they moved on to the next yellow marker—this one near a blood splatter on the cushion of a dining chair—she asked, “Did you talk her out of calling the chief and pulling our badges?” Her lips were pursed together, not quite hiding a smirk. She’d be impossible if she knew that Howie had hoped Julianne would forget to give back his handkerchief. “Though, honestly, I don’t care if Henson gets pulled into chief’s office and bent over a desk. Cosmic justice for his crimes prior to cuffing Julianne Dawson—he’s a bully and gives all of us a bad name.” Kia pointed to some blood splatters on the wall, along with a hole in the drywall. “CSI’s already got photos of everything,” she said.
“She may still call the chief.” The Somersets probably donated enough money to various police department charities to get a special “insulted rich person” ringtone that meant their calls were always answered. Durham didn’t really have society, but what it did have was represented by Julianne’s family. Not only was she related by blood to all the families who’d donated their names to streets surrounding downtown, but the Somerset money had survived the ups and downs of Durham’s economy, so she was on a friendly first-name basis with the fortunes being made in the Research Triangle Park. If the mayor didn’t listen to her because of who her parents were and who her grandparents had been, he would listen to her because she was buddies with the owner of the ballpark and had recently been quoted in the Wall Street Journal about innovation and start-ups in the Triangle. If the brief snippets in the Herald-Sun, Independent Weekly and News & Observer were anything to go by, the mayor and the city council were falling all over themselves to make the business incubator happen. The articles all referenced the idea that a Somerset was bringing jobs back to Durham. Conveniently, none of them mentioned the thousands of jobs that Somerset tobacco had cost Durham back in the 1980s, including Howie’s mother’s job.
Shifting back to the matter at hand, Howie remembered hearing a rumor from the Herald-Sun’s crime reporter, who’d heard it from her editor, who’d gotten the information from the business reporter—a chain of gossip long enough to be highly suspicious—that Don Somerset had spent through all of his inheritance and was living off his wife’s money. After questioning Julianne about it, he could almost believe it. And soon he’d probably be able to prove it.
The official story was that Julianne was funding the venture and Don was providing tech know-how and contacts. The water-cooler story was that Julianne was doing everything. She’d worked as a development officer for one of the big art museums in New York and was putting those skills to work in the recruitment of start-ups and investments. As far as Howie could tell from the many rumors floating around, Don’s main contribution to the venture was tech-savvy vocabulary.
If the idea of money equaling influence left a sour taste in Howie’s mouth, the thought of someone who’d spent all his wealth made him need to spit the taste out before he choked. Still, must be nice to have that kind of influence, even in a small city like Durham.
“But...”
“But Ms. Dawson and her brother stand to inherit Mrs. Somerset’s money. She claims she doesn’t need it and hinted that her brother might.” More than hinted. That flick of a tongue between her lips was a clear sign of nerves. And while there were many reasons she might have been uncomfortable sitting in that patrol car, she hadn’t flicked her tongue until she’d started talking about her brother.
“Mrs. Somerset also has a grandson hoping for a windfall. He makes Ms. Dawson uncomfortable, and apparently made Mrs. Somerset uncomfortable, too.” The initial forty-eight hours in any investigation was exhausting—and crucial. No one could be ruled out as a suspect, so the list of people to investigate got longer and longer. But if they didn’t narrow down their options to one best bet in the next couple days, the chances of solving the case at all edged quickly to zero. In some investigations, zeroing in on a main suspect was like searching for a needle in a haystack when you couldn’t move the hay out of the way.
This seemed as though it would be one of those investigations. At least a stabbing suggested the murderer was known to Mrs. Somerset.
They stepped over a trail of blood to look at another wall, this one more splattered than the last. Howie looked back at the old woman lying dead on the floor. Mrs. Somerset had been thin, with a shock of bright white hair that was always styled. And he’d never seen her in anything more casual than a pair of slacks and a blouse, though she had made a nod to her age with the beige shoes sold in secret old-people stores—the kind AARP didn’t give you the password to until you turned seventy-five. If asked to describe her, he would have said spry, but frail. She’d still had her license and hadn’t had any incidents that would make her family take her car away. Her heavily wrinkled and just as heavily made-up face had been kind.
Julianne had been lucky to have her for an aunt.
“She put up one hell of a fight.” Between the trail of blood and obvious defensive marks on Mrs. Somerset’s hands and arms, she’d fought a whole lot longer than he would’ve thought she could. “She was stronger than she looked.”
“Aren’t we all?” Kia said, but she only raised her eyebrows at him when he invited her to elaborate. “Learn anything else?”
“Mrs. Somerset’s commitment to—” he hesitated, but Julianne’s word was the best he could come up with “—justice went further than any of us on Chapel Hill Street gave her credit for. She called multiple police departments, but she was also a significant donor to Julianne Dawson–approved charities like the Brady Campaign.”
“Not just interested in catching the killer, but also in preventing crime.”
“It would seem.” He looked back to the woman lying on the floor in a pool of blood. He’d underestimated her. She had been nuts, but there had been a method to her madness. “Ms. Dawson claims she’s going to donate the bulk of her inheritance from Mrs. Somerset to those charities.”
“And you said they were Ms. Dawson approved?”
“Not surprisingly, Mrs. Somerset and her passions attracted the attention of scammers. Apparently Julianne has been managing her money for a couple years.”
Kia whistled. “So she’s Julianne now, is she?”
Sitting in the car, her warm body pressed up against him, he’d wanted to call her Annie.
He didn’t say that of course. He opened his mouth to defend himself, snapping it shut again before he said something else incriminating.
Naturally she noticed and smirked. “You don’t think Julianne—” she said the name in a singsong voice appropriate for a twelve-year-old “—had anything to do with her great-aunt’s murder?”
Even tear streaked and sobbing, the woman in the car had been graceful and elegant. He imagined that she was the kind of woman who would speak softly and have the world falling all over itself to do as she asked, no big stick needed. Not that his impressions meant Julianne couldn’t have killed her aunt. Howie had been a cop long enough to trust his instincts, but long enough to know that rich, white, elegant women committed murder, too.
Though Julianne Dawson seemed too tidy to make such a mess of the business. And there was something wholly decent about her that Howie couldn’t put his finger on.
But none of this was any of Kia’s business, so he said only, “This level of violence? No.”
“She could have hired someone.”
Maybe the near faint she’d had when Howie had touched on the violent way Mrs. Somerset had died had been a surprised reaction to what was supposed to be a clean push down the stairs...
“If she hired someone, she would’ve paid top dollar for a cleaner kill,” he said, trying to cover up his inner battle with nonchalance. “Plus, it’s a stabbing, so it’s almost certainly personal, and I don’t see Ms. Dawson slicing up her aunt and then showing up later as if for a casual lunch.”
“Her brother, then? A sibling team?”
“Maybe,