Page 26 of 4th Silence
I nod and show her his text: We need to talk. I’m on my way.
“It was inevitable.” I consider responding that I’m going to bed, but he traces my phone, so he knows I’m here.
It annoys me, his constant vigilance, yet after the scrapes Meg and I have been in, I understand his reasons for it. He thinks I don’t know about the tracer, and if I get pissed enough, I’ll use his overstepping male protectiveness to threaten his balls.
Meg’s eyes meet mine with her usual empathy. It makes me remember why I’m glad she’s my sister. “He’s already heard about the gala?”
“I’m sure Alex called him.” I toss the phone aside. “There was quite a bit of social media coverage of the exchange. Lots of photos and videos. We need something concrete before JJ gets here. Speaking of photos.” I sit up as an idea strikes. “Are there any pictures in these boxes of the party before the crime took place? You know, family shots in front of the tree? Drunken partygoers toasting the camera? That sort of thing?”
“That was before people documented everything on every social media platform available,” Meg says. “But maybe.”
For ten tense minutes, we toil in silence, going through all the boxes. Finally, I slam down a hand in exasperation. “Nothing. Not a single mention of a Sherman bag and no photos of Mary showing it off.”
“Again, your assumption could be right,” Meg says. “Maybe the bag wasn’t part of that night’s gift-giving after all.”
I stare at the scattered papers, defeat eating at me. Another idea hits. Scrolling through my calls, I tap Mallory’s number.
“Who are you calling?” Meg asks.
Tiffany’s mother picks up on the second ring, and I put her on speaker. “Ms. Rugers, it’s Charlize Schock. I’m sorry to bother you so late, but?—”
“Did you find something?” Mallory asks without preamble. There’s a trace of hope in her voice.
“Not exactly. Do you remember if Mary received a Sherman bag as a gift the night Tiffany died?”
Mallory pauses as if scanning her memories. “Phillip gave her one—a limited sort of thing. Mary couldn’t stop showing it off all evening, flaunting it like a trophy.”
Phillip, Mary’s husband. The man’s been dead for twenty-some years. “Did you ever see the bag after that night?”
Another pause as she thinks it over. “No, I don’t think so. Why? Is it important?”
“Just following up on a few details,” I tell her. Once I assure her that I’ll be in touch if I have any other questions or breakthroughs, I disconnect.
Meg is grinning. “So, it does exist, and Mary got it that Christmas Eve.”
“And it’s disappeared, just like the murder weapon.” It’s circumstantial, but my gut gives a kick. “Did someone deliberately keep it out of the evidence log? Was it not there for them to take? Or did the detective in charge then not think it was important?” My brain churns. “Mary might have hidden it to make sure it wasn’t taken simply because she didn’t want to lose her new purse, or the crime scene investigators may have deemed it irrelevant to the murder.”
“They sure didn’t deem anything else irrelevant.” Meg flips through the pages of her evidence log. “They confiscated tools belonging to the construction workers, candlestick holders, statues, Christmas decorations, toys…pretty much anything and everything that Tiffany might have touched or been around. They even took the bar cart.”
The familiar chime of the front door brings both of us to attention. JJ doesn’t announce his arrival—the sheer confident stride of his footsteps in the hallway does that for him.
“Charlie,” Meg says with a tone that reminds me of Mom. “Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”
JJ might be the Emperor of Cold Cases with his perfect suits and storm-cloud eyes, but he’s about to meet the stubborn determination that makes the Schock sisters a force to be reckoned with. I’m not backing down. Neither is Meg.
He fills the doorway in an impeccable Armani suit, unable to hide the tension in his broad shoulders. His usual easy smile is nowhere in sight; instead, a tight-lipped glare has replaced it. Those pretty eyes, which typically soften when they meet mine, hold the cold precision of a prosecutor on the hunt.
He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. I expect him to yell; he doesn’t. His voice comes out low and controlled. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Meg shifts uneasily. I meet JJ’s gaze, even as the disappointment in his tone stings more than his anger ever could. “I ran into Mary at the gala and asked her a few questions,” I say, striving to steady my voice. “She was flippant and dismissive.”
“You threatened her and Alex. She has witnesses.”
“Technically, I didn’t threaten anyone. I apologized about Mom’s antics and offered our services pro bono. She proceeded to insult me and Mom, and then she threatened me. Said she would have me thrown out of the gala, even though all I did was offer to look into Tiffany’s case. An overreaction, don’t you think?” I tap on one of the mountains of files before us. “Meg overheard her and her daughter talking about a designer bag that went missing the night of the murder. It wasn’t logged as evidence, but Tiffany’s mother confirmed Mary received it that night as a gift. It’s a slim lead, but at least it’s something.”
JJ’s jaw tightens. A muscle twitches under his five o’clock shadow. Silence stretches.
I press on. “The bag wasn’t just any accessory.” I pull up a photo of one—only a few are for sale on vintage websites. “It’s big enough to conceal a murder weapon. Which, I might remind you, is also missing.”
