The Heavens May Fall by Allen Eskens Page B

together, creating a table of her thighs on which she filled out the search inventory sheet. Her black hair fell across her face, hiding her eyes.
    “Find anything helpful?” Max asked.
    “No murder weapon and no bedding. We found a laptop and phone that both appear to be hers, and we took his computer from the study and sealed it. How’d the interview go?”
    “Great . . . for him. He professed his innocence, laid out his alibi, said everything he’d want a jury to hear. Once I started asking him specific questions, he accused me of having a vendetta against him and shut it down. He’s managed to put his version on tape and nothing more.”
    “Is his alibi sound?”
    “No. He can’t account for his whereabouts from about five thirty yesterday until nine this morning. It takes, what . . . six to seven hours to drive from Chicago to here?”
    “Maybe he mapped it out on his computer. We’ll need to seize his office computers as well. He’s going to go ballistic if we do that. You think we have the probable cause we need?”
    “I don’t know. If he drove back here to kill his wife, he’d need a car. He says he parked in the park-and-ride. No cameras, but he has a receipt. We can check their records. We can also check his credit cards and see if he booked a flight back or rented a car in Chicago to drive back, but I’m guessing he didn’t. He’s not stupid.”
    “Maybe he hired it done—set it up so his wife would be killed when he was in Chicago.”
    “That’s a possibility. He has access to that kind of criminal element through his law practice. If it was a hired gun, maybe someone around here saw something.”
    Max turned and stepped out onto the front stoop. He gazed up and down the street. Neighbors, pedestrians, and gawkers had gathered in little pockets to talk and speculate as to why the army of squad cars had set siege to the Pruitt house. Reporters were milling around, undoubtedly asking their usual questions and trying to get quotes for the evening broadcast. Directly across the street, Max spied a lone woman sitting on her porch with a coffee mug in her hand. Malena Gwin, the nosey neighbor, at least according to Terry Kolander. With a nod of his head, he signaled Niki to join him, and they walked across the street together.
    Ms. Malena Gwin stood up as the two detectives mounted her porch steps. She reminded Max of an actress whose name he didn’t know, one of those faces you’d see on a sitcom or commercial who is famous enough to be recognized but not known. She had dark hair and a tomboy face, the kind of face that doesn’t steal attention but draws it in over time—attractive for her forty-something age.
    “Malena Gwin?” Max said.
    “Yes. That’s me.”
    “I’m Detective Max Rupert, and this is my partner, Detective Vang. May we have a word with you?”
    “Of course. Is it true that Jennavieve Pruitt has been murdered?”
    “Would you mind if we stepped inside? Away from prying eyes and ears?”
    Malena glanced over Max’s shoulder at a photographer snapping pictures of them on her porch, and she showed them in. Ms. Gwin’s house was not nearly as large as the Pruitts’, but its modest shell hid within it a trove of architectural treasures: wood-paneled walls with elaborately carved crown molding, French doors of cherry wood and stained glass through which Max could see the bottom few steps of a staircase that reminded him of the grand staircase in the Titanic movie, only in a smaller scale. A blue, claw-footed sofa sat across from two matching armchairs. Malena took a seat on the sofa, and Max and Niki sat in the armchairs.
    “A reporter asked me this morning how well I knew Jennavieve,” Malena said. “I asked him why he used the past tense, and he said that Jennavieve Pruitt was dead. He said that his source told him that she’d been murdered. Is that true?”
    Max pulled out a notepad and pen and leaned forward. “Ms. Gwin, I would like to ask you some questions,