudge against the Patterson sisters and moved on to badgering some other poor souls.
But he’d never let go of his hold on Shelley.
No matter how many times he hurt her, she always got involved with him again. And every time she hit bottom, CJ had been the one to pick up the pieces. Just like with their mother.
The door behind her opened and CJ turned, hoping this was Braddock with news.
Closing the door behind him, Braddock glanced at the untouched Styrofoam cup. “You didn’t like the coffee?”
“Did he kill my sister?” She had no desire to make small talk with this man.
He pulled out a chair and took a seat. Gestured to the one across the table.
CJ shook her head. She couldn’t sit. Her nerves were raw and still vibrating with too many emotions.
“Considering the evidence we have now—”
“Which is none,” she said for him.
“Which is none,” he agreed. “Our only avenue was to verify his alibi and to look for signs of a recent physical altercation. In light of some of the bruising—”
CJ flinched, couldn’t help herself.
“We can assume Shelley struggled against her attacker.” That said, he heaved a frustrated breath.
This was going to be bad.
“Banks shows no indication whatsoever of a recent struggle. But he could have been wearing gloves and long sleeves. We’re executing a search warrant of his home before we make a final decision.
If nothing else, we’re hoping to find some leverage to get him talking about anything he knows that might prove useful to the investigation. ”
“What’s the bottom line, Braddock?” She knew; she just wanted to hear him say it.
His gaze settled heavily onto hers. “Since my partner confirmed his alibi, unless we find that leverage I mentioned we have no choice but to release him.”
Hearing him say it didn’t give her the victorious feeling she’d thought it would.
She expected the police to fail her sister.
Wanted Braddock to have to admit out loud his incompetence.
Yet, all hearing the words did was hurt.
CJ rubbed her tired eyes, threaded her fingers through her hair.
She’d been sure it was Ricky. Sure enough to hunt him down when the police had insisted they couldn’t find him.
She had found him.
Looking back at the risk she’d taken, she was damned lucky the cops had shown up when they did.
Wait. That can’t have been coincidence.
The cops had been watching her.
Her gaze locked with Braddock’s once more.
“You used me to find him.” The end result was the same, whether law enforcement had found him or she had, but there was something innately wrong with the way Braddock had gone about this tactic.
Outrage burned away the fog of fatigue. Once again, he had fully lived up to her expectations.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I did put surveillance on you. You grew up in the village. The people there see you as one of them. I knew they would talk to you when they wouldn’t talk to us. But,” he qualified, “the surveillance was also for your protection.”
He had an answer for everything, except who had killed her sister.
“Is this the way you conduct a homicide investigation? Prompting private citizens to put themselves in danger?” She didn’t know why Shelley had trusted him.
Always wanted to call Braddock whenever she felt the need to reach out to law enforcement.
I help him out with what’s going on around here and he helps me out, she’d once told CJ.
He hadn’t helped Shelley; he’d used her.
Just like he’d used CJ.
“I didn’t put you in danger, CJ. You did that all by yourself.
But I won’t lie to you. Sometimes”—Braddock stood, pushed in his chair—“we have to take advantage of whatever opportunities are in front of us. The first forty-eight hours after a crime are crucial. You do want to know what happened to your sister, don’t you? ”
“Of course.” The son of a bitch. He was turning this around on her. “Like you said, I know the people in the village. I grew up there. And the other thing I know for certain is that the police never go out of their way to investigate anything that happens to those people.”
Braddock braced his hands on the table and leaned forward, pressing her with those dark eyes of his. “This is what you obviously don’t know, CJ. You don’t know me.”
CJ grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder. “Maybe I don’t know you as well as Shelley did. But look where that got her.”
She walked out the door.
Someone in the village had to know something.
All she had to do was find that someone.