Nine

Nine years earlier

Pete rolled up to the modest single-story brick residence, dreading what he had to do next. The porch light was on, awaiting the return of Elizabeth Landis. A return that would never happen. Most of the house’s windows were dark, but one glowed from inside. Pete steeled himself against the task at hand and strode to the front door. Pressed the doorbell. Faint chimes echoed through the walls. A moment later, another light clicked on, and the door swung open.

“Dustin Landis?” Pete said.

“Yes.” The answer held an uptick as if it was a question.

Pete identified himself. “May I come in?”

Landis stepped aside.

Entering, Pete noticed he and Landis were eye-to-eye, placing him at just a hair over six feet.

“What’s this about, Chief?” Landis wore the terrified expression of a man who dreaded the answer.

“Your wife is Elizabeth Landis?”

“Yes.” Another uptick.

Pete had never found an easy way to break this kind of news. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, your wife’s been killed.”

Landis’ lips parted. He reached out to grip the back of a chair. Pete watched a parade of emotions march across the man’s face. Shock. Disbelief. Sorrow. “What happened?”

“Perhaps you should have a seat.”

Landis met Pete’s gaze. Gave a quick nod and lowered into the same chair he’d been clinging to.

“Your wife was shot in her car parked in front of the fitness center at Route 15 Plaza.”

Landis lowered his head, attempting to process the information, giving Pete time to assess the man. He wore plaid pajama bottoms. A crimson terrycloth bathrobe was knotted at a trim waist and gaped open to reveal a hint of a muscular chest.

He was tall. Athletic-looking.

That’s how Cheryl Vranjes had described the man running from the scene.

“Shot?” Landis’ voice had lost its bass timbre. He lifted his face, revealing tears marring his clean-shaven cheeks. “Who? Why?”

“I was hoping you could help me with that.” Pete looked around and spotted another chair through a doorway. He dragged it over and sat facing Landis. “Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”

“You haven’t caught the guy?”

“Not yet.”

Landis nodded. “Then yes, of course. Whatever I can do to help.”

“Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your wife?”

Pete caught a fleeting look in Landis’ eyes, a moment’s hesitation, from which he quickly recovered. “I’m sure she ruffled some feathers at work,” Landis said.

Pete gave him credit for not immediately spewing the everybody-loved-her line.

“She’s a strong independent woman. Doesn’t take bull from anyone.” Landis’ eyes widened, then filled. “I mean didn’t.” He swallowed. “Are you sure it was Elizabeth? Shouldn’t I identify the body? Maybe there’s been a mistake.”

Pete had photographed the body, but those pictures weren’t anything he wanted to show a grieving spouse. “Her friends from the yoga class confirmed her ID. The coroner’s office will be in touch about a positive identification.”

Landis gazed at Pete. “You have crime scene photos?”

“Yes.”

“Please. I need to know.” Landis held out a hand.

“It’s not pretty.”

“I don’t care. I need to see for myself. If it’s really her, it won’t be any easier later.”

Pete studied the man. Landis seemed genuinely shaken by the news. The trembling voice. The tears. If he’d been the man in black running from the scene—the man who’d shot his wife in the face—his performance was Oscar-worthy. Pete tugged his phone free from his pocket and scrolled through the various shots of the parking lot, the exterior of the car, the interior, the position of the body. He’d taken several of Elizabeth’s face or what was left of it. Selecting one that showed enough of the undamaged side to allow an ID, he turned the screen toward Landis. And observed.

Landis’ face contorted. He didn’t take his eyes from the phone, but his mouth puckered. His forehead creased and sagged. He reminded Pete of a wax figure melting from too much heat. When the rest of his face couldn’t contain the agony any longer, Landis closed his eyes, lowered his head, and wept. Great body-racking sobs.

Pete cleared his phone’s screen and returned the device to his pocket. “I’m sorry.”

Minutes passed, and with each one Pete grew more convinced of Landis’ sincerity. Pete imagined himself in Landis’ place. Pictured Marcy as the shooting victim instead of Elizabeth. Envisioned a law enforcement officer at his door, breaking the news to him. His wife. Dead. Felt his soul being ripped from his body. Pete blinked, his eyes suddenly hot.

Once Landis’ weeping ceased, the grieving husband kept his head down, his shoulders rising and falling with each labored breath. At last, he sat up and met Pete’s gaze. “It’s Elizabeth. And as for who might want to do that?” He pointed toward the pocket holding Pete’s phone. “Her fellow workers might get pissed at her for being tough, but no one I know would do that.”

“Did she have an especially bad disagreement with someone? At work or elsewhere?”

Landis thought, shaking his head. “No. Like I said, she was tough. No nonsense. But fair. I can’t imagine anyone being that angry with her.”

“What about you?”

His gaze snapped up to meet Pete’s. “Me? You think I could’ve…”

“I have to ask. It’s my job.”

“We’ve been married a long time. I’d be lying if I told you we never disagreed about anything or never had an argument. But I loved my wife.”

“Where were you this evening?”

“Here. Elizabeth’s yoga night is my quiet-time-alone night.”

“Did you talk to anyone? Anyone stop by?”

“No.”

“Did you order a pizza? Takeout?”

“No. Nothing. I’ve been reading all evening.”

Pete scribbled in his notebook. No alibi. “Is there anything at all you can tell me that might point us toward the killer?”

This time, there was no flash of hesitation. “I wish I could.” He paused. “You might talk to her coworkers. I always joke that she spends more time with them than with me. They might be aware of something that could help. I can give you some names and phone numbers.”

“Please.”

Landis stood and crossed to an old-fashioned drop-front desk from which he retrieved an equally old-fashioned Rolodex. He returned, spinning through it, plucking out several cards. “Here.” He handed the cards to Pete. “Take them. Just please find the monster who killed Elizabeth.”