The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(32)

Jermaine is quite the opposite—efficient and self-sufficient enough to let her breathe. He doesn’t work the homicide unit—he’s vice—but they’re both in law enforcement.

That’s not all they have in common. Crystal met him at a bereaved parents’ meeting. He, too, was divorced, but his marriage didn’t falter until after his teenage daughter died.

It was a drug overdose. Tragic. Jermaine and his wife had their share of problems before that—what couple doesn’t? But their marriage, like so many, couldn’t withstand the trauma of losing a child.

Every day, Crystal gives thanks to the Lord that as they emerged simultaneously from the wreckage of their lives, she and Jermaine found each other. And she would have given anything to have been here with him tonight, celebrating the one reason she found the strength to go on living in this grim world where she hasn’t just lost her only child, but spends each day confronting the rock bottom worst of humanity.

Leaning over the couch, she kisses the spot at the edge of her husband’s receding, graying hairline.

Jermaine lets out a final loud, waking snore and opens his eyes.

“You’re home.”

“Nah . . . you’re jus’ dreamin’.”

“Then how ’bout you make it a sweet dream, baby.” He grins, pulling her down. “I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“Feels that way, doesn’t it?”

In the past couple of days, between his strip club sting and her homicide, they’ve only managed to connect on the phone.

But there are worse things. Far worse.

Crystal settles into his arms with a kiss and a deep yawn, resting her head against his barrel chest.

“Paperwork finished?”

“Finally.”

“How was Cleveland?”

“Oh, you know . . . it rocks,” she says dryly.

“Find what you needed?”

“No, we did not.”

She and her partner, Frank Schneider, had driven up there two days ago to check out Hank Heywood’s alibi for Saturday night, when his wife Meredith was murdered. He said he’d been home all night at his mother’s house, cleaning out her closets and cabinets now that he’d moved the old lady into a home.

Crystal and Frank talked to the people who lived on either side of the mother’s condo, hoping to find elderly busybody types who have nothing better to do than keep an eye on the neighbors.

Unfortunately, the single mom who lived on one side had gone away for the weekend with her kids. She’d seen Hank Friday afternoon as they were packing the car, but not since.

“For what it’s worth,” she told the detectives, “Mr. Heywood is such a nice guy. I can’t imagine that he had anything to do with a murder.”

It wasn’t worth anything at all, thank you very much.

Crystal has met more than her share of cold, hardened criminals lurking behind Mr. Nice Guy facades.

She and Frank had better luck with Professor Malcolm, who lived next door on the other side.

He said he’d run into Heywood carrying a bunch of heavy-looking garbage bags down to the parking lot Dumpster at around seven o’clock Saturday evening, when he himself was on his way out to dinner. He returned to the building before eleven but didn’t recall whether Heywood’s truck was still parked out front.

That could mean that it wasn’t there.

It could also mean that it was, and Professor Malcolm simply hadn’t noticed it.

He did notice it when he left for church on Sunday morning, headed to an eleven o’clock service.

“Well?” Frank asked on the way back to Cincinnati. “If you were a betting woman—”

“Oh, you know I’m a betting woman, Frank.”

He grinned, well aware that she and Jermaine like to sneak off to Vegas or Atlantic City every now and then.

“So if you were playing the odds,” he went on, “would your money be on the husband?”

“It’s not just about the odds. If you look at the victimology and possible motives—who stands to benefit most from the death?”

“Exactly.” Frank started ticking off Hank Heywood’s known stressors on his fingers. “The guy loses his job. His mother loses her marbles and her ability to live alone. He’s going to lose his wife sooner or later . . .

“Looking at it strictly from a financial standpoint, sooner would be preferable, because his health insurance runs out soon, and if he doesn’t find a new job with benefits, they’re screwed. He’s thinking it’s better to collect on her life insurance policy now instead of later, right?”

Crystal shrugs. “At that point, if they’ve lost their health care for any amount of time, the payout might not even cover the debt they’ll have racked up on her medical care.”

“So we have motive. And opportunity. Yeah, we know he was seen in Cleveland Saturday night and again on Sunday morning, but it’s a four hour drive, tops. He could’ve left after the neighbor saw him by the Dumpster, driven down to his house, killed the wife, and driven back before dawn.”

Yeah. He could’ve.

Or, Hank Heywood could’ve been right where he said he was, sadly cleaning out his failing mother’s condo in preparation to list it, completely unaware that his beloved wife of more than thirty years lay dying in the master bedroom they shared back home.