She was driven the short distance to her apartment, where she handed over her bloodstained jeans and jacket. Once the officer had gone, she went directly to her shower almost on autopilot. She stared blankly at the red suds as they disappeared down the drain, wanting to believe she was stuck in a bad dream, but the blood washing off her body told another story.
*
Next afternoon, December 18
Ryden sat in the back room of the flower shop drinking her third cup of coffee as Magda waited on a customer. She’d slept little because of yesterday’s events, and this day had started out poorly, too. She’d spent nearly an hour searching for the wallet she seemed to chronically misplace, before finding it at the bottom of the laundry hamper. And her late start had thrust her into the worst of rush-hour traffic.
When she’d described what had happened the night before, Magda had told her to take the day off. She would have gladly accepted, too, if Magda wasn’t just as, if not more, shaken by the events. They worked silently for most of the day, with Ryden disappearing now and then in the back to collect her thoughts and emotions.
She couldn’t believe Tim was gone, that this mild-mannered man had fallen victim to a crazy killer. The distant ringing of the little bell that hung above the entrance to the shop startled her out of her thoughts.
“Ryden,” Magda called out, “it’s for you.”
She sighed wearily as she got to her feet. God, she was exhausted and certainly in no mood for small talk with customers. She hesitated at the doorway, shocked when she saw who was waiting for her at the counter—Detective Johnston and the other plainclothes cop who’d been at Tim’s house. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“We have a few more questions and would like to look around, if you don’t mind.”
“Look here?” Ryden asked. “What do you expect to find here?”
“We’ll tell you when and if we find what we came for,” the detective answered.
The realization that they were here to look for evidence chilled her. Surely they couldn’t possibly believe she might be implicated in the murders. “But…like I said, I had nothing to do with any of this. I could have been lying dead next to them if I’d walked in a few moments earlier.”
“Ms. Pagoni, we have a search warrant.” Johnston produced the document from his suit pocket and handed it to Magda. “So, the sooner we can start looking, the faster we can get out of your way.”
The situation was turning more surreal by the moment. What kind of evidence must they have, to have convinced a judge to allow them to search the flower shop? Ryden’s heart started pounding. “Jesus. This is crazy.”
The detective tilted his head toward a couple who’d come in to buy roses and were currently rubbernecking the goings-on with interest. “Please see your customers out,” he told Magda, “and lock the door.”
Magda complied with a dazed expression, still clutching the search warrant. When the other cop pulled her aside and said, “I need to ask you some questions about Ms. Wagner,” Magda looked as though she was about to faint.
Ryden started toward her, but Johnston stopped her with a hand to her elbow. “Please, follow me.” He led her into the work area in the back and closed the door.
“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Ryden asked.
“Please, take a seat over there while I look around.” He indicated the cluttered worktable against the far wall. Though still outwardly polite, Johnston sounded different than he had the night before. At the house, he’d been patient and kind, treating her as the shaken near victim that she was. Today he was abrupt and stern, and he looked at her with suspicion, not empathy. Something had definitely happened to alter his perception, but what?
As she took a chair, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “Don’t touch anything, please.”
He went immediately to the large pegboard where their various tools hung and pulled one of the curved cutters from its hook. Examining it closely, he measured the blades with a small tape measure and then sprayed it with a small vial of liquid aerosol he pulled from his pocket. Ryden guessed it was the stuff she saw on police shows used to detect blood. One by one, he worked his way down the rack of tools, giving each the same scrutiny.
“What exactly are you hoping to find?” she asked.
“I’ll know when I see it.” Once he’d finished with every tool on the wall, he methodically searched the drawers of Magda’s desk, then the rack of florist supplies—peering into boxes of vases, foam, and wire, and sorting through the stacked rolls of paper and cellophane they used to wrap bouquets. He was being very thorough, and the fact that he was coming up empty was beginning to reassure Ryden the ordeal would soon be over.
“Where’s that lead?” he asked, indicating the only other door in the room.
“Just the toilet.”
“I’ll be right back. Stay—” He headed toward it but stopped abruptly as he passed by, his gaze focused on something behind her. “Please get up and walk away from the table.”
She turned to look as she rose and stepped aside. All she could see were a few florist magazines and the haphazard piles of irises and birds of paradise that had been delivered twenty minutes earlier.
But Johnston’s keen eye had caught the small hint of orange peeking out from beneath one of the magazines—the handle of her favorite curved cutters. They were the only tool in the room she’d paid for herself. She had small hands and disliked the standard ones that Magda used.
As he pulled them from their hiding place, she said, “There they are. I don’t know why they’re not in their usual place. Magda never uses mine.”
Ryden was always very compulsive about hanging her tools back on the panel where they belonged. She couldn’t stand to waste time searching for anything. She’d looked for the cutters this morning, but only very briefly. If she hadn’t been so out of sorts from yesterday’s events, she’d have turned the place upside down trying to find them, but instead she’d grabbed another pair.
Johnston ignored her comment. He peered closely at the tips, measured the blades, and then sprayed them with the aerosol. The metal points turned a bluish white.
Ryden had seen enough cop shows to know what it meant. “Is that blood?” she blurted as her heart began to race.
He didn’t answer as he placed the cutters in a plastic bag and sealed it. Turning to her, he said, “I’ll need you to come to the station with me for further questioning.”
“What? Why?”
“Stand up, please.” He removed a set of handcuffs from his belt. “You have the right to remain silent…”
A buzz in Ryden’s ears replaced the rest of what he said. As though trapped in some out-of-body experience, she saw herself being handcuffed and taken to the front of the shop, where Magda stared, mouth open, as she was led to a waiting police car.
Chapter Four
Ryden’s first couple of hours in the 15th District headquarters of the Philadelphia Police Department passed in a blur. After taking mug shots and fingerprinting her again, Johnston allowed her one phone call to arrange for an attorney before further questioning. She had to make it count, but she didn’t know anyone well enough to ask for help or support. She ended up calling Magda, who was too hysterical to really listen and needed more comforting and reassurance than Ryden had the strength to offer. The only thing Ryden did manage to convey to her was that she needed a lawyer, and a cheap one, since she had virtually no savings.
She was then taken to a holding cell to wait: a windowless room, roughly twelve feet by ten feet, with benches on two sides and a tiny steel sink and toilet. The only other occupant at the moment was a fifty-something blonde named Ruby, who looked so bored and comfortable in her environs Ryden suspected she’d been here on several prior occasions. Aside from her name, Ruby offered little else about herself, including the reason for her current incarceration.