Drown Her Sorrows (Bree Taggert) Page 19

  “Thank you. I have only a few more questions,” Bree said. “Who benefits financially from Paul’s death?”

  “I don’t know.” Angela looked up, her gaze sharpening. “He doesn’t have a will. I tried to drag him to an estate planner years ago, but he refused to consider the fact that he could die. Thankfully, I have my own money, family money in a trust that Paul couldn’t touch. I’m not wealthy, but I’ll survive.” She let go of the water bottle and sat back, her hands falling into her lap. “I guess I’ll have to contact an estate attorney.”

  Matt knew the answer, but he kept quiet. In the state of New York, assets would be divided by a set formula between the spouse and children. It wouldn’t all automatically go to the wife, although the distribution would be far easier than in a divorce, unless the business ended up in bankruptcy.

  She straightened her shoulders and reached for a small purse on the chair next to her. “Are we finished?”

  “Almost,” Bree said. “Was there anyone else who might want Paul dead?”

  Angela gripped her purse in her lap. Her knuckles were white. She looked ready to bolt. “Holly’s husband, the husbands of other women Paul might have slept with.”

  Bree made a show of writing down that idea. “What about business associates or clients?”

  Angela just shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Matt asked, “Was Paul involved in any shady deals?”

  “It’s possible,” Angela admitted. “Paul wasn’t a good husband, but he was a very good contractor. He grew up in the business. He knew every aspect of it from drawing to completion, and he had an incredible eye for space and design. That’s why he made a lot of money. He had a waiting list for quotes. People got in line to have Paul remodel their houses.” She sighed. “That said, he clearly wasn’t the most honest man in the world. I suspect he was cheating on taxes. He was also very vague about other aspects of the business, so not much would surprise me.”

  “You think he cheated on taxes?” Bree asked.

  Angela bared her perfect teeth in a predatory smile. “I might have alerted the IRS.”

  “But you’ll owe money too, and maybe suffer penalties,” Matt said.

  Angela nodded. “Now that Paul is dead, that is regrettable, but at the time I really just wanted him to pay for humiliating me. I was hoping he’d go to prison.” She waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. Paul made sure I wasn’t on any of the business paperwork. He refused to share it with me, so I doubt I’ll be criminally liable for tax fraud. They can take back taxes and penalties out of Paul’s estate. Like I said, I have my own trust fund. I’ll be fine. Suing him for divorce wasn’t about money. It was about payback.”

  “So, you had motive to kill him,” suggested Matt.

  “No.” Angela shook her head. “I didn’t want him dead. I wanted him to pay. There’s a difference. Dead, he gets away with everything.”

  Bree asked, “But you don’t know anyone specifically who would have a reason to shoot Paul?”

  “Not in our personal life.” Angela stood. “I don’t know anything about day-to-day running of the business.”

  Matt didn’t believe that for a second. While Angela might play dumb, she’d proven she was anything but.

  She clutched the purse in front of her belly in both hands. “You should talk to his secretary. She knows everything about clients and such. She’s been with the company for decades. She worked with Paul’s father too.”

  Bree asked, “When did Paul buy his gun?”

  “Years ago, after walking in on two burglars at a jobsite.”

  “Where does he keep it?” Bree asked.

  “The glove compartment of his truck,” Angela said. “He was always worried about vandalism and theft. Sometimes he’d stop at jobs late at night on his way home.”

  “How many other people know about the gun?” Bree asked.

  Angela lifted a thin shoulder. “I have no idea.”

  “What kind of gun does he own?” Bree asked.

  Angela shrugged again. “I don’t know. I don’t like guns. He never brought it into the house.”

  Bree flattened her right hand on the table. Matt recognized the going in for the kill gleam in her eyes. She tilted her head. “Did the boys know about it?”

  Angela’s face went pale, and her lips compressed into a bloodless line.

  She was not happy about that question. Not happy at all.

  “This interview is over.” Angela lifted her chin in defiance. “I won’t speak to you again without my lawyer.”

  Bree had found her weak spot.

  Matt rose. Since she was acting like a devastated woman, he pretended to believe her. Putting her on notice would only make her more defensive. “Are you all right to drive?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, pressing her crumpled tissue to the corner of her eye. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll be in contact,” Bree said.

  Neither Matt nor Bree mentioned that Noah was in the next room. The mere mention of her kids in the context of Paul’s gun had brought out the mama bear in her. If Angela knew they were going to question one of her sons next, she definitely would have gone ballistic.

  “Of course.” Angela tucked her purse under her arm and left the conference room in long strides.

  Matt escorted her to the station lobby. Outside, the media still gathered. Matt turned to Angela to offer her the option of leaving through a different, more discreet, door. But Angela Beckett pushed through without hesitating. They swarmed her like ants on a crumb. She raised a teary face toward the cameras. Matt cracked the door so he could hear.

  “The sheriff has promised to find my husband’s killer.” Angela sniffed and blotted her eyes. No ugly crying for her. “I’m doing everything I can to help.”

  A reporter shoved a microphone in her face. “Weren’t you and Mr. Beckett separated?”

  “Yes.” A few tears rolled down Angela’s cheek. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t still love him. He was the father of my children.” She raised a hand to block the camera. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.” Sobbing, she turned away. A few reporters followed her, but she hurried to a silver BMW sedan.

  When Matt returned to interview room one, Bree had jotted down a quick list of bullet-pointed notes. She set down the pen and drummed her fingers on the table. “I’m not sure what to make of her. How much of her performance was an act?”

  “Most of it.” Matt closed the door and described the parking-lot scene. “It was Oscar-worthy. She summoned tears and everything.”

  “In here, despite all her crying, her mascara didn’t run. Her lipstick didn’t even smudge.” Bree added, “What did you think of her saying she didn’t read the PIs’ report?”

  “I can’t see anyone not reading that report. Who could resist knowing who their spouse was banging? Everybody wants the dirty details.”

  “Right?” Bree huffed. “I call bullshit on that too.”

  “On the bright side, I know Lance Kruger of Sharp Investigations. He used to work for the Scarlet Falls PD. He’s a good guy. I only know his boss by reputation, but it’s solid. Whatever information they have will be valid. We could get a list of possible new suspects.”

  Bree tapped her pen on her pad. “If Paul was shot with his own weapon, then whoever killed him knew he had one and where he kept it. They didn’t break into his garage and truck and conveniently find a gun.”

  “Chances are, he knew his killer.”

  “I agree.” Bree turned over the page of her notepad. “On that note, shall we talk to Noah?”

  “Yes. The one question Angela flat-out didn’t answer is whether or not the boys knew about Paul’s gun.”

  “It would be hard to believe Paul owned a weapon for many years without his adult sons knowing it existed.” Bree got up and led the way into the next interview room.

  Matt had seen photos of the twins, but in person, Noah looked remarkably like his mother, tall and leanly athletic. His jeans, striped button-down shirt,
and loafers had a nerdy/preppy vibe. But he was displaying none of his mother’s calculation. Noah was pacing the room, chewing on his thumbnail when Bree and Matt entered. She pressed a button, and the light on the video camera mounted in the corner turned green.

  She introduced them and sat at the table, where she read Noah his Miranda warning. “I need you to sign that you understand.”

  Noah faced them. “Why?”

  “It’s the law, Mr. Beckett.” Bree adjusted her sling and winced.

  “Please don’t call me that.” He yanked out the chair and plopped into it. “Mr. Beckett is my dad’s name. I don’t want to be him.”

  “OK, Noah.” Bree’s tone softened. She had an instinctive ability to read people and tailor her interview style. For Noah, she’d morphed into a mother figure because that’s what he responded to. She handed him her pen, and he signed the paper without reading any of it.

  He checked his phone. “I tried to call my mom, but she’s not answering.”

  Bree gave him a stern look. “I’m going to ask you to turn off your phone during our interview.”

  Noah responded with a respectful nod. “Sure. I’m sorry.” He switched the phone to silent and shoved it into his pocket.

  Matt exhaled. He didn’t want Angela to return Noah’s call in the middle of their questioning session.

  “You’re staying with a friend?” Bree began.

  “Yeah.” He raised his thumb to his mouth and chewed on the nail. “At my girlfriend’s place.”

  “I’ll need her name and address.” Bree poised her pen.

  “Chloe Miller.” He gave them the address of an apartment in Scarlet Falls.

  “When did you get back to town?” Bree asked.

  “Last week. Thursday.” He dropped his hand into his lap. “I should have told Mom. But I know there’s nowhere to stay at her friend’s place, and I didn’t want to stay with my dad.” He sighed. “I just thought this would be easier.”

  “You were going to have to tell her eventually,” Bree pointed out.

  “I know.” Noah’s gaze fell to his hands. “I’ll talk to her later today. She’s going to be hurt that I’ve been here a week and didn’t see her.” He picked at his nail. “And that I lied to her when we talked last night.”

  Bree’s mouth turned up in the corner. “She loves you. She’s going to be happy to see you no matter what.”

  “Yeah. I know.” But Noah looked worried.

  Matt jumped in. “When did you see your parents last?”

  “I was home for Christmas,” Noah said.

  “Did they both seem normal?” Matt asked.

  “Yeah.” Noah’s answer sounded half-hearted, but he didn’t elaborate. He seemed distracted, as if he was having an entirely different conversation in his own head. Was he replaying events from his holiday break? Or was he simply unwilling to talk about his parents’ marriage problems?

  Matt changed topics. “Did you know your dad had a gun?”

  “Uh-huh.” Noah’s brows furrowed.

  “I used to go shooting with my dad,” Matt lied. His dad was more comfortable with a wooden spoon. “Did your dad ever take you?”

  Noah frowned. “Yeah. He took me and Timothy out a couple of times. Dad liked all that man’s man stuff. Fishing, shooting, football . . . He didn’t like that we played tennis.”

  “Do you still play tennis?” Matt asked.

  “Sure.” Noah nodded. “There’s courts at my girlfriend’s apartment complex. I’m teaching her to play.”

  Bree shifted her chair an inch closer, making their proximity more intimate. “But you didn’t like those activities your dad liked?”

  “Not really. We used to go fishing with him once in a while, just to make him happy. But it’s not my thing.” Noah flushed. Was he embarrassed at not meeting his father’s idea of a “man’s man”?

  Matt sat back and sighed. “It’s hard when you can’t live up to your dad’s expectations. My dad was disappointed when I became a cop.” None of this was true. Matt’s dad was an I love you no matter what parent. He loved to cook. He watched Chopped instead of football, but Matt needed to connect with Noah.

  Noah bobbed his head. “When me and Timothy picked majors, Dad lost his shit.”

  Slightly different from Angela’s story.

  “What’s your major?” Bree asked.

  “Education. I’m going to be a teacher.”

  “Like your mom,” Matt said.

  Noah brightened. “Yeah.”

  “What’s your brother’s major?” Bree asked.

  “Law.” Noah winced. “Tim will make money. At least Dad respected that.”

  “But your dad didn’t respect education,” Matt prodded.

  “No. He wanted me to major in engineering or business so I could take over the company. He threatened to cut off my tuition. He would have too, but Mom stopped him.” Noah’s eyes focused inward. “She didn’t do that often. Usually, she found a way to work around him, most of the time without him ever knowing it. She doesn’t like confrontation, and Dad could be a bully.”

  Matt took that to mean Angela was sneaky. “How so?”

  Noah glanced away, his face locked in conflict.

  “Was he mean to all of you, or just your mom?” Bree asked.

  Noah’s jaw tightened.

  Bree said, “My dad had a temper. He did nothing but yell and scream—and worse.” She swallowed. “When I was little, I used to think his blowups were my fault. That I’d done something to make him angry. Now that I’m an adult, I know that wasn’t the case. He was a bully not only because he was bigger and stronger, but because he wanted to be one. He enjoyed making us feel small. He liked to be mean.”

  Noah’s eyes locked on hers, and there was the connection they’d needed. Matt wished it had been something different—he could hear the truth in Bree’s voice. She wasn’t bullshitting Noah.

  Bree’s voice was soft. “Did he hit your mom?”

  Noah shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did he ever hit you?”

  Noah sighed. His body caved forward in surrender. “No, but he was so fucking intimidating. He wasn’t a huge man, but when he got mad, he seemed bigger somehow. I can’t explain it.”

  “Because it always seemed like he was going to hit you.” Bree clearly understood. “Even when he didn’t.”

  Noah froze. “Yeah. That was it.” His gaze dropped. “So, why was he still intimidating when I’d grown up to be as tall as him?”

  She said, “Sometimes we still see things through the eyes of the children we once were.”

  Noah nodded. “I guess that makes sense.” His mouth went pensive, and he remained quiet. After a few seconds of time ticked by, most people couldn’t stand silence, but Noah didn’t seem to care.

  “We talked to your mom earlier today.” Bree raised her hand. “Don’t worry. We didn’t tell her you were in town. That’s up to you.”

  “My mom was here?” The blood drained from Noah’s face. “Why?”

  “Oh, we’re talking to everyone who was close to your dad.” Bree’s tone was artificially nonchalant, and her body language suggested there was more to it than that.

  Noah’s body slammed forward, the legs of the chair hitting the floor with a bang. “My mom wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

  Bree didn’t move. “We didn’t say that she would.”

  Noah’s entire body went tight. His face reddened, and the tendons on the sides of his neck stood out like steel cables. “My dad was the aggressive one, not Mom.”

  Bree lifted one hand, the palm facing Noah. “If you say so.”

  Noah leaped to his feet. The rubber chair feet squeaked on the old waxed floor. “It was me.”

  Matt was on his feet before he could process any thought, the reaction to Noah’s sudden movement automatic. Then his brain processed what the kid had said.

  Wait. What?

  Was that a confession?

  Bree hadn’t moved. She blinked
once in surprise. She hadn’t expected the outburst either.

  She kept her eyes on Noah and recovered her shock in less than one breath. “Please sit down.”

  Noah eased into the chair as if in slow motion. His gaze darted from Bree to Matt, then fell to his lap, where his fingers were clenched into fists on his thighs.

  Mirroring Noah, Bree sat very still. “What did you mean by ‘it was me’? I need you to be very clear here, Noah.”

  Noah raised his chin, but he couldn’t quite meet Bree’s gaze. His voice went robotic. “I killed my father.”

  Bree sat back, quietly studying him. Under her scrutiny, sweat broke out on Noah’s forehead. He was entirely still, except for the jiggling of one leg.

  One long minute passed. Then Bree shifted her shoulders just an inch forward. “Convince me.”

  Noah’s eyes widened. Dark rings of sweat appeared under his arms. His voice trembled. “What do you mean?”

  “How did you kill him?” Bree’s head tilted.

  “I shot him.” Noah’s statement rose at the end, almost like a question.

  “Are you sure?” Bree asked.

  “Yes.” He nodded once, then repeated in a more confident voice, “I shot him.”

  Bree picked up her pen and held it over her notepad. “Where?”

  Noah licked his lips. “In the garage.”

  Bree made a note. “What did you shoot him with?”

  A tiny flash of alarm scrambled in Noah’s eyes, then he exhaled, as if just remembering something. “His gun.”

  Bree’s pen scratched on her pad. “How did you get the gun?”

  “I took it from the truck,” Noah said. So, he knew where Paul had kept his gun.

  “Was the truck locked?” she asked.

  Noah thought about that. “No.”

  Bree lifted an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

  Noah’s jaw jutted forward. “The truck wasn’t locked. It was in the garage.”

  “How did you get into the garage?” Bree asked.

  “I have a key.” Noah’s voice was uncertain. He probably did have a key. His dad’s house was his permanent address, but he didn’t know about the glass panes that had been cut out of the window.

  She lifted her pen. “Where was your dad standing when you shot him?”