“Definitely killed somewhere else.”
I remember the feeling I had when I woke up that there was someone in the house. Another feeling of being watched. I suppress a shiver. I’ll be damned if I show Burgess how unsettled I am.
“You figure?” Burgess continues. He’s definitely trying to rile me up.
“He was stabbed multiple times, but there’s no blood around the body when there should be buckets of it.” I point to the stoop. Other than the chalk outline, there’s no sign that a dead body was there.
“Stabbed?” The idiot is talking loudly enough for the onlookers to hear. I clench my teeth. He saw the wounds himself.
I turn and walk toward the units. There are twice as many cop cars as necessary. I called dispatch as soon as I found the body, knowing it’d be a circus, but this was bad.
So much for laying low. If there was a chance that no one would know about the attack last night, it’s gone now. The gossip has probably spread past New Jersey. I wouldn’t be surprised if I start getting calls from cops on the West Coast, checking on me.
“Detective Ramos?” A tall woman in a knee-length pea coat ducks under the crime tape and heads my way. Another woman falls into step behind her.
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Jacobs. This is my partner, Detective Diaz.” Both women have flint-hard faces. “This is your residence?”
“Yes.”
“And you discovered the body?”
“About fifteen minutes after I woke up.”
Diaz squints at me. “Did you hear anything before then?”
I shake my head. “I was asleep.”
Both Diaz and Jacobs lean back and exchange knowing looks. I’m going to have a hell of a time convincing them I didn’t kill the man left on my doorstep. The fact that I have no alibi—other than that I was sleeping—has put me in their crosshairs as a suspect.
“We’ll need to speak to you further.”
Burgess steps up beside me. “I’ll take her to the station.”
And now, I have a police escort. Perfect.
“Crime’s up since you got into town,” he jokes. “Gotta make sure you get there safely.”
This fucking day.
* * *
I endup in an interrogation room, facing the two detectives, for the better part of the afternoon.
“Just to be clear,” Diaz says, sitting across from me with a Styrofoam cup between her hands. “You were sleeping in your townhouse the whole time. You didn’t hear anything.”
I had a feeling someone else was in the room. But how can I explain that?
“Yes, that’s correct.” I don’t let myself wince at how ridiculous this all sounds.
“And your doors were locked?” Jacobs asks. She’s leaning against the wall behind her partner, pretending to be bored with this line of questioning. Even though I’ve memorized the whole good cop/bad cop routine and seen it at work a thousand times, it’s still unnerving. Especially knowing how often it does work.
“I always lock my doors and windows and set my alarm.”
“Are you normally a deep sleeper?” Jacobs presses.
I fight the urge to rub my hands over my face. Or press on the sore marks on my back to get a wave of pain that will carry me through this. “I had a long night.”
