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Twenty-Eight

Southern Life was housed in an industrial plaza in the south end of Stiles near the highway that stretched across most of the state from east to west. The building was a single-story with smoky-tinted glass.

The receptionist, a petite redhead about Madison’s age, smiled at Madison and Terry when they entered.

Madison flashed her badge and gave a brief introduction, then said, “We’d like to speak with Chantelle Carson’s boss.”

The redhead’s eyes beaded with tears. “Did something happen to her? I just felt it when she didn’t show up this morning. I tried calling her but had to leave a message.”

Someone other than Claws thinks they’re clairvoyant…

“It would be best if we could speak with someone in management,” Madison said.

The woman nodded and picked up her phone. “Mr. Rossi, I know you told me not to disturb you, but two detectives are here to speak with you.” She spoke the latter part slowly, as if coming to grips with the implication of their presence. “No, I haven’t heard from her.… Yes… Okay.” She met Madison’s gaze as she replaced the receiver to its cradle. Her hand was shaking the entire way. “Mr. Rossi will be out soon.”

“Thank you.” Madison wanted to ask her about Carson and the type of person she had been, but Rossi should hear about his employee before she rattled off inquiries. “What’s Mr. Rossi’s full name?”

The receptionist opened her mouth to answer, but it was a man’s voice that interjected.

“Dean Franklin Rossi.” A man swaggered toward them in a well-tailored suit. Designer label, if Madison were to guess. “You can follow me.” He led them to a conference room that was fashionably appointed. While the exterior of the building didn’t look like much, the furnishings were high-end and somewhat luxurious. The leather chairs around the table had thick cushions. Madison dropped into one, as did Terry and Rossi.

“My girl told me you are Stiles police detectives,” Rossi said.

Madison took slight offense to him referring to the receptionist as “my girl,” as if they’d suddenly fallen into the 1950s. Rossi was a good-looking man, about fifty, graying around his temples but in a graceful, charming way. He probably wasn’t used to women rejecting him, and she pegged him as a womanizer, despite the fact he wore a wedding band. Maybe it was his chauvinistic nature that Carson had a problem with.

“I’m Detective Knight.” Madison gestured to Terry. “He’s Detective Grant.”

Rossi butted his head toward Terry, returned his gaze to Madison.

There would be no more putting off the necessary conversation. She told him that Carson had been murdered over the weekend. He stared at her, his mouth slightly hanging open for a moment, then snapping shut. He rubbed his jaw. “I guess that’s a good reason for not showing up to work.”

Madison resisted her inclination to respond with something sharp. She’d seen all sorts of reactions to death and murder during her time as a cop. Rossi’s was one she was familiar with—the shock that led to deflecting through humor.

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?” Madison asked.

Rossi shook his head. “I don’t.”

If he was going to reply with short snippets for their entire conversation, the interaction was going to be painful. “What about any clients who might have had an issue with her?”

“None that I’m aware of.”

“She sometimes had to reject applicants though, I assume?” Terry said.

“Of course.”

Madison reclaimed the lead. “I’m sure some people wouldn’t take too kindly to that.”

“There are a few nutcases that arise from time to time.”

“Any recently for Ms. Carson?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“And did she work any files for group benefits—setting them up or processing claims?” Madison’s mind was on GB, the letters in blood.

“She didn’t get into business accounts. Strictly handled individual applications.”

GB might not have anything to do with group benefits, but it could still refer to a person’s name or initials. “We’d like to get a copy of the files she was working recently, mostly interested in applicants she rejected,” Madison requested.

“I can get that information for you. With a warrant.”

“Consider it done.” Madison leaned back in her chair. “What was Carson like?”

“Nice girl. Hard worker. She always did as I asked.”

Again, with the word girl to describe a grown woman. At least he hadn’t called her “my girl” like he had his receptionist. “You never had any problems with her? Disagreements?”

Rossi tugged on the lapels of his suit jacket.

“Mr. Rossi?” she prompted.

“Yeah? No. We worked well together.”

Madison held her gaze on him, and he touched a hand to his left temple. He was nervous and uncomfortable. “You’re sure you never—”

Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, maybe we didn’t always see things the same way.”

Madison studied him and his awkward body language. Rossi was hiding something. “Where were you Friday night from nine o’clock until two Saturday morning?”

“Where was—” Rossi gulped. “You think that I…that I…”

“We’re just crossing it off our list,” she said. “We have certain procedures to follow and questions we need to ask.”

“That was when she, uh…died?”

“Uh-huh,” Madison said.

“Well, I had no reason to kill her.”

“As I said, just procedure,” she tossed out nonchalantly.

His eyes darted to Terry. “I was here.”

“All that time?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ve been working on putting together an insurance package for a large corporation in town.”

“Who?” she said.

“I’d rather not say if I don’t have to.”

She held his gaze and remained quiet.

Rossi continued. “Randall Investments.”

She sank back in her chair. The city of Stiles was too small sometimes. Randall Investments was owned by Marcus Randall, Jonathan Wright’s employer. “Is there anyone who can verify you were working Friday night through to Saturday morning?”

“Josie Hart.”

“And who is Ms. Hart?” Madison asked.

“She’s an intern here.”

“Was it just the two of you here?”

“It was.” Color rose in his cheeks, and he twisted the gold band on his wedding finger.

His body language confirmed the affair. At least he had the decency to feel shame. “You were sleeping with Ms. Hart on Friday night.” Not a question.

“It’s nothing. Just a brief tryst.”

“Is that how your wife would describe it?” she fired back.

He grimaced. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

What was it with men and their seeming inability to keep it in their pants? Maybe marriage wasn’t the path she wanted to go down. Possibly not even engagement. Just vows looming on the horizon had her ex-fiancé screwing another woman. Maybe men weren’t meant for monogamy, and the prospect of settling down caused something to snap in them. If so, things with her and Troy really were fine as they stood. They were exclusive, but if it went up in flames, there was a lot less legal mess to sort out. But when she thought of her future, she couldn’t imagine it without Troy next to her. God, she was in deep. She cleared her throat. “We’re going to need to speak with Ms. Hart.”

“Josie’s here today.” He reached toward a phone in the center of the table. “Should I get her in here?”

“We’ll want to speak with her, but alone,” Madison said. “First, though, I’d like to know what sort of things you and Carson didn’t agree on.” She straightened her shoulders and locked eye contact with Rossi.

“Oh, okay.” Rossi resettled back in his chair and sighed. “Where to start?”