I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, Anna was still there, eyes pleading, waiting for a reply. “Let me see what I can find out. I’ll dig around a little, but after that . . . Anna, at some point, you need to share this information with the police, okay?”
“Yes, of course. I know I shouldn’t ask you to do this but—”
“Like you said, he wasn’t the perfect man, but he was a good man.”
*
I pulled out of Anna’s driveway and headed for the highway, mentally beating myself for ever getting involved with Michael. Now I was being dragged into his murder, too. I should have called the police the day I discovered his body. Whatever demons I struggled with, all the ghosts from my past, the truth remained clear: he deserved better. Maybe helping Anna in this small way was the least I could do to make up for my heinous behavior in leaving his body without calling for help.
Also, I didn’t trust my new colleagues. Maybe I might find the answer to why Libertad kept rearing up in the middle of all this.
Chapter 14
I returned to work and sat at my desk pushing around the contents of a carton of Hunan shrimp. I’d passed on the spread at Anna’s house and still my appetite was MIA. Between this morning’s Executive Committee meeting and Anna’s little bombshell, I was starting to realize I might be better off leaving Houghton. A place where I was promoted to be the general counsel among a group of people who didn’t think they needed one. A place where Michael was murdered in this very office and some mysterious business deal was smack-dab in the middle of it. I needed to call a headhunter and find a new job before I got sucked into this mess any further.
I closed the lid on the food and was just about to pull out the documents Anna had given me when Detective Bradford strolled into my office with enough confidence and bravado that someone could have mistaken her for the general counsel. Now that Michael’s death was ruled a homicide, I noticed more police presence in the building. I’d seen Detective Bradford in the lobby a few days ago talking to some of the security guards. My disdain for the police, and by extension her, was stupid and based on some long-ago events that had nothing to do with the detective. I had no logical reason to make assumptions about her based on the actions of some ignorant small-town deputy sheriff. Still, the last thing I needed now was Bradford in my office throwing around her swagger like Mardi Gras beads on Fat Tuesday.
She stopped short of sitting in one of the guest chairs before she gazed around the room. “So I guess congratulations really are in order,” she said with an easy smile. “This is quite impressive.” The charcoal wool pantsuit she wore wasn’t bad, just about what you’d expect a midlevel civil servant could afford. Every inch of it accentuated her slim figure. I wasn’t jealous. Once she hit forty, all that svelte body would turn on her and give her a midlife wake-up call.
“Good afternoon, Detective,” I said in the cheeriest voice I could muster. “How can I help you?” The faster I answered her questions, the faster I could get her out of my office. I knew she was simply doing her job. But that didn’t quell the overwhelming feeling I had that she was judging me, examining me for some slipup.
“This morning we looked at security footage from the lobby. Perhaps you could take a look at a couple of photos for me.”
Just like Hardy said, no footage from the executive suite. I nodded toward the pricey linen chairs in front of my desk.
Bradford didn’t sit. Instead, she spread two grainy photos on the desk in front of me. The pictures were taken from cameras in the lobby, one from a top angle near the security badge turnstile and another front facing near the elevator bank. The man in the photos was dressed casually. A baseball cap covered a portion of his face, but not enough to make him unrecognizable.
“Do you know this man?” Bradford asked.
I looked at the first photo. The knot in the pit of my stomach was instantaneous. I glanced at the second photo and then back to the first. “Who gave you these pictures?”
Detective Bradford glared at me with a furrowed brow. “Why don’t we try this a different way? I’ll ask the questions and you’ll answer them. Do you know this man, Ms. Littlejohn?”
“It’s hard to tell. These pictures aren’t very clear.” The detective’s stare was unnerving, and I tore my eyes away and focused on the pictures again.
“Look closely.” Bradford’s cool demeanor made me panic inside. How did she know?
“Well . . . with the baseball cap, it’s hard to see his face. How is this man connected to Michael’s death?” I asked.