nervous drags and said, “I was going to college in the Valley. Pete was working patrol. He came to my apartment building to break up a party. We started dating. I moved down to Pedro with him.” She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette. “I hated the place. Too foggy down there, too cold. I’m a desert girl. I missed the sun.”
She told me what a happy marriage they had, what a good father Pete had been, until his drinking worsened. “Things got so bad I had to leave him.”
“So
you
left
him
.”
“That’s right. I didn’t want my little girl growing up like that.” Recalling what the uncle had told me, I knew either she or Relovich’s uncle was a liar. My guess it was her. But I wanted to keep her talking, so I didn’t press her.
When I asked her about Relovich’s days on the force, the cases he handled, and collars who might have wanted revenge, she stared at me, eyes unfocused, and launched into a disjointed monologue, jumping from subject to unrelated subject. Finally, after finishing her beer she said, “I’m sorry Detective Levine. I’m having a hard time concentrating.” Her lips trembled and she said softly, “This has been very, very hard for me. I’m going through a lot right now.”
She dropped her head and began crying, the tears falling onto the ground, stirring up tiny puffs of dust.
Watching her cry, I thought of Bud Carducci, the salty old cop who taught me the rudiments of homicide investigation when I was a young detective trainee. Bud used to always say, “Before searching for the outlaws, take a good look at the in-laws.”
I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, and studied Sandy, trying to discern if her emotion was real or feigned. Was she crying because she was truly disconsolate about Pete’s death, or because she was frightened and concerned she’d reveal something to me that would spark my suspicion?
She lifted her head, coughed a few times, and dried her eyes with her palms. “Our daughter’s freaked out. I’m just trying to keep it all together.”
“How old is your girl?”
“Ten.”
“Is she at home?
“She’s in her room. But please don’t interview her. She’s not ready for that.”
“It’s really important, at this point, to talk to everyone. It would be very helpful for me to talk to your daughter.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t allow that.”
“Okay,” I said, already planning to return for a follow-up interview. I was determined to talk to the daughter. I wanted to know if she recalled her mother being home on Thursday night—about the time Relovich was killed.
“Do you have any idea why Pete retired after thirteen years?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“Did he have any enemies? Anybody you can think of who might have had a reason to kill him?”
She shook her head.
“Any old cases he was worried about?”
“He never really talked to me about his work.” She dug a balled up Kleenex out of her pocket and blew her nose. “I still miss Pete. I miss him so much.” She began sniffling and crying again.
I knew I wasn’t going to get much more out of her today. “Before I go, I’d like to know if you have any family pictures that were taken at Pete’s house?”
She lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, and stood up. “About eight months ago, Pete gave our daughter, Lindsay, one of those disposable cameras for her birthday. She spent the weekend with him and took a lot of pictures at his house. I’ll get those for you,” she said over her shoulder as she walked toward the house.
A few minutes later a screen door screeched open, slapped shut, and she returned, carefully making her way down the back steps, gripping a banister for balance. I rose and she handed me an envelope stuffed with photos. “Why’d you want these?”
“I can study the pictures and compare them to what I see now in the house. Sometimes I can spot things that are missing, things that were stolen. I’ve had a few cases where I’ve done pawnshop
She told me what a happy marriage they had, what a good father Pete had been, until his drinking worsened. “Things got so bad I had to leave him.”
“So
you
left
him
.”
“That’s right. I didn’t want my little girl growing up like that.” Recalling what the uncle had told me, I knew either she or Relovich’s uncle was a liar. My guess it was her. But I wanted to keep her talking, so I didn’t press her.
When I asked her about Relovich’s days on the force, the cases he handled, and collars who might have wanted revenge, she stared at me, eyes unfocused, and launched into a disjointed monologue, jumping from subject to unrelated subject. Finally, after finishing her beer she said, “I’m sorry Detective Levine. I’m having a hard time concentrating.” Her lips trembled and she said softly, “This has been very, very hard for me. I’m going through a lot right now.”
She dropped her head and began crying, the tears falling onto the ground, stirring up tiny puffs of dust.
Watching her cry, I thought of Bud Carducci, the salty old cop who taught me the rudiments of homicide investigation when I was a young detective trainee. Bud used to always say, “Before searching for the outlaws, take a good look at the in-laws.”
I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, and studied Sandy, trying to discern if her emotion was real or feigned. Was she crying because she was truly disconsolate about Pete’s death, or because she was frightened and concerned she’d reveal something to me that would spark my suspicion?
She lifted her head, coughed a few times, and dried her eyes with her palms. “Our daughter’s freaked out. I’m just trying to keep it all together.”
“How old is your girl?”
“Ten.”
“Is she at home?
“She’s in her room. But please don’t interview her. She’s not ready for that.”
“It’s really important, at this point, to talk to everyone. It would be very helpful for me to talk to your daughter.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t allow that.”
“Okay,” I said, already planning to return for a follow-up interview. I was determined to talk to the daughter. I wanted to know if she recalled her mother being home on Thursday night—about the time Relovich was killed.
“Do you have any idea why Pete retired after thirteen years?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“Did he have any enemies? Anybody you can think of who might have had a reason to kill him?”
She shook her head.
“Any old cases he was worried about?”
“He never really talked to me about his work.” She dug a balled up Kleenex out of her pocket and blew her nose. “I still miss Pete. I miss him so much.” She began sniffling and crying again.
I knew I wasn’t going to get much more out of her today. “Before I go, I’d like to know if you have any family pictures that were taken at Pete’s house?”
She lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, and stood up. “About eight months ago, Pete gave our daughter, Lindsay, one of those disposable cameras for her birthday. She spent the weekend with him and took a lot of pictures at his house. I’ll get those for you,” she said over her shoulder as she walked toward the house.
A few minutes later a screen door screeched open, slapped shut, and she returned, carefully making her way down the back steps, gripping a banister for balance. I rose and she handed me an envelope stuffed with photos. “Why’d you want these?”
“I can study the pictures and compare them to what I see now in the house. Sometimes I can spot things that are missing, things that were stolen. I’ve had a few cases where I’ve done pawnshop
Similar Books
