TRAFFIC IS LIGHT. It takes only an hour to reach our destination, a home located on West Saddle River Road across the Hudson in the community of Saddle River, New Jersey. A dog-ear ORGAN DONATION card in Miranda’s wallet lists Jonathan and Stella Walker as father and mother, next-of-kin. We could trouble the local PD to deliver the tragic news, but we owe it to the investigation to make the call ourselves. Notwithstanding, as a courtesy, we give the local constabulary a collegial heads-up.
The home is located on a large country lot, well treed. A broad lawn and circular drive lead to a two-level residence built in the American Craftsman style. Recessed pot-lighting along a low stone wall illuminates the front drive. A wrought iron lamp spills light over a field-stone walkway leading to the front entrance. Inside the house, a light glows beyond drawn shades.
In the drive, we exit our vehicle. Visible overhead, clear of the City, the stars are brilliant. The air smells of pine needles and vegetation.
“Nice place,” Gabby says. “Must be worth a few million bucks, at least.”
“How is it Miranda is living on food stamps?”
“Estranged?”
“She’s still their daughter. You’d think they would help.”
“Family is complicated, Dex,” Gabby says with a shrug.
I know this all too well. “I hate this part of the job, Gabby. Let’s get it over with.”
At the door, I press a bell. Thirty seconds later, a man’s voice squawks through an intercom. “Can I help you?”
We raise our Shields to a peephole in the door. We confirm our identity. I say, “Is this the home of Jonathan and Stella Walker?” It is. “And are you the parents of Miranda Livingstone?”
As if he’s been expecting us, the door swings open wide. A man in his mid-sixties, tall but stooped with thin white hair, greets us. We enter the foyer, and he closes the door behind.
“Johnny?” A woman’s voice, shrill, calling from the next room. “Johnny? What the hell. If it’s those fucking kids again, I swear to God!”
The woman rounds a divider full-throttle into the entry foyer. Spotting Gabby and me, she pulls up short. The woman is tall, angular, and attractive, long blonde hair thick and shining. Her breasts ride high beneath the fabric of a very low-cut, loose-fit chenille top. Her skin is taught over a set of classic cheekbones.
The woman appears much younger than the man and bears a striking resemblance to our victim. Immediately, I think sister. But no: the neck-line condemns her. No amount of cosmetic surgery can peel the years from the skin of an aging neckline.
Apparently, Mrs. Walker agrees. As if tracking my sight-line, she raises a hand to her throat. Combative, she says, “Who are you people and why are you in my home? At this time of night, no less.” Turning to her husband, she says, “Johnny?”
Like a character from Masterpiece Theater, Mr. Walker says, “Stella, these people are from the police. New York City.”
“May we sit?” I say.
“Must we sit?” Mrs. Walker retorts, eyes narrow, posture a challenge.
“It would be best.”
“For who? You, or us?”
“It’s about your daughter, Mrs. Walker. Miranda.”
Mrs. Walker flicks her wrist in a dismissive gesture. “Well, then, if it’s about Miranda, she’s either in jail, or she’s dead.” She says this callously causing Mr. Walker to flinch. “In which case, we either will not or cannot help her.”
“The latter,” I say. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Walker dissolves into a puddle of tears at such news so bluntly delivered.
“Suicide, drug overdose? She’s been dancing with that Devil for years, officer,” Mrs. Walker says.
“It’s detective, ma’am, Detective Dexter Fortune. And it’s murder.” Mrs. Walker retreats a step. “I apologize for the hour, but we really do need to speak. The sooner we do, the more likely it will be to find out who did this terrible thing to your daughter,” I add, appealing to her motherly instinct.
Apparently, Mrs. Walker has none. “Probably a homeless person or a drug dealer.”
“Maybe so, Mrs. Walker, but please, humor us,” Gabby says, challenging. “If we don’t ask these questions now, you’ll have a police presence on your doorstep for the duration. It will be inconvenient. It could be embarrassing. It’s late, and we arrived in an unmarked vehicle. Tomorrow it will be a patrol car with the rooflights flashing. Better if we do this now, you think?”
Gabby: able to strike at the heart of the matter much better than I.
Mrs. Walker eyes Gabby rapaciously. Threat or competition?
Relenting, Walker says, “Oh, well, if you must, you must. Sit, let’s get it over with. But first, Johnny? Freshen my drink.”