Authors: Terri Blackstock
Tiffany lay on her back in the center of her bed, a gun in her hand. Gibson stood over her, studying the position of the gun, the clutch of her fingers, the entrance wound. The first responders had been right to report it as a homicide instead of a suicide. The entry wound was right in the front of her forehead. It wasn’t easy to pull the trigger from that angle, and her arm probably wouldn’t have fallen in just that way.
Someone had posed her, put the gun in her hand, closed her eyes, and laid her flat. But there was blood higher on the wall, as though she’d been sitting up when she was shot.
“Who found her?” he asked one of the cops who’d called him in.
“Her husband.”
“What was his demeanor when you got here?”
“He was hysterical, crying, shaken up. Looked authentic to me.”
“Did you swab his hands for gunpowder?”
“Yes. They were clean.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure, but we’ll send it off to the lab.”
Gibson stepped closer to the body. “Did he recognize the gun?”
“He said it was his own gun, that he kept it in his gun cabinet downstairs.”
“Any signs of breaking and entering?”
“None that we could see.”
Gibson pulled out his own camera and began taking pictures. Though the ones the crime-scene investigators were taking would be clearer and more detailed, it always helped for him to have his own shots, and the earlier, the better, before too many people had come into the room and moved things around.
“Did Nathan Evans think it was a suicide?”
“That’s how he reported it. He said his wife had been really depressed since their daughter’s death.”
“I want to talk to him.”
He found Nathan Evans downstairs on a couch, blowing his nose on a handkerchief as he talked to the cop. Gibson sat down on the coffee table facing him.
“I know you’ve answered a lot of questions,” he said to the distraught man, “but I need you to start over from the beginning and tell me everything that’s happened tonight.”
The tears were real. Gibson had seen enough fake ones to know the difference. He may have been a detective for only a few months, but he’d been a cop for years.
“I was at work,” he said. “Tiffany was supposed to come to the office for a meeting. She didn’t show up and wasn’t answering the phone, so I came home for lunch. I called out to her. She didn’t answer, so I went upstairs. I found her …” His hands were shaking as he wiped tears from under his eyes. There was dried blood on his hands. “Why would she do that? She could have gotten through this. They could have given her more medication. Why would she end it this way?”
“Mr. Evans, did you move her at all?”
He looked down at his blood-stained hands. “I shook her, trying to revive her. But the blood … I knew … so I called 911.”
“When you shook her, did you pick her up?”
“No. I found her just like that. The gun in her hand.”
Gibson studied the man, knowing he couldn’t trust him. Evans was a liar and a thief. But was he a killer?
“What time exactly did you leave the office?”
Evans stared at the air. “I don’t know. Noon, I think.”
“Was there anyone there with you?”
“Yes, of course. I had people in my office with me.” He gave them the names, and Gibson wrote them down. Tiffany’s publicist, her manager, a secretary. Plenty of people to confirm his alibi. “I called her when I started home, and there was no answer.”
“Was anyone else in the house with her today?”
Evans looked up at him. “No. The staff had the day off. She didn’t mention anybody else coming.” He looked at Gibson with questioning eyes. “Wait a minute. It was suicide. You don’t think …”
Gibson shook his head. “It’s not a suicide.”
Evans’s brows came together. “Are you sure? I thought …”
“Whoever killed her wanted it to
look
like a suicide.”
“Whoever
killed
her?” Nathan stood up, his face blanched. “She was murdered?”
Gibson wasn’t moved by his shock.
“My daughter murdered, and now my wife? Was Chase McEl-raney let out of jail?”
“No, he’s still there.”
“Then who did this?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. If you’ll sit down, I have a few more questions.”
Evans’s face changed. “Do I need to get a lawyer?”
“You’re not under arrest, sir.”
“No, not yet. But I know what you guys do with grieving husbands.” He stormed across the room, picked up the phone.
“Sir, I really wish you wouldn’t disturb the evidence. You need to move around as little as possible. There could be prints, trace evidence, anywhere in the house.”
Gibson watched him punch the number into the phone, heard him muttering something into it. He couldn’t blame the man for calling his attorney. News networks went crazy with husbands of murdered wives. But Gibson doubted that Evans would be a prime suspect for killing both his daughter and her mother. Tiffany was his cash cow—his only hope for saving his company. And from the looks of the pictures all over the house, he loved Brenna.
But Mick’s pictures were conspicuously absent.
When Evans got off the phone, Gibson said, “Mr. Evans, have you notified your son?”
Evans shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Do you know where he is so we can contact him?”
“I haven’t seen him today. I tried to call him, but he didn’t answer.”
“He works with you, doesn’t he? Was he at work this morning?”
“He didn’t come in.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t always tell me his schedule. He has his own responsibilities with the company. He may have had a meeting.”
“Has he been staying here with you and Tiffany?”
“He has his own apartment, but lately he’s been staying here a lot … until a couple of days ago.”
“What happened then?”
Nathan’s face shut down. “I’m not saying anything else until I get a lawyer. I’ll notify my son myself.”
Tiffany’s murder stabbed Parker with shards of guilt. How could this happen? As angry as she’d been at Nathan Evans, her compassion for him now came with surprising strength.
She called in sick for the afternoon, unable to tell George what had happened. Nausea rolled in her stomach. Soon Tiffany’s death—the apparent suicide of a major Christian star—would dominate the news, local and national.
Had Mick Evans done this? Had his childhood been so traumatic that he’d resolved to get even with his stepmother and half-sister?
Parker’s mother took her home from the Spaghetti Factory, held her as she cried, then prayed with her, reminding her how blessed she was to have the family she had.
To Parker’s dismay, her father showed up. She didn’t like appearing vulnerable with him, her nose clogged with grief and her eyes swollen. She was the caretaker, and in so many ways, he was the child.
He came back to the bedroom where she lay curled under a blanket, and sat next to her on the bed. “Hey, sweetheart.”
She breathed in the scent of cigarette smoke tinged with whiskey—her dad’s unique smell. Somehow, it comforted her. “Hey, Dad. What are you doing here?”
“Your mother called. I came.” He stroked her hair. “I don’t claim to always know the right thing to do. Sure don’t now.”
His honesty warmed her. She sat up and hugged him. He clung longer than she would have. When he finally released her, he pulled six tissues out of the box next to the bed and handed her the wad.
She took one and blew her nose. “Strange things going on in that family,” she said.
“Despite the song, those things have nothing to do with you.”
“It just seems like I’m somewhere on the fringes of each one of these deaths. Like I’m connected in ways I don’t understand. I saw her the other day—Tiffany, I mean. I harassed her about the song. Maybe I should have just let it go.”
“She ain’t dead because you tracked her down, Parks.” He tried to change the subject. “Your mom tells me she gave you the money.”
She nodded. “Yeah, that was amazing.”
“I really want to do the tour with you. I missed a lot of milestonesin your life. I want to be there for this one. I mean,
really
be there.”
She didn’t answer. What was there to say? She’d heard his apologies and remorse before. But his actions never matched.
“I’m checking myself into detox for a few days.”
That
was different. He’d never checked himself in before—not without a lot of coercion from the family or the courts. “That’s good, Dad.”
“I know the proof’s in the pudding. What does that mean, anyway? What does pudding have to do with proof?”
“Probably some Betty Crocker phrase,” she whispered.
“Anyway, I’m gonna try not to let you down this time. I’m gonna try not to let
myself
down.”
Silently, Parker said her millionth prayer for God’s deliverance for her father. One of these days, that prayer would be answered. Maybe it would be now.
When Parker finally relaxed into sleep, Pete covered her with the comforter. He found Lynn on the back porch, sitting on the swing.
He sat down next to her, the swing groaning under his weight.
“Is it true?” she asked. “About the detox, I mean?”
“You were listening.” He smiled. “Yeah, it’s true.”
She patted his knee. “That’s good, Pete.”
“I want to be a better man for you, Lynn,” he said quietly. “And for Parker. She’s got a real shot at the big time, and I want to be there for her.”
“You can be, Pete. All you have to do is make up your mind.”
“I can’t even protect her. I can’t do anything for anybody I love.”
“Yes, you can.” She patted his leg. “You can, Pete. You can be everything you should have been.”
He smiled. “Remember back before? When we were together without the alcohol? We would laugh at the silliest things. Dance when there wasn’t even music.”
“You’d sing to me.”
He gazed at her. “You have
such
a smile. You’re a lovely lady, Lynn James.”
She needed that. “Well, that’s nice to say to a lady who just gave up her face-lift fund.”
His look told her he was sincere. “You don’t need any help.”
When he leaned over to kiss her, she stopped him, pressing her fingertips to his lips. “Six months sober,” she whispered. “That’s the way it has to be.”
He pulled back, sorrow glistening in his eyes. That sorrow bled into her. She had never stopped loving him. But her hope that he would one day be sober had always broken her heart. She stroked his stubbled jaw. “Go home, sweet Pete. You’re making me weak.”
“Can’t have you not sticking to your guns.”
“Where would I be if I let you in and out of my life at the drop of a hat?”
His smile still worked its magic on her. “That’s one of the loveliest things about you. That you do.”
He had her figured out. “Not all the way. You’re just so good at wedging your foot in the door.” The swing creaked as she stood up, putting some distance between them. “You go now. I’ll look after Parker.”
He drew in a deep breath and stood. “I’m going to do this for you, Lynn. And for Gibson and LesPaul and Parker.”
“You do it for
you
,” Lynn said. “No one else has been able to rescue you. Look to God. He’ll give you strength. You know, our church’s recovery group meets on Friday nights.”
“I may be out of detox by then. Maybe I can find a sponsor there.”
“This time, find someone who doesn’t want to party with you.” She wished she hadn’t said it. He straightened and rubbed his jaw. She’d forgotten how tall he was when he wasn’t in his drunken slump. “I’ll try to do it right this time.”
“I know you can.”
“If I do, will you come on the tour? You’ll be out of school by then.”
Lynn tried not to let herself want. “I was planning to go anyway. It would be a pleasure to travel with you sober.”
“Then count my six months as starting tonight.”
The media frenzy around the Evans mansion was in full swing by the time Chief Sims showed up. Gibson stood inside at the window, taking inventory of the news vans surrounding the place—FOX, CNN, NBC, ABC, CBS, and dozens of others. That made it harder to investigate the murder. With so many reporters snooping for dirt, keeping evidence under wraps was almost impossible.
Chief Sims had a look around. Gibson went with him to see the condition and positioning of the body. Then they went into the room Mick Evans used when he was staying here. There were no clothes in the closet. The drawers were empty. Either he lived out of a suitcase when he was here, or he’d moved out entirely. Nathan Evans had indicated that, but his attorney had effectively shut him up.
When they came back downstairs, Sims peered out the window. “I’ll have to make a statement,” he said. “But we need to iron a few things out first.”
Gibson nodded. “Iron what out, sir?”
“The fact that you’re on this case. Until now, I let you stay on it because you were doing good work. But your family connection to all this could blow up in our faces. I’m taking you off the case.”
Gibson’s mouth fell open. “But Tiffany’s murder
must
be connected to the Brenna Evans case. I’ve done so much work on that already.”
“The press will say that Chase McElraney clearly wasn’t involved in this one, because he’s in jail. And they would be right. They’ll be sniffing things out before we can think of them. They’ll learn about the song theft and try to convict your sister of these murders.”
“My sister? Parker couldn’t have done it! She has a confirmed alibi for the first case, and today she’s been either at work or at lunch with my mother. She hasn’t had the opportunity.”
“They’ll say she had the motive.”
Gibson lowered his voice. “Chief, Mick Evans had both opportunity
and
motive. And he’d been in Chase’s apartment after Brenna died, so he could have left the gun there.”
“I’ll have Carter and Stone look into that. But do you see the position I’m in with you investigating the case? The press will cry foul.”
Gibson didn’t want to let go. “I didn’t think you cared about the press.”
“I don’t, except when they’re about to launch their own investigations. I shouldn’t have let you have this case from the beginning. But now, you’re off. I’ve already told Rayzo.”
Gibson wasn’t going to change the chief’s mind, so he sat and read through his notes, making sure they were legible enough to hand over to his colleagues.