“You okay, Katherine?” Brock asked as I settled back into the jeep. “I was gettin’ worried.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Where to now?”
“Would you call Polly and have her check the DMV records for a license and plates issued to a Charles Kerrigan? First check locally, and if nothing turns up, try Wisconsin, Michigan, or Indiana. I need to know what kind of car he owned.”
“Is that the dead guy?”
“Yes. If the man in the parking lot that night was Charlie, either he had to have driven himself there to meet Nathan or a second person drove him. That stranger could be the one who ran him over. But I’m hoping the blue sports car the coroner mentioned is connected to Charlie Kerrigan somehow.”
Brock just listened as I talked myself through a logical scenario. When I finished, he picked up the phone and called Polly. He repeated my instructions verbatim. After he was done, he asked, “What about that girl of his? She’d know what kinda car the guy drove.”
Why hadn’t I asked Barbara for Ashley Knight’s address? “I don’t know where she lives,” I had to admit.
“Hold up,” Brock said and picked up my phone. After a few minutes on Google, he proudly announced that Ms. Knight lived 5.3 miles from where we were.
* * *
Brock started to get out of the jeep after I parked in front of Ashley’s house.
I reached across the seat to stop him. “You can wait—”
“No way, Katherine. You don’t know what kinda stuff this woman is involved in or who her friends are. This could be dangerous. No arguments! I’m goin’ in with ya.”
As always, Brock made a lot of sense. “You’re right.”
I could tell he was a little disappointed that I agreed so easily. He probably had half a dozen more arguments ready to fire at me if I resisted his plan.
The house was large, boxy, and painted white. Plain and simple with no decorative shrubs, no flowers, not even a welcome mat. No-frills-functional is how I referred to such unfriendly dwellings. The very sight of it made my creative self want to cry.
There was no doorbell, and as I started to raise my hand, Brock banged on the front door with his fist.
“That’ll get her attention.” He grinned.
The woman who answered the door was somewhere in her thirties. It was obvious this cheerleader had shouted her last hurrah. She was short, round, and wearing what we used to call a muumuu but now is referred to as a caftan, making it sound much more glamorous. The one Ashley wore had a dark spot on the front. She probably figured that the large elephant design would cover up any food that had missed its way to her mouth.
“Look, I’m really busy and not in the mood to buy a vacuum cleaner or whatever the hell you’re selling.”
She started to shut the door, but Brock stuck his foot in front of it before she could manage a good slam.
“Ms. Knight, I’m here about the death of your boyfriend, Charles Kerrigan. I assure you I’m not selling anything. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
Both of her chins dropped. “Oh.” Tears welled up in her swollen eyes. “Sorry. Sorry I was so mean. Ever since I saw that sketch on TV . . . Well you can imagine how I felt . . . I’m sure that if it was your boyfriend . . . and seeing him laid out at the morgue . . . I’ve never seen anything like that . . . never . . . Well, maybe on CSI . . .”
She had to be stopped or her frantic rambling would have gone on forever. “I’m so sorry for your loss and know what a difficult time this must be for you. But if you could give us just a few minutes—we’ll try to make it quick.” It was an automatic response, one I’d delivered too many times to grief-stricken relatives during my time on the force. It also served as a way to separate myself from getting personally involved in a case. But when the words came out of my mouth so easily, after years as a civilian, I was surprised.
“Well . . .” She thought it over a moment. And while she did that, her tears dried up. “Sure.”
I assumed from her mood change that she thought Brock and I were police detectives. And I’d explain exactly who we were . . . later. But first I needed to find out more about Charles Kerrigan.
She backed up a few steps, holding the door open. I was half way into the house when a loud noise stopped all three of us in our tracks.
A gunshot.
Then another.
Brock shouted, “Get inside and stay down!” to Ashley. Then, grabbing me to his chest, he threw us both over the threshold onto the floor and kicked the door closed with his foot.
The three of us lay frozen for a few minutes, afraid to move, waiting for what was to come next.
“Are you guys okay?” Brock whispered.
We mumbled that we were fine.
Our labored breathing was the only sound filling the room during a silence that seemed to last for hours.
Then came a loud screech. Tires racing against the asphalt out front.
It was obvious whoever it was had given up and driven away. But still the three of us remained sprawled out on the floor.
Finally, Ashley made the first move. “I knew that jerk was up to something!” she said as she sat up. “All day, driving by, looking at my house . . . stalking me. But I never thought somebody would try to kill me!”
Brock got on his knees. Pulling a gun from the holster inside his jacket, he crawled over to the front window. Cautiously he lifted a corner of the curtain to check the front yard.
I held my breath and could see Ashley doing the same.
“They’re gone,” Brock said as he turned to face us.
I sat up and looked at Ashley. “So you know for sure it was a man? Any idea who it was?”
“No. I couldn’t get a good look. The windows were tinted. But I do know they were driving a blue car . . . I can tell you that for sure . . . a Ferrari . . . I think, but I really don’t know anything about cars . . . just that it’s one of those little things that makes a lot of noise . . .”
Slowly we all stood up, each of us checking ourselves and each other for any sign of a wound. Luckily the bullets hadn’t hit their target—whoever that might be.
Ashley fussed with her hair a moment then calmly said, “Well, I need a drink; how about you two?”
In the ten minutes I’d known this woman, I’d seen her roller coaster through a range of emotions that any actress would envy. From angry to sad, genial back to angry, stopping at charming . . . at least for the moment. But the one emotion I hadn’t seen her exhibit was fear. She’d just been shot at. Yet Ashley seemed oblivious to the danger. Even Brock, a man used to physical confrontation, needed a moment to reboot. And I could feel my heart racing. But Ms. Knight was fine.
Brock shot me a confused look as he sat on the edge of an overstuffed chair. Then shrugging, he told our hostess, “I guess I could drink somethin’.”
“Nobody’s having a drink,” I said sternly. “We have to call nine-one-one first, and it’s better that none of us have alcohol on our breath.”
“You want I should do it?” Brock asked.
I shook my head. “No, I want Ashley to call.”
“Why should I call the cops? You think this is my first time? What do you think drove me to drink? I been shot at by crazy ex-boyfriends, jealous girlfriends, my father’s insane ex-partner. There was this one time, when I was a kid, we had to hide out for a month at a Super Eight in St. Paul from my nanny’s husband, who escaped from jail.”
“Humor me. Act like it’s the first time and just explain what happened so they’ll send a patrol car.”
“By then I’ll really need a drink,” Ashley complained.
* * *
It took the better part of an hour for a patrol car to come, take our statements, call for technicians to pry bullets from the wall of the house, and then leave. They told Ashley she might be hearing from detectives later on. Once they drove away, that was Ashley’s cue to go for the drinks.
“She’s one cool cookie, ain’t she?” Brock whispered as she left the room.
“I was thinking the same thing. Considering those bullets must have been meant for her.”
Brock thought about my theory. “Or you, on account of your snoopin’ around, lookin’ for the boss.”
Ashley came back into the room pushing a brass cart. Bottles crowded together on the bottom clanked as she moved it across the carpeting. Stopping in front of us, she picked up a glass from the top shelf and asked, “What’ll you have?”