Rosalyn took a step back. “What makes you think it’s my daughter?”
Good question. Last year the department had two well-publicized incidences of death notifications made to the wrong families. “I know your daughter. I made the ID at the scene.”
Her chin lifted, and she eased back against her desk, arms crossed in defiance.
Martin came to stand at his mother’s side. “Where did it happen?” he asked, his tone more aggressive than concerned.
“At Shelby Farms,” Frankie said. “A park ranger discovered her car early this morning.”
“Shelby Farms? Why would she—” Rosalyn stopped. Her gaze went to her son, and something passed between them. “Was it suicide?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “The medical examiner will make the final determination, but it appears she was murdered.”
Rosalyn paled. Finally a reaction. He allowed a few seconds for the reality to set in before he spoke again. “We’re sorry for your loss, ma’am. I know this is a hard time, but we have a few questions.”
“Not now,” Martin said, cutting him off.
Rosalyn ignored him. “What do you need?”
“A release giving us permission to search your daughter’s house,” Frankie said.
“Absolutely not,” Martin barked.
Rosalyn placed a hand on his arm. “I have her key and the alarm code. You’ll need a photo of Caroline for identification. My assistant will print copies for you.”
“We’ll want to speak with your daughter’s friends and the people she confides in,” Frankie said.
Rosalyn stopped to consider. “There’s her cousin Zelda. She clerks in our file room.”
“When does she come in?”
“Late. Sometimes not at all.” Rosalyn shrugged. “She’s a dancer, a choreographer. She needed a paycheck. Family, you know? I’ll have my assistant find her.”
Billy heard female voices in the foyer. A distant phone rang. The business day was starting. This would be a hard one for Rosalyn Lee. What he was about to say would make it even harder.
“Your daughter was wearing a wedding gown when she died. What can you tell us about that?”
“You must be mistaken.”
“No, ma’am,” Frankie said. “Antique lace, a train. It’s a wedding gown.”
Rosalyn turned to pluck a tissue from the box on the desk. When she turned back, Billy glimpsed something he hadn’t expected. He’d seen hysteria at these notifications, chest pains, swinging fists. He’d never seen guile on the face of a victim’s mother.
“I can’t explain the dress, but I can tell you she called off a wedding five weeks ago. Dr. Raj Sharma was her fiancé. You should speak with him.”
“He’s been harassing Caroline,” Martin put in. “Showing up at her house at all hours and here at the office. That’s stalking.”
“I warned her,” Rosalyn said. “Dr. Sharma is Indian, not even American-born. It’s hard enough to stay married to a man from your own culture. Then the babies come. People can be so cruel to racially mixed children.”
Frankie glanced at Billy. Rosalyn picked up on it.
“I know that sounds racist,” she said, “but I’m an estate attorney. I’ve seen families go to war over mixed marriages. Children are always the casualties.” She moved around the desk, wrote on a pad, and handed the paper to Frankie. “Dr. Sharma is a neurosurgeon. This is his assistant’s number at the Bathe Clinic.”
Billy had already pictured the scenario Rosalyn was hinting at. Caroline called off the wedding. Sharma was humiliated. He pursued her until he pressured her into marrying him. He talked her into eloping instead of risking a public ceremony. She agreed but wanted to wear the dress. Instead of happily-ever-after he killed her. Revenge cuts deep. This murder stank of it.
Frankie took Sharma’s number from Rosalyn and went into the hall to call the doctor’s office.
“I’ll need to speak with your attorneys and staff,” Billy said to Rosalyn. “How many are there?”
“Eight support staff, six attorneys.” She blinked. “Five without Caroline. My husband no longer practices. One attorney is out of town.”
“I’d like to speak with everyone available.” He looked at Martin. “Are you with the firm?”
“I’m president and senior trust officer of Airlee Bank. It’s family owned. My office is two blocks down the street.” He checked his watch. “Mother, I need to make some calls.”
“I have to ask both of you not to discuss the details I’ve given you with anyone except for your husband, of course, Mrs. Lee,” he said. “If you feel you need to make a statement to the press, please ask a liaison from our public information office to arrange it.”
“We’re not idiots,” Martin snapped. “We’ll require your discretion as well.”
Billy ignored him and spoke directly to Rosalyn. “I’ve attempted to shield your daughter’s identity from the media until the department makes an official statement, but there’s always a chance of leaks. Be prepared to hear her name on the news sometime today.”
Martin grunted and made a show of kissing his mother’s cheek. He slammed the door behind him as he left.
“My son is angry,” she said.
“I’m angry, too.”
She cut her eyes at him but didn’t pursue it.
“I’ll need to see your daughter’s appointment calendar for the last three months, her client list, and the files in her office. Don’t touch anything else. Lock her office door right away. We’ll be back later.”
Rosalyn’s eyes hardened. “This firm has a fiduciary responsibility to protect the privacy of Caroline’s clients.”
Her resistance didn’t surprise him. The best approach with an attorney is to assume the sale. “I understand your concern, but what I’ve requested may lead to her killer. Please have the client list and the files delivered to me by noon. Be sure nothing in the records is deleted or altered. Our IT people will spot any change.” He wasn’t sure if that was possible, but it sounded good.
“I’ll send her appointment schedule and client list,” she said, unmoved.
This was one tough woman standing there in her red suit with her perfect hair. She’d just received the worst possible news, the death of her daughter, and yet she was all business. At this early stage of the investigation, a judicial magistrate would refuse their request for a search warrant. Stalemate.
“I’ll get back to you on the files.” His hand came up. “And I must tell you how truly sorry I am for your loss. Your daughter was a fine person.”
Rosalyn’s expression remained unreadable, as glazed as skim ice on a pond.
“Thank you, Detective. Please close the door behind you.”
Frankie was at the end of the hall on her mobile and scribbling notes. As he walked toward her, a door between them opened. Martin leaned out. “Detective. May I have a word?”
The guy had already pissed him off, but he might have something important to say. They stepped into a small conference room.
Martin flashed an ingratiating smile. “I remember your involvement in the Sid Garrett investigation. That footage of you and Sid on the train tracks went viral.”
“What’s your point?”
“You and your pretty partner attract media attention.”
“And?”
“Just this. I want my sister’s privacy protected. With your notoriety that may be impossible. If you feel you can’t handle the case with discretion, I’ll ask my friend the mayor to step in.”
Martin folded his arms across his chest. The backs of his hands were white and smooth as a baby’s bottom. The son of a bitch thought he could say anything he pleased.
He gave Martin a fake smile. “By the way, Mr. Lee. Where were you last night?”
“At home. Why?”
“Got any idea who killed your sister?”
Realization grew on Martin’s face. It reddened. “I believe that’s your job.”
“You’re damned right it’s my job, so stop bullshitting me about the mayor. You’re interested in protecting your business not your sister’s privacy.”
“Our clients expect us to focus on their problems, not our own,” Martin said, and started for the door. He turned back. “If you want my alibi for last night, call my house. My girlfriend lives with me.” He stormed out, bumping into Frankie, who had been waiting outside the door.
Billy stepped into the hall and caught her predatory stare as she tracked Martin’s retreat. Billy motioned her to join him in the conference room.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“The creep is worried his sister’s murder will hurt the firm’s image. He threatened to call his buddy the mayor if we don’t handle the case the way he wants.”
She laughed. “And you let him live?”
Billy had been around city politics longer than Frankie. Jeff Davis was the mayor’s new appointee as director of the MPD. If Martin had the pull with the mayor that he claimed, Director Davis might bird-dog the case. That would be a royal pain.
“Did you locate Dr. Sharma?” he asked.
“He’s prepping for surgery at Baptist Hospital. He won’t be available for ten to twelve hours.”
Billy gave that some thought. “Tell you what . . . You do the walk-through at Caroline’s house. Call if you find anything. I’ll question the staff.” He nodded toward the foyer, indicating the women who’d gathered at the foot of the stairs. Two of them glanced in their direction, looking wide-eyed and shaken.
“God love her,” a gray-haired woman wailed. Another broke into throaty sobs.
“Oh, brother,” he said. “One of them saw Caroline’s car on the newscast. You do the interviews. I’ll check the house.”
“Not on your life. You’re better with the ladies.” She lowered her voice. “By the way, what’s with Mrs. Lee? We told her that her daughter had been murdered, and she barely flinched. We work murders all the time. We don’t see that kind of disregard.”
“It looks like indifference, but it’s not. Rosalyn Lee is Mississippi old school. She was raised to tough it out in public. If she decides Sharma murdered her daughter, we’ll find his hide nailed to a fence post.”