Let Justice Descend. Lisa Black

her next of kin—”

      “Have been notified.”

      “What? You called this woman’s children—”

      “Of course not. They were personally visited at their workplaces by members of the RNC from their locality. We didn’t want them to hear it on the news, where it will probably appear in the next few minutes.”

      Huh, Maggie thought. Despite attorney Stanton’s cold tone, it couldn’t have been a worse way for loved ones to hear the news than having a uniformed officer show up on their doorstep.

      “Well, that’s nice of you,” Riley said. “But this is a crime scene, and nothing is going to be removed until we have cleared it.”

      “But RNC items—”

      “Aren’t going anywhere until we have completed our investigation.”

      The attorney scowled but didn’t argue. Maggie figured he hadn’t truly expected to win that battle. “What can you tell me about Ms. Cragin’s death? A lot of people are going to have a lot of questions.”

      “No doubt. But at present we have no details for release. When we do, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

      Stanton looked as if there were several comments he could make in response to Riley’s tone of voice but knew better than to waste his time. “Miss Henessey? First we have to cancel that ribbon cutting and then we have much coordinating to do. You best knew the senator’s contacts.”

      She took a few steps into the kitchen to retrieve her tote bag, then walked out the door without so much as a good-bye.

      As she watched their retreating backs, Maggie couldn’t help but ask, “Are you going to let her—”

      “Yeah, for now,” Riley said. “We’ve gotten a time line and the basics from her, and we know where they’ll be. They’re a straightforward lot, I’ll say that for them.”

      Jack said, “That isn’t the word I would use.”

      Maggie said, “There’s something I need to show you.”

      * * *

      Maggie had examined the senator’s bedroom upstairs for signs of disturbance but found no sign that the killer had searched the house. She did note a streak through the dust on top of the antique dresser, pointing straight at a pink heart-shaped porcelain box with flowers spelling MOM on its lid. Black powder now marred the gloss, with a sharp outline where Maggie had lifted a piece of fingerprint tape from across the capital M. “Only some rings inside,” she pointed out, lifting the lid so they could see the jumble of inexpensive jewelry nestled against worn velveteen, “but look at the bottom.”

      She flipped it over, where a piece of paper had been taped to the bottom. 14-138-67 had been written in ink.

      “The safe combination?” Jack asked.

      “Maybe. Carol does the same thing with her Windows password and her electric stapler.”

      “Did you try it?”

      “Of course not. I was waiting for you two.”

      “And it’s processed?” He meant the safe.

      “Yep. Didn’t get anything—big surprise with that surface. But not even from the handle, which is smooth steel.”

      “Like it was wiped?”

      “We don’t make assumptions like that in real life,” she scolded gently. “Sometimes people don’t leave prints. They have dry skin, they just washed up, they work with abrasives.”

      Riley, meanwhile, had already gloved up as if more than pumped for the experiment with the vision of a Mission: Impossible type burning fuse motif dancing in his mind. “Let’s give it a shot.”

      It took him three tries, carefully spinning the oversized dial. He finally tried starting left instead of right and snickered with delight when the handle clicked and turned. Maggie and Jack crowded over him to get a glimpse, hoping against hope that the contents of the safe would tell them in an instant who had murdered Diane Cragin.

      The contents did not.

      But they certainly raised a number of new questions.

      At first Maggie saw only a stack of reusable grocery shopping bags, the lightweight mesh kind that she kept hooked over a shelf in her own pantry. They formed a pile of roughly square shapes that could have held more campaign flyers or file folders. Riley pulled up the top edge of the uppermost bag so they could peek in.

      Money. Stacks of it.

      “Holy shit,” Riley said. Maggie’s mouth opened. Jack said nothing.

      Riley pulled the bag out—getting fingerprints off the mesh would be virtually impossible anyway—and rested it on the floor so he could open it all the way. The bag had been filled to half of its volume with bundles of cash, used and uncrisp bills, held together with rubber bands. Mostly twenties, but Maggie caught sight of tens, hundreds, and even ones. A few of the bundles had been wrapped in what looked like ordinary kitchen plastic wrap or put in plastic sandwich bags. Some fanned out freely from their rubber bands.

      “How much is that?” she asked.

      “Hard to guess with the different denominations. Did the lady not believe in banks? Is this bribes, kickbacks? Maybe she was embezzling from the party. Or hell, it could be legitimate campaign contributions for all I know,” Riley said. “Maybe this is what the lawyer-slash-chairman wanted to pick up, along with the senator’s laptop and her chief of staff.”

      Jack asked, “Whatever it is, it’s one big stack of motive.”

      Maggie said, “But why kill her and then leave it?”

      “Because they knew they could get it later?”

      “Or they didn’t have the combination.”

      Jack asked Riley, “Are they all filled with money?”

      Riley reached for another bag, but Maggie put a hand on his shoulder. “We have to document every single step of this. Impounded cash creates suspicion that never goes away. If I were you, I’d call your supervisor right now and get a few more witnesses here.” She snapped a photo of the open safe door and the bag with the money.

      “Don’t get paranoid,” Riley protested, but weakly.

      “We work for a police department. You can smoke pot or beat your wife or bring your dog to work, but there’s two things you can’t do: You can’t talk back to your supervisor, and you can’t steal.” She took another photo. “I’m just looking out for you, bro.”

      He pulled out another bag and said, “And yourself. This is all going to have to go to the lab.”

      “The lab?”

      Jack agreed as Riley pulled out a third bag filled with cash. “Prints, DNA, whatever we can get. I don’t know about you, but I’m curious to know where this came from.”

      Morosely, Riley told him: “Us. The taxpayers. That’s where it came from.”

      * * *

      It’s said that money changes everything, Maggie reflected, but that wasn’t entirely true in this case. They had left the senator’s house shortly after finding the money, but only because there had been nothing more to accomplish there. The killer could have used the senator’s keys to enter the house, but if so he—or she—had done so without leaving a smear of mud on the floor or any sign of a search. Maggie had processed every obvious surface, including the inside of the safe—which had no more usable prints than the outside. The place seemed to be more of an office than a home, and from the variety of lipstick shades on the glasses in the dishwasher and two brands of cigarettes in the tray in the yard and different entrees from the same take-out place in the fridge, Maggie assumed that many more staff members besides Kelly had been inside.

      Riley