Part 17 (1/2)
”Yeah, unfortunately.” The evidence tech raised an eyebrow and smirked. ”Guess if the residents get a wild hair to throw a romantic party for two on the roof, they don't want to run the risk of surveillance footage going viral on YouTube...unless they're into that kind of thing.”
”Reality TV careers have started with less,” she said.
Cronan saw the activity of a crime scene down the hall as they got off the elevator. Larry Schumacher, senior forensic investigator and partner to Sam O'Brien, stood at an open door waiting for them. As they pa.s.sed Ethan's door, Cronan noticed Angel glance at it with the same relief in her eyes when she'd found out the DB hadn't been the fiddle player. He clenched his jaw and shook it off.
Cronan had no right to be jealous, but he was. Being the King of jerk wads gave him a sense of ent.i.tlement.
”McFarland had a special room you gotta see.” Schumacher nudged his head inside.
Following the lead investigator through the front door, Cronan checked out the residence of the dead man. It had a high-end feel and a great view, but nothing like the designer touches of Chandler's place. McFarland liked living well. His furnis.h.i.+ngs were top notch, and he had art pieces and paintings that looked original.
”You find his keys...the ones to the front door?” Cronan asked.
”No. Not yet. Anything in particular we should look for?”
”No, but if you find his keys, let me know.”
When Schumacher took them into a small room off the living area, Cronan saw what Tim McFarland treasured most.
”Holy s.h.i.+t.”
Cronan stared in disbelief at a room filled with the many faces of Ethan Chandler. Any place else, the compact s.p.a.ce might've been used for storage, like a large walk-in closet, but apparently Tim McFarland had other ideas. Inside, the room resembled a bar lounge with framed memorabilia on the walls. It was cramped and dark and had the feel of something very private for McFarland. With the door closed and locked, the hidden parlor could remain private if he had guests over and no one would be the wiser. McFarland had painstakingly built a secret shrine to Ethan Chandler.
”Yeah, the guy had a serious man crush on his neighbor,” Schumacher said.
”Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned.” Cronan stared at the countless souvenirs and images of the violinist that occupied every inch of the s.p.a.ce. ”This guy could be our stalker.”
”Looks like his fixation has gone on for years,” Angel added. ”Some of these pictures are of Ethan when he was a kid. There are ticket stubs and dated souvenirs that go back. Unbelievable.”
”Looks like the guy took it pretty hard that he got turned away backstage.”
”What are talking about?” Angel asked him.
Cronan pointed to shards of gla.s.s strewn across the room and a broken liquor bottle with its neck still intact. Someone had tossed it at a large photo of Ethan Chandler and cracked the gla.s.s on the portrait. The frame hung at a slant on the wall. McFarland hadn't bothered to clean up the mess.
”He got p.i.s.sed off when Bryce got in his face backstage after the concert. McFarland may have turned that anger on our fiddle player.”
Angel nodded without a word.
”There's a gift box you need to see too,” Schumacher said. ”It's addressed to Ethan Chandler, but with McFarland's home address. A bottle of Scotch. There's a brochure inside from an auction house. Whatever came in this box had to cost some coin.”
Angel caught Cronan's eye.
”That confrontation McFarland had with Bryce didn't look like a new thing. It had roots. Bryce said he knew about his good neighbor policy. Maybe this package sparked something.” She glared around the room. ”Ethan Chandler lived next door to his number one fan. I wonder if Bryce and Rachel knew about this guy's hobby.”
Angel had made a good point on what might've fueled last night's altercation. After McFarland tried to crash Chandler's party backstage and got turned away by Rachel's pit bull, Bryce Peterson, that ugly confrontation could have antagonized an already contentious neighbor relations.h.i.+p. Given Chandler's obsessed entourage, the scenario could have turned ugly for any number of reasons, but at the center of it all was Ethan Chandler.
”Don't leave our fiddle player off that list,” Cronan told her. ”He's the one who lives next door. If he got unwanted attention, he'd be the first to know. If he talked to Bryce about the guy, he could've said something to Rachel, too.”
”Or Bryce pa.s.sed on what he knew, without Ethan knowing it. When Evelyn Carmichael and her cabana boy asked about the guy who'd caused a scene, Rachel said McFarland was Ethan's neighbor, and she'd fill her in later. I don't think Ethan heard her say that.”
Angel had ignored his not-so-subtle hint that Ethan Chandler remained on his suspect list. She was still painting him as a victim. If McFarland had intended to make a public rooftop display of his death by suicide, Cronan could now understand who the note had been meant for. His *solo performance' would've been aimed at the young musician he'd centered his world on, if it had gone that far. How much Chandler knew about his neighbor, Cronan had no idea, but he intended to find out.
”I found something to narrow your suspect list to a party of one.” Schumacher held a plastic evidence bag in his hand and swung it.
The bag had a cell phone in it.
”He had more than one cell. He had a personal one on a charger in his bathroom, but when I found a second one in this very private room, I recognized the number. It's the prepaid burner phone that texted the Davenport girl.” With a broad grin, Schumacher handed Cronan the bagged cell and said, ”He didn't toss it, thus making another memorable entry in the chronicles of stupid criminals.”
Angel looked relieved, but she asked, ”You sure it's the same phone?”
”Yeah. Confirmed,” the senior investigator said. ”I'll check it for prints and see what else I can find to make it solid, but I'm thinking this is pretty d.a.m.ning evidence in the Davenport case.”
With the circ.u.mstantial evidence piling high and the chief chewing on his a.s.s for results, Cronan knew Tim McFarland had become a homicide detective's wet dream-a slam dunk case that would satisfy the man in charge and the DA's office. On the surface, his death looked like the suicide of a man who obsessively stalked a celebrity, but finding the burner phone in his possession linked him to Olivia Davenport's murder.
If the knife he'd used to slice his wrists turned out to be consistent with the depth and width of the blade that killed Olivia-whether or not there was blood evidence to link the weapon to the murder-the DA and the chief would push to point the finger at McFarland. Most detectives would've been thrilled, but something triggered Cronan's hinky vibe.
He didn't like the tidy explanation that came with evidence wrapped in a bow. There were too many players with secrets to suit Cronan and all of them had an unnatural obsession to protect Ethan Chandler.
Why?
Chapter 13.
Downtown Chicago Cronan had plenty on his mind and since he thought better on a full stomach, he convinced Angel to join him at one of his favorite stops. Slim's on Montrose was located in the trendy neighborhoods of Ravenswood and Lincoln Square. They had burger joint prices with homemade goodness and a chef's touch of quality that never changed.
The distinctive awning on the outside had the name of the place in red and white. Inside the brick building, Slim's had a black and white checkerboard floor, an order counter in front of the sizzling grill, and plasma screens running sports at every angle. Every time Cronan walked into the place, it brought back good memories.
”Manny's Fire Dogs, coming right up.” Dressed in a black polo with the Slim's logo, the guy behind the counter grinned and yelled his standing order to the short order cook before Cronan opened his mouth.
”What about you, Angel?” the man asked.
”I'll have the grilled chicken pita, Vinny. Gabe's buying.”
”Smart man.” Vinny rang up their order and made change.
Cronan was addicted to the Chicago-style hot dogs at Slim's, but when Manny ordered a double dog basket with curly fries and added a heaping pile of jalapenos-on top of the usual concoction of mustard, relish, onions, tomatoes, pickles, sport peppers & celery salt on a steamed bun-that's when the order deserved recognition. After Manny got diagnosed, Vinny added his fire dog special to the menu. His best friend had called it *being immortalized in mystery meat.'
Cronan fed the tip jar at the counter and slid into a corner booth with Angel to wait for their food.
”So what do you think?” she asked.
”I think...” Cronan reached for napkins from a dispenser on the table and shrugged. ”...grilled chicken pitas are for lightweights who can't take the heat.”
”Or someone without a cast iron stomach.” She smiled and stared into his eyes in a way that always dug into his heart before she said, ”This place brings back great memories.”
”Yeah.”