Chapter Ten
“Who’s the old guy?” Ever-present Pepsi in hand, Cooper hopped onto Braddock’s desk and studied the screen monitoring the comings and goings in the lobby. “I thought she didn’t have any family.”
“She doesn’t.” Braddock stared at the monitor. “That was Edward Abbott. Professor over at the university. Retired last year.” CJ’s last words kept echoing in his brain. Maybe I don’t know you as well as Shelley did. But look where that got her.
Cooper knocked back a slug of her preferred beverage. “Kind of old for a boyfriend.”
Braddock shoved aside the words—the reality—haunting him. “According to Shelley, he’s a family friend. A father figure, I guess.” Not that Shelley had liked Abbott that much. He’d been a part of their lives since she and CJ were kids.
“Abbott lives around here?”
“Williams Street. Old money. His family was one of the original settlers in Huntsville. He’s the last of the line. Never been married. No kids. My guess is he’s the reason Dr. CJ Patterson rose so high above her humble beginnings.”
Cynthia Jayne Patterson owed a lot to the man, according to her sister.
Abbott had taken care of the burial expenses for their mother.
Ensured the future Dr. Patterson had gotten whatever she needed.
Braddock wondered if there had been more to Abbott’s relationship with the mother.
Maybe one or both daughters were his biological offspring.
That would explain his long-term involvement in their lives.
Unless, of course, he was simply a guy who exemplified the term Good Samaritan. A few of those still existed.
“Father figure?” Cooper arched a speculative eyebrow. “Or perv? Maybe he’s got a thing for the sister.”
“That’s possible,” Braddock allowed. CJ didn’t confide in him. But then, she had her reasons. And those reasons were going to make this investigation a whole lot more complicated. He had no one to blame for that but himself.
“Maybe,” Cooper put forward, “little sister was jealous of how much attention big sister got from pseudo-daddy or sugar daddy, whatever the case might be.”
Maybe. Braddock had picked up on just a hint of envy, but in all the ways that counted, Shelley had idolized her sister.
“I don’t think this is about Abbott,” he countered.
“What would he have to gain by murdering Shelley? Let’s face it, he’d have a hell of a lot to lose.
He’s a very wealthy man. Offing an on-again-off-again sex worker seems a little out of character for a man in his position. ”
“Banks isn’t our man,” Cooper said, moving on from the subject of Abbott.
“You know it and I know it. He’s a bully, not a killer.
His alibi checked out. And his aunt swears he came in about two that morning and she started trying to get him up at noon.
He was dead to the world for those hours in between.
” She held up her hands before Braddock could say what was on his mind.
“I know. I know. The aunt could’ve lied.
She’s family. Might be protecting him. But I believe her.
My instincts are usually right on the money when it comes to reading people. ”
Braddock could vouch for that. He was hoping like hell she didn’t turn that high-powered perception too keenly on him. They’d been partners for nearly three years. She’d seen him through a hell of a lot. But this crossed the line.
If he went down, he wasn’t taking Cooper with him. This wasn’t her mess; it was his.
“Banks might not have killed her,” Braddock admitted, “but he knows who did. And, by his own admission, he was one of the last people to see her alive.”
Cooper pulled the open case file to her side of the desk. “Banks was in and out of the Patterson home that night. So were two other men the neighbor, Mr. O’Neal, couldn’t identify.”
O’Neal lived next door to Shelley. The argument between Banks and Shelley had awakened him, which was the reason he’d been up at one-thirty or so in the morning.
He had seen at least two other males come and go between two and three that morning, but he hadn’t gotten a good look at either one.
A stroke had sentenced him to a wheelchair, limiting his views to those from his first-floor windows.
O’Neal hadn’t been concerned about the late-night visitors.
Men were in and out of Shelley’s place at all hours, most any given night of the week.
“Shelley used to be one of the King’s foot soldiers,” Cooper went on as she perused the interview notes she’d taken.
The King. Tyrone Nash. The self-professed ruler of the village.
A true scumbag. Braddock’s jaw tightened.
The piece of shit even had business cards flaunting his self-ordained status.
He had deemed the sex workers he operated his “foot soldiers.” Others who worked for him were his “eyes” and his “ears.” Nash had himself quite an imagination to go with that inflated ego.
“Shelley wasn’t turning tricks for him anymore,” Braddock reminded his partner.
“True, but since Nash keeps tabs on every-damned-body living in the village, he probably knows exactly what happened whether he killed her or not.”
“Probably?” Braddock shot her an are-you-kidding look. Frustration tightened in his gut. “You know damned well he ordered her death. There is no way in hell it happened without his approval.”
“I have a theory on the E. Noon thing,” his partner offered.
“Oh yeah?” Braddock hadn’t spent much time on that. He’d been too focused on CJ. Just another indication he was way over the line here.
Cooper nodded. “It’s no one spelled backward.”
No one messes with me.
The words, written in blood—in his niece’s blood—loomed ominously in Braddock’s head. Nash had sent him that note. Nash had killed her. Just like he killed Shelley. Braddock didn’t need any evidence. He knew it in his gut.
All of this, every damned step, was a waste of time. A game that bastard had set in motion. He wasn’t afraid of being caught. He was too careful. They would search for evidence and interview dozens of folks, and it would all boil down to one thing: no way to legally prove Nash was the one.
But he was. This time Braddock was going to get him.
Cooper closed the file. “Look,” she said quietly, “we both know how badly you want Nash.”
Braddock blinked. He’d been lost in his own misery. “It’s him. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize where the no one comes from. Nash is making sure I understand it’s him.”
“I totally agree,” Cooper went on. “He’s a piece of shit. Nobody”—she pressed Braddock with her gaze—“wants that bastard to go down more than I do. But we have to do this right, partner. No mistakes. No jumping the gun. Every step has to be by the book.”
“By the book,” he agreed, mainly to keep her happy. He would make this stick. One way or another he would find what he needed to nail that blood-sucking lowlife.
Whatever it cost him.
“You’re a good partner.”
Braddock looked up, surprised at her statement. “I’d say thanks, but I’m not sure you meant it as a compliment.”
She shook her head at him. “I just wanted you to know that I like what we have.” She searched his eyes a couple of seconds too long. “I don’t want to see that change.”
Too late.
Everything had changed.
Shelley Patterson was dead.
And he was the reason.