“No, I haven’t seen him around.”
“You’ve been avoiding him,” Melinda said. “Has he called?”
“Multiple times.”
“You’ve been holding out on us.” Melinda smacked my arm. “We were just at Bellini’s last week. I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!”
“There’s nothing to tell. I never called him back.”
“Why not? He’s clearly interested in you.”
“I’m not interested in him... is the problem.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m not. I’m intrigued by him, sure. But I’m not interested in any sort of relationship. And judging by the amount of times he’s called, that’s what he’s after.”
“Alastair Gem?” Melinda raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t it possible he just wants to be friends with you? Or hey—maybe he’s hoping for a fling. That wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Says the girl who hasn’t dated anyone since her fiancé left her at the altar.”
“I’m still getting over Lester.”
“It shouldn’t take six years to get over a man named Lester.”
Melinda allowed herself a small smile. “So, what’d he want?”
“I’m not sure. I had to take off to come here. What makes you so certain it’s a suicide?”
“Kate, don’t turn this into something it’s not. It’s just—”
“Is that who I think it is?” I leaned forward and peered around Melinda’s shoulder. “Is that the up-and-coming newscaster, what’s his name?”
“Harry Brine,” Melinda confirmed. “We’ve been instructed to keep this as quiet as possible. It’s quite tragic.”
“You mean, we’ve been instructed to try and sweep this under the rug.” I straightened. “You know once this gets out it’ll be on every news station. Especially with the lack of awful murders happening, this’ll take over the cycle for the next few days.”
Melinda sighed. “I’ll keep you posted, Kate. At the moment, it’s not looking like there’s anything suspicious about Harry’s death.”
“Except the fact that he’s not alive anymore. I know there aren’t always signs of depression and the like, but he was at the peak of his career,” I said. “Didn’t Lassie run an article on him a few weeks ago? Wasn’t he dating someone?”
Melinda rested one manicured fingernail against her lips. “I think you’re right. But it was never confirmed. Drove Lassie nuts she couldn’t break the story wide open.”
I pulled out my phone to call Lassie, but before I could, I noticed something off in the corner of the garage. “Is that a footprint?”
I made my way over to the corner where I’d spotted something. Harry Brine lived in a well-to-do neighborhood just across the river into Minneapolis. His home was older but well kept, and his two-car, attached garage was a rare commodity for the area.
Harry himself was a young, charismatic reporter who’d swept across the cities in a scandal when he dated a C-list celebrity a year back. Since then, the couple had gone through a very public breakup, much to the excitement of all the single ladies around the Twin Cities.
He’d appeared on multiple most-eligible-bachelor lists, according to Lassie. That is, until her latest blog post on the subject when she’d theorized that the playboy might’ve been yanked off the market by a mysterious woman who’d grasped the elusive key to Harry’s heart—or his bed.
I squatted over the footprint and snapped gloves over my hands just in case. A glance up told me that the print was right underneath the button that would raise and lower the garage door. I’d need CSU to confirm for sure, but my preliminary analysis told me that the mark had been made by a women’s shoe—a high heel with a very thin stiletto at the rear.
I called over the crime scene techs and pointed out my findings. The team got to work photographing the footprint and dusting the keypad for fingerprints. Others began trying to identify any additional shoeprints in the surrounding area.
“I’d ask if you consider this overkill,” Melinda said, joining me, “but I don’t have any hope of convincing you to lay off, do I?”
I shook my head. “What if he was killed? An affair gone wrong?”
Melinda gave a thin smile. “What if the pressure got to him, and he decided to go to sleep forever? What if he was suffering from severe depression and didn’t open up about it?”
“If I admit that’s possible, then you have to admit my theory is possible.”
“I’ll admit it if I find something that backs it up once Harry Brine is on my autopsy table,” Melinda said. “My question to you: How would a female—who by statistical chance was smaller than the victim—force him to sit in his car while she killed him? There’s no evidence of binding on his wrists or restraint of any form.”
I shrugged. “She drugged him?”
Melinda clasped me on the shoulder and squeezed. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“In the meantime, we’ll do a full sweep of the scene,” I said with a thin smile. “Just in case.”
“And because you don’t want to do paperwork.”
“Right,” I said. “Nor do I want to write parking tickets.”
Melinda grinned. “Knock yourself out. Here’s Jimmy now.”
My partner, a large African-American man with a serious gut who was more concerned with counting down the days to retirement than he was with showing up on time to work, lumbered up the driveway. I handed him the latte my mother had prepared.
“It was extra-hot,” I said. “I didn’t think it’d take you so long to get here.”
“The line at the bakery was long,” he grunted. “I needed a doughnut.”
“You are a stereotype.”
“I’ve got to work with you,” he said. “I need energy.”
“Good. Then you can help me sweep the scene,” I said. “Harry Brine. Possible suicide.”
“The news anchor?”
“The one and only,” I said. “Also, one of the most eligible bachelors in the city.”
“I can tell by that gleam in your eye you don’t believe it’s a suicide.”
“I’ve convinced Melinda to call it suspicious until she gets Brine on her table,” I said. “Which means we’ve got until tomorrow afternoon before we know anything for certain.”
“The dude stuck a sock in his pipe,” Jimmy said. “Why are you trying to turn this into something it’s not?”
“There’s a woman’s footprint.”
“What’d she do? Love him to death, then shove him in the car?” Jimmy shook his head. “You’re stretching.”
“Stretch with me, partner.” I snapped a glove against my wrist. “How many days until retirement?”
“Not few enough,” he mumbled. “Where do you want me to start?”
“You take the house,” I said. “I’ll take the car. Call me if you—oh, crap.”
I glanced down at my phone. The chief of police’s direct line flashed across the top. I flipped the phone around to show Jimmy. He just raised his eyebrows.