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After suffering her second almost sleepless night in a row, Sandra determined that she needed to go talk to Chip. She didn’t, however, want anything to do with Chip’s other half, so she called him and asked if she could meet him for coffee. She stressed that she needed to talk to him alone, hoping he would infer that she couldn’t handle a Monday morning dose of Slaughter.
Chip agreed and soon Sandra was sitting near a window at Aroma Joe’s. Sammy was in a high chair beside her, working on his second donut hole, and the chair across from her was empty.
Chip was late.
She polished off her coffee and got up to get a refill, keeping one eye on her sugared-up son. As she paid the friendly barista, the bell over the door announced a new arrival, and Sandra spun to make sure it was Chip and not a softball-bat-wielding Barney.
It was Chip. She gave him a curt nod and returned to her seat. He followed.
She looked at his empty hands. “Don’t you want a coffee?”
“I don’t have much time. What do you need?”
She noticed then that he looked as exhausted as she felt. Pangs of sympathy ran through her chest. Sure, she enjoyed dabbling in the occasional mystery, but how stressful it must be to do this sort of thing day in and day out.
“I don’t really need anything, but ... well ...” This had gone so much smoother when she’d rehearsed it in her head at 3 a.m.
He quirked an eyebrow.
Sammy screeched and flung some crumbs at him.
To his credit, he simply brushed off his sport coat and gave Sammy a sincere smile. “Yeah, I don’t really like plain donuts either, bud.” He looked at Sandra. “You should tell your mom to get you chocolate.”
“Okay, so I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” she spat out.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, leaving one hand on the table. The other one dangled at his side as if it were too tired to do anything else. He didn’t look surprised at her outburst. Quite the opposite, in fact. “And what makes you say that?”
She looked around the room and leaned closer to him. “What kind of an idiot puts a murder weapon back into a bat bag with his fingerprints and the victim’s blood all over it?”
Again, no surprise on Chip’s face. This line of reasoning had already occurred to him.
She sat up straight. “My son saw Brendan Barney get Richard to handle the bat. He put it right into his hands. Maybe he’s trying to frame his father.”
Without turning his head, he glanced at Sammy. “This son?”
“No, my old—”
He held up the hand that rested on the table. “I know, I know, I’m just joshing you. But, unfortunately, frame jobs are a TV thing. They rarely happen in real life.”
That you know of, she thought. “And why is that unfortunate?”
“Because that would be an easy answer.”
“Answer to what?”
“To our current problem.” He returned his dangling arm to the table and folded his hands together. “I agree with you. I think we’ve got the wrong man.”
What? “Then release him!”
He looked out the window. “I can’t. It’s not that simple. It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what the evidence says.”
They were quiet for a minute, and Sammy started humming a tune she was pretty sure was a Sammy original. “Then we need to find more evidence.”
He returned his eyes to her. “Not we. The police will find the evidence. I appreciate all you’ve done to help the cause of justice in the last year, but don’t get carried away.” He glanced at Sammy. “Think of your kids. They don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Of course not!” She felt a little guilty. “I am always thinking of my kids.”
He nodded. “Good.” He started to get up.
“Do you want a statement from Peter?”
He straightened all the way up and looked down at her. “If we start looking at Brendan as a suspect, maybe.”
“You’re not looking at him as a suspect yet?”
He glared at her and shushed her, even though they were the only ones in the room. “I’m leaving now. Have a good day.”
“Wait!” She grabbed his sleeve and stood up too. “What about the prints? Did you find anything in the secretary’s office?”
He groaned. “We found thousands of prints in the secretary’s office. We’re still matching them, but so far, nothing suspicious.”
“You mean no Richard or Brendan prints?”
He didn’t gratify this with an answer, and she knew he was about to walk away.
“What happened to Richard’s wife?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Nothing happened to her that we know of. Sandra, if you know something, you need to tell us!”
She held her hands up. “I don’t know anything! I just wanted to know if she was still alive.”
Chip was no longer amused. “Yes, she’s alive. They’re divorced, and she lives in New Mexico. And you’re not going to talk to her.”
Yeah, right, like she was going to go to New Mexico. She shook her head and tried to think of something else to ask, while she had him right in front of her. “What’s the relationship between Phoenix and Richard? I mean, what’s the motive?”
“Sandra, I have to go. And you need a new hobby. Try mystery novels. Slaughter loves them.”
Properly put in her place, she plopped down into her hard plastic chair. How dare he? She already read mystery novels! That didn’t mean she couldn’t be of help to him in real life. He obviously needed it, if he was keeping a man in jail when he knew he was innocent.
And Slaughter read mystery novels? Seriously? She’d always figured Slaughter spent her free time boxing a bag in her basement, hunting wild coyotes, or going to the gun range. She just couldn’t picture her curled up with a book.
The bell dinged as he left the building. “Let me know about the prints!” she called after him, but she didn’t think he heard her. And even if he did, she didn’t think he’d let her know about anything.