Dead of Winter (Cold Case Psychic #15) - Pandora Pine Page 0,51
notepad closer and looked poised to write. Ronan’s questions had been the appetizer, this was the main course.
“My meeting was at seven, so I left the house at half past five. I needed gas and knew it would take about forty-five minutes or so to get into the office. I wanted to be there early enough to get ready for my meeting and have my first cup of coffee. I never brought work home, and leaving early was my way of making things work. Jennifer was still asleep when I finished getting dressed. I left her a note in the kitchen telling her how much I loved her.” More tears ran down Charles’s face. “If I’d known then what was going to happen, I would have woken her up to tell her, instead of leaving a note.”
Ronan didn’t recall seeing a love note in the kitchen. He jotted a note to himself to check into it. “Did you text at all through the day?”
“I sent a message when my meeting was over. Jennifer responded back telling me about your repeated phone calls. I was the one who told her she should meet with you and your psychic.”
Anger churned Ronan’s gut. He hated it when people referred to Tennyson as “his psychic.” Ten was his husband, not some trick pony. He took a deep breath. “What had Jennifer told you about Skye Washington’s murder?”
Charles seemed taken aback by the question, as if he’d been expecting something else to come out of Ronan’s mouth.
Ronan wasn’t a stupid man. He’d been a detective long enough to know the ways criminals tried to throw cops off their trail. Blake could call Tennyson anything he wanted, it wasn’t going to rile Ronan up enough to forget they were sitting in this room because Charles Blake’s wife had been shot in the head. “Skye Washington, Mr. Blake,” Ronan prodded.
Blake gave his head a little shake as if he were getting it back in the game. “I remember hearing about the case. There wasn’t anyone in Salem in 1985 who didn’t know a teenage girl had been brutally murdered. I had no idea Jennifer had been friends with Skye until we’d been married for a while.”
“Define ‘a while’ please.” Cisco’s voice had turned serious.
“It was ten years ago.” Charles looked embarrassed over not having known sooner.
“How can you be so sure?”
“The Salem News did a cover story on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the crime. There had been a prayer vigil and a special mass said at St. Ignatius. There had been a story on the news about the vigil, and reminding people of the facts of the case, and that’s when Jennifer shut off the television and told me she’d been friends with Skye Washington. She wept for the girl.” Blake paused, turning his attention back to Ronan. “In all the years we were married, it was the only time I saw her truly weep for anyone or anything. My wife was a strong woman, but I got the feeling there were secrets hidden deep down that she didn’t trust me with. I assumed they had to do with past loves or maybe some abuse at home, but maybe what she was hiding had to do with Skye’s death.”
“Do you think your wife had anything to do with Skye’s murder?” Ronan was done treating this man gently. There were hard questions he needed to answer.
Anger blazed behind Blake’s dark eyes. “Of course not. I’ve never heard anything so absurd in my life. If you float this theory publicly, you’ll be sorry.” Blake made to stand up.
“Hold on a second, Mr. Blake,” Cisco said, his voice deadly soft. “Your wife was murdered last night. Whoever killed her walked right through your locked gates and up to the house which was unlocked. If you think you can threaten us and walk out the door, you’ve got another think coming.”
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, Chief Jackson. I pay your salary, and if I think it’s time to leave, I’m going to do that very thing. Either arrest me or get out of my way.” Charles straightened his spine. “As for you, Detective O’Mara, or whatever you and your charlatan of a husband call yourselves, I hold you responsible for my wife’s death. If you hadn’t gone poking around in a case that was nearly forty years cold, my wife would be putting the finishing touches on her gala. Instead, I’m planning her funeral.” Without another