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  The bar was surprisingly not as sleazy as it looked from the outside. The black and white interior appeared recently renovated and had a modern, industrial feel. The lights that hung from the ceiling were turned down low and pop music blared through the speakers. The seating was a mixture of booths and tables with a long row of barstools set against the bar's concrete counter. A giant mirror covered the wall behind the bar.

  The place seemed busy for a Monday night. He took one of the last two empty seats at the bar, next to a twenty-something blonde who was involved in a heavily animated conversation with the two women on the other side of her.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

  “Scotch and soda. Make it a double,” he said.

  The bartender placed a short glass tumbler in front of him a minute later. It was filled to the brim. A single round ice cube floated in the pale brown liquid. Eric emptied the glass after only a few swigs and signaled the bartender for another. He replaced Eric’s empty glass with another filled just as full as the first.

  Eric started to take a drink as the blonde to his right turned in his direction. After quickly looking him over, she smiled.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He swallowed his mouthful of Scotch. “Hi.”

  “I'm Laci.”

  “I'm Eric.”

  “Do you come here often?” she asked.

  “No. This is my first time here. You?”

  “Every once in a while, with my friends.”

  Although not nearly as beautiful, her facial features and blonde hair shared many similarities to Daisy's. As they continued to engage in small talk, he couldn't help but think about sitting at the sushi bar with Daisy while they waited for their table a few nights before.

  “What are you drinking?” he asked when his glass was empty.

  She glanced at her half-full martini glass, still half full. “A lemon drop.”

  He flagged the bartender who made his way toward them at a tortoise's pace.

  “We'll have two lemon drops,” Eric said when he finally came within earshot. “And make mine a double.”

  He nodded and turned to make their drinks.

  A comfortable silence passed between them, and Eric continued to feel nostalgic for his lovely secretary.

  “You remind me of someone,” he finally said.

  She playfully rolled her eyes. “Like who? You're ex-girlfriend?”

  “Not quite. Her name was Daisy.”

  “Was? Like you don't know her anymore?”

  Their lemon drops appeared in front of them and he wasted no time in taking a drink. “Mmm. This is good.”

  She grinned. “Yes, they are. You said her name was Daisy?”

  He took another drink. “Yeah.” He looked down at the lemon rind floating in his martini glass. “She's dead.”

  “Oh. I'm so sorry.”

  He noticed this made her uncomfortable and watched her take a sip of her drink. She looked straight ahead as if trying to think of what to say. Or maybe she was debating whether to keep talking to him. He finished his delicious lemon drop and pointed to hers that she'd left untouched while she finished her other martini.

  “You mind?” he asked.

  “Oh. Umm, no. Go ahead,” she said. “You bought it.”

  She turned back toward her girlfriends as he downed half the lemon drop in one swig.

  “I'll have another,” he said to the bartender as he walked past. “And make it a double.”

  Eric watched him unenthusiastically make him another martini. He finished off what was left in his glass and pushed it in the bartender’s direction when he set down his newly-made drink. Sometime between his first sip and the bottom of the glass he sobbed for his beloved secretary, overcome by the tragedy of her death. His glass had not long been empty when Laci stood to leave.

  “It was nice meeting you.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “I'm really sorry about your friend.”

  She turned to follow her friends out of the bar. Seeing her long blonde curls bounce against her back as she moved struck a chord inside him. He jumped from his barstool, nearly losing his balance on the unsteady floor. His eyes were blurred with tears as he chased after her.

  “Wait! Daisy, don't go!”

  He grabbed her by the arm, but she pulled away and hurried toward her friends at the door.

  A male patron stepped away from the bar and pressed his palm against Eric’s chest when he started to go after her.

  “I think you better just let her go, dude.”

  Eric wanted to punch him in the face but knew he was in no condition to put up a fight. The room was spinning despite his standing still. Instead, he put up his hands as a sign of surrender.

  “Okay. I'll let her go.”

  The man slowly pulled his hand away from Eric’s chest. Satisfied when Eric didn't make a run for the door, the man walked back to the bar. As soon as he was out of reach, Eric bolted outside.

  He scanned the cars parked along the street before jogging to the parking lot adjacent to the bar. Eric saw her climb behind the wheel of a red Honda with her two friends in tow. He raced to the car as she started the engine.

  “Hey!” a male voice shouted from behind him.

  It was probably the tough guy again, but it didn't deter him. He needed to get to her. Her eyes widened when Eric reached the car and he heard its doors lock.

  “I'm calling the cops!” the man yelled from the sidewalk.

  Eric rapped frantically on her window.

  “Daisy! You can't do this. You can't leave!”

  He tried to open her handle with no success. Her friend shrieked in the backseat.

  The car pulled forward and Eric dove onto the hood in a desperate attempt to make her stay. She screamed from behind the wheel and the car jolted to a stop. Eric rolled off the front of the car onto the wet pavement. He stood up, staggered to the side, and shook himself off before climbing back on top of the hood toward the windshield. All three of the women made terrified noises from inside the car.

  He pressed his face against the glass in front of the driver's seat. “Please, don't go. I beg you. I can't bear to lose you again.” He sobbed with his hands and face still against the windshield. “Daisy!” he cried.

  The women's shrieking eventually quieted, and Eric rolled over onto his back. He continued to cry for his secretary while he looked at the unexpectedly clear sky. He hardly noticed the flashing red and blue lights from the squad car that pulled up beside him. Two uniformed officers stood over him with stone cold expressions. They were completely unsympathetic to his state.

  “Sir, we're going to need you to get off the car and place your hands on top of your head.”

  Eric did as he was told and was shocked to feel the cold metal of a handcuff lock around his wrist in exchange for his cooperation.

  “You're under arrest for disorderly conduct,” the officer said while he secured the cuffs to his other wrist.

  The other officer read him his Miranda Rights as they led him into the back seat of their car. Eric watched through the window as they questioned the three women. The officers walked back to the squad car when they were finished and Eric saw the red Honda pull out into the street.

  “Daisy,” he muttered under his breath as the car disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Stephenson watched Adams stifle a yawn from across their desks Tuesday morning. The city was wet and gray out the window behind him. He and Adams had spent the day before interviewing Martin and Patricia's neighbors, family members, and Martin's publicist. They also revisited the crime scene and went through Patricia's medical file from Dr. Leroy.

  The neighbors neither saw nor heard anything the night of the murders. The victims' family and friends had no idea who would do this to them. And revisiting the crime scene had given them no new information.

  Nothing appeared to be missing from the home. Both victims’ wallets were left in the house full of credit car
ds and cash. Expensive electronics and Patricia's jewelry had also been left untouched.

  They had no clear motive for the crimes. According to Patricia's file from the psychiatrist, her husband was a controlling narcissist who often inflicted emotional abuse on his wife. However, everyone they interviewed loved Martin and had nothing but glowing things to say about him. But, if there was one thing Stephenson had learned during his time as a detective it was that no one ever really knew what went on behind closed doors. In this case, either way, it seemed to be irrelevant. Martin didn't kill Patricia. The husband and wife appeared to be victims of the same crime.

  Although they'd arrested Dwayne for Daisy's murder, it was bothering him that three people connected to Dr. Leroy were murdered on the same night by strangulation. The doctor's neighbor had confirmed his statement that he'd knocked on his door and asked him to keep the noise down for the evening, but that was about two hours before Daisy's time of death and approximately an hour before Patricia and Martin's. Because the building's security footage in their parking garage only covered part of the parking area, they couldn't tell if his car had been parked in the garage or whether he came or went anywhere that night.

  The doctor seemed to have no motive to kill Daisy, or Patricia and Martin for that matter. And all the evidence pointed to Dwayne as Daisy's killer. Nothing so far had linked the doctor to Martin and Patricia's deaths, but there was something he didn’t trust about Dr. Leroy.

  Despite all their efforts yesterday, they'd gotten nowhere in the investigation. When they'd finally decided to go home and get some rest late last night, it had felt like a waste of a day.

  Adams' face lit up when he saw Detective Richards walk past their desks. Here we go, Stephenson thought.

  “Got your first case yet?” Adams asked, raising his voice just enough to get her attention.

  She turned to face the detective. “Yep. Suarez just got the call. We'll be heading to the crime scene in the next few minutes.”

  “Enjoy,” Adams said with a wry smile.

  “Thanks.” Her eyes traveled to Stephenson and lingered for a moment before she smiled.

  “Morning,” he said casually.

  “Morning.” She looked down at the framed photo of Detective Rodriguez on his desk. “Your girlfriend's a cop too?” She motioned toward the photo.

  “My late partner, actually. She was killed just over a year ago.”

  Her expression turned somber; she obviously had no idea. “I'm so sorry. That's horrible.”

  Stephenson was about to respond when Adams interjected. “He does have a girlfriend though. Getting pretty serious, right Stephenson?”

  “Actually, we broke up.”

  Adams' eyebrows shot to the top of his forehead. “What? When?”

  “Saturday morning.”

  “What happened?”

  Richards glanced at her desk before turning back to Stephenson. “Looks like Suarez is ready to go. I'll see you guys later.”

  “Sure,” Stephenson said, grateful she'd excused herself from their conversation that had just turned personal.

  “So?” Adams pressed.

  Stephenson took a deep breath. He might as well tell him the truth. He knew it would probably do him good to talk about it. “I went over to her house to propose on her birthday and found another guy had spent the night. Apparently, they'd been seeing each other for a few weeks.”

  Adams' jaw dropped. “Why didn't you tell me?”

  “I didn't want to talk about it.”

  “Wow. I'm sorry, man. I really am. That's rough.”

  Stephenson nodded.

  “Well, at least you didn't marry her,” Adams said.

  “I guess.”

  Stephenson's cell phone rang half an hour later. “Stephenson.”

  “Hey, it's Richards. We just got to the crime scene and I wanted to make sure our homicide isn't related to those cases you're already working on. Our victim is a twenty-three-year-old male who was strangled in his apartment. I know you picked up other strangulation cases over the weekend.”

  “Yeah, we made an arrest for one of them, but we're still working the other two.”

  “You guys want to come have a look at the scene? See if it might be connected?”

  “Sure, what's the address?” He scribbled it down on a notepad as Richards rattled off the downtown location. “Could you say that again?” He looked in disbelief at the address he'd jotted down.

  She repeated the address.

  “Thanks, we'll be right there.”

  “Be right where?” Adams asked as Stephenson hung up.

  “You're not going to believe this. Dr. Leroy's neighbor has been murdered. And guess how he died?”

  “Our victim is twenty-three-year-old Robert Benson,” Richards said.

  The apartment looked the part of a bachelor pad. A drum set took up much of the space in the small living room. A pair of drumsticks sat neatly atop the stool. Next to the drums, a large painting and easel lay on the floor of the small living space, surrounded by a mess of painting supplies. Presumably, it had gotten knocked over in the struggle that led to Robert’s death.

  In the kitchen, Detective Suarez spoke with a member of the CSI team. The team was already working away at processing the scene. Stephenson and Adams stood over the body of Dr. Leroy's neighbor. He lay face-up on the hardwood floor. He was barefoot, wearing a faded black t-shirt and baggy jeans. Even though his face was now mottled with a purplish-gray hue, Stephenson recognized him as the young man he and Adams had confirmed the doctor's alibi with a few days before.

  “We spoke to him over the weekend to confirm his neighbor's alibi for our other strangulation cases.”

  Richards raised her eyebrows. “Really? That's interesting. Well, looks like you two might need to have another chat with that neighbor.”

  “What’s that smell?” Stephenson asked. “Acetone?”

  “Paint thinner.” Richards pointed to an open can on the floor with clear liquid surrounding it. It lay next to a fallen easel and painting. “We found paper towels in the kitchen garbage that appear to be soaked with it.”

  Stephenson looked at the mess of liquid on the floor. “If Robert was cleaning up a spill, he didn’t do a very good job.”

  “Maybe it got knocked over during the struggle, and the killer tried to wipe up the mess,” Adams said.

  It seemed too sloppy for Dr. Leroy. And Stephenson doubted anyone else was responsible for his neighbor’s death.

  Richards pointed down at the victim. “His friend found him just like this earlier this morning. Robert here was supposed to pick the friend up from the airport last night at eleven thirty but didn't show. His friend called him several times without an answer and ended up taking a taxi home. He came by this morning to make sure Robert was all right. He's pretty shaken up.”

  “How'd the friend get in?”

  “The door was unlocked. There's no sign of forced entry.”

  “No indication the lock been picked?”

  “Not that we could tell.”

  Stephenson looked over at Adams. “So maybe he knew his killer and let him in.”

  “Or he felt safe enough to leave his door unlocked,” Adams said.

  “His friend has already given us his statement, but I asked him to stay in case you two had any questions for him. We haven't been able to find what was used to strangle him. It looks like the killer may have taken it with them.”

  Stephenson bent down to get a closer look at the victim. “His ligature mark is very similar to Patricia's. I'm guessing it was a necktie.” He lifted one of Robert’s hands to his nose with a gloved hand. “I can’t smell any paint thinner.”

  “Doing my work for me, detective?”

  Stephenson looked up to see Pete heading toward them from a few feet away. His coat was wet from the rain and his normally neat short curls were in disarray atop his head. Despite the ME's slightly disheveled appearance, Stephenson could tell he was in a good mood. He placed
his black canvas bag of supplies that he brought to every crime scene down next to Robert's body.

  “As best I can, doctor,” Stephenson said, stepping back from the body and allowing Pete to start his examination.

  Pete knelt over the victim. “I agree, it does look very similar to Patricia's ligature mark.” He carefully turned Robert onto his side and inspected the back of his neck. “Do you have reason to believe his death is related to Martin and Patricia's?”

  Stephenson looked at Adams before he answered. “Yes.”

  Pete continued to inspect the body while Stephenson turned back to Richards. “Have you requested the building's surveillance footage?”

  “We've placed a call to the building's manager. She should be here any minute and can show us what they have. There are no cameras on this floor or in the elevator, but there are a couple in the building's parking garage.”

  “Yeah, we learned that when we requested footage over the weekend to check the doctor's alibi. Problem is, the cameras in the parking garage don't cover the exit or the parking spaces close to it. But we'll see what they show. We should talk to the building manager about getting a camera on the exit. You said the friend who found Robert is still here?”

  “Yeah, he's waiting out in the hall. His name is Travis. He confirmed the address for Robert's parents. They live in Kirkland.” She handed him a small piece of paper with their handwritten address.

  “Thanks. We'll take over from here. Sorry to take your first case away from you.”

  “That's all right. You owe me one,” she said, nudging him with her elbow.

  “Okay,” Stephenson said before turning to Adams. “Let's go talk to the friend.”

  Adams nodded and turned to Richards before following Stephenson out of the apartment. “See ya later.”

  They reached the front door of the apartment and Stephenson bent down to examine the lock for himself. Like Richards had said, the lock looked perfectly intact.

  “Richards was totally flirting with you back there,” Adams said in a lowered voice.