Chapter 4 - The Alibi Cracks
Back at the modern home, the police crime scene unit worked with methodical precision, dusting the broken glass and collecting fiber samples from the living room floor. Julian paced back and forth across the pristine hardwood of the foyer, his phone pressed tightly against his ear for the fourth time in ten minutes. His white dress shirt was slightly wrinkled now, the cuffs unbuttoned and folded back neatly against his forearms. He kept glancing anxiously toward the front door, waiting for a call that refused to connect.
"Pick up the phone," Julian muttered under his breath, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the sleek black smartphone until his hand cramped.
A young rookie officer stepped out of the kitchen, holding a clear plastic evidence bag containing a small, charred piece of paper salvaged from the fireplace ash tray.
"Mr. Vance, we found this partially burned document in the hearth," the rookie said, handing the bag over. "It looks like a portion of a property deed for a parcel of land up near the coast. Does this mean anything to you?"
Julian snatched the bag, his eyes scanning the charred fragments with a look of sheer terror that he couldn't quite mask behind his usual professional demeanor.
"This is nothing," Julian snapped, thrusting the bag back into the rookie’s hands. "My wife has been burning trash in that fireplace for weeks. She's unstable. You saw her trying to attack an elderly woman in a wheelchair. She belongs in a psychiatric ward, not answering questions."
"Perhaps," a calm voice echoed from the hallway, "but unstable people don't usually hire high-priced private investigators to track their spouses' movements for six straight months."
Julian spun around sharply to see Detective Miller standing by the arched doorway, holding a thick file of printed email exchanges. The color drained completely from Julian's face as he recognized the logo of the security firm at the top of the pages.
"Where did you get those?" Julian demanded, taking an aggressive step forward before checking himself and stopping abruptly under the steady gaze of the two armed officers flanking the detective.
"Your home office safe, Mr. Vance. It wasn't even locked," Detective Miller replied smoothly, tapping the papers against her palm. "According to these reports, you weren't working late at the corporate office on the nights those trust fund transfers occurred. You were meeting with an unknown individual at a motel near the interstate."
Julian swallowed hard, his throat suddenly bone dry as he searched for an explanation that didn't exist.
"I was investigating the embezzlement myself," Julian lied, his voice sounding hollow and unconvincing even to his own ears.
Detective Miller smiled coldly, stepping closer until she stood right beside him.
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"That's funny," she whispered, "because the person you were meeting at that motel wasn't a business associate. It was your mother's personal live-in nurse, who disappeared without a trace two hours ago."
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