The Art of Murder: A Vincent Kapoulous Crime Story

By Stephanie Williams

What was Reginald Johnson Harrison into? And did Sylvia Shannon kill him?

Those are the two questions that keep playing in the mind of Detective Vincent Kapoulous. 

The best detective on the case is stumped. It doesn’t help that the person of interest is one of the most beautiful women he’s meet—and he’s fallen for her.

But putting that aside, he has a case to solve. So using his unorthodox methods, with the help of his ride or die secretary and rookie partner, they set out to find out about missing paintings, dead bodies and possibly one of the most beautiful serial killers in the world.

Sylvia Shannon is confused, in the dark and a suspect for murder. With a stepsister she can scarcely trust and a handsome detective that seems to take more than a professional interests in her; she doesn’t know where to turn.

She knows one thing however: she’s not going to jail for a murder she didn’t do, and if she has to solved this crime herself, so be it. 

She just hopes that her growing feelings for the sexy, cool Detective Kapoulous doesn’t trip her up. 

 Note from Author: “This is a work of fiction, created solely from my reality. Any errors regarding unorthodox or proper procedures in the legal system were done on purpose to further the storyline.” 

A fun read, with a lot of twists, turns and eccentric characters. 

A crime suspense story with a Film Noir feel, set in contemporary times. 

This story isn’t a matter of who did it? But why? 

You’ll never look at art and a museum the same way again!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Williams
• Release date: Mar 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386475071

Book preview

Chapter One

Sylvia knocked impatiently on the door for the fourth time. He told her to come over at noon, that he had some oh so important business to take care of.

She swore he had more business now being unemployed than he did when he worked at the museum. But then that nice chunk of money from that lawsuit set him well.

Set her well too. Too bad she still had to have contact with him.

Reginald Johnson Harrison was still the bane of her existence. And she wasn’t just being the bitter ex-wife. She got over that years ago. It was the fact that he still tried to keep her close. He distributed out the money and any property when he felt fit.

This time it was the vacation home in Vale.

Sylvia swore after this meeting, she would get to the bottom of his business, whatever it was, and get what was hers all at once and not this piece meal crap.

Knocking again, she checked her watch. If he didn’t come to the door this time, she was out of here, vacation home or not.

The last knock on the door was so hard it made the door open slightly. It startled her and made the blood in her veins run cold. She had a feeling. A strong, bad feeling.

Reggie? It was barely a whisper. She put her hand on the wooden panel of the old-fashioned oak door and pushed it gently open. Reggie? She was a little louder, but not much.

She walked into the foyer and immediately noticed the chaos.

Oh God! She dropped her purse and briefcase, and made a quick dash to the living area. Before she realized her mistake, she came upon more disorder, nearly tripping over small debris. What the hell?

She looked around the room; the room in the house that Reggie kept so immaculate. That was the only thing they really had in common. Both were neat freaks.

The Queen Anne chairs that sat in each corner of the living area were trashed. The seat cushions slashed and the insides out on the floor.

The Edwardian furniture that he was so proud of, was no longer placed strategically in the living area, but now turned up and wrecked from doorway to doorway.

Sylvia scanned the walls for the paintings that Reggie was so arrogant about. His many prize possessions he bragged about from his work as a museum curator’s assistant. They were gone!

Three clean outlined spaces showed prominently on the wall from where the paintings once hung.

A robbery. But why tear the room apart if one was after the paintings. Of course, Reggie did have little statues and other expensive artifacts on the bookshelves and tabletops.

Sylvia continued walking around the room. The oriental rugs were tossed and turned up. And the drawers to his solid oak turn of the century cabinets were out and turned upside down on the floor.

They wanted to clean him out—or they were looking for something else.

"Reggie?’ Again, she cried out in hushed tones. If someone was still in here, she didn’t want them to know she was there. She made her way to Reggies’ office and that’s when she nearly tripped over it.

Sylvia looked down and picked up the gun. She held it to her nose and smelled it. It was fired recently. A burnt oily smell was still emanating from it. She recognized it from hunting with her dad. She looked at the floor around her again, then moved to the entrance of the library. Broken glass, upturned furniture and papers scattered all over the place. This really did not look good.

Reggie! Reggie! Now panic set in. Why did she come to her ex-husbands’ house today of all days? Oh yeah, business about the house. Always about a house or money from his lawsuit. Reggie! She stepped over some papers that were strewn all over the floor and nearly tripped over a barbell.

A door slammed in the next room, the home office. Running to check it out, she ran into the doorway, smacking her cheek. Again, another room in shambles. This time she tipped toed across the floor, being careful not to slip on anything else.

When she made her way into the room and through the entrance back to the library, she noticed the French doors swinging back and forth. She took two steps forward.

Dumb move. Lying on the floor of the library near his desk, lay Reggie’s body. Sylvia knew he was dead. The blood pooled under his head was a good indication. A very good one.

Reggie. Choking back a lump in her throat, she ran over to him and kneeled beside him. Touching his leg, she hoped for a reaction. Nothing. Maybe pinching it would....maybe. But no. No reaction. He was dead; she could feel the coldness through his dress socks. She reached for the baseball cap on his head, but stopped herself. What would she see? What was she looking for?

Lifting the corner of the cap, she got her answer. Aaarrgh! Jumping up and wrapping her arms around herself, a sudden chill went down her spine.

Sylvia hated the man, sometimes loathed him. But in all the years of their turbulent marriage, she never wanted this. Who did this? At this point, it was a rhetorical question. Besides, the suspect list was long.

She looked around the area and saw the same chaos as in the living room. Someone was looking for something. But what? More art? And why kill Reggie? Maybe he stumbled on the robbers and they wanted no witnesses.

Turning, she went towards the wall safe. Maybe they where looking for something else, something more valuable. Reggie was known for his flashy jewelry and he kept it in the safe.

Sylvia was at the safe, in the middle of turning the dial, when she heard something out of the ordinary. This was a quiet, upscale neighborhood and it stood out. Sirens.

Hearing them coming closer, she ran to the window. Good, the police. Whoever killed her ex couldn’t have gotten far. She was sure that was who slammed the library doors.

The idea knowing the killer was still in the house when she arrived made her skin crawl. Maybe the police would catch them running down the block or driving away with the loot. Those pictures they stole were huge; they couldn’t fit even in a midsize car.

Crime wasn’t the norm for this area. Someone would know something was amiss. Reggie did have the good sense to move to a high-class, family oriented district. Seeing a man looking suspicious fleeing or a car speeding off would attract attention. Hell, the gunshots alone would attract attention.

Too bad Reggie’s associates weren’t high class.

Sylvia returned to the living room. She took another good look at the surroundings. Every drawer and table was opened, tipped over or rummaged through. Yep, Reggie was up to no good—as usual. But what? If they got the paintings and some statues what else could they be looking for? She could only guess, but would give it a try. She began to run a mental list of possible suspects.

One of his many lady friends—or their boyfriends? A shady business partner? Lord, that was a whole other list.

She was about to sit down and wrap her head around the whole situation, when the doorbell rang.

Who is it? For a fleeting moment the thought of the crooks coming back was in the back of her mind. She paused.

Police! Open up!

She let out a huge sigh of relief. Great. Come in, door’s open, she hollered back, looking through some scattered papers.

They came in all right, like the damn S.W.A.T. One man kicked the door open, while three other officers jumped in beside him.

Freeze!

The officer that kicked the door down, which now hung half off its hinges, crouched down with a very large gun pointed at her. The other officers had actual rifles.

What the hell! They were looking in other directions with obvious suspicion.

I said freeze! Drop the gun and hands up! The man yelled.

Drop th... Oh God. She still had the gun in her other hand.

Drop it lady, I don’t want to shoot you.

This time he was creeping closer to her, gun still pointed dead at her chest. She didn’t want him to shoot her either. "Okay, okay. Let me stand up. She quickly dropped the gun in front of her and slowly rose to her feet with her hands in the air.

Keep the hands up and kick it over here!

She did.

He bent down, not once taking his eyes off her and not once putting his own weapon down. He continued pointing his weapon at her as he picked up the gun with a pencil he pulled out of his pocket. Careful not to touch the offending weapon, he placed it on a table beside him. Okay, search the rooms. I got it covered here, he said, to the other officers. He checked the gun again, moving it around on the table.

The other three men whooshed by her, guns at the ready.

The man that was zeroed in on her, finally stood up to his full length.

He was a tall man. A bald and kinda good-looking man—considering. He would have been better looking she thought, if he didn’t have that damn gun pointed at her. What’s going on? she protested, her arms getting heavier by the second.

That’s what we’d like to know, the officer said, coming toward her. He reached in his back pocket and took out a plastic bag. He must have been undercover, cause he didn’t have on a regulation officer uniform. Dress slacks and a light blue dress shirt. The others were in full gear—and then some.

He sniffed the gun before placing it in the bag and looked at her again. Fired recently.

It wasn’t a question. Yes, I know. She shifted her weight to the other foot. Her arms were drooping downward.

Don’t move! He raised the gun higher; this time aimed more at her head. Care to tell me what went down here? He looked lazily around the room.

I would like to know that myself. I just got here about five minutes ago. She tried to focus on the officer in front of her. As he looked over the weapon, she took a mental inventory. Yes, he was good looking in a sexy cool kinda way. She never thought bald could be handsome. But it did him justice. His eyes were light brown and his features were somewhat exotic for a white dude. Right now, he looked hard with no sign of a sense of humor.

She could tell just from this brief encounter that something was special about him. He was called here for a reason.

Maybe if she flattered him a bit, she could at least put her hands down.

Um...mister officer, could I at least put my hands down? She batted her eyes and smiled. It was kinda hard to do, considering she was shaking in her pants.

No. The answer was curt, unwavering. He studied the gun in the plastic bag, as if he were going to have a test on it later. He then focused his attention back on her and actually grinned.

Masochist. His whole face actually lit up. He was enjoying this. Power hungry prick. Yeah, he was very easy on the eyes—up to this point.

What the hell was she doing? This wasn’t a blind date. This was a cop and he caught her right in the middle of a murder scene. Her hormones were tripping. She needed to stop flirting and try to think of an intelligent way out of this mess.

Vic, in library! One of the other officers shouted.

Right then his features changed again. Watch her. The bald cop left, while the other did as he was told. Still, yet another gun pointed at her.

Three minutes later, baldy returned shaking his head. That’s not pretty. Not pretty at all. You and Mike search the backyard, tell Pete the details and radio in.

Gotcha. The other officer left heading out the back way.

You really did a number on him lady. He shook his head again, rubbing his chin.

I...wait! You think I killed him? She all but shouted at the top of her lungs.

He shrugged, then looked at the gun again. Causally he looked over the floor around him. Care to explain this? He held up the plastic bag with the gun in it.

I told you, I just got here myself. I saw the gun and picked it up. I was going to call the police, but you already arrived. Then it occurred to her. Wait. How did you know to come here?

Neighbors. Thought they heard gunshots, the cop said, as he continued to nonchalantly look around the room. "You did all this damage? He swept his hand over the walls and the floor area.

Remind me to send them a thank you card. And no, it was like this when I entered. In fact, there are some paintings and statues missing, care to look in my pockets. She didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

Gonna be kinda hard to write thank you notes from a prison cell.

I didn’t do it! Don’t you believe me? She waved her hands.

Keep them up and still, he said, pointing his damn weapon at her. Maybe, maybe not. I see you’re familiar with the place since you know what’s missing.

Sylvia immediately shut up. She didn’t want to talk too much.

You do have to come to the station with me to answer questions, of course.

Aren’t you going to read me my rights?

"Oh don’t worry, I will.

All clear Vincent, said one of the officers.

Great, meet you at the car.

Now Vincent the bald cop, paced in front of her. What was he thinking? What was going on in that cop brain of his? And where could she get a good lawyer, because this was not looking good at all.

He put his foot on an overturned ottoman and stared her down. This time it wasn’t the appearance of the menacing cop that broke down her ex’s door. This was a more sympathetic stare, as if he felt sorry for her. This look she liked. It made him look...nice.

Care to talk to me about it? Just between you and me. Make it easier on yourself. Did he beat you? Was it self-defense? Did you think he was an intruder?

Oh, this man was a trip. I...didn’t...do...it!

He brushed his hand over his baldhead. I’m looking at a lot of evidence around me that says you did. Those three bullet holes in his head didn’t get there by themselves.

I told you what happened, she gritted out through clinched teeth. And as for the gun, I picked it up on my way into his library. Her arms were feeling like lead now.

I would be inclined to go with your story, except for one thing.

What? She blew out a breath. This was getting tiresome.

This.

He showed her a piece a paper. Scrawled on it, one word: Sylvia.

I know your name is Sylvia, saw it on your briefcase, he said, as he walked toward the mentioned piece of luggage and fiddled with the handle.

Are you trying to say this is a dying clue? That cliché went out with the butler did it.

He smirked. Cute. Let’s just say it’s not looking good for you.

Well hell, she knew that already. Vincent took out the cuffs and read her her rights. This was going to be a long day.

****

Vincent was not having a good day. Oh, it started out all right in the beginning. Got a call on a shooting, possible domestic violence. And even though he was a detective and not really a beat cop, the precinct knew he was the best for stuff like this. Domestic violence situations were more dangerous than busting a drug house.

With the drug dealers, it wasn’t personal, just business.

Domestic violence however was a whole other animal. Not only were the parties emotionally devastated for whatever reason: rejection, unfaithfulness, you name it. But they saw the police or anyone of authority as someone that was taking sides in the situation. Eight times out of ten the result was a wounded cop or a dead one.

Vincent was real good in those situations. He was a quick thinker—and quick on the trigger.

However, he wasn’t prepared for this. She was a cool customer—if she did it. And he was about to lean on the side of innocence, until she batted those huge brown almond eyes at him.

Okay, in all fairness, she just wanted to put her hands down. But after that move, he wasn’t going to give in—or give her the satisfaction.

But in the back of his mind, he still thought her innocent. Well, sort of. He’d taken a chance and showed her the paper with her name scribbled on it. How the vic managed to do that with three holes in his head and half his skull on the other side of the room, was beyond him. But it was clutched tightly in his left hand. He would check that out later.

He hoped to get a confession right there, or some reaction by her eye movements. People that were guilty could never look him straight in the eyes. He had that effect on people. Wasn’t bragging, he just had that gift.

Unless the perp was a sociopath, that was the only game changer. He looked her in the eyes again. Nothing. Wasn’t happening today. She protested vehemently, but other than that, she didn’t bat an eye—except at him.

What he didn’t show her were the love letters he also found in the vic’s pocket of his jacket. That, he was going to keep like an ace up his sleeve. First, he needed to find out if this beauty was cold-blooded enough to pull this off and stay calm about it.

Yes, he did notice that she was a beauty. She was a striking woman. Tall, voluptuous, leggy. African American, around maybe mid-thirtyish. Her hair was pulled back in a conservative braided bun style. She was dressed in a tailored dark suit. Probably just in from work. Her face was angelic, even after killing her boyfriend or whoever he was to her.

Her eyes were now dark and stormy. He wondered if they were like that all the time, or if they were only directed toward him. Striking cheekbones, and very wet kissable lips. Yep, she was a looker.

Oh God, what was he thinking? This could be a sociopathic killer for all he knew.

He finished reading her her rights, as he took her wrists to handcuff her. While doing so, he looked around the room some more.

He could tell this was a well-furnished place, with very expensive items. She mentioned that things were taken. He checked the walls and noticed that there were three clean spots just as bold as the sun. Pictures. Huge pictures. So where were they now? He would have his guys check her car and garage before they left.

Please! Can I call a lawyer before you slap those on? she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

He loosened his grip a bit. You have one?

She paused a moment, looking down at her feet.

I can get you one if you need one, he said, feeling her hesitancy.

Not from the state. I need a good one, she quickly said.

He stopped, cuffed her then took her by the arm and turned her to face him. Yeah, too damn beautiful. Come on. Tell me what happened. Did he attack you? Did you catch him cheating? Those questions were more for himself. He wanted, no needed a logical explanation for such a gruesome killing. He couldn’t wrap his head around the thought of her walking in on him and just capping him like that. Mobsters were more merciful.

I told you. And I’m not saying anymore until I have a lawyer. She moved away from him, her hands still cuffed. I need to look in my briefcase. I have to call my sister. She can help me find one.

Certainly. But let me retrieve it for you.

Whatever, she said, rolling her eyes. "I need my blue iPhone."

Yeah, she was annoyed. But hey, one should expect to be inconvenienced if you commit a crime. He searched in her bag, paying close attention to all its contents, but at the same time trying not to give away he was actually searching her purse.

He found things that were typical in a ladies’ purse. Makeup case. Although looking at her, he didn’t think she needed any. Eyeglass case, an ereader, keys, a wallet, and a protein bar that hadn’t been opened. He spied the item she wanted. This it? He held up a dark blue iPhone.

Yeah. Do you want to dial the number too? She wiggled her hands behind her.

Yeah, she was pissed. No, I trust you. He uncuffed one wrist and placed the phone in her one hand. He put a vice grip on the other, and twisted it behind her back. He didn’t feel good about it, but he still had a feeling about her. She couldn’t have done it. He was always on point about those things, but something...something wasn’t right.

She dialed, then waited. Hello Brenda. I’m in trouble. She began sobbing.

Yeah, this day wasn’t going well at all.

The ride to the station was a quiet one. Okay, not exactly. Sylvia, one wrist cuffed to the seat, was in constant communication with the lawyer her sister got for her. He was going to meet the law team at the station. Luckily he had the cage to separate her from him, otherwise he felt she wouldn’t hesitate knocking him over the head.

When Vincent tried to make small talk and maybe get her to reveal something, all he got was a ‘Go to hell’ or ‘Fuck off’ out of her. It wasn’t his fault that this Reggie was killed and she just happened to be there with the smoking gun in her hand—literally.

It always amazed Vincent how indignant perps got when they were caught.

They came to a red light that was a block before the station. He thought he would give it that old college try again. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Care for one? He took one out, held it behind his head, and stuck it through the hole of the cage.

No.

He shrugged. I hear ya. He put the pack back in his pocket, and put the cig he had for her in his mouth. It’s not good for you. I’m trying to quit before the ole’ ticker gives out on me. He patted his chest.

Humph, maybe I’ll be lucky, she mumbled, now looking out the window.

So much for that. The light changed and they pulled into the parking lot to the station. He got out and went to her side and uncuffed her from the seat then recuffed her wrists. He let her out, but blocked her from moving any further. He wanted her to look at him. Look him straight in the eyes. Prove him wrong. There was this nagging feeling in his gut about her and this murder, and it wouldn’t go away. But she didn’t look at him. Instead she looked around the parking area. Then for the first time since their drive over here, her face became animated. He looked in the direction she faced.

All he saw was a short black woman and a gangly older white male standing by a blue Chevy and a white Kia. They walked over towards them. Sylvia tried to push him out of the way best she could. Can I see them, please?

He looked around. Against his better judgment, he would trust her—with a catch. Okay, but just remember, we’re keeping an eye on you.

Who is we?

Me and him. He pulled his jacket aside to reveal the Glock.

Oooh. I’m scared. She narrowed her eyes at him.

He waved the duo over, figuring it was her sister and the lawyer she recommended. He stopped them when they got closer, and frisked them both. He cuffed Sylvia to the car, but kept his gun out and very visible to the trio as they chatted in hushed tones.

Sylvia occasionally looked back at him. He wasn’t fooled by her bravado. She was scared. He waited cautiously leaning against the car as he watched the trio interact. The conversation was very animated and the gangly man put a reassuring hand on Sylvia’s shoulder.

Did she do it? That was the question that kept running over and over in his mind. Usually when Vincent arrived at the scene of a crime, he knew immediately by instinct if the person in question was guilty or not.

He was conflicted here, and he knew why.

How could anyone that beautiful be a cold-hearted killer? Okay, he wasn’t thinking straight. He knew better to even go down that road. Maybe that’s why his thoughts were so clouded. It would have been much easier if she looked like a troll.

He was a sucker for a beautiful face and body. One of his many faults.

Sylvia turned towards him. Vincent walked over, uncuffed her and put her back in the car and sat her down in the passenger side. The gangly man made his approach and stuck out his hand.

I’m Mr. Levy, representing Miss Shannon. Any questions, you direct them to me.

Vincent was leaning against the car by this time, his hands in his pockets. He looked passed Mr. Levy as he saw Sylvia’s sister drive off. He looked at the proffered hand for a minute. Coming to a decision to be civil, reaching out, he shook it. For some reason, he instantly took a disliking to this cat. He looked as bright as a dying candle flame.

Fine. Meet me inside. Mr. Levy smirked and headed inside. Did he say to himself this was going to be a long day?

Oh, she did it all right. You can see it in her face. Just look at her.

Allen Brannon was getting on Vincent’s nerves. If it weren’t for the fact that Allen was the police chief, he would have belted him one right there.

You know, this reminds me of a case.... Allen went on as Vincent turned to leave.

He had to get back in the interrogation room to talk to her—alone. Mr. Levy stepped out for a moment to get some coffee. Of course, he made it quite clear that no questions were to be asked without his presence.

Fuck him! Besides, she wasn’t guilty. His gut kept telling himself that. She was scared though. That was the look Allen kept seeing and misreading.

Vincent had her in the room for two hours questioning her over and over again. Truth be told, he was trying to question her. With Mr. Levy there, it wasn’t easy. He couldn’t ask her the damn weather without the recent law school graduate butting in. But now he had a moment with her alone and he was going to take advantage of that.

He stepped back into the room and closed the door behind him. Miss Shannon.

My lawyer is not back yet.

Yeah, I know, he’s probably lost. I want to ask you a few things before he gets back—

Are you kidding me? You’re not going to entrap me for this murder. No answering without my lawyer.

"I don’t want to entrap you, Miss Shannon, but I need some answers and your lawyer is not making it easy for me."

Sylvia smiled smugly. He’s not supposed to.

Damn it Sylvia! Vincent said, slamming his hand down on the table. He quickly composed himself, then, Miss....Shannon. How am I going to help you if you don’t let me...?

What’s going on? Police harassment? Mr. Levy asked, walking in, with a coffee stain on his rumpled white shirt.

Shit!

Chapter Two

You do know officer Kapolapus—

"That’s Detective Kapoulous." Anyone one else mispronouncing his name would be forgiven. He had nothing but contempt for this dude, so punching him in the gut would have given him satisfaction.

Whatever. You do realize that you are in violation of—

Oh cut the bull-shit! Vincent knocked over the chair coming towards him. You haven’t let me get one answer from your client since we came in this room. You do realize that your client has a right to make a statement? Didn’t they teach you that in your correspondence course?

That outburst felt so good. Vincent was holding in something since his drive here and it was only kicked up a notch with this late night ambulance chaser breathing down his neck.

Now look here...! Mr. Levy made a movement toward him.

Yeah, bastard. Go ahead and throw a punch. That’s all I need to lock you up. But

not before I lay you out.

Please! Sylvia stood up with her hands over her ears. Please stop it! Mr. Levy, would you mind stepping out for a moment? She put her hands firming on the desk.

But Miss Shannon. He looked around wildly.

Please. I know what I’m doing. She held her head down, her hands still on the table, but clenching her fists.

Mr. Levy threw Vincent a look and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

Vincent turned toward Sylvia. He walked backed into the interrogation room, picking up the chair in the process. Thanks for trusting me.

She raised her head, eyes blazing. Please. I don’t trust you more than I can throw you. Sylvia sat back down in her chair and turned her body slightly away from him.

She didn’t trust him. He knew that from the jump.

He looked around the room. It was just him and her now. The setting was so cold and sterile. Gray walls, bad cheap carpeting and cheaper furniture. A square table and two folding chairs were in the middle of the room. Just like the rest of the precinct; she didn’t belong here.

He noticed when he walked her in, the looks she got from other officers. They shook their heads, as if feeling sorry for her.

Or was that directed mainly towards him?

Even the people that were being booked had to take a second look. She wasn’t the norm for this place. That’s why this all didn’t make sense.

Vincent glanced down at her. Then why...?

"I’m just curious as to why you’re so interested in my rights."

Don’t be a fool Syl....Miss Shannon. I ....the department needs your statement of innocence for the record. Everyone’s innocent until proven—

Yeah, yeah. Doesn’t stop some people though. She turned back facing him, fire in her eyes. She was pissed—and scared. He needed to gain her trust.

"I’m not some people. Look, are you going to help yourself and me? Or are you going to let that two-bit shyster be your mouthpiece? Because you if choose the latter, you’ll surely get the needle."

Sylvia looked at him with sheer horror for the first time. Yo...you honestly think I could get the death penalty, for a crime I didn’t do!

"Not on my watch. But if you keep that poor man’s Perry Mason as your counsel, that needle is as good as ready."

She sighed, then leaned back heavily in the chair. Okay, ask your questions.

Vincent quickly pulled his chair over to her. These are just routine, okay?

She nodded, not looking up at him.

First of all, was that your home? Where the body was found.

No. She looked down at her hands.

Look at me. Here! He pointed to his eyes. He demanded for people to look at him as he questioned them. He could tell with the first sentence if they were telling the truth or not. She was no exception.

She slowly raised her head. No, she said, again.

When did you arrive there?

Just before noon.

Were you supposed to be there?

Yes, Reggie called me to come by.

Vincent thought a moment. He wanted to be careful about the questions he asked and the order in which he asked them.

He could have told her that they knew everything. Cops were allowed to lie to suspects in order to get their answers. But they couldn’t entrap them for a confession. It was a fine line, one he always walked so carefully.

What was the purpose of you going there?

Business.

Did you go there straight from work?

Yes.

Who was in the library?

Besides Reggie? No one. I saw no one. I just heard a noise. I told you that!

She was being curt with her answers. Only giving exactly what he asked and nothing more.

He asked each question again five different ways, adding a little more detail here and there. She was consistent in her answers, such as they were. He was thankful for that. The one thing he had learned in his fourteen years on the force, a perp is never consistent. He or she will slip up eventually.

Okay Miss Shannon. Just one more time. Who was in the library?

I told you, I didn’t see anyone. I’m not even sure if it was a person. It was windy outside and like I said, the door was swinging back and forth when I got in there.

Yep, consistent. Now the nitty gritty questions. The ones he was afraid to know the answers to.

Did you know the deceased?

Pause. She turned her head away her shoulders shaking.

He hit a nerve. This was good.

Who...? He caught himself reaching over to her. He wanted to comfort her. But he stopped. He always took the role of the ‘Bad Cop’ when it came to interrogation. But it looked like he was bending the rules yet again—on account of her. Who was he to you, Sylvia?

My ex-husband.

Damn! Damn! Damn! Okay, this puts a whole new light on things. He stood up with a jerk and paced the room, rubbing his head raw. He needed that ballistics report on the gun and a time

of death of the victim, like yesterday.

Now he had to ask the inevitable question: Did you have a falling out?

Hell, of course she did. That’s why he’s an ex, he thought bitterly. But now he’s a dead ex, which makes the falling out a little more extreme.

She didn’t do it. She didn’t do it! He banged his fist against the wall. He startled himself and Sylvia. He sat back down and closed his notebook. He couldn’t continue. Not now, not in this state.

Why are you doing this? Sylvia asked softly.

Vincent got up, cracked the door open and looked down