It didn’t take long for the cavalry to show up. With an intense look of disapproval, Trent listened to her story and then moved her to the living room while the crime scene unit processed the scene. Inez stood guard beside her, silent. Jocelyn sank into the couch. She tried to close her eyes but every time she did, the scene in the kitchen replayed itself over and over. Francine’s face, all aglow, and her consternation when she realized that Jocelyn wouldn’t be manipulated. Then her arm coming up, the barrel of the gun like a dead eye staring right at Jocelyn’s face.
Jocelyn opened her eyes. She blinked a few times. “The gun,” she said.
“What’s that?” Inez asked.
“The fucking gun,” Jocelyn said. She tried to get up from the couch, but she was like a turtle on its back. Inez watched her with a befuddled expression.
“Goddamn this couch!” Jocelyn blurted. She stuck out a hand but Inez didn’t take it. Instead, she put her hands on her hips and arched a brow. “Oh no,” Inez said. “I see how you’re getting—all angry and agitated. I think it’s best if you just stay down.”
Jocelyn stopped struggling and glared at her friend.
“Where you going to go, Rush?” Inez asked, her voice gentler. “They’re processing a crime scene in there.”
Jocelyn folded her arms over her chest. She knew it was Inez’s way of controlling the situation. She was doing her job and being nice about it. Jocelyn was a witness.
“The gun,” Jocelyn said again. “The one Francine threatened me with—it’s a .45 cal isn’t it?”
“Yeah, a Ruger P90. I don’t even think they make those anymore.”
“I need to talk to Trent.”
“Oh, you’ll be talking to Trent into the wee hours of the night down at the Roundhouse,” Inez said. “Don’t you worry about that.”
Chapter 41
November 18, 2014
Jocelyn had been in plenty of interrogation rooms before, but never as the person being questioned. Inez had driven her to the Roundhouse and delivered her to the Homicide Unit, where she waited at Trent’s desk until one of the other detectives ushered her into a small, foul-smelling room with assurances that Trent would be right with her.
She paced for fifteen minutes before pulling out her phone and sending him a text. They hadn’t taken her phone—that was a good sign. She could see why some suspects went bat-shit crazy waiting in the tiny rooms, why some would say anything to get out of them. It wasn’t exactly a spa.
Trent came in five minutes later. He handed her a coke. “No coffee, right?” he smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked awful. Stubble covered his cheeks, and bags hung beneath his eyes.
“Not ready for coffee yet,” Jocelyn said.
“Me either.” Trent sat in a chair, legal pad and pen in his hand. “So, you’re left to your own devices for a few hours, and all hell breaks loose.”
“Trent,” Jocelyn said, touching his forearm. “I’m sorry about Knox.”
He looked down and away from her, clearing his throat. “Yeah, thanks.”
She gave him a moment to rein in whatever emotions he felt. She knew he had been close to Knox. Trent was one of the few people who still cared whether Knox lived or died. She hadn’t known Knox long, but she was still in shock herself. The man had died in her arms, and she still had trouble believing he was really gone.
After another series of throat-clearings, Trent finally said, “Okay, I know you told me everything that went down when we were at the scene, but I have two dead bodies on my hands so I gotta try to unfuck this clusterfuck. I need a formal statement.” He tapped his pen against the legal pad.
“Fine,” Jocelyn said. “But before we do that, you have to listen to me—Sydney Adams’ killer is still out there.”
“According to the confession I took from Cash Rigo just a few hours ago, Sydney Adams’ killer is in custody right now.”
Jocelyn shook her head vehemently, leaning in toward Trent. “No, no, no. Francine basically admitted to Knox that she framed Cash for the murder. It wasn’t him. There’s someone else.”
“Rush, I’ve got Sydney Adams’ jewelry in the Rigo home. I’ve got a confession and now, I’ve got a gun in the Rigo home. You said that Francine and Knox were discussing Sydney’s murder, Knox asked her if she kept the gun, and she went upstairs and got it. Jewelry. Confession. Gun. It’s a done deal.”
Jocelyn threw her hands in the air. “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said all night? She framed him. And the gun? Yes, Knox asked her about it. Then yes, she went and got it, but listen to me—the confession is false. And the gun Francine had tonight was a Ruger P90, which shoots .45s, not .22s.”
Trent’s eyes widened as he put together what Jocelyn had earlier. He had likely been too overwhelmed by the scene and the bizarre scenario to make the connection, although Jocelyn was sure he would have once the dust settled. “The bullets they pulled out of Sydney were .22s.”
“Right, it’s not the same gun.”
“So she had two guns, and her husband used the other one to kill Sydney, and then he buried it in the park like he said.”
“No, someone else did the shooting. She orchestrated it, but someone else shot Sydney.”
“Yeah, her husband. Maybe they were both in on it, and she let him take the fall.”
“No, Trent. Come on. Cash didn’t know where he got the gun or even what caliber it was. He didn’t know how many times Sydney was shot. He was covering for his wife, but he didn’t do it. Francine even said he was weak and stupid. She said the food poisoning went wrong but still left enough time that he could have gone and killed Sydney. Could have. Meaning he didn’t. You saw Cash’s face when you showed him the crime scene photos. He didn’t do it.”
“How can we believe anything that crazy bitch said?” Trent asked. “I’ve got a confession, Rush.”
“Because she wanted us to know. That’s how Knox got her to talk—he knew she couldn’t stand nobody knowing how brilliant she was. The fun of it for her was in setting up her idiot husband.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Oh my God. Jesus H. This gives new meaning to the word clusterfuck.”
“Trent,” Jocelyn said. “Sydney Adams’ killer is still out there.”
“I have a confession,” he said again.
Jocelyn grabbed his forearm. “You know as well as I do that that confession is bogus. Even without Francine confirming it, it was a weak confession. A good defense lawyer could have it thrown out faster than you can say acquittal. My father would have had a field day with that joke of a confession. Trent, the killer is still out there.”
He swiped a hand over his eyes. He wouldn’t look at her. She had a bad feeling that he was about to stand up and walk out, leaving her there in the tiny interrogation room. “Trent,” she tried again. “Knox knew. He knew Cash was lying. That’s why he went to see Francine. Think about it. Up until yesterday, no one was more convinced of Cash’s guilt than Knox. For fourteen years, Knox believed that Cash killed Sydney. Within a few hours that all changed. You said it yourself, Knox was a great detective. The shooter is still out there. Cash didn’t kill Sydney. We have to find the shooter. The real shooter.”