a wry smile. “I know. But now that we have a vehicle to look for, let’s go back and check in increasing circles around the man’s house. See if that car showed up somewhere before it was dumped in the lot the night of Christiansen’s murder. Hoy and Mendall?”
“Yeah, yeah. Check the cameras,” Mendall said without enthusiasm.
Nate called on the rest of the teams, who submitted verbal and written reports on their assignments. “Brandau and Recker, canvass Christiansen’s neighbors again. See if anything has jogged their memories now that the shock has worn off.”
“Shroot,” he looked at the tall angular man. “The UNSUB had to have gotten to Randolph’s some way. Get a copy of the list for possible new plates on the Malibu and check streets around Randolph’s. I’m guessing he abandoned it nearby.”
“Alberts and Finnegan, we’ve got the victims’ financials.” Nate could feel the sudden tension emanating from his silent captain in the corner. He knew exactly what the man was thinking and chose his words carefully. “We’re checking on whether the men held outside jobs in their free time. Parker and Christiansen’s widows indicated their husbands did, although neither had a clear idea of what the job entailed. Maybe there’s a connection there. See if you can find anything that would help us figure out who or what they were working for.”
Next would come the more delicate job of approaching banks to ask whether the victims held lockboxes there. Tull at least had had a key in his desk drawer at home that looked like it would fit one. If the men were involved in something illegal, something that made them enough money to enable Nora Parker to pay a cool million for a house, they had to keep records of it somewhere. Even if they were savvy enough to stash it overseas, there had to be bankbooks like Parker’s widow had found. Statements. Records of some type.
And those were exactly the type of questions he’d be asking Mark Randolph’s estranged wife.
Cheryl Randolph was dry-eyed and full of questions when Nate and Risa walked into the interview room. She was dressed in a pale pink summer suit that might have been considered appropriate office wear if it hadn’t been for the plunging neckline on the white blouse beneath it, which showed her impressive cleavage off to advantage. Her artful blond curls looked like they’d been aided by a bottle, and there wasn’t a flicker of sorrow on her face for the man she was not yet divorced from.
“So I heard Mark was burned to death.” She looked queasy at the prospect. “Like those other cops. Is that true?”
“We believe he was a victim of the same killer, yes.” Risa tried to keep the irony from her next words. “We’re sorry for your loss.”
The woman blinked. “Oh. Thank you. Mark and I . . . Our divorce is almost final.”
And you moved on long ago, Risa thought. That was clear enough. She remained silent as Nate asked the woman questions about her relationship with her husband, her last communication with him, and the nature of that communication. For the first time, Cheryl Randolph showed a flicker of emotion.
“Actually we argued on the phone just last week. This divorce is dragging out because Mark won’t agree to the financial split. He could be an as—He could be stubborn,” she amended. “And he was as cheap as the day was long. I had to explain every nickel I ever spent, even though I brought home a paycheck, too. I think that’s what got to me in the end. I just got tired of fighting about money all the time.”
“Was your husband having financial problems?” Risa put in.
The other woman grimaced. “The only problem Mark had with money is when he couldn’t hang on to his pennies long enough. He hated spending on anything. Unless it was something he wanted, of course.”
“Do you know if he worked a second job?”
She looked puzzled at Nate’s question. “A second job? How would he have managed that with the crazy hours you guys work?”
“So he didn’t mention putting in some time working security or protection or helping out a friend with their second job?”
Cheryl screwed up her brow, looked from Nate to Risa and back again. “He didn’t say a word about any of that. He wasn’t home a lot. He pulled overtime whenever he could, so we usually met each other coming and going. Once in a while he’d meet up with some