“Remember when she told us that she asked her husband for a divorce and he became visibly upset. She said he became angry and decided to leave the house and when he picked up his coat, a gun dropped out and it fired. She could be our prime suspect. We need the murder weapon.”
“I don’t think it was Christianson’s wife. What about his secretary? What was her name?”
“Sheila…something—I don’t remember right off hand.”
“Sheila…yeah, that was it,” Samuels said, filling in a word on the crossword puzzle he had started. “Sheila Atkins.”
Yes, that’s it, Sheila Atkins soon-to-be Mrs. Sheila Billops. She was trying to flirt with me until I told her that her coworkers said she and Christianson were an item. Also, she was hiding something because her demeanor immediately changed when I let her in on her little secret. If she doesn’t have a motive, I’m sure she knows a lot more about Christianson’s wheeling and dealing than I initially gave her credit. She deserves a follow-up visit.
“The computer we took from Christianson’s office didn’t yield a lot, except that he seemed to be consumed with Afrika Bailey,” Marshall continued. “He had logged on to her records almost every day up to the day she was shot. I would most likely conclude that Ms. Bailey was his target, and with all that Mrs. Bailey told us, the puzzle pieces seem to fit.”
“I still say the mother, Setrine Bailey, wanted Christianson put away bad. She had a real hatred for the man.”
“You blame her?” Marshall took a sip of his coffee and put it down. “Coffee got cold that quick.”
“No, I can’t say that I do. She told Rathmusen at the hospital that Christianson stalked her, came to her house, and threatened her—told her to leave town or else.”
“But look, Samuels, if she was willing to tell that to Rathmusen, why would she go out and kill Christianson? For sure, she’d realize that we’d be after her before the clock struck another second after we found out Victor was dead. She’s divulged a lot of information to us, which could ultimately place her as the number one suspect on our most wanted list.”
“True, however, you hit on my point. If she believes that we wouldn’t point the finger at her because there is no earthly way we’d believe she did it since she’s been so forthcoming with all this information, guess what?”
“What?”
“She would kill that sucker in a heartbeat and leave it to us to figure it out.”
“I don’t think she’d be that stupid.”
“Umph.”
“Marshall, Samuels,” a close, cropped curly head, dark-skinned Idris Elba look-alike called out, as he entered the two detectives’ space.
Marshall nearly spilled his coffee while Samuels laughed, not realizing the intruder was that close on him without being heard. “What is it, Smith?” Marshall asked, annoyed.
“Got what is believed to be the murder weapon,” Detective Chad Smith replied in his robot voice.
“What murder weapon?” Samuels asked, making Smith spell it out. “And I don’t have all day.”
“The Christianson murder,” Smith replied. “Twenty-two-caliber. It’s registered to a Setrine Bailey. It was picked up from the gun shop the day of the murder.”
“What? Where is it, now?” Marshall asked.
“Ballistics,” Smith said.
“I can’t see the mother of that shooting victim…ah, ah, Afrika Bailey, killing the man, although she had every reason to want to see him behind the jailhouse,” Marshall said, with a small hint of irritation in his voice. “What perplexes me is that she purchases a gun that she picks up on the day of the murder but has done everything she knows to arm us with the kind of information we needed to pick up Christianson to do something as stupid as murder the dude.”
“Maybe we were taking too long, and she got tired of waiting. Had to do the job herself.”
“Yeah, that’s a reasonable explanation, Samuels, but I don’t think she did it, I don’t care what you think. She was praising God that her daughter was going to live.”
“Well, the gun definitely belonged to a woman,” Smith said, not wanting to be upstaged.
“Now how did you deduce that, Smith?” Samuels asked.
“Would a man buy a gun with a pearl handle?”
“You gotta point there, kid,” Marshall plugged in.
“Watch who you callin’ kid. I might not be ten seconds from claiming my retirement check like you old fogies, but I’m not your kid.”
“Forty-three ain’t old,” Marshall said. “I can still make women whisper my name.”