Dante said nothing. He was probably expecting her to start this off with another Go fuck yourself, but Leigh was out of fucks. She raised her personal phone. There were two missed calls from Walter. He had probably signed the divorce papers. He had probably changed his mind about letting her say goodbye to Maddy. He was probably on his way out of town.
She told Dante , “We’re expected in front of the judge in five minutes. What’re you offering?”
“Felony murder.” He dropped the file on the table.
Leigh could see the edges of glossy, color photographs peering out. If he was trying to shock her, he was too late. Cole Bradley had predicted this forty-eight hours ago—
Peeping Tom turns into rapist. Rapist turns into murderer.
“When?” She knew that determining time of death could be more art than science. “How do you know she was murdered between five and seven thirty last night?”
“She called her family at five. Body was found in Lakehaven Park around seven thirty.”
Leigh knew there was a lake at the country club near Andrew’s house. She had to assume the body had been left just like the others—at another park that was a fifteen minute walk from where he lived. She pressed together her lips, trying to figure out how Andrew had pulled this off. On the surface, his alibi was solid. The metadata on the photos would place him at his house. Sidney would back up anything he said. Linda was the outlier. Leigh didn’t know if Andrew’s mother would swear under oath that the champagne flute photo had been taken at the indicated time. And then there were the cuts and bruises on Andrew’s face and neck.
Something occurred to her.
She told Dante, “It takes two to three hours for that kind of dark coloring to come up. You saw the pictures on his phone. The marks on Andrew’s neck were turning purple by the time the caterers showed up at five thirty. The cut on his jaw had stopped bleeding.”
“What about these photos?” Dante opened the file folder. He started slapping down the crime scene photos on the table. The dramatic flourish was unnecessary. Leigh was too jaded to be shockable, and what he was showing her was nothing she had not seen before.
A woman’s face beaten so badly that her features were indistinguishable.
Teeth marks surrounding the open wound where a nipple used to be.
A cut to the left thigh just over the femoral artery.
The metal handle of a knife sticking out between her legs.
“Stop.” Leigh recognized Andrew’s handiwork. She asked the same question she had been asking every man in her life lately. “What do you want from me?”
“That’s probably what the victim said when your client was raping and killing her.” Dante held the last photo between his hands. “You know he did this, Collier. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. It’s just us girls in here. Andrew Tenant is guilty as hell.”
Leigh wasn’t so sure—at least not this time. The coloring of the bite marks was bothering her. She had worked so many domestic violence cases in private practice that she could probably qualify as an expert witness. “You said the victim had a phone call with her family at five. If you’re saying Andrew attacked the victim right after the call, then got home by five thirty to let the caterers in—or at the very latest he was home by six thirty when his parole officer showed up to reset his ankle monitor—explain the dark coloring of the marks on his neck.”
“I think you mean teeth marks, but so what?” Dante shrugged. “You get your expert to testify to one thing and I get my expert to testify to another.”
“Let’s see it.” Leigh nodded for him to put the last photo on the table. Dante had been holding it back for a reason.
He bypassed the flourish as he placed the photograph in front of her.
Another close-up. The back of the victim’s head. Chunks of her straight black hair were missing. The scalp showed deep gouges where something sharp and brutal had been used to cut deep into the roots.
Leigh had seen those kinds of wounds only once before in her life. She was ten years old. She was gripping a piece of broken glass, attacking one of Callie’s tormentors on the playground.
I held her down and hacked off her hair until her scalp was bleeding.
Leigh felt sweat roll down her neck. The walls started to close in. Andrew had done this. He had listened to Leigh’s story about punishing the mean little girl and he had played it out in a sick, twisted homage.
Suddenly, a moment of panic gripped Leigh’s heart. Her eyes darted across the photos, but the woman’s arms and legs were not stick-thin. There were no track marks and old scars from needles that had broken off in her veins. Nor did she show the signs of baby fat that Leigh’s own beautiful girl needlessly fretted over in front of the mirror.