Whatever charisma is, Maddie Madison had it. Her friends knew it—her studio loved it— her enemies hated her for it and wished her dead.
It’s not easy being a sign of contradiction for an elusive quality. Whatever it was people wanted, she had—but now she lay murdered for it, butchered in her bed.
As near as I could figure, she didn’t really fit the profile of an ‘it girl’ at all –she wasn’t into shoe shopping or party going, she wasn’t a spoiled princess or alpha queen—in fact, she just seemed a nice girl who happened to enrage the wrong person at the wrong time.
And now was dead.
“Any ideas, Alan?”
Rebecca Mitchell had been staring at me from the doorway, sensing not to come in.
“It’s all right Becca, c’mon in.”
“This one has you troubled, doesn’t it?”
I nodded and stared out at the Toronto skyline and the Don River winding past below. The girl had everything and it seemed less a crime and more a sacrilege to take such a beautiful young life. Sometimes, being a Metro Detective Superintendent is a fruitless job.
Becca placed a compassionate hand on my shoulder and gazed sadly at me.
“It’s just a rough patch,” I told her, “I’ll get past it. I always do.”
“Why does this one upset you so much?”
“Hard to tell, really. Could be her youth, her promise,” I turned away from the blood-soaked bed, “or it could just be the dismay of being caught up in a slaughterhouse nightmare that never ends.”
“It does seem pointless, doesn’t it?”
I slammed the heel of my fist against the wall. “What madness drives someone to commit such an unspeakable act? —She’s so disfigured, she had to be identified by fingerprints."
“That rage is personal. Whoever did this, absolutely detested her.”
“What about her enemies? According to her agent, she had two bitter rivals—Candace Leonard and Shelly Marks.”
Becca shook her head. “They both have air-tight alibis—not that they couldn’t have hired someone else—but from the passion of the crime, I doubt it was a hired killer.”
“So, where does that leave us?” I asked.
“High, dry and nowhere—the door was locked, so the killer had a key—let himself in.”
“And I suppose we have no idea who might have keys.”
“Exactly. Her agent admits to having a key, but she was at a charity event that evening. The coroner figures Maddie was murdered around three a.m.”
I threw up my hands. “Murdered at an hour when the suspects will all claim to be home and asleep.”
Becca grimaced. “Unfortunately.”
“Well, try to find out how many people had keys to Maddie’s condo and we’ll take it from there.”
“Right.” Becca paused and looked at me. “Are you coming?”
“Not just yet. I want to have a look around—get a feel for the crime scene.”
“Suit yourself,” she shivered, eyeing the bloody bed.
After she left, I sat in the bedroom on a small boudoir chair by a dressing table. The room seemed deathly quiet—almost peaceful.
The city lights shone milky through the curtains and the condo was quiet and calm. I almost wanted to shout—to demand the walls to speak and give up their secrets.
But mostly I felt helpless—bleak and empty—eventually that happens and at that point the wise investigators pack it in and retire.
I was contemplating that now.
