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  Her office was located just inside the main entrance of the school. It was painted light beige, boasting a pair of wood-framed picture windows that faced the street. A small conference table occupied one side of the room, across from her oversized desk. A large bookcase filled the wall behind her along with two wooden filing cabinets.

  A framed picture adorned the wall behind the conference table, a copy of Edward Hopper’s painting, Nighthawks.

  I stared at it for a while, then murmured, “His most memorable work.”

  “Certainly his most popular,” Ms. Peterson said. “The students cotton to it right away. A number of them comment on its inherent sense of loneliness. They identify with the feeling of isolation the picture engenders. It’s an ice-breaker.”

  She briefly flashed a kind of “Aren’t I erudite?” smile that lacked warmth.

  “What can you tell us about Henry Carson?” Marsha asked.

  Ms. Peterson shifted slightly in her upholstered armchair. “I was just now re-reading his performance reports. Everything points to his having done his job well. He’s been here for two semesters. No complaints have been registered.”

  “And your personal connection with him?”

  “Cordial. He was open and friendly. He seemed earnest and he performed his administrative duties successfully. From what I can glean, his extracurricular activities with the sports department also earned him kudos. The students seemed to like him. There’s nothing in any of the files that leads me to believe he was a problem case.”

  “So, no apparent motives for his murder.”

  “None that I could discern.”

  “And you had no issues with him?”

  “Issues?”

  “There was nothing out of line that came to your attention regarding his performance here?”

  “As I said, he was a well-regarded professional. In my experience, he was always courteous and considerate. He had charm and a kind of charisma. Everyone seemed to like him. I know I certainly did.”

  I stood. Marsha followed my lead.

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. Peterson. We’ve just begun our investigation. It’s possible we’ll need to speak with you again.”

  “I understand. I’ll be happy to assist in any way I can.”

  On our way out, we nodded to Julia Peterson’s nerdy assistant, who flashed us a forlorn grin.

  Once back at the station, we were joined by Al Striar.

  “Forensics,” he said. “Inconclusive. Especially as they relate to the knife. It appears to have been wiped. Lots of trace evidence around the office, but nothing fresh. Nothing to suggest any kind of scuffle.”

  “Opinion?”

  “The killer was known to Mr. Carson. He or she gained easy access. I’m guessing the knife was a big surprise to him and that the killer acted swiftly and decisively before Carson had the chance or the inclination to defend himself. Killer knew the right place to plant the knife. Sliced the windpipe and ruptured the carotid artery. Death was pretty quick.”

  I sat quietly for several moments imagining the horrific manner in which Henry Carson died, which gave me the shivers. Then I said to Marsha Russo, “Let’s ramp this thing up. Something’s not jiving here.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Somebody took this guy out. In his office. Someone known to him. Premeditated violence like that doesn’t just happen. Somebody had a serious grievance. Let’s find out what it was and who it affected deeply enough to warrant murder.”

  Chapter Four

  Freedom, California, is a small, seaside community located in San Remo County, halfway between Santa Barbara and San Francisco. I was born and raised here.

  Now I was living in a rented, not-quite-fully-furnished, two-bedroom condo that offered views of the Freedom Township foothills on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other. It felt transient enough to satisfy my need for impermanence.

  I studied criminal justice at John Jay University in New York City, and upon graduation, joined the Los Angeles Police Department.

  I was immediately at home in L.A., in Hollywood, actually, totally dedicated to my work and to the nonconventional lifestyle of a resolute single, more intent upon hooking up than on settling down.

  At six-three, thirty-one years old, physically fit and okay-looking, living in a universe that contained some of the most attractive women on the planet, I believed I was heading into what I would come to remember as the best years of my life. A fantasy that was cut short by my father’s illness, the reality of which wiped out whatever wind was filling my sails.

  Having been overwhelmingly re-elected to a third term as San Remo County Sheriff, he had pushed all of my buttons and persuaded me to move back to Freedom and become his Chief Deputy. I was to cover his back and ostensibly succeed him when he could no longer fulfill his duties as his ALS progressed.

  It wasn’t the job that attracted me. It was the father/son thing. We had never been close, Burton Steel, Senior, and me, B.S., Junior. He was a difficult man, guarded, dour, and emotionally unavailable.

  During my time at Jay College, I had undergone a couple of years of psychoanalysis, which had a significant impact on me. When my father became ill and asked me to join him, I knew it would be the only chance I would have to deal with whatever unfinished business existed between us. So I returned to the nest. The nest I had come to wish I might flee at the earliest opportunity.

  Communication with the old man had always been difficult. He had never been given to introspection. Now, facing near-certain death, he retreated even farther from self-examination. He was distracted and depressed. And angry.

  He was still able to push my buttons, and at the same time, fill me with despair. I arrived in Freedom well-intentioned and eager for the challenge of deepening our relationship, only to be disillusioned and disappointed.

  I often found myself angry, too, unable to capture his attention and fearful that whatever opportunity for closeness I had imagined we might achieve was no more than a pipe dream.

  I was in my office, feet up, staring out the window, gazing at a darkening sky, mulling, when Marsha Russo knocked on my door.

  Marsha was a robust woman of significant energy, a “shtarker,” as my father called her, quick-witted and smart-mouthed.

  “Problem,” she said as she sat down heavily in front of my desk.

  “What problem?”

  “Kimber Collins Carson.”

  “The widow?”

  “The widow.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “Stop repeating everything I say. Yes. She’s gone. I phoned to set up an appointment and when the phone went unanswered, I drove out to her condo.”

  “Because?”

  “Something didn’t feel right. In any event, she wasn’t there. Her car was in the garage and she wasn’t home.”

  “So?”

  “So I checked around a bit. Seems an Uber driver picked her up at around seven o’clock last evening and brought her to Freedom Field.”

  “And?”

  “She took a shuttle to LAX, followed by a United flight to Newark.”

  “So she’s left the state.”

  “She has. Yes.”

  “When you spoke with her yesterday, did you make mention of the fact she shouldn’t leave the state?”

  “She was so plotzed, it wouldn’t have mattered what I mentioned to her.”

  “Plotzed?”

  “Colloquialism for heavily sedated.”

  “Have you tried to reach her? Isn’t she from New Jersey?”

  “Montclair, actually. I phoned her parents’ house. Twice.”

  “And?”

  “She wouldn’t take my call.”

  “But she was there.”

  “Accordi
ng to the man who answered the phone, she was.”

  I knew this didn’t bode well, either for the widow or for me. I could already hear the District Attorney in my mind’s ear and I fully expected to soon be on the receiving end of his displeasure.

  Marsha interrupted my reverie. “What do you want to do, Buddy?”

  “This raises her suspect profile.”

  “You think she did it?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve never even spoken with her. I’m guessing she wanted to be with her family. But leaving town and not responding to your calls isn’t good. I’ll inquire as to the D.A.’s wishes.”

  “I’m sorry about this, Buddy.”

  “Me, too.”

  Assistant District Attorney Alfred Wilder picked up my call. “What do you want?” he said.

  “And a good day to you, too, Skip.”

  “What is it, Buddy? I’m totally jammed here.”

  “I’ve got a conundrum.”

  “What?”

  “A conundrum. You know, a problem. A quandary. A dilemma.”

  “I know the definition of conundrum, Buddy. Don’t be such a jerk.”

  “Key figure in the Henry Carson murder case skipped town.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Carson’s wife. She left the state.”

  “How could she have done that?”

  “She took a local to LAX and a red-eye to Newark.”

  “Jesus, Buddy. Possible suspect in a murder case. She’s not supposed to leave the state.”

  “That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Lytell’s not going to like this.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Jesus, Buddy.”

  “You already said that.”

  “He’s definitely not going to like this.”

  Rather than continuing to listen to Wilder’s phumphering, I suggested, “How about you to get back to me on this, okay, Skip?”

  I ended the call without waiting for his reply.

  Chapter Five

  Turns out the District Attorney was none-too-pleased, indeed. He returned my call within minutes. I put the call on speaker.

  “Find her,” he commanded. “She’s just elevated herself into the prime suspect category. I want her back here.”

  “Seems she’s gone home, Mike. Try to keep in mind she’s in mourning.”

  “She had no business fleeing the state.”

  “She’s a young woman whose husband was murdered. She’s gone to be with her parents.”

  “And if it turns out she’s the killer? If she ups and vanishes? Then what? We’ll look like a pair of inept stupids, is what. That can’t happen. You find her, Buddy. You arrest her and get her back here. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do.”

  “You’re damned right, I do,” he said. “Here, talk to Skip.”

  I could barely make out what he was saying as he handed the phone to A.D.A. Skip Wilder. He had covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

  After several moments, Wilder came on the line. “I’ll have the extradition papers drawn and cleared with the Jersey authorities.”

  Then he, too, covered the mouthpiece as he spoke to District Attorney Lytell. “What do you want him to charge her with?”

  I couldn’t make out Lytell’s response. Then Wilder came back on the line. “Suspicion of murder.”

  “This is a whole lot of much ado about nothing, Skip.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to tell him that yourself.”

  “That’s not all I’d like to tell him.”

  “Just do it, Buddy. Keep me in the loop.”

  I hung up and looked at Sheriff’s Deputies John Kennerly and Marsha Russo, who were seated in front of my desk.

  “That went well,” Marsha snickered.

  “Very entertaining,” Kennerly said. “So, what now?”

  “Book the flights. I’ll talk with the locals and arrange for assistance when I get to Newark.”

  “You’re going to make the trip?” Kennerly ventured.

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “You mean why am I the one who’s going?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cranky District Attorney?”

  “You mean you’re going because of Lytell?”

  “It’s actually a toss-up between him and the frequent flier miles.”

  Kennerly flashed me his dead-eyed stare and went on. “What if they try to stop you?”

  “Her parents?”

  Kennerly nodded.

  “I’ll deal with it.”

  “And if they lawyer her up?”

  “The extradition agreement insures that the crime with which she’s being charged is answerable in California.”

  “You think she did it?”

  “You mean do I think she murdered her husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  Chapter Six

  My flight landed at Newark Airport at first light, approximately four-fifty a.m. I was met at the gate by Detective Sergeant Deborah McGinness of the New Jersey State Police. She ushered me to an unmarked Chevrolet Caprice, which leapt away from the curb with the portable light bar the driver had planted on the roof flashing red.

  The Sergeant, a middle-aged, short-haired, thin-lipped redhead, was constrained and reticent. We made the twenty-five-minute ride to Montclair in relative silence.

  When we pulled up in front of Edith and Ed Collins’ house on Conway Court, Sergeant McGinness and I stepped quickly to the front door and rang the bell.

  After several moments, it was opened by a fifty-something gray-haired man in a bathrobe and slippers.

  “What’s all this?” he said as we stepped past him into a ranch-style residence that appeared to have been wrongly deposited amid a row of modest, suburban, tract houses.

  The main entrance opened into the living room, a large family space whose main component was a monster-sized TV. To its left was a formal dining room, behind which was an eat-in kitchen that smelled of burnt toast and coffee that reminded me I hadn’t yet had breakfast. A narrow hallway led to the bedrooms.

  Sergeant McGinness produced the extradition papers. I handed him the arrest warrant. “Where is she?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” the man said.

  “Please tell me where I can find Kimber.”

  “She’s in her room, of course.”

  “Point me to it.”

  The man hesitated.

  “Now,” I insisted.

  He turned and headed up the hallway toward the bedrooms. I followed. He knocked on one of the four doors and then opened it a crack. I pushed past him.

  Kimber Collins Carson was sitting up in bed, having obviously been awakened by the commotion. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

  “You’re under arrest,” I told her.

  Sergeant McGinness joined us. She read Kimber her rights, then instructed her to get dressed.

  Mr. Collins and I stepped outside to wait. He glared at me. “She didn’t do anything. She certainly didn’t kill him.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t, but she left California illegally, and by so doing, captured the District Attorney’s attention. I’m under orders to take her back.”

  “But she just got here.”

  I shrugged.

  Sergeant McGinness opened the door and led Kimber out of the bedroom. She was dressed in jeans and a gray hoodie, her hands cuffed behind her.

  She stopped walking and looked at her father. “Tell Mom I’m sorry,” she said.

  When her father stepped toward her, her look stopped him in his tracks.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  I read alarm and concern in Ed Collins’ tired
eyes, which also reflected his anguish.

  Sergeant McGinness hustled Kimber out of the house and into the Caprice. After offering my regrets to Mr. Collins, who nodded sadly, I hurriedly followed them.

  We arrived back at the airport at six-thirty and were escorted by Sergeant McGinness onto the seven o’clock United flight to Los Angeles.

  I thanked the Sergeant for her efforts. The doors closed and we were in the air heading home by seven-fifteen.

  “Why?” Kimber Carson asked once we were airborne.

  “For one thing, you left without our knowledge. Which rankled the District Attorney. A goodly number of familial homicides are committed by a spouse. You evaded a preliminary interview with one of my Deputies. You refused to accept her phone calls. You fled the state. And in doing so, made yourself the prime suspect.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “I sincerely hope that’s the case, but you’ll have to remain in custody until the State decides what to do with you.”

  She sat silently for a while, lost in thought.

  I took notice of her for the first time. She was unconventionally attractive. Her boyishly styled, blond-streaked hair closely framed her slender face and called attention to her wide hazel eyes. She was gamine-like, possessing a slender beauty and a charismatic sensuality.

  She noticed me staring. “Will you take the handcuffs off?”

  “Will you create a disturbance?”

  “I’m not a killer. I’m sorry I caused everyone so much trouble.”

  I removed the cuffs and she vigorously rubbed her wrists.

  I watched her. “I’ll need to put them back on you when we get to L.A.”

  We sat in silence for a while, she looking out the window, me perusing the in-flight magazine in search of a breakfast menu.

  I wondered what it was like for her to have lived through the brutal killing of her husband and within a matter of days, to have become the prime suspect. Having worked homicide in L.A., I knew full well that anyone was capable of murder. Although she didn’t strike me as a killer, it was possible the husband had done something awful enough to have rung her chimes.