Pink Neon Dreams (18 page)

“Agent Padilla,” he said. “Thank
you. It’s been awhile.”

She watched Daniel shake hands.
“Yes, it has.
 
How’s Trina?”

“She’s great, still working at
the school and selling Avon on the side.
 
Is this Mrs. Bradford?”

In response to the name she’d
come to loathe, Cecily stood up tall. “No,” she said. “My name is Cecily Brown
now.”

Daniel’s tight lips twitched but
in a brisk tone he said, “Tillman, this is the former Mrs. Willard
Bradford.
 
She gained her maiden name
back as part of her divorce.
 
Ms. Brown,
this is Agent Frank Tillman.”

Frank extended his hand and after
a pause, Cecily shook it. “Come on back to the conference room and we’ll talk.”

He pointed so she walked into the
room, basic and bland.
 
A long table
seating twelve claimed most of the space and two other people sat there,
waiting.
 
Her stomach clenched tight
enough to ache.
 
Cecily’s awareness of
Daniel a few paces behind became heightened, but when his footfalls stopped she
almost panicked.
 
“We’ll take it from
here,” Tillman told Daniel.
 
“Martin
wants our fresh input and impressions.
 
You can watch, though.”

She’d counted on his presence to
keep her grounded, needed his silent support.
 
Although she didn’t dare turn around, Cecily became cold as if a January
wind brushed her.
 
When directed, she sat
down at the table as directed.
 
The other
agents introduced themselves although she didn’t catch their names because she
was distracted trying to determine Daniel’s location.

Tillman switched on a digital
recorder. “Let’s get started. You’re Cecily Brown, also known as Mrs. Willard
Bradford IV, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“How long were you married to Mr.
Bradford?”

“About ten years.”

“When did you get divorced?”

“A few months ago,” she replied,
palms clammy with sweat.
 
She linked her
hands together in her lap so they wouldn’t tremble.
 
Although she had nothing to hide, the informal
interrogation made her nervous.

“So after ten years why did you
decide to end the marriage? It was you who filed, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

So
far the questions were routine, but Cecily suspected things were about to get
intense, judging by the smirk on the head interviewer’s face.
 
And she proved to be right when he said, “And
you’re angry about the divorce, correct?”

“No,” she replied. “I’m not.”

“But you’re upset you didn’t get
half of your ex-husband’s vast fortune, aren’t you?”

Anger uncurled deep in her belly
like a stretching cat. “I didn’t want his damn money,” Cecily said with some
heat. “I asked for what seemed like enough money to help me start over.
 
I know enough about the law and how it
works.
 
Illinois is a common law property
state, not community.
 
I wouldn’t have
had a shot at getting half anyway.
 
Will,
uh, Willard had better lawyers than that.”

“Aren’t you bitter you couldn’t
get more? What did you end up with? Wasn’t it a quarter of a million?”

His voice slashed into her
private life, razor sharp. “If you’re asking, you already know,” Cecily
said.
 
Her struggle to keep a lid on her
simmering temper was about to fail. “I didn’t want more.
 
I figure I earned that much in ten years of
putting up with him.”

Frowning, Tillman drummed his
fingers against the table top. “C’mon. Don’t tell me you settled for two
hundred and fifty thousand when you could have asked for millions.
 
Isn’t the truth that you did some math after
the fact and decided to get more?”

“No.”

“Where were you on the day Willard
was shot to death by an unknown assailant on the steps of the house you called
home for a decade?”

Fear gnawed within with claws. At
first, Cecily had thought Daniel might be a little paranoid, jaded by years in
the same job.
 
Then she realized maybe
not and she became afraid. Until this moment, she hadn’t tasted true
terror.
 
The intrusive questions were an
attempt to finger her, mark her guilty.
 
“I was in Branson, getting ready to open a boutique, Pink Neon.”

“How long had you been in town?”

“About a month, I think,” Cecily said.

“Is there someone who can vouch
for your whereabouts?”

The honest answer would be
‘no’.
 
Sure, she’d dealt with the realtor
and other business people, stayed at the hotel, ate in local restaurants but
now, six weeks after her initial arrival, she didn’t know how many would
remember.
 
Despite her minority among the
mostly white tourists, people came and went daily in Branson.
 
Most of the locals exhibited a ‘here today,
gone tomorrow’ philosophy and she couldn’t be certain they’d recall one black
chick with cornrowed hair.

“For every
minute?
No,”
she answered. “Give me dates and times, maybe I can document some of it. I
stayed at a hotel until I rented a house.
 
The realtor who rented me my shop and found the house can account for
some of my time, but not all of it.”

“So you had plenty of time to
head back to Chicago, break into your former residence, and shoot your former
husband to death?”

Cecily drew breath to answer, but
the door slammed open.
 
Daniel’s voice
rang out with volume and clarity. “Tillman, you’re out of line.
 
There’s no reason to believe Ms. Brown
returned to Chicago after she left town.”

Frank
Tillman paused.
 
Red suffused his cheeks
with an unhealthy glow and he glowered. “Padilla, it’s my inquiry, not yours.”

“You’re pushing an agenda here,
not questioning a person of interest.”

She didn’t dare look at Daniel,
afraid she’d reveal their connection so she stared at the table.

“Bullshit.” Tillman snorted. “I’m
trying to establish if motive exists and if she had opportunity to commit the
crime.
 
I see motive—money can be a
powerful motivator and now I’d say there’s opportunity if she can’t account for
her time, especially if she can’t validate any of it.”

If she didn’t speak up, she’d be
charged next. “I can account for my time,” Cecily snapped.
 
She lifted her head and caught sight of
Daniel, serious and sober-faced standing just inside the door. “I never
realized I’d need an alibi or witnesses, since I had no idea someone would take
down Willard.”

“What did you do with the jewels,
Ms. Brown? Did you fire the weapon or hire someone professional?” Tillman’s
voice slammed into her consciousness.
 
“If I search your house, your business, or your car, will I find the
gems and jewelry or is it gone?”

Cecily alternated between a rage
so powerful she’d smite the son-of-a-bitch if she could and an urge to
weep.
 
As she tried to form a credible
answer, Daniel spoke up. “You’re out of line, Frank,” he said. “You’ve got no
evidence to get warrants, nothing but the fact no one’s turned up any other
possible suspects.”

“I can get warrants,” Tillman
replied in a smug voice.

“It’s impossible unless you come
up with something more than you’ve got,” Daniel said. “You’d have to look into
her stories, verify her presence in Branson.
 
Unless you can prove some blank spots, you’ve got nothing.
 
If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were
trying to pin the crime on Ms. Brown.”

His words sucked the air from the
room and left it still, a terrible calm before an approaching storm.
 
Tillman glared at Daniel, but he never looked
at Cecily. “Is that an accusation, Agent Padilla?”

Daniel’s dark eyes
smoldered.
 
Damn he can be lethal and I like it.
 
I’m
ready to haul ass out of here anytime.
 
I
wish he’d take me home.

“No, not yet,” Daniel said.
 
“I call things as I see them, though. You
need to back off.”

“You need to butt out.
 
Ms. Brown, how did it feel when you shot your
ex-husband in the head? Did you enjoy it? Was it payback for something he did
during your marriage?”

With a flourish, Tillman ripped
sheets from a folder and tossed down crime scene photos in front of Cecily.
 
Willard lay in a puddle of blood, face
half-gone, and brain matter leaking into the gore.
 
No matter how much she’d come to loath the
man, the pictures upset Cecily.
 
She
might’ve grown up in a piss poor neighborhood but nothing prepared her for such
vivid evidence of violence.
 
The graphic
images sickened her and would no matter who it was sprawled in death.
 
Cecily gasped and looked away, but Tillman
picked up one of the photos and thrust it in her face. “Take a closer look, Ms.
Brown. Did you do this? Is this your handiwork or did you hire it done?”

Daniel grasped the photo and
tossed it face down onto the table. “It’s over,” he said with a snarl. “You’re
out of line, big time, Frank.
 
Ms. Brown,
I apologize for this ugliness.
 
You’re
free to go.
 
Come on, I’ll drive you back
to Branson.”

Cecily managed to stand and
nod.
 
“Thank you, Mr. Padilla.”

“I won’t forget this,” Daniel
said, his eyes locked with Tillman’s. “I brought this woman in good faith for
an interview, not an interrogation.
 
You
went far beyond the parameters we’re allowed.”

Tillman shook his head. “Martin’s
going to hear about this, all of it.
 
I’m
convinced she’s guilty and that’s what I’ll tell him.
 
Ms. Brown, I’d suggest you don’t leave
Branson and make sure we can find you.
 
Padilla, you’re going to have to answer for this insubordination.”

“Do what you have to,” Daniel
said. “And so will
I
.”

He lifted his hand toward the
door so Cecily walked out of it.
 
Daniel
followed.
 
He said nothing, but he
punched the elevator button with more force than necessary.
 
When the doors parted, she entered and so did
he.
 
In the privacy of the brief descent,
Daniel pulled her into his arms. “I’m so sorry,
querida
,” he said. “I knew it would be difficult, but I didn’t
expect it to be so ugly.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said.
“What now?”

Daniel shook his head. “Let’s get
the hell out of here first.
 
Then we
talk.”

Chapter
Eleven

Head held high despite her inner
turmoil, Cecily strolled through the lobby and outside.
 
She gasped to fill her lungs with air,
inhaling the late summer scent of just mown grass and dust.
 
Her legs threatened to buckle under, but she
managed the few steps to Daniel’s car.
 
He hadn’t spoken since the elevator, maybe because he figured they
remained under scrutiny.
 

After he unlocked the car and
held the door for her, Cecily crawled into the seat and resisted an urge to
bury her face in her hands.
 
Her feet
hurt from the heels and she kicked them off before Daniel slid behind the
wheel.
 
He shot her a sympathetic glance
but said nothing, just started the car and pulled out into traffic.
 
By the time he merged onto a busy main
thoroughfare, Cecily’s breathing reached a normal, even rhythm.
 
She thought it must be mid-afternoon or later,
but the clock on the digital dashboard confirmed it was just after noon.

“Where are we headed?” she
asked.
 

At the traffic light, he stopped
in queue and took her hand. “You okay?”

“I guess,” she said although her
stomach ached and a headache threatened. “That was awful.”

“Yeah and I’m sorry,” Daniel
replied.
 
“I didn’t expect it to be so
intense. I’ll buy you lunch if you want.”

“Uh-uh,” she said. Food lacked
any appeal. “My tummy’s upset and I’d rather just go home.”

“Sure,” he said. “Do you want to
stop for a Sprite or something?”

She started to refuse but then
she nodded. “Yeah, thanks.
 
Maybe we
could pick up something for my headache, too.”