Chapters (61)
“Correct. She claims the Walther was stolen two weeks before the murders. She called the local cops to report it. She claims she’d only shot it once, that her second husband gave it to her, registered it, showed her how to use it, but she says she hates guns, never used it. She also claims she put it in a cardboard box in her garage, simply forgot about it.” Kelly turned on her blinker and took the Brickson exit. “Brickson is one of Manhattan’s bedroom communities, mostly middle-class, a mixed community, but the doctor’s neighborhood, in the north end, is the primo spot to live.”
A few blocks off the highway, Kelly turned right onto Hickory Street. The lots grew larger, as did the houses. Most were older, established, their yards filled with trees hunkered down in the frigid winter wind.
The Madison house was at least a hundred years old, with a deep wraparound porch. It sat in the middle of a heavily forested lot, looked for all the world like a precious old queen from a bygone era. The closest neighbors were a hundred feet away through swells of maple and oak trees, a good cover for someone not wanting to be seen. It was obvious no one had been taking care of the yard. Potted hanging plants were dead, the grass overgrown.
Sherlock wanted to be alone in the house so Kelly handed her the keys and stayed in the car, heater on high, working on her tablet. Even bundled up to her eyebrows, Sherlock was shivering as she removed the yellow crime scene tape and stepped into the empty house. She stood silent a moment in the bare oak entry hall. There was a faint smell of chemicals from the CSI team.
She imagined the house had been welcoming when it was filled with life and light and central heating, but now it felt abandoned, as if even the spirits had moved on. It was all shadows and emptiness and stale air. And very cold.