He grinned. He had a solid lead. Things were definitely looking up.
Chapter Fifteen
An old Ford Taurus sat in the driveway of the south St. Louis bungalow and Crow could hear the television blaring inside. He pulled the piece of paper from his pocket and glanced at the address one last time, wanting to be sure he had the right place before he knocked.
It had been surprisingly easy to track down Christine Jablonski. She was a lifelong St. Louis resident and this little house wasn’t far from where she and Sara had grown up.
Crow rapped on the door and waited. He waited a minute then knocked again, a little louder this time.
He smiled at the security system decal on the weathered storm door. Crow knew people of all income levels often put up such signs believing they acted as a deterrent. In this neighborhood, Ms. Jablonski would have been smarter to invest in a good dead bolt lock.
He shifted and hit the door two more times with the back of his fist. Hard.
“I’m coming. Just give me a minute,” a feminine voice from inside yelled.
He smiled and lifted his gaze. Today was his lucky day.
An unfamiliar reflection stared back from the smudged glass of the door. The hair that had once trailed down his back now barely brushed his shoulders. He’d gone in, fully intending to get it cut short but at the last minute he’d changed his mind and only four inches had fallen to the floor.
“May I help you?” A woman’s fleshy face surrounded by a mass of tightly permed curls peered around the door.
“Christine Jablonski?” Crow asked.
“Maybe.” Suspicion clouded her eyes. “Who wants to know?”
“Detective Tucci, St. Louis PD.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet, opening it to his picture ID and his badge. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“You don’t look like a cop.”
He groaned to himself but kept a smile on his face. “You can call the station if you want.”
“Am I in tr-trouble?” she stammered. “I know I paid that parking ticket late, but I did pay it. I think I even have a copy of the—”
“Ma’am.” Crow stopped her before she could shut the door and go in search of her canceled check. “It’s not about the parking ticket. May I come in? Or do you want to talk here on the porch?”
She hesitated. Her gaze slid back to the identification and badge he still held open in his hand.
“I guess you can come inside.” She released the chain and held open the door. “Excuse the mess. I’ve been cleaning.”
Crow had been in many houses just like hers over the years and he prepared himself for unending clutter and overflowing ashtrays. To his surprise, not only was the place neat as a pin, it smelled like freshly baked apple pie.
The only clue that she’d been cleaning was a can of furniture polish and a dust rag on top of the end table and a vacuum with its cord still plugged in sitting off to one side.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Her hands fluttered nervously. “I have iced tea or lemonade.”
“No, thank you.” Crow took a seat on a green plaid couch and pulled a notepad out of his back pocket. “But I can wait while you get yourself some.”
“I’m fine.” She moved to a nearby wooden rocker and sat down, ignoring the folded afghan draped over the seat. “I want to know why you’re here.”
She brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead, her expression clearly worried. The tiny lines around her eyes and her callused hands showed she hadn’t had an easy life, yet on first impression she didn’t seem mean or vindictive. What would have made her turn on an old friend? It couldn’t have been money. The journalist hadn’t paid any of his sources.
“Ms. Jablonski—”
“Call me Chris,” she said. “Everybody does.”
“Is that what Sara Michaels called you?”
“What does she have to do with anything?” The polite smile slipped from her face.
“I read the interview you did last year.”
“It’s a free country.” She lifted her chin. “Everything I said was the truth. If she said any different—”
“What happened between you and Ms. Michaels?” Crow said in a low smooth voice. “It sounded like you two used to be close friends.”
“We were.” Chris twisted a piece of the afghan between her thumb and forefinger. “But since she’s gotten to be such a star, she doesn’t have time for her old friends.”
“Is that so?” he said.
She lifted her gaze and he could see the hurt in her eyes. “Sara and I weren’t just good friends, we were besties. We told each other everything. You’d think that would mean something to her.”
“You sound bitter.”
“I don’t really care anymore.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I just don’t like reading how wonderful she is, like she’s some sort of saint or something. If her fans knew what she was really like, they wouldn’t think she was so great.”
Crow’s breath caught in his throat. There it was again. The same basic message that had been present in the note Sara had received. He lifted a questioning brow. “Are you aware that Ms. Michaels had recently received a threatening note with that same sentiment?”
The color drained from her face and Crow knew he’d hit pay dirt.
“Why did you send the note, Chris?” Crow said softly.
“Who said I sent it?” The woman’s tone was surprisingly casual but little beads of sweat dotted her forehead.
“You asked why I was here,” he said. “Did you know that with today’s technology we can get a fingerprint off an envelope and tie it to the person who sent it?”
Crow wasn’t lying. You could isolate a fingerprint off of an envelope. Unfortunately, not off the one she’d sent.
She lifted her gaze. Instead of being contrite, her eyes flashed. “Okay. Big deal. I sent one lousy note. And, just for the record, I didn’t threaten her.”
“Why did you send it?” He repeated the question she’d still not answered.
“Did she tell you I emailed her last year?”
He shook his head.
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “I thought it might be nice if we’d get together. Talk about old times.”
“And?” he prompted.
“I got this polite return message, one of those don’t bother me again kind.” Hurt mixed with anger in the woman’s eyes.
“Did you ever think she might not have known it was you.” He couldn’t imagine Sara deliberately dissing her old friend.
“She knew.” Chris’s lips tightened into a thin line.
Crow frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Sara.”
“At least not the Sara you read about online.” Chris shook her head. “But nobody’s that good. Not even someone that sings like an angel.”
“Lots of people seem to think Sara Michaels is practically perfect,” he said, his words a deliberate attempt to provoke a response.
“That’s a good one.” Chris’s laughter had a sharp edge. “Sara? Someone who didn’t think twice about stealing?”