“Were you home on the twenty-fifth?”
“Yes. Not much open that day.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“All day?”
“For god’s sake. Yes. I was home alone all… day.” Her angular brows sank deeper with the hiccupped reply.
“All… day?” I parroted, emphasizing the pause.
Her cheeks flushed. “No. I was out for an hour and a half in the early morning. I forgot.”
I paused, but when she didn’t elaborate, I pushed. “Where were you?”
“Working out.”
“Working out? Like at a gym?”
“Yes. Like at the gym.”
I unintentionally took in her honed physique and earned another eye roll. My thoughts skated to Dominique and his dedication to early morning workout sessions. How many gyms could there be in the city that offered members twenty-four-hour access year-round?
I straightened, feigning disbelief. “You went to the gym on Christmas morning?”
“Yes.” Her tone was clipped and angry.
“What facility?”
“Iron Pumphouse.”
The hair on my arms stood on end. It was Dominique’s gym. Did he know her? Had he seen her? “What time were you there?”
“Early.”
I rolled a hand, wanting specifics.
“Around four.”
“Can anyone corroborate?”
“There were a handful of other members present. I don’t know them personally. The facility would have a record that I swiped in, and there are cameras in the weight room.”
Getting a hold of anyone at this time of year would be a bitch, and convincing the owner to confirm those details without a warrant would present another challenge. I jotted a note to look into it later but privately planned to ask Dominique if he could confirm her story. I wasn’t sure what time he’d left the house on Christmas morning, but by his own admission, he worked out disgustingly early.
None of it would matter if the time of death for Malik Quinn didn’t match. Dominique had yet to report those findings, but considering the frozen state of the body, my amateur brain assumed Malik was killed on or before Christmas Day.
“How about the twenty-fourth? What were you up to?”
“I had lunch with a friend at eleven, then spent the remainder of the day at home. Alone. By myself. No witnesses, Detective. Is that a crime?”
Pushing this line of questioning would get me nowhere. The timeline was too broad and unknown. I needed facts before I could proceed with confirming alibis.
Instead, I laid three photographs on the table. One of Jesse, one of Ford, and one of Malik. “Do you know these men?”
Fatemeh spared them a fleeting glance. “We’ve discussed Jesse.”
