returning her attention to the desk.
Bannerman kept a respectful distance, meandering back and forth between the edge of the den and the window, looking out to the garden outside of the office.
Karen noted right away that the office desk was facing the wall. This wasn’t too uncommon; as she understood it, it was a great way for people with short attention spans to improve their focus. She also knew it meant she likely never even knew what was coming until it had happened.
Her suspicions automatically turned to the husband. Whoever had killed her had entered the house quietly and made very little noise.
That, or they were already in here and she wasn’t suspecting a thing.
Again, all signs pointed to the husband. But that was a dead end because based on everything they knew, the husband had a solid alibi. Sure, she could check up on it but history told her that when someone had alibis pertaining to work, there were seldom any cracks in those alibis.
Before stating such a thing to DeMarco or Bannerman, she stepped into the den. In order to get into the office, one had to pass through the den. The floor was covered in a very nice Oriental rug. The sofa looked like it was rarely used and the piano looked as if it were an antique—the sort that was never played but was nice to look at.
The books on the walls were an assortment of titles, most of which she assumed had never even been opened…just coffee table books to look nice on shelves. Only near the end of the furthest shelf did she see any books that showed signs of wear and tear: some classics, a few thriller paperbacks, and some cookbooks.
She looked for anything odd or out of place but saw nothing. DeMarco stepped into the den as well and gave her a frown and a shrug.
“Thoughts?” Kate asked.
“I think we need to speak with the husband. Even with the rock solid alibi, maybe he can uncover some small nugget of information.”
Bannerman stood by the entryway of the den, his arms crossed as he looked at them. “We’ve questioned him, of course. His alibi is pretty much bulletproof. At least nine people at his work saw him and spoke to him while his wife was being killed. But he’s also stated that he’s willing to answer as many questions as we have.”
“Where is he staying?” Kate asked.
“At his sister’s place, about three miles from here.”
“Sheriff, do you have a file on the first victim?”
“I do. I can have someone email you a copy of it if you like.”
“That would be great.”
Bannerman’s age brought with it experience. He knew the agents were done in the Hopkins home. Without being told, he turned and headed for the front door with Kate and DeMarco behind him.
As they walked back to their cars, thanking Bannerman for meeting with them, the sun had finally reached its place of permanence in the sky. It was just past eight o’clock and Kate felt as if the case were already on the move.
She hoped that was a good omen.
Of course, when they got into the car and she noticed a few gray storm clouds meandering in, she tried to ignore them.
CHAPTER THREE
Bannerman had called ahead to give the husband a heads-up that the FBI was coming by to speak with him. When Kate and DeMarco arrived at his sister’s house ten minutes later, Gerald Hopkins was sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee. As they climbed the stairs to meet him, Kate saw that the man was exhausted. She knew what grief looked like, and no one wore it well. But when exhaustion was part of the equation, it made it so much worse.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Mr. Hopkins,” Kate said.
“Of course. Anything I can do to find who did this.”
His voice was haggard and wispy. Kate imagined he had spent a great deal of the last two days crying, sobbing, and perhaps even screaming. And getting very little sleep in between. He gazed into his cup of coffee, his brown eyes looking like they might droop closed at any minute. Kate thought that if he had not been overcome with such horrendous grief, Gerald Hopkins was likely a rather handsome man.
“Is your sister here?” DeMarco asked.
“She is. She’s inside, handling the…arrangements.” He stopped here, took a deep breath to fight off what Kate assumed was a bout of weeping, and then shuddered a bit. He sipped some coffee and went on. “She’s been amazing. Handling it all, fighting for me. Keeping the nosy assholes in this city away.”
“We know the police have already questioned you, so we’ll keep it brief,” Kate said. “If you can, I’d like for you to describe the last week or so you spent with Karen. Could you do that?”
He shrugged. “I guess it was like just about any other week. I went to work, she stayed at home. I came home, we did our basic married couple stuff. We had gotten into a routine…sort of boring. Some couples might call it a rut.”
“Anything bad?” Kate asked.
“No. We just…I don’t know. The last few years, ever since the kids were all moved out, we sort of stopped trying. We still loved each other but it was just very plain. Boring, you know?” He sighed here and then shuddered once more. “Ah, shit. The kids. They’re all on their way here. Henry, our oldest, should be here in the next hour or so. And then I have to…have to go through it…”
He lowered his head and let out a desperate mewling sound that tapered into a hiccup-style weeping. Kate and DeMarco stepped away, giving him his space. It took about two minutes for him to regroup. When he did, he wiped his eyes and looked up apologetically.
“Take your time,” Kate said.
“No, it’s okay. I just wish I’d been a better husband at the end, you know? I was always around, but never really there. I think she was feeling lonely. I actually, I know she was. I just didn’t want to put forth any extra effort. Isn’t that just miserable of me?”
“Do you know of anyone she might have met with the last few days?” Kate asked. “Any meetings or appointments, anything like that?”
“No clue. Karen sort of ran the house. I don’t even know what was going on in my own house…my own fucking life half the time. She did it all. Balanced the checkbooks, made appointments, set the calendars up, planned dinners, planted that damned keyhole garden of hers, kept up with family birthdays and get-togethers. I was pretty much useless.”
“Would you allow us to have access to her calendars?” DeMarco asked.
“Anything you need. Anything. Bannerman and his men already have access to our synced calendar. We did everything on our phones. He can get you on there.”
“Thank you. Mr. Hopkins, we’ll leave you for now but please…if you think of anything of interest, could you please contact us or Sheriff Bannerman?”
He nodded, but it was clear that he was only a few moments away from weeping again.
Kate and DeMarco took their leave, heading back to their car. It hadn’t been a very productive meeting but it did help to convince Kate that there was no way Gerald DeMarco had killed his wife. You just
