The coordinated outfit—down to the short silver boots with the little navy heels—the carefully made-up face, the perfectly groomed hair made Eve think: Camera ready.
Or demanding, overbearing-husband ready.
“Mrs. Jefferson.”
“Yes, I’m Mattie Jefferson. How can I help you?”
“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I’d like to speak with Craig Jefferson.”
“My husband’s only just gotten home from work,” Mattie began.
“That’s good timing, isn’t it? Can I come in? You’re letting in a lot of cold air.”
Obviously flustered, Mattie stepped back. Eve used the fluster and the space to step in, shut the door at her back. A movement had her glancing up.
A boy—Craig Junior, age eight, according to his official records—stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded. Like his mother, he wore a coordinated outfit. In his case, a navy-and-red-striped shirt with a navy sweater vest over it, navy pants.
And a glowering expression.
Eve hadn’t known an eight-year-old could pull off that expert a glower. He must have practiced.
“Mummy,” he said in affected, superior tones, “who’s at the door?”
“Someone to see Papa. You should finish your homework, C.J.”
“I have finished it.” His snarly tone clearly implied: You idiot. “Papa doesn’t like strangers in the house.”
“I’m a cop, kid.”
He came down two steps, used his superior elevation to look down his snotty little nose at her. “Do you have a warrant to enter?”
Eve gave him a hard, thin smile. “Want me to get one?”
“C.J., just wait in your room, please.”
The kid barely suffered her a glance, and didn’t budge.
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll get my husband.”
She hurried off.
“My papa can make you leave. This is his house.”
Intimidating kids wasn’t her usual course of action, but for this one, she made an exception. She took out her badge again, in a way that shifted her coat and jacket back enough to give the little shithead a glimpse of her weapon.
“This is my badge. That means, if your father doesn’t want to talk to me here, I’ll leave. And get a warrant that obliges him to talk to me in my house. That would be Cop Central. I wonder which he’d rather.”
An angry flush rose up on the boy’s face. He fisted his hands at his sides, came down two more steps. “He doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want. You can’t make him. You’re just a girl.”
“So’s more than half the world’s population. You’re outnumbered.”
She shifted, looked down the hall as Craig Jefferson strode toward her wearing a gray business suit and an annoyed expression.
“Just what’s this about?” he demanded.
“She called me a bad name!” The kid raced to his father. “And she said she was going to stun me with her weapon.”
“Seriously?” Eve might have laughed, but Jefferson took a menacing step forward. “If you lay hands on me, sir, I’ll have to take you in for assaulting an officer.”
“You threatened my son!”
“I did no such thing. Recorder.” She tapped her lapel. “Engaged. Would you like me to order a replay?”
“I don’t like her! Make her go away!”
Ignoring the boy, Eve kept focused on Jefferson. “I expect to take up about ten minutes of your time here and now. If you refuse to speak to me, here and now, I will make arrangements for you to be brought into Cop Central. My questioning there is likely to take longer than ten minutes. So now or later, simple or complicated, Mr. Jefferson. It’s up to you.”
“I demand to know what this is about.”
“It involves your ex-wife.”
“I should have known.” Disgust echoed through his voice. “C.J., go upstairs.”
“I want to stay with you, Papa.”
“Upstairs,” Jefferson repeated, but patted the top of the boy’s head.
The kid took two steps, and Eve read his intent in his eyes. She danced back, avoiding an angry kick in the shins. The miss and momentum had the boy skidding back. He’d have fallen on his ass—a moment Eve would have enjoyed—but his father reached out, steadied him.
“Upstairs,” Jefferson repeated, adding a light ass swat. One that Eve interpreted as a congratulatory ass pat.
The boy stomped up the steps, pausing only to shoot Eve his middle finger behind his father’s back.
“Mattie!” Jefferson bellowed. “I left my drink in my den!” Then he turned into the living area.
The furnishings coordinated as meticulously as the outfits of the residents, and every inch shined clean and stood ruthlessly organized.
Eve imagined if a dust mote tried to sneak in for a visit, it would be eradicated in seconds.
“Ten minutes.” Jefferson sat in a chair with wide, masculine arms. Eve chose the (pillow-free) sofa. “What has Blaine done?”
“Ms. DeLano’s done nothing. However, two people have been killed in the last month. This individual is replicating scenes from Ms. DeLano’s books.”
His eyebrows rose, indicating surprise, before he let out a snorting, derisive laugh.
“It amuses you, Mr. Jefferson, that two people are dead?”
“It amuses me that anyone reads that dreck Blaine churns out, and that the police would have any trouble finding the lowbrow reader of second-rate potboilers who’d use their simplistic plots to kill.”
“You must have read them yourself to have such a strong opinion on their content.”
“I have not. I don’t need to read them to know they’re dreck.”
Mattie hurried in, carrying a lowball glass of amber liquid with a twist of orange on a small tray. Like a skilled waitress she set a cocktail napkin on the table beside Jefferson, put the glass on it.
“Is there anything else I can get you, Craig?”
“No. This won’t take long.”
When Mattie turned to go, Eve spoke up. “Mrs. Jefferson, if you could stay for a moment.”
“My wife is preparing dinner.”
“It won’t take long,” Eve repeated.
On a sigh, Jefferson waved at a chair as if giving his wife permission to sit. She did, on the edge of the chair, back straight, knees pressed together, ankles crossed.
“Apparently one of Blaine’s readers—and I use the term loosely—is copying murders from her books. Turning low-rent fiction into reality.”
“I … Killing people? Murdering people?”
“Isn’t that what I said?” Jefferson snapped. “What do you expect me to do about it?” he asked Eve.
“You can start by telling me where you were last night between five and seven P.M.”
Face flushed as red as his son’s had been, that same ugly heat burning in his eyes, Jefferson pushed halfway out of his chair.
“You would dare accuse me? Mattie, get my lawyer on the line.”
“You can do that.” Eve held up a hand, watched the woman struggle over who to obey. “You’re absolutely entitled to that, but it’s a simple, straightforward, and routine question. Getting it out of the way saves everyone time. Let’s be clear. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m establishing your whereabouts so we can move on, and so I can tie this up and leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Craig, I don’t have Stan Grotti’s contact number.”
At his wife’s apologetic tone, Jefferson flicked his wrist at her. “I don’t like the question, your tone, or your attitude.”
“I get that a lot, but answering the question gets me out of your hair faster.”
“I arrived home at five-twenty. I unwound from my workday in my den until Mattie served dinner at six-thirty. At seven-fifteen, while Mattie cleared and ordered the kitchen and dining room, I spent thirty minutes with my son in the family room. I believe that more than covers it.”
“It does. Mrs. Jefferson, can you corroborate that?”
“I—yes, yes, of course.”
“Thank you. Has anyone contacted either of you asking questions about Ms. DeLano?”
“Why would they?” Jefferson shot back.
“She is the mother of your two oldest children.”
“Blaine lives her life, such as it is. We live ours.”
“Could you tell me the last time you had contact with her?”
Jefferson shrugged, picked up his drink. “I live my life,” he repeated.
“Mrs. Jefferson?”
“Ah, I—that is, we—sent the girls gifts for Christmas. They sent us thank-you notes.” When this earned her a cold stare from her husband, Mattie returned it with a quiet smile. “You said it was fine as long as I paid for them myself.”
“If you want to throw your … ‘professional mother’ salary away.” He tapped fingers in the air, making air quotes around the term.
“The long and short, this is none of our concern. If some moron decides to pattern murders after Blaine’s ridiculous excuse for novels, it has nothing to do with me. And if the blowback throws her silly career in the ditch, it was always going to end there. Now, is that all?”
“I think that covers it.” Eve rose. “Thanks for your time.”
“Mattie will show you out.”
When she reached the door, Eve dug out a card, handed it over. “In case you remember something. Or have any issues that require police assistance or intervention.”
“I don’t see how I can be of any help to you.”
Eve glanced up where the kid sat at the top of the steps, watching, listening.
“You never know where help might come from.”
She thought about it on the drive home, concluded she wouldn’t hear from Mattie Jefferson. Eventually she, or another badge, would end up sitting across from Craig Jefferson Junior in the box.