Thirty-Six

Marta, as anyone who knew her could have predicted, did not take any extra time off despite spending Saturday night to Sunday morning in the hospital. Ginny, who'd catered to Marta all Sunday, ordering her to rest, making her linguini primavera for dinner, made a few vain attempts Monday morning to get Marta to take another day or two to make sure she was okay, but Marta would have none of it.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "Gonna find that bitch."

That part Ginny understood. She wanted that bitch found, too.

At least Marta had the morning and early afternoon of Monday to rest up before her shift started at four. While she waited to head in, Marta linked up to the department's computer system to look up possible suspects, or, as they liked to put it, "persons known to the police." She scrolled through hundreds of photos, pausing occasionally when she found someone who might be Cherise Fowler's supplier—and Marta's attacker—then moving on to the next batch of headshots.

She made herself a tuna sandwich at noon and continued scanning while she ate. Ginny texted three times to ask how she was doing, the first two times Marta responding with a simple Fine and then on the third FINE!!!!

As if that weren't enough, there had been the occasional text from her sister seeking detailed updates. How was she feeling? Could she bring her anything?

Enough already.

When she got to work at four, her boss wanted a word with her. Once Marta had persuaded him she was fit for duty, she went to it, finishing up a few reports, making some calls to a contact with the DEA to see what she could learn about fentanyl distribution in this part of the state.

When she had only an hour left in her shift, a call came in about a body.

Two uniformed cops in a black-and-white Milford police cruiser had been on a routine wander when they were passing the Finster house and noticed the side door to the garage was open, the light on inside.

People didn't generally leave doors open and lights on late in the evening. The cops decided it was worth a quick look-see. Maybe the homeowners had gone to bed, forgotten to lock up the garage, leaving themselves vulnerable to theft.

Then they found Billy Finster.

Not twenty minutes later, Marta was in that garage, slip-ons over her shoes, latex gloves over her hands, taking in the scene. The victim was white, mid-twenties, about two hundred pounds. Given the amount of blood on the floor, she was guessing gunshot or knife wound, but she'd know more once the body was turned over and the medical examiner had done her work.

Marta took note of the open locker filled with electronics and tools still in their original packaging. There was a spot on one of the upper shelves, about three feet wide, that was conspicuously empty. There was a box of untouched chicken wings from a place called Paulie's. Marta wondered whether someone, possibly the dead man, had picked the wings up, or had them delivered. Maybe someone from Uber Eats or DoorDash had seen what had happened here.

Marta, continuing to step carefully, walked around the car and knelt down to get a peek under it. The front end was raised, the wheels on blocks. She spent another five minutes in there, studying the scene, before stepping outside.

The night was a kaleidoscope of flashing lights. Four police cars, an ambulance, all lit up like Christmas trees. A couple of uniformed officers—the ones who'd responded to the original call—had strung yellow police tape around the property's perimeter. They'd been talking to neighbors, learned that the deceased was married, but there was no sign of the wife. Was she their killer? Was she on the run from whoever had murdered her spouse? Was she dead, too?

Marta put on a new pair of slip-on booties and went into the house. What a mess. Someone had been hunting frantically for something. Living room, kitchen, bedrooms, the basement, all in total disarray. The frenzied way in which items had been thrown about suggested to Marta the search was rushed, not meticulous.

When she went back outside, she noticed a woman intently watching the proceedings from the other side of the police tape. Mid-seventies, wearing a housecoat to protect her from the cool night air. Looked to Marta like she was wearing pajamas under her robe. She approached.

"Ma'am?" she said, displaying the badge clipped to her belt.

"Yes?"

"What's your name?"

"Dorothy. Dorothy Envers."

"Which house is yours?"

The woman pointed to the closest one.

"You know the people who live here?"

She nodded. "Lucy and Billy. What's happened? They're saying something happened to Billy."

"Lucy would be Billy's wife?"

"That's right."

"You seen her around lately?"

"Her car was here earlier today. She could be at work, although she doesn't usually have shifts this late."

Dorothy told Marta that Lucy worked in the cafeteria at a hospital in Bridgeport. Marta asked which hospital, got a description of Lucy's car.

"You see anything out of the ordinary tonight? Cars you didn't recognize coming by?"

The woman shook her head, but then thought of something. "Someone was watching the house at one point, in the afternoon. Parked right on my lawn."

"Tell me about that," Marta said.