Not about to wait for his return, I follow my gut and charge up the stairs again. I’m already at the mirrored doors of the closets when I punch in the number. Bingo yet again. Her cellphone starts ringing. I open the door to my left and squat down. Her phone is in the pocket of a dress. Locating it, I remove it and of course it’s locked. I try 1-1-1-1 and fail. I try 1-2-3-4 and fail. I go through a series of numbers and 9-9-9-9 wins.
The missed call is from someone named Jamie. I try to return the call and get a generic voicemail. I decide not to leave a message. If Jamie calls back, he or she most likely believes Emma to be alive. If not, maybe Jamie knows she’s dead. I switch to Emma’s text messages and begin scrolling through the messages.
There’s a text from “Baby” that reads: Look Emma, sweetheart. I know you’re upset right now by the extended trip, but wrapping up this deal before the wedding is good for us. I can’t wait to get home. I really can’t wait to make you my wife.
You left me alone for Thanksgiving, reads Emma’s reply.
And I will never do it again, he promised in return.
She didn’t reply to him. Instead, she sent a text to someone else labeled as “Jamie” with: One more time for the history books.
When? was his or her only reply.
Now, had been Emma’s response.
All prior messages with Jamie are deleted.
That’s affair behavior, which could make this cut and dry the way I suggested it was to Andrew—a jealous lover or husband who didn’t act in rage but calculated revenge. Still, something feels off. Jealousy tends to be violent and brutal. There was nothing brutal about this crime scene. This was more like a calculated revenge killing, but then, I don’t actually know how she died to make that a serious assessment.
My attention returns to the phone. There’s a break in the messaging, a full hour with no communication with anyone before “Baby” messages Emma again with: I got a flight out tomorrow afternoon. We can have dinner together.
I check the call log and “Baby” called her five times before that text, but she didn’t take the calls. Obviously, there was trouble in paradise, and how interesting that the fiancé was gone when she died. I have to wonder if he was already in her will or on her life insurance policy. And something tells me she was busy with Jamie, who never sent another text message. Jamie, who may or may not have been happy about the wedding. I shoot photos of the text messages for myself and key several into my phone before I scan her camera roll. There are photos of her in lingerie that were taken in the mirror tonight. She sent them to no one, at least not by way of her regular text messages. Of course, she could have deleted messages. The short thread with Jamie suggests that she may have made a habit of deleting their exchanges. I flip through her apps and find no other messaging app. I lean back on my haunches and contemplate how this night might have gone, but the wedding dress that wasn’t her actual wedding dress just doesn’t fit.
I call Jamie from her phone. He doesn’t answer. I call “Baby” from her phone. He doesn’t answer.
I bag the phone and then the dress, and just as I stand up, North appears, “I guess there’s a reason why they call you special, Agent. You found the phone and her clothes.”
“And I don’t even need a donut to prove I’m special like all you officers do.” He scowls and I shove the bags at him. “Read her text messages. She was fighting with the fiancé tonight and someone she named Jamie. I tried to call them both from her phone. Neither answered.”
“Jamie,” he repeats and it’s not a question. There’s recognition there in the depths of his flat eyes and tone.
My eyes narrow. “Who is Jamie?”
“No idea,” he lies.
“Special Agent Love,” someone says from the door.
“Who is Jamie?” I repeat, ignoring the request for my attention.
“No one,” he repeats.
“Special Agent Love?” someone says more urgently now.
“You’re lying,” I say and add, “I need a full name and address for Jamie now, tonight,” before I step out of the hallway to find one of the CSI guys at the bedroom door. “Yes?”
“There’s something you need to see in the kitchen.”
“I see you already have control established,” North grumbles.
Only I don’t. I haven’t claimed this crime scene and the very fact that CSI is asking for me sets off alarms. I motion the CSI guy onward and follow him down the stairs, to end up in the kitchen where my brother, and Emma, are waiting on me. “Yes, brother love,” I say sarcastically, a tone necessary for proper sisterly queries, but also breathing easier now that I know this is just Andrew flexing his muscle. “What can I do for you?”