Rite of Wrongs Read Free Page A

staring there as she died.
    Miriam could understand why. The wall and the rest of the blood . . . okay. She’d give Vince interesting. On top of the spray—some of that smeared, droplets of the blood running like tears down the wall—were written the words: Honor thy father and thy mother. Exodus 20:12
    Except written wasn’t exactly right. They were painted in blood, the brushstrokes neat, the letters blocky and five to six inches tall.
    Paint it red.
    The thought played in her head like a Rolling Stones tune. Funny how the subconscious worked, picking up on the speed of her pulse and dissociating. Though the survival mechanism kicking in only served to remind her of why she hated blood.
    She should just give this one to Ballard.
    “Hey, Detective.” The greeting came from Karen Sosa, Miriam’s favorite tech, as she straightened from where she’d been shooting close-ups around the victim’s head. She was only five feet tall and swore that being close to the ground helped her see things other techs missed.
    “The glass from the picture frames.” Miriam pointed toward the front door. “Was it crushed like that when you got here?”
    “Yep, but not by the uniforms. Or so they say. I’m guessing the husband.” She gestured toward an evidence bag next to her gear kit holding a pair of men’s brown-leather dress shoes. “He hadn’t walked but from here to the living room before I got him out of ’em. Could be the suspect made the mess, though it’s doubtful there’ll be any trace if so.”
    “But you’ll look.”
    “I will look,” Karen said, and went back to work, her long black braid swinging as she swiveled to take more photos.
    “Good woman,” Miriam replied, then turned as Vince appeared at her side. “What else?” she asked, and he led her to the kitchen.
    “Victim’s purse is there on the counter where we found it.” Vince nodded toward a pile of mail, a cell phone, car keys, and the handbag. “We haven’t moved or touched anything.”
    “And the husband?” Miriam asked, noticing the door leading out of the kitchen to the driveway and detached garage.
    “Said he never made it past the foyer. Found the body. She was on her side. He was the one who rolled her to her back.”
    Miriam thought about the vehicles in the driveway, the bikes in the garage. Her stomach tightened as she pictured her tiny little niece and her tiny little pigtails.
    “Which car is hers?” she asked, though she knew the answer.
    “The minivan. The Mercedes is his.”
    Looking from the door to the stovetop back to the counter, Miriam jotted more notes. When Ballard stepped into the room, she moved past the granite-topped island to the door.
    She tried the knob and the dead bolt. Each was locked, and she snapped pictures of both. Karen would photograph the scene for the record, but Miriam liked having her own reminder.
    Ballard was the one to speak next. “So . . . she took the kids to school, bought groceries before working out, came home, unloaded the car . . . maybe went back to answer the front door? Was it locked when the husband got here?”
    “Yes, sir,” Vince said, adding, “and according to him, that was her schedule, sir.”
    “He came in from there.” Ballard frowned and gestured toward the front of the house. “He parked in the driveway but didn’t use the side door into the kitchen?” He nodded toward the one Miriam had just checked.
    “No, sir. Said he always backs in and stops where the front walk connects. Said it’s quicker.”
    “Huh.” It was Ballard’s only response. Then, “Did she go to a gym? To work out?”
    “No, sir. She runs their dog, a shepherd-Lab mix, Bongo, on the trails at Copper Acres Park.”
    “Where’s the park from here?” Miriam asked, thinking the weather too hot to leave the dog in the van while grabbing the groceries, and too hot to leave the groceries in the van while running the dog. Ballard had it wrong. “She dropped off the kids, grabbed the