Kennedy laughed as she surveyed the new landscaping, “You certainly never have to water a rock.” She stepped inside her apartment and tossed her purse and keys on the small table by the door. After removing her gun and holster, she laid them on the coffee table. Stepping over to the thermostat, she turned it as low as she possibly could. Kennedy brushed her teeth, stripped down to her panties and tee shirt, and then flopped down on her couch with her interview notes. Lieutenant Hazelwood could cut her overtime, but not control what she did with her free time. After all, who in the hell could solve a murder in eight hour shifts? Her murder board grew in size as she made and tacked up note cards with the alibis that Campenelli and St. Louis had provided. She added a list of questions she needed answered. Her head slowly turned back and forth. Nicolas Campenelli’s alibis were as weak as St. Louis’. Could he have murdered Phoebe Mixer because she attacked him? Embarrassed him? Although shabby, it was still a motive. But why would he have killed the other two women? She needed to get her hands on the unedited version of Mixer and Campenelli arguing and see if the aired piece was edited like Nick said. She also needed Sparks and Tenuta’s notes—they’d volunteered to interview the few people who’d witnessed the confrontation to see if they could back up his claim. Was his explanation for all the pictures in his campaign headquarters believable? Why did she feel this overwhelming need to defend Nicolas Campenelli? Frustrated with all the back and forth possibilities, she picked up the remote control for the television and flipped through the channels. As usual, the choices sucked big time. “I need cable TV. I’ll put it on my wish list, right beneath the request to fix the air-conditioning in my car.” Next Monday would be payday. Next Tuesday she’d put the Mustang in the shop and get the AC running again. Next month, if she was lucky, she might be able to knock cable TV off her wish list.
