Episode 2

 

Poughkeepsie Police Department – 11:01 a.m.

Pastor Raul Brentland collapsed into the chair across from Detectives Rick Carter and Cassie Mitchell, his eyes hollow, face slick with tears. The news of his wife’s murder had hit him like a sledgehammer, his heart spasming so violently he’d almost ended up in the ER.

The detectives sat ready, but Brentland was a man unraveling. His wife hadn’t just been his partner, she’d been the First Lady of the church they’d built brick by brick.

Now she was gone. Slaughtered.

Not just a personal tragedy, but a seismic shockwave that would rock the Christian community to its core.

Carter forced his own grief into a chokehold. He knew the ache Brentland was drowning in, he’d lost his wife to murder too. It was a wound that never truly closed. But he had to lock it down. He was here to solve a case, not bleed all over it.

Mitchell leaned forward, offering Brentland a tissue. Her voice was low and firm as she began.

“Mr. Brentland, I promise this won’t take long. Detective Carter and I just need to clarify some things about your wife’s movements the night she was killed. Some of these questions I might’ve asked already, but please bear with me. Do you understand?”

Brentland nodded, trembling.

Mitchell scooted closer, folding her hands on the table.

“Your wife’s body was found near a reggae/jazz club. Based on the coroner’s report, she’d been dead for several hours. Were you aware she went there often?”

“Yes…even though the church folks didn’t approve. She loved jazz.”

Mitchell fixed him with a hard stare. “But she wasn’t at the club that night. We have ironclad evidence. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

Raul’s eyes widened. “My wife wasn’t a liar. That’s where she told me she was going!”

“I’m telling you, she never showed up there,” Mitchell shot back. “So where did she go instead? Why lie about it?”

Brentland’s face twisted, wounded and indignant. “My wife was a good woman. Faithful. Dedicated to the church and our family. Why are you trying to smear her name?”

“We’re not here to destroy her reputation,” Mitchell said sharply. “We’re here to find her killer. Help us do that.”

Carter jumped in. “Did you and your wife argue that day?”

Brentland swallowed. “Every couple has issues. We loved each other.”

“I’m not doubting that. But murders don’t happen in a vacuum. Did you fight?”

A beat passed. Brentland’s shoulders sagged. “We argued…about her going to the club. I didn’t want her there because it was causing trouble in the church.”

“What time did she leave the house?” Carter asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Think, Pastor. This matters,” Mitchell pressed.

“I wasn’t staring at the darn clock!” he snapped, voice cracking.

Mitchell’s tone dropped an octave. “Mr. Brentland, we’re trying to help you. We have other cases we could be working. We’re on your side, but you’ve got to meet us halfway.”

Brentland slumped, tears shining in his eyes. “Maybe… three-thirty, four o’clock. I’m not sure.”

“And you expected her home by seven or eight?” Carter pressed.

“Yes. But by eleven, I was calling everyone, her sister, her mother, the club. No one knew where she was.”

Mitchell’s eyes narrowed. “So you knew she wasn’t at the club that night?”

Raul hesitated, then nodded miserably. “Yes. But how could I admit that to her family…to our congregation? If word got out she’d lied to me about where she was, it would destroy our reputation.”

Mitchell inhaled deeply, steadying her voice. “So what did you do next?”

“I stayed up all night…waiting for her call. It never came.”

“And that’s when you filed the missing person report this morning?” Carter asked.

“Yes,” Brentland whispered, burying his face in his hands.

He sat there, silent, wrestling with the staggering realization that his wife had been keeping secrets, and that those secrets might’ve led to her death. Carter watched him, a flicker of sympathy in his gaze, but his instincts hummed. Something wasn’t adding up.

Carter finally spoke. “That’s all for now, Mr. Brentland. And…I’m sorry for your loss.”

Brentland nodded, dry-eyed now, and left the room like a man whose world was caving in.

Mitchell exhaled, fixing Carter with a look that was half probing, half protective. “What’s your gut say about Pastor Brentland?”

Carter shrugged, though a tension coiled in his jaw. “The jury’s still out. But he’s hiding something. I’d bet my badge on it.”

Mitchell gave a half-smile as they walked out together. “Hey…I wanted to say, I enjoyed our coffee last night. We should do that again.”

Carter stiffened, conflicted. He needed space to heal, not rebound.

“We’ll see,” he said gruffly. “But I won’t be in tomorrow morning.”

“Why not?” Mitchell asked.

“I’m headed to Dutchess County. There’s someone there who might hold the key to my wife’s murder.”

Mitchell studied him, worry flickering in her eyes. “Want me to come along?”

“No. I’ll handle it. But thanks…you’re the best partner a man could ask for.”

Mitchell blushed, then quickly masked it as she turned away.

But as Carter glanced back, he caught her staring. She flushed deeper, pretending to rifle through papers. Carter gave her a tight smile in return, fleeting, but genuine.

And for a heartbeat, the air between them felt charged…an invisible line trembling between loyalty and something far more dangerous.