Chapter 11 The Search

"I am truly sorry that you're having to go through this, Lila." James Horton's kind sympathy was almost too much to bear, and I couldn't stop the tears that flooded my eyes as I replayed snippets of that video over and over in my mind. Chris pulled me up to wrap me in his arms as he quietly asked Sherry to grab some tissues and a bottle of water for me. I buried my face in his shoulder and cried for what I promised myself would be the last time. David didn't deserve one fucking tear, and I was through letting him tear me apart inside.

Chris loosened his hold as Sherry handed me a tissue, and I apologized when I saw the wet spot on his shirt from my tears. He just smiled and assured me it was OK, then opened the bottle of water and handed it to me.

"Drink this, and we probably need to make sure you eat something, too. We don't want you fainting on us again," he said firmly, and Sherry murmured that she would go find me a snack, returning with a bag of trail mix for me to nibble on.

"Detective Horton? The crime scene van just pulled up." I heard one of the officers call out from the front door.

James walked out to greet them and escorted them in a few minutes later. "Lila, these are two of our evidence techs, Maria Vasquez and Paul Stanhope. They will be collecting and documenting anything of interest that we find in the office today. Guys, this is Lila Montgomery, the owner of the house."

After the introductions, I showed them all to the home office at the back of the house. While the technicians busied themselves unloading and setting up their equipment, James explained what kinds of things they would be looking for.

"Chris mentioned that David might have gotten access to your accounts via the desktop computer. We will need to collect that to be analyzed by our computer guru, along with any recording devices we find. Are there any other computers or devices that David may have used?"

"Well, I have a laptop that I took to Chris and Sherry's house, but I haven't seen anything to indicate he used it. I double checked, and I don't have any passwords saved on there, and I'm logged out of all the banking sites. My email would be the only thing he had access to," I replied. "Oh, wait, I do have my old laptop here. I got a new one in the Spring, and just stuck my old one in the cabinet over there until I had time to wipe the hard drive and dispose of it, but I kind of forgot about it. I have no idea if I was logged into anything on there or not."

"OK, we will need to take that as well then. As soon as the techs finish documenting the room as it is now, we will begin the search. You are welcome to observe, but I need you to stand outside of the doorway to do so please. The search authorization you gave us covers anything in the room."

I nodded my understanding, and Chris, Sherry and I stood in the hall by the door to watch as the four of them looked at a still shot of the video on the tablet, trying to determine the angle the video was taken from. One of the techs walked over to the tall filing cabinet that was just to the right behind the desk and looked at the architectural model of a house sitting on top of it. He picked up something small that had been sitting partially behind the model and placed it into a marked evidence bag. The model was the one that David had constructed for his final project to complete his undergrad degree, and he had been so proud of it. It had been slightly damaged when we moved from our apartment into this house when we got married, and he had been livid with the moving company. I didn't go near the thing for fear of breathing on it too heavily, so it wasn't a surprise that he picked that as a safe place to hide his camera.

His desk was locked, and I mentioned to them that David had kept the key on his key ring. That was apparently still in an evidence locker at the coroner's office, so I gave permission for them to break the lock, not caring in the slightest about any damage. All contents of the desk were placed in a banker's box and labeled, including an external drive which they believed was the recording device used to back up all the footage from the wireless camera. Mike explained that the videos they found on his laptop had been edited, as David wasn't seen activating the cameras. Since the camera had to be motion-activated then, yet the recordings on his laptop clearly started several minutes after someone entered the room, they had concluded that the original videos had been edited so that only the pertinent information was saved and stored. Honestly, I didn't much care where they were stored or if they were edited. The fact that they existed at all was all that concerned me.

They continued searching, bagging my old laptop, numerous files from the filing cabinet and every scrap of paper they could find, including what was in the waste basket. At one point, James and Mike spent several minutes looking over a stack of papers found in the back of a drawer. I heard them mention "point spread" and "parlay" as they talked quietly, which I recognized as gambling terms. When I turned to see if Chris and Sherry had picked up on that, Sherry shrugged at me as Chris frowned and tried to listen more closely. They added those papers to a separate box and kept searching.

The items from my small workspace in the corner of the room were removed and boxed separately from David's things. They flipped through the books on the shelf in the corner, turning them upside down and fanning them to make sure nothing was hidden between the pages. By the time they finished their search, only the furniture and office supplies remained behind, along with his precious model house, which I planned to smash to pieces at the first opportunity.

As they finished up in the office, I offered to let them search elsewhere if they needed to, but Mike and James both declined to do more than a cursory inspection of the other rooms, with the exception of David's closet. The techs photographed the rows of designer suits and expensive shoes - he favored Italian designers. His suits were exclusively Armani and Brioni, and he had several pairs of Ferragamo shoes. His watch collection was of special interest to them, and they photographed each individually. He loved Rolex and had quite a few, including a vintage Rolex that I'd given him for our first anniversary. His favorite, though, was the Patek Philippe that I'd bought for his thirtieth birthday.

James and Mike asked about the cars registered to David, and I led them out to the four-car garage. My Audi SUV was parked there, along with David's Mercedes and his Ferrari Roma, which was his pride and joy. They searched both of his vehicles and removed everything from the glove compartment of each one. The center console of the Roma, which I rarely rode in, contained a strip of condoms, so presumably he practiced safe sex with his lovers since he wasn't using them with me. Sherry eyeballed the condoms as they were placed in an evidence bag along with everything else, then leaned over to whisper in my ear that I needed to make an appointment to be tested for STIs. I shuddered at the reminder.

The newly born cynic in me stood there in that garage, and thought about how freely David had spent my money. His career was extremely lucrative, there was no doubt about it, but it wasn't enough to support the lifestyle to which he had so quickly become accustomed. In all honesty, his tendency to buy such high-ticket luxuries was the source of almost every disagreement we'd ever had once I had turned twenty-five and had received my trust fund. Otherwise, we had rarely argued.

I wasn't a hypocrite, and I could freely admit that I liked nice things. I rarely denied myself something I truly wanted. The difference was, the things I truly wanted weren't necessarily designer or luxury items. I liked to shop but liked getting good deals or unusual items even more. I loved shopping at vintage clothing boutiques, where I could find high-quality unique pieces for much less than new designer clothing.

I bought art that I liked from vendors at the local arts festival, and still enjoyed the free concerts in the park that featured local bands. David had season tickets to the symphony - which he hated - and had overpaid for what I considered to be a hideous abstract piece from a gallery showing, because the artist was somewhat famous and it would increase in value. He'd hung it in his office at work, for which I was grateful. It was an absurd melding of Jackson Pollock and Picasso, which appeared to have been created by a four-year old having a temper tantrum while finger-painting.

My parents had amassed a fortune through hard work, and they rewarded themselves - and me - with very nice things. They had also instilled the knowledge that things didn't have to cost a lot to be worthwhile, and the idea that you didn't need to have the newest, shiniest, best version of whatever caught your eye was drilled into me often. I was told "no" more often than "yes" whenever I asked for something growing up, and I was encouraged to work to earn things for myself, from chores around the house to a part-time job at the mall in high school. Yes, I was certainly spoiled, but I'd like to think I wasn't spoiled rotten.

David on the other hand, had grown up in poverty. The kind of poverty where having food on the table wasn't guaranteed, and it wasn't unusual to have the electricity turned off for non-payment. The kind of poverty where his mother put off basic medical care because she couldn't afford a check-up. Clothes shopping was done at the thrift store when they could afford it and they were gotten free from the local donation center when they couldn't. His mother had tried her best, but there were simply more bills than money at the end of each month.

Knowing that, I had tried not to say anything when he spent so lavishly, but once in a while my disapproval was evident despite my efforts to hide it. In the beginning, he would accuse me of not understanding how hard his life had been and would tell me that money should be enjoyed because "you can't take it with you, Lila". I would agree and apologize, remembering the stories about how rough his childhood had been, and feeling guilty because I had never experienced that kind of hardship.

Over the last two years, his complaints had progressed. He complained that I donated more to charity than I was willing to give my own husband, and he was probably right. The difference was that the charities I donated to needed money to provide the basics for a decent quality of life. Food, shelter, medical care. My husband wanted money to buy a Ferrari because the Porsche he used to have was too "basic". During our fiercest argument a year or so ago, he had accused me of being a spoiled princess who used my money to control him, then made a nasty comment that not everyone was lucky enough to have a dead rich daddy.

I had been devastated at the time, and he had apologized profusely once he'd calmed down. Sherry had been livid when I'd told her about it, and Chris had confronted him, threatening to kick his ass if he said anything like that again. He had been working long hours on a project for a difficult client and was under a lot of stress, he'd claimed at the time. He was sorry he'd lashed out. He didn't mean it. He would never do it again. We had all believed him and had moved on. Clearly, we were entirely too trusting. Clueless, as Scott had called me in the video.

And now, here I was, a clueless widow watching as my home was searched by police for evidence proving that the husband I had adored was stealing me blind. A clueless widow being reminded by my best friend that the husband I had adored may have given me an STI thanks to his newly-discovered propensity to fuck other women.

I was brought out of my bitter musings by the evidence technicians announcing that they were finished. We all traipsed back in the house, and they began loading everything into their van while the two detectives sat us back down at the table to go over a few more things.

I was mentally drained, for what felt like the millionth time in the last few days, so I sat quietly while everyone talked around me.

Mike started by thanking me for allowing them to expand their search and asked if I was still able to meet with the forensic accountant at 3:30 as we had planned. I didn't feel up to it but knew that it would do no good to put it off.

Chris spoke up, asking if James was handing over the case to Mike and the fraud department now, and was surprised when he said no. The investigation would still be led by the Homicide department, with assistance from Fraud until they determined if there had been any foul play involved in David's death.

Chris appeared surprised at that answer and - being Chris - pushed for more answers. "And why is that, when there has clearly been fraud committed, yet there is no evidence indicating foul play?"

James gave him an irritated scowl. "Counselor, I realize you are protective of your client, but please remember that we have no obligation to share everything we know with you at this time."

"My friend ," Chris emphasized the word, "should be informed if there is a true and valid concern that her husband's death may have been anything other than an accident."

James sighed heavily and frowned at Mike, who gave him a slight nod.

"OK, full transparency, or at least as much as I can give you without jeopardizing our case," he said. "The fact is that we have a death under slightly questionable circumstances, which became very suspicious circumstances when we discovered evidence of theft, mortgage fraud, infidelity, embezzlement, blackmail, drug use and gambling involving the decedent. We need to determine if any of those factors, or any accomplices, contributed to David's death because, quite simply, murder trumps fraud or anything else going on here," James finished sternly.

Mike added, "If we can prove banking or mortgage fraud, by the way, this case will be turned over to the FBI. Banks and lending institutions are protected by the FDIC, which means any crime against them becomes a federal offense. And if that happens, the Feds trump us, and it's up to them which avenue they would pursue.

"Holy shit!" I heard Sherry mutter, and I couldn't agree more.