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Authors: L.J. Sellers
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tightened her robe and crossed her arms. Her eyes teared up but she didn’t cry. After a minute, the sister said, “Long ago, when he was a homeless meth user, I braced myself for this. I promised myself I would never cry for him again.”
Jane jumped up and lurched to the coffeepot. With a shaking hand, she poured two cups and set them on the table.
Jackson wanted to focus on something positive to put her at ease, but he reminded himself that she was a primary suspect. “You asked if Craig had relapsed. Does that mean he got clean for a while?”
“Prison will do that for you.” She closed her eyes and gulped coffee as if it were a religious experience. “How did he die? An overdose?”
“He was stabbed, but we don’t know who did it yet. I’m hoping you can help us.” Jackson usually didn’t drink out of open containers offered by witnesses or suspects, but he’d watched her make the coffee. It smelled incredible, and his body craved caffeine. He took a sip and waited to see what information Jane would offer, but she was focused on her coffee.
“What did Craig go to prison for?” Jackson had learned the basics from a database search late the night before, but it was always interesting to hear personal versions.
“Armed robbery.” Jane shook her head. “It was the meth. The drug changed him. Craig wasn’t a violent man.”
“When did he get out?” Jackson remembered the tattoo on the victim’s hand.
“A couple months ago.” A stray tear escaped her brimming eyes. “I thought he was doing fine. He had a job, he was checking in with his parole officer and saving for an apartment.”
“When did you see him last?”
“Thursday. He was here for dinner.”
“How did he seem and what did he talk about?”
“He was fine. He talked about wanting a new job because the smell of gas gave him headaches, but he seemed upbeat.”
Time to get to the heart of it. “Who was he looking for?”
She blinked and took a sip of coffee. “What do you mean?”
Jackson slipped Cooper’s laptop out of his carryall. “You sent Craig a message saying you couldn’t find someone and toleave you alone. What was that about?” Jackson opened the saved Facebook page. He didn’t want Jane to waste time denying knowledge of the issue, whatever it was.
“Craig wanted me to contact Danny Brennan, one of the men he committed the robbery with.”
“He wasn’t apprehended?”
“Danny was caught before Craig.” Jane sighed and rubbed her face. “I don’t want to talk about this. It’s too painful.”
“I sympathize, but it could be connected to Craig’s death.”
“That seems unlikely.”
Time for a little pressure. “Where were you last night between six and seven?”
“Seriously? You think I could have killed my brother?”
“Where were you?”
“I had dinner out with a friend, then I came home.”
“What time did you leave the restaurant?”
“About eight.” Jane stood and poured herself more coffee. “This is a waste of time.”
“Then let’s move through it quickly. Show me what you were wearing last night.”
She shuddered, but headed out of the kitchen and down a hallway. Jackson followed, noticing that her living room had thick carpet and lots of pillows on the floor around a central low table. Did she conduct séances?
Jane turned into a bedroom, flipped open a laundry basket, and pulled out a skirt and sweater. She shoved them at Jackson. “See? No blood. I had no reason to kill my brother.”
The pink sweater and gray wool skirt smelled like incense, but held no stains. That also didn’t prove anything. She could have thrown away yesterday’s clothes, but Jackson didn’t have enough reason to start looking in neighborhood trash cans. Not withTodd Sheppard, who lived a hundred feet away from the victim, having blood on his face. “Let me see your hands.”
Jane held them out. Her bony fingers were covered with rings—oversize silver and copper creations—and the
Jane jumped up and lurched to the coffeepot. With a shaking hand, she poured two cups and set them on the table.
Jackson wanted to focus on something positive to put her at ease, but he reminded himself that she was a primary suspect. “You asked if Craig had relapsed. Does that mean he got clean for a while?”
“Prison will do that for you.” She closed her eyes and gulped coffee as if it were a religious experience. “How did he die? An overdose?”
“He was stabbed, but we don’t know who did it yet. I’m hoping you can help us.” Jackson usually didn’t drink out of open containers offered by witnesses or suspects, but he’d watched her make the coffee. It smelled incredible, and his body craved caffeine. He took a sip and waited to see what information Jane would offer, but she was focused on her coffee.
“What did Craig go to prison for?” Jackson had learned the basics from a database search late the night before, but it was always interesting to hear personal versions.
“Armed robbery.” Jane shook her head. “It was the meth. The drug changed him. Craig wasn’t a violent man.”
“When did he get out?” Jackson remembered the tattoo on the victim’s hand.
“A couple months ago.” A stray tear escaped her brimming eyes. “I thought he was doing fine. He had a job, he was checking in with his parole officer and saving for an apartment.”
“When did you see him last?”
“Thursday. He was here for dinner.”
“How did he seem and what did he talk about?”
“He was fine. He talked about wanting a new job because the smell of gas gave him headaches, but he seemed upbeat.”
Time to get to the heart of it. “Who was he looking for?”
She blinked and took a sip of coffee. “What do you mean?”
Jackson slipped Cooper’s laptop out of his carryall. “You sent Craig a message saying you couldn’t find someone and toleave you alone. What was that about?” Jackson opened the saved Facebook page. He didn’t want Jane to waste time denying knowledge of the issue, whatever it was.
“Craig wanted me to contact Danny Brennan, one of the men he committed the robbery with.”
“He wasn’t apprehended?”
“Danny was caught before Craig.” Jane sighed and rubbed her face. “I don’t want to talk about this. It’s too painful.”
“I sympathize, but it could be connected to Craig’s death.”
“That seems unlikely.”
Time for a little pressure. “Where were you last night between six and seven?”
“Seriously? You think I could have killed my brother?”
“Where were you?”
“I had dinner out with a friend, then I came home.”
“What time did you leave the restaurant?”
“About eight.” Jane stood and poured herself more coffee. “This is a waste of time.”
“Then let’s move through it quickly. Show me what you were wearing last night.”
She shuddered, but headed out of the kitchen and down a hallway. Jackson followed, noticing that her living room had thick carpet and lots of pillows on the floor around a central low table. Did she conduct séances?
Jane turned into a bedroom, flipped open a laundry basket, and pulled out a skirt and sweater. She shoved them at Jackson. “See? No blood. I had no reason to kill my brother.”
The pink sweater and gray wool skirt smelled like incense, but held no stains. That also didn’t prove anything. She could have thrown away yesterday’s clothes, but Jackson didn’t have enough reason to start looking in neighborhood trash cans. Not withTodd Sheppard, who lived a hundred feet away from the victim, having blood on his face. “Let me see your hands.”
Jane held them out. Her bony fingers were covered with rings—oversize silver and copper creations—and the
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