Page 42 of Liar's Point

“What jumps out at me about this crime is that it’s passionless,” she said. “I mean, this guy injected her with a lethal drug, zipped her into a duffel bag, then drove her to the beach in the trunk of her own car, and staged a suicide. He even faked her handwriting.” She looked around the table. “That’s the definition of cold and calculated, not passionate.”

Quiet settled over the room. Nicole glanced at Owen, who seemed to be considering her theory even though she’d contradicted him.

Once again Nicole was struck by the callousness of it all, and the complexity. It wasn’t the sort of crime anyone expected to see in their quaint little town.

But their town was changing.

“But again, motive,” Brady said, pinning his gaze on Nicole. “Why would some stranger go to all that trouble?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“I still think we need to look at the boyfriend,” Adam said.

Owen nodded. “Agreed.”

“Where are we on the phone dump?” Brady asked Owen.

“Supposedly, we’ll have it by end of day today.”

Nicole bit back a comment. Obviously, they needed the victim’s phone records, but she was much more optimistic about the leads Miranda had found.

“I think we should focus on the forensic evidence,” she said. “I think that’s the key to this.”

“The hair,” Brady stated.

She nodded. “Miranda sent it to the lab.”

“One hair.”

“Yes. But the length doesn’t match the victim. So, even though whoever drove her vehicle was wearing a hoodie and probably gloves, too, we might be able to get some DNA from the hair.”

Brady didn’t look convinced. “Did she say how probable it is we’ll get usable DNA off this one hair?”

“Well, no. It’s definitely not a sure thing. There’s no evidence the victim put up a struggle inside the car, so the hair was likely shed instead of being pulled out. So, there may not be a hair follicle attached with DNA on it. Still... if there is DNA on it, it could end up being our strongest lead.”

***

The office of Alex J. Breda, attorney at law, smelled like fresh paint and sawdust. Cassandra pulled the door shut behind her and glanced nervously across the waiting room at the dark-haired woman standing atop a stepladder.

“Hello?” Cassandra called.

The woman didn’t turn around. She tucked a hammer into her apron pocket and adjusted the framed photograph she was hanging on the slate gray wall. The picture was a seascape at sunset—or was it sunrise? The black-and-white shot showed a tall sailboat silhouetted against an eerie sky with a storm front on the distant horizon. Looking at the scene, Cassandra was taken back to that gusty evening at Lighthouse Point. It was only a few days ago, but she’d been through so many cycles of stress since then that it felt like weeks. Cassandra tried to remember the opening she’d rehearsed on the way over here.

She cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”

The woman whirled around. “Oh! Hi.” She plucked a pair of earbuds from her ears and slid them into her apron. “Sorry! Didn’t hear you.” She looked at the picture behind her. “Does this look straight to you?”

Cassandra ventured into the seating area. It was furnished with a glass coffee table and a suede sofa the exact shade of gray as the storm cloud in the photograph.

“Um... I think it’s a bit crooked,” Cassandra said.

“I knew it.” The woman sighed and glanced around. “Where’d I put my level?”

Cassandra spotted it on the reception counter and picked it up. “Here,” she said, taking it over.

Up close, she saw that the woman had vivid blue eyes and the kind of thick, wavy hair that Cassandra had always envied.

“Thanks.” She placed the level on the top of the frame and shifted the picture until the bubble was centered.

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