“Did you notice anyone else hanging out around the alley?” Cole asked.
Chapman half smiled and said, “I don’t think I would’ve noticed if there were a hundred people outside the alley. The only things on my mind were taking a leak and getting Jenny in bed, in that order. Everything else is kind of fuzzy.”
“We’ll be in touch if we need to ask more questions,” Cole said. “We’ll have an officer drop you home.”
“I think I’ll have them drop me at Jenny’s,” he said. “I don’t really feel like being alone with my thoughts.”
By the time we walked back to Jack’s Tahoe, Chen and Plank were coming out of the alley with evidence bags.
“I think we’ve found everything we’re going to for now,” Chen said. “We’ll have the crime scene team do another sweep in full daylight. For now we’ve closed the tops of the dumpsters to keep as much rain out as we can, and we’ll block access to the alley. We’ll keep watch until the techs can get here in a couple hours.”
Jack took the evidence bags and nodded. “Send the rookies to grab you some coffee and y’all warm up in the car while you’re waiting. It should be pretty quiet for a while.”
“I’m not going to argue with that,” Plank said. “But I’ll let Chen give the orders for coffee. I graduated the academy with those guys.”
Jack put the evidence bags in his Tahoe and then turned to Cole. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking it’s early as hell, and everyone is still in bed. Including the husband of our victim.”
“What do you say we wake him up and see how surprised he is about his wife’s death?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Cole said.
“Weird,” I said. “Because I was thinking how I wished the rookies were bringing us coffee too.”
“The donut place is about to open,” Jack said. “We’ll drive through. I could use a pick-me-up too.”
“Donuts always give me a pick-me-up,” Cole said, heading to his truck. “Meet you there.”
Chapter Three
The donut shop had just opened as we pulled into the drive-thru, and by the time we reached Brian Dunnegan’s house fifteen minutes later I was warm, fed, and caffeinated.
“You’ve got powdered sugar on the front of your jacket,” Jack said as we parked in front of a contemporary townhome in a new subdivision. It was white with black trim and lots of windows and it sat about six inches from neighbors on either side.
“Very Stepford,” I said, brushing at the powdered sugar.
Jack grunted. “Claustrophobic.”
There were no lights on inside the house. The only lights on the whole street were the identical gas lanterns that hung from every porch and Cole’s headlights as he pulled up behind us. We were thrown into darkness again when he turned them off.
Cole got out of the truck and rocked back on the heels of his boots, surveying the area. “Creepy,” he said. “People have no imagination.”
“Maybe it’s a cult street,” I said. “Have y’all ever been called to a scene out here?”
“Not that I know of,” Jack said. “I’m not familiar with this neighborhood.”
“I bet a neighborhood like this buries all their problems in the backyard,” I said, conspiratorially.
“This is a zombie neighborhood,” Cole said. “Freaks me out. If hands start popping out of the ground and grabbing at my ankles I’m leaving y’all here.”
“Good to know where your protect and serve limits are,” Jack said.
Our footsteps were mostly silent over the wet pavement as we made our way to the small porch. It wouldn’t be long before a neighborhood like this started stirring to get ready for the workweek—unless they were just going to bed after a long night of feeding.
Jack pressed the doorbell and we waited. Then he pressed it again.
“Can I help you?” an irritated and distorted voice said through the speaker in the doorbell.
“Brian Dunnegan?” Jack said. “I’m Sheriff Lawson. We need to talk with you.”
There was more than a minute of silence before a light came on in the entryway and the locks clicked open. The door cracked open a couple of inches.
“Do you know what time it is?” Brian asked. “I’d like to see some identification.”
Jack held up his badge for inspection and the man nodded. “Sheriff Lawson,” Jack repeated. “This is Detective Cole and Dr. Graves.”
Dunnegan’s annoyance didn’t dissipate, but he opened the door all the way. “I recognize you now. I’ve seen your picture in the news. You might as well come in, but I’m going to have to start getting ready for work before too long.”
“We won’t take much of your time,” Jack assured him.
Dunnegan knew. The nerves were obvious as he looked at each of us in turn, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands so he shoved them in the pockets of his robe. We walked into a foyer as sterile and cold as the outside of the house.
Brian Dunnegan was in his early fifties, but he could’ve passed for a decade younger. He was fit, and it was obvious he spent a good amount of time in the gym. His face was unlined and his brown hair was silver at the temples cut severely short. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who spent a lot of time smiling. He wore black-framed glasses and a gray robe over gray pajamas.
“Why don’t we sit down?” Jack suggested.
“I really don’t have a lot of time,” Brian said. “Is this about the fundraising for the sheriff’s office? We have a PR person at my firm who handles all of that, and I’m going to file a formal complaint about the hours you choose to harass the populace.”
“We’re here on official business, Mr. Dunnegan,” Jack said. “You might want to sit down.”
“What’s wrong?” Brian asked, his face going pale. “Is it my daughter? Is she okay?” His hands came out of his robe pockets and they were balled into fists. “Did someone hurt her?
People handled fear and grief in different ways, and we’d seen just about everything, but Brian Dunnegan didn’t even have information yet and he was already in a fighting posture. That said a lot about a man.
I did a quick scan of what we could see of the house. It didn’t look like the kind of house where children lived. Everything was very white and very sterile. There were no family pictures on the walls or clutter on the counters or a purse or jacket hanging over a chair—just very tasteful paintings and sculptures. It looked like a model home, as if no one actually lived there.
“Your daughter is fine,” Jack said.
“Then I don’t understand,” Dunnegan said.
“We’re here about your wife,” Jack continued. “I’m sorry to say her body was found early this morning.”
Quick was the best way. Deep down people always knew their loved ones were gone when we showed up at the door. It was kinder not to make them wonder. But Brian Dunnegan’s behavior was odd. He’d not mentioned his wife once, and he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I looked at Jack in confusion. Maybe we had the wrong Brian Dunnegan.