Kira had essentially told her that already, but Charlotte needed to check. And she had. Markov’s physical description didn’t line up with the eyewitnesses, who had seen an approximately six-foot-tall man at Brock Logan’s residence and fleeing the scene. According to Markov’s booking photo, he was five-three.
So even if Kira was right and Ollie had been tailing Markov right before his death, and even if Ollie had been trying to pin Ava Quinn’s murder on the guy—which might give Markov motive to want to kill him—Markov hadn’t been the hooded gunman who’d fled the River Oaks murder scene.
Charlotte recalled Kira’s face as she’d handed over this lead. She recalled the imploring look in her eyes and how convinced she’d been that Markov was somehow involved. Charlotte had a hunch she was right. Kira had sharp instincts, and she would have made a good cop if she hadn’t decided to work in the private sector.
The elevators dinged, and Charlotte glanced up as two detectives walked into the bull pen. Goldstein and McGrath, sarcastically known as the Twins because of their completely different builds. Goldstein was short and chubby, while McGrath was a beanpole.
Goldstein ducked into the break room, and McGrath went to his cube. Charlotte got up and strolled over.
“Hey, Rick.”
He looked her up and down, lingering on the silky gray blouse she’d worn for the funeral.
“How’s the Kovak thing coming?” he asked, pushing his chair back to stretch out his long legs. He wore jeans and a navy HPD T-shirt today.
“Working on it now. I wanted to ask you about something.” She propped her hip on the corner of his desk. “When you were working the Ava Quinn homicide, you ever come across the name Andre Markov?”
He frowned. “No, why?”
“Name came up in the Kovak case.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
She crossed her arms, annoyed by his defensiveness. “Well, let’s see. Kovak was working for Brock Logan at the time he was killed. And Brock Logan goes to trial Monday representing Gavin Quinn.” She watched him and waited for a reaction. Every cop in the department knew the details, and Oliver Kovak’s murder had been splashed all over the news for days.
“We ran a tight case.”
“No one says you didn’t.”
“Yeah?” His brow furrowed. “Then how come you’ve been nosing through my murder book.”
“Your book?”
“Don’t give me that shit, Spears. I know what you’ve been doing.”
She tipped her head to the side. “What, you mean investigating?”
“Let me tell you something. Ava Quinn was dumping her husband. She’d just met with one of the best divorce lawyers in town and withdrawn twenty-five grand from her account for a cash retainer. We got the bank records to prove it.”
This was news to Charlotte, but she tried not to look surprised.
“The woman was getting a divorce.” He pointed a finger at her. “Her husband offed her, and we proved it six ways to Sunday, and I don’t need you and Diaz going around stirring up shit.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “No one’s stirring up anything.”
“Then keep your nose out of my case.”
She got up and walked away, ticked off. She should have come at him a different way. Or asked his partner.
He stalked into the break room, no doubt to go bitch about her to Goldstein.
Charlotte stood at her desk, gazing down at the photo of the big yellow print. She traced her fingertip over the loops and whorls.
Keep your nose out of my case.
If he’d wanted her to butt out, he’d picked exactly the wrong tactic.
Brock’s office was a ghost town on Saturdays, and Kira and Jeremy zipped straight up to the thirty-seventh floor.
The reception area was dark, and Sydney’s desk was cleared of everything except a black phone and a thick pink message pad.
Kira followed the low sound of voices to the back, where she found Brock and Neil in a glass conference room. Both had changed from their funeral clothes into jeans and button-down shirts.
“Hey.” Brock sat forward as Kira stepped into the room. “Any word from HPD?”
Brock had hit her up at the church—in the pew, no less—for details about Shelly’s murder, but Kira had little to share.
“Nothing they’re telling me.” She set her bag on the table and watched as Jeremy ducked into the conference room across the hall. Erik and Liam were seated at a table, deep in conversation. Kira turned her attention to the paperwork spread out in front of Brock. “How’s it going here?”
Neil shot him a look.
“What?” Kira pulled up a chair.
“We’ve decided to switch gears,” Brock said.
“Gears?”
“The trial strategy,” he elaborated. “Instead of focusing on the alibi—which is mortally wounded since you dug up the restraining order against Peck—”
“The prosecutor may not know about it,” Kira said.
“He knows.” Brock shook his head. “Or we have to assume he knows. He’s not an idiot. So we’re making adjustments. We’re shining the spotlight away from Quinn and onto the real killer.”
Kira arched her brows, waiting. Brock and Neil just looked at her.
“And that would be . . .?”
“Whoever murdered Ollie,” Neil said. “And now Shelly Chandler. The theory is, they uncovered his identity—either wittingly or unwittingly—and he killed them on the eve of trial to prevent exposure.”
Irritation welled in Kira’s chest. The way Neil was talking, it sounded like a movie trailer.
“That’s a theory,” she said.
Neil nodded. “A well-supported theory.”
She looked at Brock. “You’re not really going to put this in front of a jury, are you?”
“Why not?” He leaned back in his chair. “It’s an excellent piece of detective work, and we plan to use it.”
Kira felt flattered. But they had a long way to go before her theory was ready for the courtroom.
“Where’s the proof?” she asked. “And how are you making a connection between Ava Quinn’s murder and Ollie’s and Shelly’s?”
“The connection is Markov,” Brock said. “You said so yourself.”
“I believe he’s connected, yes, but I don’t think he killed Ollie or Shelly. I’ve seen Markov’s mug shot, and he looks nothing like the person I saw jogging in front of your house that night. Not to mention that his car was in Channelview when Shelly was killed.”
“So if Markov isn’t the killer, who is?” Neil asked.
“I don’t know.”
“We need to figure out what Ollie’s death has to do with Markov,” Brock said.
Kira sighed and closed her eyes. She rubbed her forehead. Four days of too much stress and too little sleep was starting to catch up with her. She rested her arms on the table and looked at Brock.
“I believe Markov is a trip wire,” she said.
Brock’s gaze narrowed. “How do you mean?”
“Look at the timeline. Ollie was running surveillance at a dock in Channelview the Friday before his murder. I think he spotted Markov’s car and took down the license plate, exactly like I did last night. I think he ran Markov’s name and hit on his arrest record, like I did. I think he then called his lawyer buddy Drew Spence—on a Saturday, mind you—and asked him to get him Markov’s trial transcript ASAP. Ollie was in a hurry, and he didn’t want his fingerprints on the request.”