Downfall Read online

  He got his wallet, his pocket change, his car keys. Then he opened the ring box and smiled at the diamond. It was whiter than white, a beautiful flawless stone he’d shopped for weeks for. He took the ring out and put it in his pocket. Just the feel of it made him smile.

  It took him twenty minutes to drive across town to the crime scene, in a high-crime residential area where minimum-wage workers lived paycheck to paycheck. He saw the police cars parked in front of the house, and a few neighbors standing in their yards, as if waiting to learn what had happened.

  He pulled as close to the house as he could get. Andy must not have gotten here yet; he didn’t see his car. Kent got out and trudged across the dewy grass to the side door in the carport, where a uniformed officer stood with a log book.

  “What’ve we got?” Kent asked.

  “Woman named Devon Lawrence, thirty years old, shot at point-blank range in her bed. Her four-year-old found her this morning.”

  The murder suddenly went from routine to tragic in Kent’s mind. “A four-year-old? Did the child witness the killing?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. She says she got up when her baby sister started crying, and went to wake up her mother. She couldn’t wake her up, so she went and got the next-door neighbor, Milly Prentiss. Ms. Prentiss is the one who called it in.”

  “Where are the children now?”

  “Next door, still with the neighbor.”

  “And the father?”

  “At work. Miss Prentiss says he works nights at a convenience store. He hasn’t been notified yet, but we ought to tell him soon, before one of the neighbors calls him.”

  Kent stepped into the house and looked around. Tiny kitchen and living room combo, worn, dirty blue carpet, a couch and one chair squeezed in. “Have you figured out the point of entry?”

  “Ms. Prentiss said the back door was unlocked, but she thinks that’s because the child went out that way. She went in this carport door. She said it was unlocked, too.”

  Kent saw scratches around the strike plate that suggested someone had picked the lock. He stepped inside, looked around. A purse was lying on the floor, spilled out. No wallet. He scanned the other items in the room. Toys, a diaper bag, a dirty high chair, a flat-screen TV.

  “Why would a burglar leave that TV?” he wondered aloud.

  “Yeah. Looked odd to me, too.”

  Kent tried to make that add up. Could be somebody who didn’t have a way to carry the TV away. Just wanted fast cash. But why here? What would make him think anyone in this neighborhood had wads of cash lying around?

  He looked around for anything else. There was little of value here. The house was in bad shape, with peeling paint and brown leaks on the ceiling. The floor was warped.

  He glanced up the hall, saw one of the other officers standing at a bedroom doorway. He headed that way.

  In the bed, a young woman lay on her back as if sleeping peacefully, blood soaked into the pillow under her head. There was an entry wound at the center of her forehead. Her eyes were closed. She’d probably been asleep when she was shot. She’d never known what hit her.

  At least it had been quick, and the perpetrator hadn’t harmed the kids.

  He pulled his camera out and snapped some pictures. The CSIs would take the real crime scene photos, but Kent liked to photograph crime scenes with his own camera, just to make sure nothing had been moved during the investigations.

  He heard Andy’s voice questioning the cop at the carport door. Kent glanced at the cop near him, still standing back, looking a little shaken. “What do we know about the husband?”

  “The neighbor says he has drug problems. Has been in rehab. They have a history of domestic violence, but the police have never been called about it. He’s on probation for a drug charge.”

  So the husband had the history and the mental capacity to do this.

  Andy came to the doorway and looked inside. “Morning, guys.”

  Kent nodded at him, then turned back to the cop. “Did the neighbor hear the gunshot?”

  “No. She says she didn’t hear anything until the kid knocked on her door.”

  He pictured a four-year-old child running through the yard to get help for her mother. His stomach twisted. Surely a father wouldn’t murder the mother and let his child find her. But if he was strung out, who knew what he was capable of?

  “Andy, let’s go talk to the neighbor. Then we’ll see what the husband has to say. He’s at work, supposedly. Hasn’t been notified.”

  “You think he already knows?”

  “Could be.” He clicked his phone on as he walked out of the house, dialed the department, and asked a police sergeant to run a rap sheet on the husband — William Lawrence, who went as Bo — and email it to him. He would try to open the file with his iPhone.

  They crossed the yard and knocked on the door to the ramshackle house next door. A little woman of about sixty answered.

  “Miss Prentiss?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her nose crimson. She’d clearly had a bad morning. “I’m Detective Kent Harlan, Atlanta Homicide. This is my partner, Andy Joiner. Could we come in and talk to you?”

  “Yes, but please — don’t upset the children,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve fed them and calmed them down.”

  Kent stepped into the house. The little girl sat at the table, coloring on a piece of yellow legal paper. The baby sat on the floor, playing with plastic blocks.

  Milly went to pick the baby up. “Poor little thing was crying and crying,” she said softly.

  The little girl was still wearing her gown with bloody sleeves, and her feet were bare. “I need to talk to the child,” he whispered to Milly.

  She looked distressed, but nodded.

  He went to the table, pulled out a chair. “Hi,” he said.

  The little girl looked up at him with soulful eyes as he sat down. Mucus had crusted under her nose. “Hi,” she said.

  “I’m Kent. What’s your name?”

  “Allie.”

  “Allie, can you tell me what happened when you woke up this morning?”

  Her bottom lip puckered out, and tears filled her eyes. “Mommy died.”

  “Did you hear any noise?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear her talking to anybody? Did you see anybody in the house?”

  “No. She wouldn’t talk because she wouldn’t wake up.”

  “So you didn’t hear a loud bang?”

  She frowned, thinking. “I dreamed about a loud bang sound.”

  “Dreamed it?” Kent asked. “Did it wake you up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  This wasn’t easy. The child probably heard the gunshot in her sleep, but didn’t wake all the way.

  “What made you get up?”

  “Carrie crying.”

  “Nothing else?”

  She shook her head and went back to coloring.

  Kent tried one more time. “Allie, did you hear Carrie crying right after the bang?”

  “No,” she said. “The bang was a dream, but the crying was real. It was later.”

  He’d know more when the medical examiner figured out the time of death. He looked up at Ms. Prentiss. “Ma’am, did you hear a gunshot?”

  “No, but I have sleep apnea. I sleep with a CPAP, and it makes noise. I sleep pretty deep. I hadn’t been up very long when Allie came.”

  “What can you tell us about Mr. Lawrence?” Andy asked.

  “I don’t like him very much,” she said in a low voice. “He’s had a problem with cocaine. Got arrested a few months ago, spent a little time in jail. Then they let him go to rehab. He’s only been out a few months.”

  “Has he been using again?”

  “Not that I know of. Devon told me he was doing good. That he was sober and going to work every night. She said he hadn’t been mean lately.”

  The other officer had mentioned domestic violence. He’d probably gotten th
at information from her. “Mean, how?”

  “I would hear them yelling sometimes. Couple of times I saw bruises. He broke her nose once, but even then she never would call the police. She finally did call them when she found a big stash of dope in her house and the baby almost got into it. Made her mad enough to turn him in. That’s when he was arrested.”

  Kent met Andy’s eyes. If the wife was responsible for her husband’s jail time and probation, he might have gotten even tonight. “Where does he work?”

  “At that convenience store at the Exxon station. It’s called J.R.’s 24/7.”

  Kent hoped they’d learn more from visiting the husband and gauging his reaction to his wife’s death.

  “Do you think this person might come back?” she asked. “I live alone, and I’m nervous.”

  “We don’t know, ma’am. But we’re going to do our best to find him.”

  “But how did the person get in? Do you think it was Bo?” she whispered, glancing at Allie as if making sure she couldn’t hear.

  Kent didn’t answer. “We’re looking at all the evidence, but we don’t have answers just yet.”

  “What am I supposed to do with the kids? I need to clean Allie up, but I can’t get in there to get her clothes.”

  “We’ll get something for her to wear, and have someone come and take care of them until we can get a family member to pick them up.”

  “No, that’s okay. They know me. I baby-sit them a lot. I’ll keep them until their daddy or grandma comes.” She burst into tears and covered her face. “This is so awful. Poor Devon!”

  He resisted the urge to comfort her, but he hoped someone would. When he and Andy stepped outside, he heard the teary-eyed woman lock her deadbolt.

  “I’m betting on the husband,” Andy said. “What do you bet he can’t prove he was at work all night?”

  “We’ll soon find out.”

  Kent left Andy working the crime scene. Driving to the convenience store, he considered the possibility that the husband wasn’t involved. He felt the burning in his gut that he always felt when he had to break the news of a murder to a family member. It was the part of the job he hated most.

  He found the place, an old, peeling structure with burglar bars on the windows. The store was lit up, and beyond the glass was a man behind the counter, sitting on a stool and watching the television over his head.

  He got out of his car and pushed through the glass doors.

  “You doin’ all right?” the man asked as Kent approached. He looked sober. His eyes were clear, though he looked tired.

  “Are you Bo Lawrence?” Kent asked.

  The man crossed his arms. Defensive. Guarded. “Yeah, why?”

  “I’m with the Atlanta Police Department, Homicide Division.”

  The man’s face changed, and deep lines in his skin caught the shadows cast by the dusty light. “Homicide? What happened?”

  “We had a call to your house this morning. Your wife had been shot.”

  Kent watched Bo’s face. Bo swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. It was hard to say whether his face changed color — he was already pale. “Shot? She’s okay, though, right?”

  “I’m afraid not. She didn’t make it.”

  Bo’s mouth fell open, and he couldn’t speak for a moment. He brought both hands to his greasy hair, slid his dirty fingers through. “But . . . we don’t have guns in the house. We don’t . . . who . . . what happened?”

  “It appears to be a burglary. Someone came in and shot her in her sleep.”

  He almost choked with his intake of breath. “The girls . . . my children . . . are they . . . ?”

  “They’re fine. Your daughter Allie found your wife.”

  He wavered as though he might faint, and reached out to grab the counter. “Allie? Who did this?” he whispered loudly.

  Kent kept his voice steady. “We wanted to notify you and find out who we could call about your children.”

  “Where are they now?” he asked, his face twisting in what looked like genuine anguish.

  “They’re with Milly Prentiss, next door.”

  He nodded. “Milly . . . that’s good.”

  There were no tears, but that wasn’t unusual. Getting news of a murder was shocking, and people responded in different ways. “Who . . . who called the police?”

  The question was odd. It wasn’t the first thing most people thought to ask. “Milly did, after your daughter went to her.”

  “So . . . did she see who did it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I’d like for you to come to the station, so we could talk to you about this. Maybe you could give us some leads.”

  He looked down at the cash register. “Yeah . . . of course. I have to call my boss. I’ll have to close the store.”

  Kent looked around. “How long have you been on shift tonight?”

  At first, the man didn’t seem to hear. He stared into space, as if sorting through the news. “Uh . . . since 8:00 last night. I’m working a twelve-hour shift.”

  “Have you left at all?”

  The man picked up the phone, but he didn’t dial. “No, not at all. I’ve been here all night. Haven’t even gone out to smoke. I’ve been trying to quit.”

  Kent’s eyes went to the security cameras on the ceiling behind the counter. He could get the video and confirm that what the man said was true.

  “Look, I know the first person you always think of is the husband.” His voice sounded shredded, raspy. “But I swear . . . I loved my wife. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.” He brought his hand to his mouth, trembling, as his grief etched deeper into his face. Nothing unusual in his reaction.

  After talking to his boss, Bo locked down the store and turned off all the lights. Kent retrieved the security video with no objection from him. Then Bo followed Kent out to the car and got into the front passenger seat. There were still no tears as Kent drove him to the station. When they got there, Kent watched the video footage. It confirmed Bo’s story. He had been at work all night.

  The guy was probably just a grieving husband in shock, but Kent hoped he had some information that would lead them to his wife’s killer.

  Chapter 5

  Emily, you’ve got to stop staying up so late when you have school the next morning.” Barbara slid the cereal box across the counter at her bleary-eyed daughter.

  “I can’t help it,” Emily said in a hoarse, groggy voice. “I can’t get to sleep any earlier.”

  “It’s her nature, Mom,” Lance said, chomping on his Cheerios. “She’s a party girl to the bone.”

  “Shut up,” Emily muttered. “I wasn’t partying.”

  Barbara dug into her purse for lunch money for Lance and laid it on the counter. “I’m just saying, Emily, that you have to fight addictive behaviors like staying up all night when you have school. You have to learn to think ahead, not just do what feels right in the moment.”

  “It’s not an addictive behavior, Mom. Everybody I know stays up late. It’s a college thing.”

  “And that’s why half the student body drops out before they get a degree.” Barbara glanced at Lance, her sixteen-year-old. “Lance, promise me you’ll eat lunch today.”

  He didn’t answer, just pretended to be engrossed in the writing on the cereal box.

  “Lance, did you hear me?”

  “Yes. But I hate lunch.”

  “You hate lunch?” Emily asked. “That’s stupid. You hate gym or math or science. Nobody hates lunch.”

  “They do if they have to sit by themselves.”

  “I thought your girlfriend sat with you,” Emily said.

  “April’s not my girlfriend. At least, not yet.” He brought his milk to his mouth, eyes grinning as he drank. He set the glass down too hard. “She doesn’t always sit with me. Sometimes she skips lunch. Why can’t I just be homeschooled?”

  They’d been all through this. “Lance, you’ll make friends,” Barbara said. “Just hang in there.”

  “I had plenty
of friends in Jeff City.”

  They’d moved here in January, after selling their house in Missouri. Lance had been recovering from a serious injury to his lung at the time, and he’d had a hard time fitting in after changing schools midyear. Since he hadn’t bonded with anyone by the time school was out for the summer, he’d had a long, lonely three months. Baseball used to be his pastime during those hot months, and it was a way to make friends, but since his lung capacity wasn’t back to a hundred percent and he didn’t know anyone well, he hadn’t signed up. Barbara regretted not talking him into it. “You were a popular guy back home, and you will be again. And you’ll be stronger for it. You’re learning new skills. Compassion for lonely people, for one. Good things can come of this. Moving here was right for the family.”

  “No, it was right for you, so you could be closer to Kent. I get that, and I like him and all. But I miss my friends. I never hated going to school before this. Those jocks treat me like the biggest dork in Georgia. I thought this fall might be better, but nothing has changed since school started back.”

  Emily seemed to be coming awake now as she nursed her coffee. “They’re just jealous. Some cute new guy comes in and invades their territory, and the girls take notice.”

  “April’s the only girl taking notice, and she treats me like a brother. Trust me, they all think I’m a dork, too. I came to school skinny and sick, and that’s how they’ll keep seeing me.”

  “You’re not a dork.” Barbara leaned across the counter, touched Lance’s chin. “Look at me, son.”

  He met her eyes.

  “You’re a hero. A life-saver. You know who you are. Don’t let them convince you that you’re anything else.”

  “Yeah, well, they think I made it all up.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they think,” Emily said. “We know what happened.”

  Barbara looked down at her son’s chest. His breathing was still more labored than it used to be. She worried about him. Sometimes she considered moving back to Missouri just to make his life easier.