Rite of Wrongs Read Free

mother’s “Don’t hang up!” just as her father hung up.
    Man, she loved her dad.
    Slipping her phone into her sports bra and making a mental note to buy yoga pants with pockets, she signaled toward two of the uniforms standing near the front steps. One came down the walkway to meet her, handing her a pen and clipboard. She scribbled her name while asking, “Who was first on scene?”
    “I was, ma’am. Sergeant Robert Vince, ma’am.”
    His eyes were big and as brown as his skin, and he made a formidable shadow. “Don’t call me ma’am . Call me Rome.”
    “Yes, ma—I mean, Detective Rome.”
    Close enough. “Do we have a warrant yet?”
    “It’s on the way.”
    Good. Until then . . . “Walk me through it, Vince.”
    “Yes, ma—Detective.” Vince cleared his throat and flipped open his notepad. His voice was a deep, resonant bass as he ran through the particulars. “Female victim. Gina Gardner. Fifty-five. Appears she was surprised after her morning run, as she’s still wearing her workout clothes. This, according to the husband. He’s on his way to the station.”
    Miriam hoped he hadn’t destroyed any evidence before they got him clear. “The husband’s the one who found her?”
    Vince nodded, avoiding another awkward choice between Rome and ma’am . “Came home at lunch. Says it’s their daily routine. He’s a pediatrician. Dr. Jeff Gardner. Shares a practice with two others. Grocery bags of greens on the kitchen counter. I went ahead and called in the techs. There was enough evidence. Interesting evidence.”
    Interesting. Miriam hated that word. She also hated other people’s assumptions. She wanted to walk in to the scene without being told anything was apparent.
    “Thank you, Sergeant.” She headed for the front door, stopping to don latex gloves and slip booties over her flip-flops, looking up at the second detective who’d just arrived and was snort-laughing at her footwear.
    “I guess the rumors are true,” Ike Ballard said, bending to cover wingtips that cost more than her Kate Spade crossbody. His suit was pricey, too, and his tie, no doubt his socks and, uh, other things. He was a good detective, if a little too pleased with himself, though she wasn’t without faults of her own. Right now, all that mattered was her seniority.
    She opened her notebook to a new grid insert, pulled her pen from the loop, and clicked it to jot a few keywords from Vince’s narrative, then dug her sweaty smartphone from her bra and readied the camera. “What rumors?”
    He gave her a smirk. “That they’ll let anyone work a crime scene these days.”
    “Appears so,” she said, as she looked him up and down, earning another snort. “You have the warrant?”
    He patted his breast pocket. “Fresh out of Dropbox. Signed by Judge Parkman.”
    Man, she loved technology. “Then let’s do this.”
    Walking into the house, Miriam exhaled, only breathing in once she had her notebook in front of her nose to filter the smell. Blood was like that: rusty, metallic, strong. Blood was thick. Blood was her bête noire. And there was a lot of blood.
    Most was pooled next to the body on a bright-blue industrial tarp a few steps inside the door. Convenient for evidence collection and the scene cleaners. Family photos lay scattered on the entryway floor, frames broken, glass crushed.
    The victim was indeed wearing workout clothes—pink shoes, pink shorts, pink sports bra, and tank. Her dark hair was still bound with a pink elastic, though her ponytail appeared to have been loosened, whether by exercise or a struggle, hard to say. Her sunglasses were hooked on a pink lanyard. Their frames were pink.
    The gash across her throat was the obvious source of the blood loss, as well as the most likely cause of death. There were spatters on her skin, handprints Miriam imagined belonged to the husband on her clothing, and what looked to be arterial spray on the foyer wall. Her eyes were wide-open, as if she’d been