Hold On (Page 128)

“Gotcha,” Abe replied quickly, immediately jogging to their vehicle, having been keeping his distance from the Fiesta.

Garrett eyed Abe a beat, trying to remember when he started and what had gone down since.

His first homicide.

Abe was a gung-ho guy. Not even twenty-four years old and raring to go. Couldn’t wait to put his mark on beating back crime in the ’burg. Was always volunteering for everything, was there early for his shift, happy to work late. Marty thought he was hilarious, which was Marty’s way of not finding him annoying.

He was not gung-ho now. With a dead woman in a Ford Fiesta, he was subdued, watchful, quiet, and helpful.

That was what homicide did to a rookie. Knocked the cocky superhero shit right out of you.

“When he’s done callin’ that in, Marty,” Garrett said quietly to the veteran cop. “Might be a good idea you start him canvassing. See if anyone saw anything. Heard anything.”

Marty nodded.

“I’m good,” Mike said. “Let’s go in.”

Garrett and Mike moved to round the Fiesta, both of them turning their head to watch as the ME van pulled up.

They didn’t stop walking. They made it to the door of the house, Garrett knocking even as he looked around the cul-de-sac.

One house, windows boarded up. One house, lawn hadn’t been mowed all summer, obviously deserted, bank notices of foreclosure still posted to the door. One house in decent shape, for sale sign out in front of it.

This house, the only one occupied.

Ellen opened the door, jerked her head to the side to indicate they should come in, but she didn’t speak.

Garrett opened the storm and he and Mike went through, following Ellen into the living room.

As he went, he took in as much as he could.

The place was nice. Clean. Furnished a helluva lot better than Garrett’s condo.

Pride there.

Pride in taking care of a house that the owners were probably so upside down on, it’d take decades to get right side up.

Pride in the travels the occupants had taken to Disney World, Atlantic City, the Sears Tower, and more, these declared through the snow globes, plastic banks, and other cheap souvenirs displayed throughout the home.

Also pride in family. Framed pictures everywhere and more shoved into the edges of the frames or propped up against them. Pictures that held the image of the woman pacing the room. Some men. Other women. Relatives. Friends.

And pictures with the woman sitting dead in a pool of her own blood in a compact car at the curb.

Garrett took in the woman pacing. She was still in her pajamas. The family resemblance was unmistakable. Dark hair. Curves. Olive skin. Fine features. But definitely older, at least by a decade. Wendy Derian appeared to be in her late twenties; this woman was in her late thirties or even having hit her forties, and she took care of herself like she did her house.

She didn’t stop pacing when they hit the room.

She also didn’t stop muttering. “Knew it. Fuckin’ knew it. Knew it with that dickhead. That dickhead douchebag. That dickhead douchebag asshole loser. Fuckin’ knew it.”

She might know whatever it was she was muttering about, but she had no clue Garrett and Mike had joined her and Ellen, that was how far she was in her head.

And her anger.

Which meant the grief hadn’t hit her yet.

This was unusual. It had to have been over an hour since she called it in. Grief was mighty. It typically powered through the initial anger easily…and quickly.

This was also good. It was difficult to get statements from sobbing, hysterical people.

Angry people let it all hang out.

Garrett looked to Mike to see Mike’s eyes on him.

“Ms. Derian,” Ellen called. The woman jerked to a halt and turned narrowed, pissed off eyes on Ellen. “This is Lieutenant Garrett Merrick and Lieutenant Mike Haines of the Brownsburg Police Department. They’re here to ask a few questions about this morning.” Ellen turned to Garrett and Mike. “This is Marscha Derian.”

“Thanks, Ellen,” Mike muttered.

Garrett caught Marscha Derian’s dark brown eyes, held them, and communicated with his own.

So when he said unemotionally, “We’re sorry for your loss,” even though it didn’t sound it, she might understand he meant it.

“Yeah,” she spat. “Me too.”

She didn’t understand he meant it. Nothing was penetrating her rage.

“Would you like to sit down? Get a cup of coffee? If you don’t have a pot going, we can make one,” Mike offered.

“No, ’cause, see, got three brothers, another sister, and my mom and dad, which means I got a shit-ton of calls to make today and I’m not lookin’ forward to any of ’em,” she bit out. “So I just wanna get this done and want you to get that shit,” she tossed a hand toward her front window, “outta here.”

That shit.

Nope, the grief hadn’t hit her yet.

Either that or she and her sister weren’t the best of friends.

Garrett and Mike exchanged another look, then both of them pulled out their notepads and pens.

“Okay, then, Ms. Derian, we’ll get to it,” Garrett started, flipping his open. “Officer Fink says you called it in. Did you—”

“Heard the gunshots but didn’t know what I was hearin’,” she cut him off to declare. “Never heard nothin’ like that. Was sleepin’, it woke me up, and I just laid there. Just fuckin’ laid there, wonderin’ what the fuck that was.” She shook her head. “Nothin’ happens around here anymore. Only got four neighbors left on this street, so things are quiet. Couldn’t figure out what that noise was. So I just laid there.”