Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (ereader iphone .TXT) 📗

“It is terrible,” I say. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Cambridge. I’ll be in touch if I need any more information.”

When I turn to hand the phone back to Beth, she is sitting on the sofa, looking down, tears welling in her eyes. She is shaking, growing pale.

Kate walks over and sits down on the sofa next to her.

“Mrs. Cambridge, are you okay?” she asks.

“You think someone may have killed Lana?”

“We don’t know that for sure,” I hear Kate say as I find my way to the kitchen for a glass of water for Mrs. Cambridge. “But it’s important that we investigate.”

“But who would want to kill her?” she asks, clearly in shock.

“We don’t know, but if this was a homicide, we’re going to find out,” I say. “Can you tell us why you think Lana moved home after living in New York?”

Beth hesitates. “I don’t know the whole story, maybe not even the real reason. Margaret said it was because Lana was having some issues, but there’s always been talk in the family that it was Margaret having the issues. I didn’t press things. Family gatherings can be stressful enough without looking at your sister and asking questions like that.”

We leave shortly thereafter, once we make sure Beth is okay. She actually seems like a nice woman, and I would hate for anything to happen to her. I figure I might check up on her in a few days, just to be certain she is hanging in there and doesn’t have any more information that may help us.

“And you talked to Dave’s friends?” Sarge asks us.

“Yeah, they were all there,” I say.

“One even saw Beth,” Kate adds.

“Really?” Sarge asks, sitting up a little straighter.

It’s better in the station today since they’ve finally fixed the air-conditioning. It only took them a week this time. I’m sure it’s just a Band-Aid, though, and it’ll be broken again before long. Heaven forbid they invest in a new unit.

Summer is an odd time of year for police work. The hot weather brings out a different, unexpected side of people that keeps us on our toes. We never quite know what people are going to do. I suppose the Moore family is a good example.

“So what do we do next?” I ask. I have an answer in my head, but I don’t want to be the one to say it.

“Well, the autopsy should be in soon. We’ll wait for that,” Kate says matter-of-factly.

She’s right. That’s the next logical thing to do.

Kate and I return to our desks and compare notes from our interrogations. After questioning the Moores and Cambridges, as well as Beth and Dave’s colleagues, the most obvious thing is that nothing is adding up. Margaret and Dave contradict each other on the funeral, Lana’s return, her social life, and the state of their health. So far we have no real way to know which one is telling the truth, save for the reports on the funeral, where it looks like Dave has been honest.

Something is wrong here. I find myself hoping the autopsy comes back as a suicide, because then we can chalk it up to family drama and let them work it out themselves.

I go back to the Moores’ house the next day. I know I shouldn’t. Sarge tells me so; Kate too, but I can’t help it. I need to go back, talk to them, see if I can catch them off guard. Somehow I can’t move on from this case yet. Maybe having another conversation with the parents will help.

That’s a lie; I don’t think it will help. The only thing that will help is getting the autopsy back, having it certified a suicide, and closing this case once and for all. Until then, this will have to tide me over.

I look around the neighborhood again. It’s nice—peaceful. I can see why Tracy thinks streets like this exemplify the American dream. That doesn’t mean I’ll be able to afford living in a place like this without taking on the kind of debt that goes along with fulfilling the dream.

But I get it. I want it.

I ring the doorbell.

No one’s answering the door, which is odd. When we were here just a week ago, Dave seemed unable to even put his own pants on, so for both of them to be out of the house seems like a stretch.

I knock forcefully on the door, in case the bell is broken, though I’m pretty sure I heard it reverberate through the house in the eerie quiet of the perfect neighborhood. I wish Kate was here. I don’t like police business as a one-man show.

I notice a neighbor across the street working in her garden while her kids run through a sprinkler on the other side of the yard. I wave. She waves back. I walk over to her.

“Hi, there. My name is Detective Ryan Kirkpatrick,” I say, flashing my badge. I don’t get to do that often enough. I find it’s a really satisfying gesture. “How are you today?” I add.

“I’m fine, Officer. You looking for the Moores? I noticed you poking around their house.”

“Yes,” I say.

“They’re out of town.”

My jaw drops. Of all the places I thought the Moores might have been, all the possibilities that ran through my mind, this was not one of them.

They aren’t officially suspects. They aren’t even unofficially suspects. But fleeing the scene makes me take pause. Parents who lost a child a week ago don’t leave town. They just don’t.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where they went, would you?” I ask in a friendly, curious tone.

The woman thinks for a minute. “I don’t know; some tropical island or something. You know, very fancy and expensive-sounding. They haven’t been on a trip in years, so I guess they’ve saved a lot of money.” She pauses and brushes her hair out of her face. She takes off her gloves and walks over to me. “Seems like an odd time