Deadly Revenge (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 4) Read online

  “Some people like their sex dangerous.”

  I shrugged. “Could be. Jenna didn’t happen to notice the kind of car Dennis drove?”

  “If she did, she didn’t tell me.” He gave me a wan smile. “Sorry, I don’t know much.”

  I gazed at him wryly. “At this point, I don’t, either.”

  Chapter Three

  I called my other partner, Ernie Moore, as I drove to Amy Babbitt’s house.

  “What did you find out?” he asked in his gruff tone.

  “I went over the missing persons report,” I said, then filled him in on my talk with Hawthorne. “How are things at the crime scene?”

  “Well,” he growled. “The techs have finished with the car. Of course, the vic’s prints are all over it, along with some other prints. We’ll run them all through the databases to see what we can find out. Not much else since you left here.”

  I heard voices in the background and sounds of traffic. I headed south on Broadway, away from the police station at Thirteenth and Cherokee. “What did Jamison tell you about the body?”

  Jack Jamison, the Denver County coroner, had just arrived at the crime scene as I was leaving. He’s been at the job a long time and knows what he’s doing, but he shies away from drawing any conclusions based only on what he observes at the scene.

  “You know Jamison. The most he would say was she was shot in the head. Like we didn’t know that. And as you and I figured when we looked at the body, the fact that there isn’t a star pattern around her temple makes me question whether she shot herself.”

  “Yeah, maybe a murder made to look like a suicide,” I said.

  “Yep. Hold on.” He said something to someone else, then came back. “We swabbed her hands for gunshot residue. And I talked to the woman who discovered the body. Evelyn Preston. She’s a sweet lady, probably in her seventies, and she’s pretty shaken up. She walks her dogs through the park most mornings, and she was surprised to see a car sitting there that early in the day.”

  “Yeah, the responding officer told us that.” The call about the Mercedes had come in a little after six. In early October, it would’ve barely been light.

  “Right, right.” Ernie said. “Anyway, Ms. Preston didn’t see or hear anything before she walked to the park. She lives a couple of blocks away, and even that early in the morning, there’d be traffic noise on Eighth Avenue, so I’m not surprised. Oh, and the officers canvassing the neighborhood haven’t come up with anything so far, either. No one who lives near the park saw or heard anything.”

  “No surveillance cameras around?”

  “No, we’re not that lucky.”

  I frowned as I turned east on Sixth Avenue. “Spats called me, and he’s got a warrant to search the vic’s house. I’m headed there, and then I want to talk to Jenna Ordway, Amy’s friend. How about you head back to the station and see what you can find out about her, and Amy?”

  “Yeah, I’m wrapping up here, and I’ll get on that.” He grunted. “I also found out Amy’s closest relative is an aunt who lives on the East Coast. I’ll contact her.” Another grunt.

  “What?”

  “If she killed herself, why? She was a doctor, a good career, I would assume.”

  “That’s a great question. And why go to a park in the middle of the night? Why not stay at home?”

  “Well …” He didn’t have an answer. “I’ll keep you posted on what I find out.”

  I ended the call and fought a snarl of traffic. I finally turned on Cook Street, where Amy Babbitt lived in a modern-style house tucked between two mid-century ranch homes. Many of the older homes in this part of the Cherry Creek neighborhood had been razed, and new, bigger homes now dwarfed many of the lots.

  When I pulled up to the two-story tan house, a patrol car sat in front, and a dark sedan was parked across the street. I got out of my Ford Escape and walked up the sidewalk. A uniformed officer and a man impeccably dressed in a dark suit, blue tie, and polished black shoes were standing on the front porch.

  “Speelmahn,” Spats said. Spats Youngfield, whose given name is Roland, is my other partner, and he never pronounces my name correctly. I don’t understand it; he’s from Harlem, not Jamaica.

  “Hey Spats,” I said.

  The officer – his nameplate read Wingo – glanced between us. “Spats?” he finally asked.

  I pointed at Spats. “He had a partner –”

  “He was an older guy, and I was a rookie,” Spats interrupted.

  “Right,” I said. “Anyway, that partner thought the suits and shoes Spats wore made him look like a gangster from the Thirties.”

  “I dress nice,” Spats said, then pointed at his shoes. “Although I’ve never worn spats.”

  Wingo looked between us. He clearly had no idea what spats were.

  Spats winked at him. “Google it.”

  I looked at Wingo. He was young, not yet used to the banter. He’d learn. “Has anybody bothered you, tried to get into the house?”

  He cleared his throat and shook his head. “No, it’s been quiet since you sent me over here to secure the place. I haven’t even seen any neighbors.”

  I glanced at Spats, and he held up an envelope.

  “The warrant for the house,” he said. “I also got one for Amy’s phone records. I’ll follow up with the phone company later.”

  “Good work. The question is, how do we get into the house?” I rang the bell twice, then knocked for good measure. Spats gave me deadpan. “No answer.”

  I looked to the houses to the north and south, both had beautiful, tall trees shading manicured lawns. There were few cars on the street, most people probably at work or their big cars in their big garages. “Let’s see if anybody’s home, maybe somebody has a key.” I turned to Wingo. “Stay here, okay?”

  He nodded, and Spats and I went to the house to the south. We rang the bell and knocked on the door, but no one answered. We tried the house to the north, again with no luck. Spats arched an eyebrow at me.

  “House across the street?”

  I nodded, and we tried that house as well. Still no luck. We ended up back on Amy Babbitt’s front porch. Since we didn’t think anyone was in the house, we couldn’t resort to breaking down the door or breaking a window, so I called a locksmith. Once I identified who I was, I was assured someone would come to the house as quickly as possible. I ended the call and looked at Spats.

  “Well?” Wingo asked.

  Spats rocked on his heels and put his hands behind his back. “We wait.”

  “Family doing okay?” I asked Spats as I checked the front porch for cameras.

  “No doorbell camera,” he pointed out. “And yes, Demarcus took his first steps last night. I’ve never seen Trissa so excited. I remember when Jacy first started walking. Shanice and I were so proud of her – like no child had ever learned to walk before ours did! Man, that seems like a long time ago now.”

  “No kidding,” I said with a smile. “Is Jacy twelve now?” Jacy, Spats’ daughter from a previous marriage, is also a very important part of Spats’ life. He and Shanice divorced a few years ago, and it was a really rough time for Spats. But he and his girlfriend, Trissa, now seem to be stable and working hard to build a life together with their son. And Trissa and Jacy seem to have developed a fairly good relationship, too.

  “Yeah, can you believe she’s almost a teenager? In December. I’ll have her for a long weekend, so we’re gonna throw her a big party.”

  “Nice.” I looked at Wingo and jerked a thumb at Spats. “That’s one proud papa.”

  Wingo nodded, not sure what to do. “Yes.”

  I looked up and down the street. “While we wait for the locksmith, let’s check around the house.”

  Spats nodded, and we walked carefully around the house. We looked in the eaves above the windows, but didn’t see any security cameras. I opened a gate to the back yard. It was long and narrow, surrounded by a high fence and trees, which kept it secluded. We crossed the yard to a detac
hed garage behind the house. I cupped a hand and peeked in a window.

  “It’s empty.”

  Spats nodded. “It was her Mercedes in the park.”

  I turned and looked to the back of the house, hands on my hips. “She leaves her house late at night and drives to a park to commit suicide? Does that make sense?”

  He thought about that for a moment. “If someone’s that depressed, they might do anything.”

  I chewed on that. “Was she that depressed?”

  He adjusted his tie with purpose. “That’s what we have to find out.” With that, he marched back to the front of the house.

  We bantered for a few more minutes, and then a white van approached and parked near my Escape. A burly man got out and hurried up to the front porch.

  “My dispatch said this was an emergency.” He took us all in and waited.

  Spats tapped the door. “Can you get us in?” He showed the man the warrant.

  “Sure thing.” The man knelt down and opened a toolbox. He hummed as he rummaged around in it, then produced a tool that he inserted into the lock. Within seconds, he had the door open. “There you go.” He got up and stood back.

  “Thanks,” I said. I pointed at Wingo. “Can you get the bill?”

  The man waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it.” He glanced into the house, then backed up. “You all have a great day.” He stepped off the porch and hurried back to his van.

  Spats and I put booties on over our shoes and donned plastic gloves. “Stay here,” I said to Wingo. He nodded and made a note of our entry into the house. I pushed the door open wider. Cool air hit me. The air conditioner was working well. I glanced at Spats.

  “After you,” he said politely.

  I stepped into a large foyer with a staircase across from the door. A large, modern-styled chandelier was on. I heard voices and glanced at Spats.

  He shrugged. “Sounds like the news.”

  “Hello?” I called out.

  Nothing.

  I put my hand on the butt of my gun holstered on my hip and walked past the stairwell toward the kitchen. Spats was at my heels. To the left was a kitchen, to the right a large family den. A TV on one wall had the Today show on, and a standing lamp in the corner was also on. No one was around. Spats and I looked at each other.

  “Who’s watching TV?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer, but walked to an end table and carefully picked up a half-full glass of brown liquid. I sniffed it. “Scotch, maybe.” I set the glass down and walked into the kitchen. As I passed the island, I stopped and pointed at a cell phone on the granite counter. “Amy’s?” I carefully swiped the screen. “It’s locked. Did she forget it, or did she know she wouldn’t need it?”

  “Or,” he said, “if she really did commit suicide, maybe she didn’t take the phone with her because she didn’t want anyone to call or text her, and potentially talk her out of killing herself.”

  “It’s possible,” I mused. I looked around. “There was a purse in her car, right?”

  “Yeah, CSI dusted it for prints.”

  “Good.”

  I went into a breakfast nook, then looked out a window into the back yard. I didn’t see anybody.

  “Let’s check the house to see if anyone’s around,” I said.

  He nodded and headed back down the hall. While he went upstairs, I quickly walked through the rest of the main floor, which also included a living room, bathroom, and a bedroom that had been turned into an office. I didn’t see a soul. The rooms were tastefully decorated and clean. I saw no signs of anything disturbed. I went downstairs as well, then went back into the foyer. Spats came down the stairs.

  “Nobody,” he said.

  I went out the back door and stood on the porch. I could hear traffic in the distance, but nothing else. I quickly walked the yard, then went back inside. Spats shrugged again.

  I put a hand on my hip. “Okay, Amy leaves the house in the middle of the night, with the intent to commit suicide, and she leaves the TV on. Do you buy that?”

  Spats frowned. “It’s possible, but I doubt it.”

  I glanced around. “What’s the alternative? She leaves the house, and she’s in a hurry, so she doesn’t turn the TV off?”

  “Maybe,” he said noncommittally. “Or someone made her leave.” He rubbed his chin. “Let’s give the place a more thorough shakedown. I’ll go back upstairs.”

  I nodded and went into the living room. I heard his footsteps on the stairs, then nothing. I went to a coffee table, where a couple of outdoor magazines lay beside a mystery novel. The room had typical modern décor: sleek gray couches, dark wood coffee and end tables, and some kind of colorful abstract print hung above a stacked-stone fireplace. Nothing seemed out of place. The same with the formal dining room.

  I went into the kitchen next. I checked the cherry cabinets and in a stainless-steel refrigerator. Not much food, none of it spoiled. A small alcove held desk supplies, some charger cords, a calendar pinned to the wall, a drawer with more notepads. I didn’t see a suicide note, or anything that left me thinking foul play. I checked the den, turned off the TV and lamp, and ended up in Amy’s office. A laptop on a mahogany desk was turned off. Otherwise, the desk was bare. No suicide note anywhere. I carefully checked the drawers, then moved to the closet. It was nearly empty, a few reams of printer paper and a box of pens on a shelf. I opened a two-drawer file cabinet tucked into a corner and found files for tax information and files with medical information in them. One section included research on some drugs I was unfamiliar with. I turned and let my gaze rove around the room. A small metal shelf in the corner held a few potted plants, and a painting of birds hung across from the desk. No pictures of family, not much in the way of personal possessions. Very little to tell me about Amy.

  I left the office and went to the basement. It was small, a laundry room, and a great room that was empty. Not a space that Amy used. I went back upstairs into the foyer, then poked my head outside.

  “Still quiet out here?” I asked Wingo. “No neighbors gawking or asking questions?”

  He shook his head, and I went back inside and upstairs. I peeked into a spare bedroom with a trundle bed, dresser, and a small rocker. I heard Spats in the master suite. I walked into the room. He was on one knee, looking under the bed. He glanced up at me when I came in.

  “You find anything?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “If she left a suicide note, I didn’t find it anywhere in the house. Did you?”

  “Nope, not a thing. I checked the spare bedroom and bathroom. Nothing to see.” He stood up, brushed imaginary dirt off his pants, and waved a hand around. “Her house is neat and tidy.” He nodded at the closet. “She’s got good taste in clothes.”

  “And who would know better than you?” I said with a small smile. He laughed drolly as I went to the closet and looked inside. A closetful of what appeared to be expensive clothes hung on the rods, and plenty of high-heeled shoes arranged on racks on the floor. I stepped into the master bath and glanced around, then caught my reflection in the mirror. My brown eyes looked worried, and my blond hair was to my shoulders, and I generally don’t like to look at myself for long. I averted my gaze and saw nothing out of place, just a very large, beautiful bathroom. I went back into the bedroom.

  “No guns, or a lockbox a gun might’ve been in?”

  He shook his head. “She owns a gun that she shoots herself with, but she doesn’t have a lockbox for it?” The skepticism was clear.

  “It makes me wonder,” I said.

  He pointed at the bed. “Neatly made. It wasn’t slept in last night.”

  I smelled perfume, something flowery, as I thought about that. “She likely killed herself, or was killed, in the middle of the night. So she’s a night person? Hadn’t made it to bed yet when she decided to leave, or was taken?”

  He paced, thinking. “She’s downstairs watching TV, having a drink, then she decides to commit suicide. But instead of doing it here at the house,
she leaves, drives to a park, and kills herself.”

  “It might’ve taken her some time to work up enough courage.”

  He gave me a skeptical look. “You buy that?”

  I gnawed my lip. “Based on the crime scene, not really.”

  “Maybe she didn’t want to mess up the beautiful house. She’s a doc, right?”

  “Yes. She and a partner own a family practice near National Jewish.”

  He stopped pacing. “If a doc is going to commit suicide, and a female at that, wouldn’t you think she’d go for some pills? Women who commit suicide don’t generally shoot themselves.” Spats was shaking his head as he talked. “This whole thing stinks.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  Chapter Four

  We ended up back in the foyer. Spats scratched his head as he looked around.

  “Her parents are dead, right?”

  I nodded. “Yes, they died in a car crash. She didn’t have siblings, either. Ernie’s talking to her aunt, the closest relative.”

  He looked up, saw the chandelier still on. In two steps he was at the wall and flicked the switch. “Would someone notice her lights on all night? Would they care?”

  I shrugged. “Let’s get her laptop.”

  Spats went with me into Amy’s office, and we took the laptop, then the phone sitting on the kitchen counter. Spats was careful as he bagged and tagged both, so we could check them for fingerprints. We’d take both items back to the station and give them to Tara Dahl. Detective Dahl specializes in electronics. She’s a technical whiz with computers, and she’d be able to get into Amy Babbitt’s computer and phone and pull all the data and internet history from them.

  I looked around the kitchen desk and on the walls. “No land line.”

  He shook his head. “Come on, Speelmahn, no one under sixty has a land line anymore. Only cell phones. And no security cameras outside.”

  I shook my head. “We’re not that lucky. We need to check with her neighbors, though.”