Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2) by Colleen Connally Page A

was it she angered?
    He couldn’t find any semblance of a love connection. She had been a widow for many years and had never dated after the death of her husband.
    The right side of Helen’s head had been caved in. Pieces of brain particles splattered over the wall, bed, and floor. Blood spatter coated the whole room. The killer had begun the assault on the bed and continued onto the floor when the victim obviously made a vain effort to escape.
    Blood was everywhere: the floor, the rug, the wall. The mattress was saturated with the lost life force. The stench from the dried blood still lingered in the air.
    Debating the murder with the other investigators, Brophy was tired of arguing over which direction to take. To further irritate him, Waters didn’t agree with him. Waters thought it was the son who had caused his mother’s death.
    Waters had confirmed the gambling debts of Charlie Barlow with the wife. Martha Barlow told Waters that Charlie had been desperate for money over the last few months. Then, last week, he had told her he had taken care of the situation. She acknowledged that she had heard that often in the past. She said that none of Charlie’s crazy schemes ever worked.
    The scenario that the murders happened because Charlie owed the Russians money didn’t sit right with Brophy. It made no sense. As much as he hated to agree with Tina Cruz, her analysis felt more to the point.
    If Charlie’s bookie called in his debt and wanted to make a statement, they wouldn’t have killed his mother, only to kill him the next moment. They would have wanted his money.
    More to the point, one of his confidential informants told Brophy that the word on the street was that Charlie had paid off his debt. If that was true, the Russians had no reason to want him dead.
    The plain fact was that the Russians weren’t this messy. Barlow’s death was personal.
    That’s why he returned. Brophy came back to feel the murder.
    Walking over to the bed, he surveyed the room. He imagined the killer had delivered his first blow from behind, stunning the victim. Brophy raised his arm and whipped it through the air over and over again, moving down to the floor as he swung. He leaned back up and stared at the empty space, tired from exerting so much energy.
    He caught his breath and walked surefooted out the door, through the hall and into the kitchen. He stopped and glanced back. From the evidence, the killer hadn’t altered his path from the bedroom to the kitchen.
    Brophy scratched his head. The assailant had to have been a bloody mess. Yet, there had been no bloody foot trail to follow, except for the idiot boy. Meaning, the killer had taken the time to remove at least his bloody shoes.
    In all probability, the man—yes, his instincts cried it was a man—had come prepared. Most logically, a backpack. It would hold everything he needed: Gloves. New shoes. A place to hide the murder weapon until he could get rid of it.
    But he had also brought a gun…that he hadn’t hesitated to use.
    Helen Barlow suffered a brutal death. She hadn’t a chance. It had been all about the pain. The killer wanted her to pay for some insult against him. The evidence suggested he had taken his time.
    How could someone so ruthlessly explode their anger on a victim and then in the next breath manage to collect themselves to the point that they left few clues…if any?
    A sound behind him made Brophy turn. The back door eased open. His hand immediately went to his sidearm and unsnapped the holster.
    “Good evening, John.”
    Brophy watched the leggy private eye walk into the house, much like she would have if she had dropped by for a visit. He frowned. “Cruz, what are you doing? You realize that this is still a crime scene.”
    A smile flickered on Cruz’s face. “You always knew how to make a girl feel welcome.”
    Most times, Brophy wouldn’t have hesitated to exchange banter with an attractive woman, but he wasn’t in the mood tonight. Small talk