Read Online Magicide by Carolyn V. Hamilton - Free Book Online
Authors: Carolyn V. Hamilton
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anything too close to Cheri’s home.
“So you won’t have a problem if it turns out she’s the one who murdered the ex-husband.”
Could Larissa really be capable of murdering Maxwell? Could disappointment and anger and hatred lead you to kill the father of your child?
Once, Cheri had that fleeting fantasy to kill the father of her own child, but not the intensity of disappointment and anger and hatred—and even mental instability—that could lead to the act itself. She’d been a cop long enough to know anything was possible and many things were probable. Killing an ex-spouse was one of them. And when someone was murdered, the spouse—followed by the ex—was immediately viewed as the primary suspect.
But Larissa—sweet, gentle Larissa? In order to do her job, Cheri knew she had to set aside her image of her old friend. She swallowed, realizing her throat was dry. I can do this, she told herself.
Turning her face to Pizza, she kept her expression impassive. “First we prove she killed Maxwell. Then I’ll worry about whether or not I have a problem.” She hoped her tone didn’t sound as harsh as her words. After all, she knew he had her best interest at heart.
She’d been pregnant with Tom the last time she’d seen her former roomie. She was so lost in her thoughts she almost didn’t hear Pizzarelli comment, “Real fancy neighborhood. Must be a lotta money in magic. D’you think it’s all done with blue smoke and mirrors, this magic mumbo jumbo?”
She laughed, and found that helped her to relax. “Along with amazing fire and fog effects.”
On the rising slope of desert that led up to the Black Mountains, Seven Hills was a development of gated communities and lavish homes. About six months ago Cheri had ogled over a spread in the magazine, Architectural Las Vegas, of Larissa’s two-story custom home with the usual swimming pool, spa, palms, tile roof, gourmet kitchen, weight room, and elegant living room for entertaining. Two balconies off the second floor took advantage of an expansive view of the Las Vegas Valley that nightly included the lights of famous hotel and casino resorts. The furniture probably cost as much as the house.
Cheri had shown the article to her sister, who had just moved in with her and Tom, and Bonni was so impressed she let out a slow whistle—she’d never known Bon could whistle like that.
They parked the car at the curb and walked up a winding stone pathway to the entrance. Cheri had to avoid massive potted cacti lining the high alcove to ring the bell. A minute passed and a Latin maid opened the door. Raymer showed her badge and asked if Larissa was home.
A moment of fright flashed in the maid’s eyes and her accent thickened. “ La Señora not at home.”
She was about to ask where Larissa was when a man with aquiline features and thick hair that widow-peaked in the center of his forehead appeared. Mid-twenties, dressed in a white tee shirt and white shorts that showed off tan, well-formed legs.
“Who is it, Maria?”
She noted his tee shirt had long sleeves that covered his arms all the way past his wrists. Unusual, for hundred-degree weather. Along with his other features, the cleft in his chin immediately identified him to Cheri.
“ Policia . For la Señora .”
“Never mind. I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Knowing when she’d been dismissed, the maid disappeared down a hallway.
The young man stared at the two detectives and sighed. “I’ve been expecting you, but I really didn’t think it would be today. Come in.”
Peter Parrot, from the popular local children’s television show, Cheri thought. Larissa’s son. Only eight years old the last time she’d seen him in person. A dark-eyed, bright little kid doomed to spend his life struggling to fit into his father’s famous footsteps.
Peter led them through a beige marbled foyer and into a formal dining room dominated by a table of Honduran mahogany with room to seat twenty dinner guests.
“So you won’t have a problem if it turns out she’s the one who murdered the ex-husband.”
Could Larissa really be capable of murdering Maxwell? Could disappointment and anger and hatred lead you to kill the father of your child?
Once, Cheri had that fleeting fantasy to kill the father of her own child, but not the intensity of disappointment and anger and hatred—and even mental instability—that could lead to the act itself. She’d been a cop long enough to know anything was possible and many things were probable. Killing an ex-spouse was one of them. And when someone was murdered, the spouse—followed by the ex—was immediately viewed as the primary suspect.
But Larissa—sweet, gentle Larissa? In order to do her job, Cheri knew she had to set aside her image of her old friend. She swallowed, realizing her throat was dry. I can do this, she told herself.
Turning her face to Pizza, she kept her expression impassive. “First we prove she killed Maxwell. Then I’ll worry about whether or not I have a problem.” She hoped her tone didn’t sound as harsh as her words. After all, she knew he had her best interest at heart.
She’d been pregnant with Tom the last time she’d seen her former roomie. She was so lost in her thoughts she almost didn’t hear Pizzarelli comment, “Real fancy neighborhood. Must be a lotta money in magic. D’you think it’s all done with blue smoke and mirrors, this magic mumbo jumbo?”
She laughed, and found that helped her to relax. “Along with amazing fire and fog effects.”
On the rising slope of desert that led up to the Black Mountains, Seven Hills was a development of gated communities and lavish homes. About six months ago Cheri had ogled over a spread in the magazine, Architectural Las Vegas, of Larissa’s two-story custom home with the usual swimming pool, spa, palms, tile roof, gourmet kitchen, weight room, and elegant living room for entertaining. Two balconies off the second floor took advantage of an expansive view of the Las Vegas Valley that nightly included the lights of famous hotel and casino resorts. The furniture probably cost as much as the house.
Cheri had shown the article to her sister, who had just moved in with her and Tom, and Bonni was so impressed she let out a slow whistle—she’d never known Bon could whistle like that.
They parked the car at the curb and walked up a winding stone pathway to the entrance. Cheri had to avoid massive potted cacti lining the high alcove to ring the bell. A minute passed and a Latin maid opened the door. Raymer showed her badge and asked if Larissa was home.
A moment of fright flashed in the maid’s eyes and her accent thickened. “ La Señora not at home.”
She was about to ask where Larissa was when a man with aquiline features and thick hair that widow-peaked in the center of his forehead appeared. Mid-twenties, dressed in a white tee shirt and white shorts that showed off tan, well-formed legs.
“Who is it, Maria?”
She noted his tee shirt had long sleeves that covered his arms all the way past his wrists. Unusual, for hundred-degree weather. Along with his other features, the cleft in his chin immediately identified him to Cheri.
“ Policia . For la Señora .”
“Never mind. I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Knowing when she’d been dismissed, the maid disappeared down a hallway.
The young man stared at the two detectives and sighed. “I’ve been expecting you, but I really didn’t think it would be today. Come in.”
Peter Parrot, from the popular local children’s television show, Cheri thought. Larissa’s son. Only eight years old the last time she’d seen him in person. A dark-eyed, bright little kid doomed to spend his life struggling to fit into his father’s famous footsteps.
Peter led them through a beige marbled foyer and into a formal dining room dominated by a table of Honduran mahogany with room to seat twenty dinner guests.
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