Chapter 16
Barrett drove toward the Charleston Police Department with the windows down, breathing in the morning air.
The streets were quiet, bathed in the soft golden light that made the old city look as though it had been painted.
He passed a row of pastel houses then turned toward the steeples of two churches that rose above the rooftops like sentinels.
His thoughts should have been on the meeting with Sullivan. But he could still feel Cadie's hand and her soft lips pressed to his.
He loved Cadie. At dinner, he'd told her how he felt, and he'd meant it. But no plans had been made. For the moment, the investigation required his full attention, and Cadie was safe in the meeting at Boone Properties.
Barrett pulled into the parking lot of the police station and found a space near the entrance.
He cut the engine and sat for a moment, reviewing what he knew and what he expected to learn.
On the phone, Sullivan had been brief. That brevity told Barrett there was something substantial to discuss.
Sullivan did not call meetings for small talk.
Barrett locked the car and walked through the front entrance.
The Charleston Police Department occupied a functional building with none of the architectural charm that distinguished the rest of the city.
After checking in with the desk clerk, he walked down a corridor, past an open bullpen where several detectives worked at their desks.
The hum of phones and keyboards filled the space, but Barrett's attention was on the closed door at the end of the hall.
He knocked once and opened it.
Detective Mark Sullivan stood behind his desk with a file folder in one hand and a coffee mug in the other.
He was a big man, six-two and broad through the chest and shoulders, with the kind of build that came from years of physical discipline rather than gym vanity.
His hair was cropped close. His eyes were pale blue and his gaze direct.
Sullivan had served two tours with Barrett in the teams. They had operated together in conditions that most people wouldn't understand, and the bond that came from that experience did not require explanation. It simply existed.
"Barrett," Sullivan said, setting the coffee down. Barrett stepped inside, and Sullivan closed the door behind him.
The office was small and functional—a metal desk with a computer monitor and a phone, two chairs for visitors, and a filing cabinet against the wall.
A corkboard behind the desk held case notes and departmental memos pinned in rows.
On the bookshelf near the window, Barrett noticed a framed photograph of Sullivan's former unit, a group of men in desert fatigues standing in front of a dusty vehicle.
He took the chair across from the desk, and Sullivan sat down behind it. There was no small talk. Neither of them needed it.
Sullivan opened the file folder and slid a stack of printed pages across the desk. "These are transcripts from the phone tap. Text messages between Kal Davis and Olivia Stewart."
Barrett looked at the pages but did not pick them up yet. "How far back?"
"Seven months before Celia Ann Stratton's death, through three days after." Sullivan leaned back in his chair. "They used their personal phones. Clearly, it didn't occur to them that the death of an elderly woman would be investigated."
The arrogance of that miscalculation registered with Barrett. Two people had conspired to kill a woman, and they had communicated about it on devices that could be subpoenaed with a warrant. They had assumed no one would look. They had assumed no one would care enough to ask the right questions.
They had been wrong.
"Let me take a look at these," Barrett said, then picked up the transcripts.
The pages were organized chronologically. Each text message was printed with a time stamp, the sender's phone number, and the content of the message. Barrett settled into the chair and began reading from the beginning.
Sullivan was silent while Barrett worked through the documents. The only sounds in the office were the faint hum of the fluorescent light overhead and the distant murmur of the bullpen beyond the closed door. Sullivan drank his coffee and waited.
The early messages were cautious. Kal and Olivia discussed the property in general terms, feeling each other out.
Kal mentioned the conservatory's value and the development potential of the lot.
Olivia responded with details about Celia Ann's daily routine, her health, and her stubbornness about refusing to sell.
The tone was transactional, two people circling a shared objective without stating it plainly.
Barrett turned a page, and the conversation shifted. Kal's language became more direct when he referenced Celia Ann's refusal to sell.
"The conspiracy started months before," Barrett said, looking up from the page. "Kal mentions that Celia Ann refused to sell the property and how convenient it would be if she wasn't around to refuse."
"Yes," Sullivan said. "And Olivia understood what he meant and went along with it. Celia Ann's natural age decline was their cover."
Barrett returned to the transcripts. The messages grew more specific as the weeks progressed.
Olivia reported on Celia Ann's medications, her schedule, her vulnerability.
She described how she controlled what Celia Ann took and when she took it.
There was a clinical detachment to her words that was chilling.
She wrote about an eighty-one-year-old woman's life as though it were a problem to be managed rather than a person to be cared for.
"As the months progressed, it's clear Olivia planned to incorrectly dose the medications, assuming that no one would check," Barrett said.
Sullivan's expression was grim. "The mind of a killer."
Barrett kept reading. The middle section of the transcripts covered the months when the plan was in motion.
Olivia's messages described Celia Ann's worsening symptoms with a detachment that turned Barrett's stomach.
Notes about the dizziness, the confusion, and the weakness matched the journal entries that Cadie had documented in her timeline.
Celia Ann had been dying slowly, and the woman sitting beside her bed each day had been the one ensuring it.
Barrett leaned back and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sure you noticed the association was more than business," he said. "Olivia obviously expects that once the deed is done, she and Kal will be together."
Sullivan nodded. "I'm sure that's how he manipulated her. It's a classic tactic."
Barrett had seen it before—not in this exact form, but the dynamic was familiar.
A man with power and resources identifying a vulnerable person, cultivating their loyalty through attention and false promises, then using them to do the work he was unwilling to do himself.
Kal had found a woman who craved intimate connection and had weaponized that need against an elderly woman who trusted her.
Barrett let out a breath and shook his head. "It's disheartening. The texts reveal that Olivia watched Celia Ann get weaker yet continued to deliberately mistreat her."
Sullivan set his coffee mug down and folded his hands on the desk. "This fits with Dr. Holloway's findings. That pair orchestrated Celia Ann's death and have been waiting for the estate to settle."
"So they can cash in and be together." Barrett paused. "Not on my watch."
"This is evidence of conspiracy to commit murder. These text messages show premeditation."
Barrett put the transcripts on the desk. "What do you need to wrap this up?"
Sullivan laid it out: "Once I have the medical records, including the pharmacy, I'll put it with your report on witness interviews and Cadie's timeline of her aunt's journal entries," he said.
"You can contact Guardian Investigations and touch base with Weston to see if he has any more financial documentation.
More money might have changed hands since the death. "
"I'll do that right away," Barrett said. "Fortunately, the murderers don't know that we're investigating."
"No," Sullivan said. "But I do want to be thorough. I intend to interview them separately, starting with Olivia."
Barrett understood the strategy. Olivia was the weaker link.
She was the one who had carried out the physical act, and she was the one whose emotional investment in Kal made her vulnerable to pressure.
If Sullivan could get her in an interview room and present the evidence methodically, there was a reasonable chance she would crack.
"Olivia first," Barrett said. "Smart."
Sullivan stood and extended his hand. "I'll have the transcripts copied for your file," he said. "Stay close. This is going to move fast once we have everything assembled."
"I'm not going anywhere," Barrett said, shaking his friend's hand.
*****
After leaving the station, Barrett pulled his phone from his pocket to check for messages. There was nothing from Cadie.
She had been at Boone Properties for at least an hour, possibly longer. If the meeting was still in progress, that likely meant it was going well. A short meeting would have suggested a dead end. A long one meant there was substance to discuss.
Barrett got into his car and sat behind the wheel for a moment without starting the engine.
He wanted to call her, but hesitated. She was taking care of business, and he wouldn't interrupt that.
She had told him she wanted to explore what Boone Properties could do for Stratton House, and he didn't question her ability to manage that conversation.
He would be there when she was finished.