Harm's Reach

8

Robert and Ingrid Prince’s holiday rental was eight miles south of Golden and designed to make the most of the spectacular view out over the front range.

‘It’s like a hotel,’ said Janine. She drove up to the gates.

‘It’s like a glass box,’ said Ren.

Janine pressed the intercom button. A woman answered.

‘Hello,’ said Janine, ‘I’m looking for Mrs Ingrid Prince?’

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘My name is Detective Janine Hooks, I’m from the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office, I’m here with SA Ren Bryce from the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force in Denver. We’d like to speak with you about Laura Flynn.’

‘Laura?’ said Ingrid. ‘Why? What is it? What’s happened?’

‘Could we please come through?’ said Janine.

‘Yes, I’m sorry, of course,’ said Ingrid.

The gates swung open. Janine drove in and parked beside a gold Range Rover.

‘Do they own this place?’ said Janine.

‘No, but they could — that’s the main thing,’ said Ren.

‘Yes,’ said Janine. ‘OK, now let’s go hang with a Swedish former model, just in case we were feeling too good about ourselves.’

Everything about Ingrid Prince’s face said model — everything about her posture, her aura, the movement of her long limbs. She even managed to open the door with grace. She was wearing a floor-length gray strapless jersey dress with an oversized beige cotton cardigan. Her blonde hair was tied up and she had on a gray cotton headband. Her skin was flawless, unlined, glowing.

‘Come in, please,’ she said. ‘Take a seat.’

She gestured to an open-plan living area. There was a magnificent curved stone fireplace with a thick oak beam running the length of the chimney breast and an alcove beside it stacked with logs. On the floor in front lay a pristine rich cream rug. Three brown leather sofas were arranged in the center of the room around a solid, blocky coffee table in the style of a vintage suitcase.

After a moment’s seating panic, Ren and Janine sat side by side, and Ingrid Prince sat perpendicular.

‘Please,’ said Ingrid. ‘Just tell me.’

Janine leaned forward. ‘I’m afraid we found Laura Flynn’s body this afternoon close to Pike National Forest—’

‘Body?’ said Ingrid. ‘Pike National Forest? I’m sorry, I’m not following...’

Ren shifted forward in her seat. ‘Mrs—’

‘And where’s Pike National Forest?’ said Ingrid.

‘I’m sorry to tell you that we found Laura about sixty miles south of here,’ said Ren.

Relief flooded Ingrid Prince’s face. ‘No, that’s not Laura. Laura’s in Chicago. She just didn’t make it back. She must have missed her flight. My husband was just concerned that—’

‘Mrs Prince, I’m afraid we have been able to identify her body,’ said Ren. ‘She was the victim of a shooting. Her car was found—’

‘No,’ said Ingrid. ‘She wasn’t driving! She was flying, then she was getting a cab, then... a shooting? No. I don’t understand... No.’ She started crying hysterically. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, please. Please don’t tell me this happened to Laura. Please. Her baby. Her baby. She was pregnant. The baby. Did... did they save the baby?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren. ‘I’m afraid that was not possible.’

Ingrid broke down. She clutched her stomach.

It was only then that Ren realized that Ingrid Prince had a tiny bump of her own.