Free The Trouble With Murder by Catherine Nelson Page A

done something wrong. These encounters weren’t any more pleasant when I
knew I’d done nothing wrong. Cops aren’t great conversationalists.
    “Did Ellmann send you?” I sighed
and moved away from the doorjamb, leaving the door open. “I mean, it’s just
paperwork.”
    “No. What paperwork?”
    Behind me, I heard Hensley step
inside and close the door.
    “Never mind.”
    I went to the kitchen and pulled a
glass from the cupboard. Hensley came in behind me, no doubt taking in the
house around him with the keen eye of a detective.
    “Are you here alone?” he asked
casually. “Or do you have company?”
    It was the Axe; I was positive.
    “Just me,” I said, mentally moving
“shampoo” to the top of my shopping list.
    I wasn’t sure what state the house
was in, but I knew my reaction to having him inside would tip him off whether
he saw anything or not. My mother, while in her manic states, kept everything
cleaned to a blinding polish. But she didn’t have the best judgment and often
brought home things she shouldn’t have, things of the chemical variety. I
crossed my fingers nothing had been left in plain view and went to the water
dispenser in the fridge.
    “Water?” I asked.
    “No, thanks.”
    I carried the glass to the
breakfast bar and climbed onto a stool. I indicated the others, and Hensley
took a seat. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a small notepad similar to
Ellmann’s. Did they issue those with badges? He flipped back several pages.
    “Twenty thousand dollars of White
Real Estate and Property Management’s money is unaccounted for,” he said
casually. Any annoyance he’d felt earlier was either gone or strategically
hidden beneath his well-practiced neutral cop-face. “Know anything about that?”
    I took a sip of water and shook my
head. “No, I don’t. It was just brought to my attention this morning.”
    “I have documents on my desk that
indicate otherwise.”
    “Someone went to a lot of trouble
to cover their tracks, then. I don’t steal.” Not anymore, anyway.
    “Don’t you?” the cop asked. He
flipped another page then stopped. “You have a history of theft.”
    He was bluffing, and doing a damn
fine job of it; I was a little bit impressed. My last arrest had been at the
age of eighteen and wasn’t for theft. Everything before that was sealed in my
juvenile record. It was possible for the police to petition a judge to unseal
those records, but there would have to be a very compelling reason to do so. I
doubted my implication in the embezzlement was sufficient. Still, had I not
known this, I would have believed he knew more than he did. I made a mental
note to watch what I said.
    “You’re a terrific liar,” I said,
smiling conspiratorially.
    “It isn’t a lie.”
    “As far as you’re concerned, I’ve
been arrested one time, and that was for assault, not theft.”
    “A judge has unsealed your record.”
A wild stab in the dark, and while I knew it was precisely aimed, he did not.
    Hensley was a good interrogator. He
had no doubt wrapped up more than a few cases by just talking with people,
causing them to incriminate themselves. I would have believed him had I not
known better. That was a little intimidating.
    I shook my head. “My lawyer would
have been notified as a matter of procedure. He would have then called me.
Since I haven’t heard from him, I know no such thing has happened.”
    “You seem quite familiar with the
law, Ms. Grey. Have you had legal training, or is it all from experience?”
    “I pay attention.”
    He waited a beat, but I said
nothing more. He flipped to a different page in the notebook and tried another
track.
    “I looked at your financials,” he
said. “You’re making ends meet now, but times are a little lean for you,
comparatively. You were once making more than a hundred thousand dollars a
year. Did you get tired of this low-rent way of life? Twenty grand would go a
long way in putting you back into your former