Annapolis, Maryland,
Monday 13 June, 10.45 A.M.
He stepped out of the shower in his discipline room to see Patton waiting by the door, revulsion clear on his face as he stared at what remained of the drug dealers he’d picked up the night before.
‘Is something amiss, Mr Patton?’
Patton turned slowly to face him, swallowing hard. ‘No. Sir,’ he added belatedly. ‘It’s . . . fine. It’s fine.’
He almost smiled. Big strong men reduced to green-faced little girls at the sight of a bit of blood and gore. Making sure he stepped around the affected areas, he went to his wardrobe and began dressing.
‘I have a list of tasks for you to complete this morning.’ He pulled on silk boxers and then his trousers, finding the folded paper in his pocket. He held it up, waiting for Patton to come to him to get it. ‘Mr Patton?’
With an effort, Patton tore his eyes from the carnage on the floor and walked toward him, gingerly avoiding a puddle of something nasty. The head clerk’s gulp was audible.
He was amused. ‘One cannot eviscerate a man without a little mess, Mr Patton.’
‘I know. I remember.’
‘I should hope so. It was less than forty-eight hours ago.’
Patton hadn’t seemed as shaken at the sight of Patricia’s body, though. Mostly because she hadn’t been as thoroughly worked over as the two dealers from the night before. On those two, he’d spent hours cutting and carving. Patricia had been dealt with quickly.
Because I was so angry. Too angry. Seeing Thomas Thorne lying there unconscious had been more difficult than he’d anticipated. He’d wanted to plunge his knife into the man’s body so badly . . . but he had not. Because death was too good for him. He wanted him to live. And mourn.
Just like I am. So he’d been quick about it, slicing the woman’s throat before carving her open and pushing the weathered key ring into the wound. He’d dropped the knife on the floor at Thorne’s side after pressing the man’s fingerprints into the blood.
And then he’d left the room, going to the garage to lie on the tarp they’d laid in the backseat of Thorne’s very luxurious SUV. It had been the hardest thing, walking away from Thorne’s breathing body. But he’d done it, because the payoff would be far more satisfying.
He’d taken the tarp with him when he’d exited to his own vehicle, ensuring that there would be no trace of him in Thorne’s Audi. And then he’d left Patton to return the Audi to Thorne’s garage and to finish setting the scene. He now wondered if Patton had looked the same way after beating Patricia until she was unrecognizable.
‘What the hell?’ Patton’s voice jerked him out of the memory. He looked up from the paper he’d been reading, his eyes flashing with fury. ‘You could have texted this to me. Or called me.’
‘Of course I could have.’ Calmly he continued to dress, watching Patton from the corner of his eye as he shrugged into his shirt and buttoned it.
‘But you made me come all the way down here.’
‘I did.’ He tucked his shirttail into his trousers and began tying his tie.
Patton’s face hardened to stone. ‘You just wanted me to see this.’ He gestured behind him, to where the bodies lay.
He smiled. ‘Just a little reminder of how failure is punished.’
‘But these guys didn’t fail you.’
‘Well, when you consider that they pledged allegiance to my rival, I’d have to disagree.’ He snugged his tie and pulled on his coat. There. He always felt more put together when he wore a suit. He nodded toward the paper in Patton’s hand. ‘Complete those tasks and call me after each one. Then return here. You’ll need to transport these two back to their masters.’
Patton’s eyes widened. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard me. I want these bodies dropped at the Circus Freaks’ warehouse at seven sharp.’
‘Why seven?’
Because that was when Sheidalin opened their doors. He wanted shock and awe and media coverage when the police stormed the place. ‘My reasons are not for you to question, Mr Patton. Should I search for another replacement?’
Patton’s gulp was, once again, audible. ‘No. Sir.’
‘Good. Then please get to it. You don’t want to be late.’
Baltimore, Maryland,
Monday 13 June, 10.55 A.M.
Frederick hurried to open the backstage door. ‘Miss Brewster?’
She’d raised her fist to knock, but lowered it. Her eyes widened, startled, although she didn’t physically flinch. ‘Yes. Mr Dawson, I take it?’
‘Yes, thank you for coming to meet me here. Please come this way.’
She followed him into the main hall, blinking to get accustomed to the darkness. Sally Brewster was the woman who’d warned Bernice Brown that someone claiming to be a detective was poking around. She was fifty-two, widowed with two grown children, and was a nurse in the pediatric ward of a local hospital. She volunteered at the animal shelter and played the cello in her neighborhood orchestra. She rode horses in her ‘spare time’, and had gone to Ocean City on vacation the month before, where she’d looked very, very nice in her extremely modest bathing suit. And she really, really needed to make her Facebook page private.
He pulled out a chair for her. ‘Please sit down.’
She looked around the club curiously. ‘I’ve been here before, for a concert. It looks different in the off hours.’
‘All smoke and magic, I assume. Mr Thorne, your friend Bernice’s attorney, is part owner of this club.’
‘I know. That’s why I came – to observe Mr Thorne. I wanted to get a look at the man who’s helping Bernie. This has been a nightmare for her. If he has to drop her case, I don’t know what she’ll do.’
‘I’ll be taking on her case,’ Frederick assured her. ‘At no charge. I understand you called Mrs Brown last Friday and warned her that someone was asking where she was.’
‘Yes. He said his name was Detective Hooper. I don’t talk to people I don’t know on the phone. You hear of scams every day. He might have been hired by Bernie’s husband, who is a complete piece of garbage.’
‘So you told him nothing?’
‘Not a thing. Not really. I gave him an address where he could find Bernie, but it was just a vacant lot at the trailer park. Plus, he was trying too hard. Gave me the creeps. I called the police department he claimed to be with. They’d never heard of him.’
‘You were very smart to be cautious.’
‘Some people say I’m paranoid.’
‘Some people are careless. You were not.’ He’d drilled that kind of caution into his daughters. He approved of Miss Brewster’s vigilance in this regard, even though she needed to block her Facebook page. ‘Do you have the number he called from?’
‘Yes.’ She found it in her cell phone call log. ‘I think it’s fake. I tried calling it back.’
‘From this phone?’
She gave him a small smile. ‘No. From a payphone outside the grocery store. Like I said, he gave me the creeps.’
‘Good.’ He wrote the number down. ‘Is there anything else you can remember about the call? Any background noises?’
She frowned thoughtfully. ‘Birds.’
‘Birds? Like . . . outside in a tree?’
‘No, more like . . . at the beach. Seagulls.’
Frederick’s pulse took a leap. ‘That’s good to know. What else?’
‘He had a little bit of a Southern accent. Not at first. It came out when he started to get annoyed with me. That’s when I hung up on him. Sorry, I wish I could tell you more.’
‘Do you think you’d recognize his voice if you heard it again?’
She looked uncertain. ‘Maybe. I’ve read that voice recognition is even less reliable than eyewitness testimony.’
And she was well read too. ‘That can be true. Sometimes it’s enough to give the police a search warrant, though.’
Her brows rose. ‘I would have thought you’d be against helping the police to get warrants.’
He wasn’t offended. It was a common misconception that defense attorneys lived to thwart the police. ‘Not necessarily. If the warrant is executed legally and there really is due cause for its issuance, then that satisfies the law. That is the expectation that every defendant should be allowed to have.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I see. Do you think Bernie has a chance in court?’
‘Yes, I do. I’ve read her file, I’ve spoken with her, and I’ve consulted with two of the other attorneys in the practice. I’ll do my very best for her.’
She nodded again. Then she squared her shoulders. ‘I knew who you were before I came here,’ she stated baldly. ‘I wanted to check you out, both for my own safety and for Bernie’s. She’s putting her life in your hands.’
Frederick sat back in the chair, wondering where she was going with this. Why she seemed so defensive. ‘Checking me out was prudent. You should know that I checked you out too. You really need to change your Facebook privacy settings.’
She sucked in a surprised breath. ‘Oh. I had no . . .’ Her cheeks bloomed pink. ‘I will. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He started to rise, but she held up her hand.
‘I’m not finished.’ She waited until he’d resettled himself. ‘I checked on you a little more deeply than you checked on me.’ She lifted her brows. ‘You don’t have a Facebook page.’
And he was the tiniest bit smug about that. ‘True.’
‘But you do have an Internet presence. Or your daughters do, at least.’
He drew a very deep breath. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked ominously.
She didn’t blink. ‘I mean that your daughter Taylor was in the papers last year for helping to take down that man who murdered his wife and threatened his little girl. Jazzie. I tried to call her, by the way. Taylor, I mean. I posed as a reporter. She wouldn’t answer any of my questions. However, your other daughter did.’
‘That’s impossible,’ he said flatly. Because Daisy only accepted calls from numbers she knew. Otherwise she’d have blown her travel budget on cellular fees and not easels and paint in Paris. Besides, he monitored her bills. Closely. He’d never tell her, but he watched her credit card receipts for trips to the liquor store or the wine shop. He’d allowed her alcoholism to run unchecked for too long the first time. He was not making the same mistake twice.
Her drinking had been his fault, after all. He’d been trying to give her ‘space’ then, which was ludicrous considering he’d all but sentenced her to a life of seclusion on the ranch in California for her entire adolescence. And all that after he’d already lost one daughter to addiction. Thinking about Carrie hurt too much, so he focused on the children he could still save.
Yes, he continued to watch over Daisy as best he could, and from the accounts he’d received from those around her, she was clean and sober and happy. Just as she should be. And due to this vigilance, he was quite certain that she’d taken no calls from strange phone numbers. At least not from the US to Europe.
He stared Miss Brewster down coolly. ‘You must be mistaken.’
‘No, I’m not. Julie was quite frank with me on the phone.’
Frederick drew a shocked breath. ‘What?’ Hearing someone say his daughter’s name was like taking a high-voltage jolt. Julie was the youngest of his four daughters and . . . special. Born with cerebral palsy, she also had an intellectual disability. At twenty-one, she read at a fourth grade level, although she thought she might be making progress at the new therapy center she attended. Regardless, he kept her safe from the world. From anyone who’d hurt her. Fury began to blaze within him at the very thought that someone, that this woman, had breached that protective wall. ‘That is impossible,’ he said, his voice shaking with anger.
She gave him a sympathetic look. ‘You may not have a Facebook page, Mr Dawson, but Julie does.’
‘Julie’s never touched a computer,’ he declared, confident of that fact.
Her brows lifted. ‘Because she has CP? Think again, Mr Dawson. Look, I harbor no plans to hurt you or your children. I’m a mother. I’m a nurse. But I also like to continue breathing, and this thing with Bernie is damn terrifying. Her husband stalks her, she fights back and wounds him, so he stalks her more. And then she gets arrested, for God’s sake.’ Her voice rose a little more at the end of every sentence. ‘And then her lawyer gets accused of murder? And then her replacement lawyer asks me to meet him alone?’ Her eyes flashed in a mixture of fear and anger. ‘Damn straight I was going to check you out before I met you. Damn straight I told someone exactly where I am and who I’m with so that they know where to start looking if I fail to check in later.’
She looked away, visibly gathering her composure. When she spoke, her voice was quiet again. ‘I wanted to know what kind of man you are. Your daughter Julie adores you, by the way. That’s all I really wanted you to know. For her sake. But I think she’s picked up more at the new therapy center than you might have realized. You might see her as a child, but just because she might read at a lower level, she is not a child. She doesn’t speak like a child, she doesn’t think like a child, and she has the needs and wants of an adult.’
Frederick could only stare at her. Oh my God. Julie. She had a caregiver who attended to her personal needs and who stayed with her when Frederick was working, which wasn’t that often. He thought he’d been paying adequate attention. I guess I thought wrong. Yet again. A feeling of despair crept into his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. He’d failed another one of his daughters.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he managed, his voice rough and unsteady.
Sally Brewster’s mouth curved sadly. ‘Say thank you. And then make sure your daughter is safe. She could attract the wrong kind of attention so very easily. I couldn’t have lived with myself if something happened to her and I hadn’t told you.’ She stood up, her hand outstretched. ‘Thank you for supporting Bernie. I know she appreciates it. And please call me should you have any questions about her situation. She’s my best friend.’
Frederick rose too, locking his knees to keep them from buckling, and shook her hand. ‘Thank you. I’ll walk you to your car.’
‘That would be nice. Thank you. This isn’t a bad neighborhood, especially during the day, but it’s prudent to be careful.’
On autopilot, he guided her to the backstage door, but stopped before opening it as a thread of reason wound into his brain. ‘Wait. How did you get my home phone number?’
‘Julie gave it to me after I messaged her on Facebook.’
His jaw tightened. ‘You had no right. She’s a child. My child.’
Her eyes flashed again, and this close, he noticed they were blue. Like the sky. She opened her mouth to speak, then her anger was abruptly gone, her shoulders sagging as she met his gaze directly. ‘You’re right. I didn’t. I apologize. She’s not a child, but still, I didn’t have the right. At the same time, aren’t you glad it was me, and not someone . . . else? Someone who actually might want to hurt her? Now at least you know about the problem.’
He shook his head, unable to find words of absolution. Because there was nothing about this that was okay. Julie was off limits. ‘Let’s just go.’
But her hand had reached out to cover his as he clutched the doorknob. ‘I was afraid. But you’re right. I shouldn’t have contacted her.’
He jerked a nod, too damn aware of her hand on his. It was gentle and . . . He swallowed hard, trying to remember how long it had been since he’d had such a simple touch from a woman. Years, he realized. Long before his wife had died. She’d been sick for a long time. But it was more than that. When he found out how she had lied to him for years, telling him they had to hide because Clay was a threat to Taylor . . . When he realized how much she’d stolen from all of them . . . He could no longer remember any of her touches with anything but contempt.
So it had been a long time. Maybe not since his first wife – Carrie, Daisy and Julie’s mother – had died. Twenty-one years. Too damn long. Way too damn long if such a simple touch had him as tongue-tied as a schoolboy.
He stared at Miss Brewster’s small hand with its neat, unpolished nails. Her hands cared for people every day. This was not a woman with an evil agenda. Although he had believed every word Taylor’s mother had said, so he would never trust his own judgment again, at least not when it came to women.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to put himself in her place. Yes, she’d been right to be cautious. ‘I suppose I understand your being afraid.’
‘Well, that’s kind of you,’ she murmured. He thought she’d remove her hand then, but she didn’t. Her gaze had dropped to their hands as well. ‘But you are wrong about a few things, I think, Mr Dawson.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, for starters, Julie is not a child. I’ve said that several times, but I don’t think you’re completely hearing me. She’s a twenty-one-year-old woman. She might read at a lower level, but her interests and desires are most definitely adult. As are her hormones.’
He sucked in another startled breath. ‘What do you mean?’
She glanced up at him, a small smile on her lips. ‘She has a boyfriend.’
He blinked at her, shocked once again. ‘What? Who?’
‘His name is Stan and she met him at their therapy center. I’m sure they are adequately chaperoned while there, but you might want to talk to her about it. You know, about birth control.’
Frederick winced. He couldn’t help it. ‘Oh my God.’
Miss Brewster’s smile grew rueful. ‘Be gentle when you talk to her. She’s afraid you’ll “have a cow, man”.’
He pounced on the phrase, because the thought of Julie having a boyfriend – and needing birth control, for God’s sake – was messing with his brain. ‘So she’s watching The Simpsons too? I must really be falling down on the job.’
Miss Brewster’s small smile faded. ‘She worries about you, you know.’
Once again, he blinked. ‘About me? Why?’
Sadness filled her expressive eyes. ‘You should talk to her, Mr Dawson.’
Dread felt like a sixteen-ton weight on his chest, and he dragged in a harsh breath. ‘You’re not helping, Miss Brewster.’ He could see her choosing her words carefully. ‘You are scaring me. Just spit it out. Please.’
She sighed. ‘All right. Julie sees more than you know. She knows you’re worried about Daisy.’
‘She told you about Daisy?’
A nod. ‘She loves her sisters very much. She told me about Taylor, who is apparently a cross between Wonder Woman and Annie Oakley.’
That made him smile a little. ‘That’s accurate.’
But Miss Brewster did not smile. ‘She told me about Carrie. She misses her.’
Frederick felt the blood drain from his face and the hand on his tightened.
‘She knows you feel guilty that Daisy drank too much,’ she continued, ‘and that you sent her to “camp”. She knows you had some mini-strokes last year. She’s not sure if you’re telling her the truth when you say that you’re okay.’
He felt like he’d been shot. Multiple times. ‘I . . . didn’t know that she knew.’
‘Like I said, she seems to absorb more than you think. She doesn’t want to worry you any more than you already are. But she wants more from her life than she has at the moment. She knows you’ve made sacrifices for your girls – all of them, including her. She doesn’t want you to think she’s not grateful, because she is. She’s worried you’ll think she doesn’t love you, but she does.’
He stared, the deluge of information smacking hard against the wall of his brain. ‘How long did you talk to her?’
‘About an hour. She sounded eager for someone to talk to. Her caregiver has an addiction to The View and won’t allow Julie to bother her when the show is on.’
He gaped at her. ‘The caregiver came recommended.’
Miss Brewster’s smile was gentle. ‘I’m sure she did. And how you deal with that is your business. I can recommend some other agencies, though. If you’d like.’
He nodded, even though a small corner of his mind remained suspicious. It would be an excellent way for her to get more information. Although it appeared that she’d already harvested plenty. She knew his secrets. Not all of them, for sure, but enough.
‘Or not,’ she added, as if sensing his suspicion. She gave his hand an encouraging stroke before pulling hers away. ‘I won’t keep you any longer.’
He shook his head hard, trying to clear it. ‘Oh, right. Of course. I was about to walk you to your car.’ He opened the backstage door. ‘After you.’
Baltimore, Maryland,
Monday 13 June, 10.55 A.M.
Gwyn ended the call with a mix of satisfaction and frustration. ‘I got an appointment with Angie’s salon.’
Phil turned from the front seat of Jamie’s van. ‘What time?’
She made a face. ‘Not until tomorrow at five thirty. She’s penciling me in.’
Phil’s eyes twinkled. ‘I was impressed. I would have given you an appointment for sure. And maybe even a trousseau.’
Gwyn’s cheeks heated. She’d been hesitant to use the elopement ploy with Thorne sitting beside her. It seemed . . . cruel. But they needed to get to the bottom of this tangled mess, so she would do what she needed to do. ‘I wasn’t sure if she was going to buy my story, but I guess she’s a bit of a romantic. Elopement is always good for a fashion emergency. That way I’ll have her just style it in an up-do without taking scissors to me.’
Thorne narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Don’t let her dare touch your hair with scissors. It’s perfect the way it is.’
Gwyn’s heart did a little dance inside her chest at the compliment, but also at the fierce way he was staring at her. She wondered if that look had always been there and she simply hadn’t noticed. It did wonders for her ego, that was for damn sure. ‘I won’t. It’s taken me four years to get it this long again.’ Evan had cut it short because he knew she loved her hair. But then she cursed her words when a shadow passed over Thorne’s face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t think.’
‘It’s all right, Thorne,’ she assured him. ‘We can’t keep walking on eggshells about it. Evan did . . .’
Things to me. Terrible things. And I can’t go there. Not today. And never with Thorne. She’d told the story in counseling. That would have to be enough. Chopping off her hair was the least of the things he’d done.
She exhaled, then drew in another breath. ‘I’m learning to move on, to not let it control my every decision. Honestly, his cutting my hair seems trivial compared to all the things he did to other people.’ And to me.
‘But it was a reminder whenever you looked into a mirror,’ Phil said gently.
Gwyn shrugged uncomfortably. Her reflection hadn’t really mattered. She hadn’t looked in a mirror for months afterward. ‘Yeah, well, it grew back.’
Jamie glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Who is Amber Kelly?’
It was the name under which she’d made the salon appointment. ‘My alter ego. Amber Kelly was my stage name when I was with the circus. I was a tween when Saved by the Bell was in its first run. I was a fan.’
‘I thought that might have been the case,’ Phil said with a knowing nod.
Jamie frowned. ‘I’m not seeing the connection.’
‘Because you never taught middle school or high school,’ Phil said with an indulgent smile for Gwyn. ‘Tiffani Amber Thiessen played Kelly Kapowski. She was the main character on the show. Definitely the good-girl overachiever. Kelly was the most popular girl in the school.’
‘I wanted to be her so badly,’ Gwyn confessed. ‘I copied her hairstyle and everything.’
‘Why?’ Phil asked.
‘She had it all. Looks, good grades, lots of friends. She was the head cheerleader and everyone loved her.’ And don’t I sound pathetic? She shrugged. ‘It was pure escapism.’
‘And then you actually joined the circus?’ Jamie asked. ‘I always thought that was just your stage story.’
‘Yes, I was the kid who ran away to join the circus,’ she said with a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Good times. So we need to be in Bethesda at five thirty tomorrow. What’s next?’
Thorne shot her a curious look at her topic change, but didn’t press her to share more. Neither did the men up front, for which she was grateful. Thorne knew part of her circus story, but not all. And certainly not the painful parts. She’d been far too raw to share them when they’d first met. And now she was far too vulnerable. So those stories would stay locked in the vault until she was ready to bring them out.
‘We’re almost at the home of Brent Kiley, one of the EMTs who brought Richard into the ER,’ Jamie said.
‘Where did you get his address?’ Thorne asked.
‘From Anne.’ Jamie glanced at them in the mirror again. ‘I gave her the names of anyone we hadn’t yet located. She’s been working on addresses all morning.’
‘Anne’s at our office?’ Thorne asked sharply. ‘All alone? She might not be safe. And there have to be a million reporters swarming the area.’
‘More like four million,’ Jamie said grimly. ‘And no, she’s not at the office. Frederick had already told everyone on the payroll to stay home today. Anne can access all the search websites we use from wherever she is. She uses a proxy program, so nothing she does can be traced to her. But she’s . . . nervous about her job. Understandably.’
That didn’t surprise Gwyn. The firm’s receptionist was young and rather timid. Her boss being accused of murder wasn’t something she’d process easily.
Thorne tensed. ‘Did you tell her that she shouldn’t be? That I didn’t do it?’
‘Of course I did,’ Jamie chided gently. ‘She doesn’t know you as well as we do.’
Thorne snorted. ‘She’s worked for me for a year.’
‘And I’ve known you for nineteen.’ Jamie sighed. ‘Locating addresses will keep her busy. Give her less time to worry. It’s a win-win.’
‘I’m surprised she didn’t have them all in her head already,’ Gwyn said dryly. The young woman was organized to a fault. She’d overhauled the firm’s filing system in her first week and knew where everything was located. She also remembered everyone’s birthday, at both the firm and Sheidalin, making sure Thorne sent at least a card to everyone.
‘Anne’s good, but not quite that good. I heard back from Lucy.’ Thorne studied his phone. ‘She texted about Kirby Gilson.’
‘The ME tech that was killed,’ Gwyn murmured. She’d had a terrible feeling about what they’d learn when they dug deeper into the man’s background. ‘What did she find out?’
‘That Eileen Gilson, Kirby’s widow, lives in Chevy Chase, in the really ritzy part. Her son, who did not die of leukemia – thank goodness – now goes to a private university. Mrs Gilson doesn’t have an income-generating job. She participates in a lot of charities.’
‘But she’s living well if she’s got a place in Chevy Chase,’ Phil said quietly. ‘So we add her to the list?’
Gwyn nodded. ‘Absolutely. I mean, I can understand selling out to pay for your child’s health care, but it sounds like she’s continued to receive benefits from someone. I wonder if we can get into her bank records.’
‘JD can – if we give him the information,’ Jamie said. He parked the van in front of an apartment complex. ‘For now, let’s talk to this EMT. Brent Kiley has been a medic for twenty-five years. That’s all we know about him at this point. I’m still waiting on the address for the other EMT, his partner back then. If Anne hasn’t found it by the time we’re done here, we’ll move on to Richard’s posse. Darian Hinman, VP of his daddy’s business, is first on the list.’
‘Who’s going in?’ Thorne asked. ‘It looks like the places are small. We don’t want to overwhelm the guy with all four of us.’
Phil was eyeing the lobby of the building balefully. ‘I see stairs, but no elevator. What floor does this guy live on?’
‘Third,’ Jamie muttered. ‘Shit.’
‘If it’s a walkup, Thorne and I will take it,’ Gwyn said quickly. She didn’t want Phil taxing himself on stairs, but she wouldn’t say it out loud since they weren’t supposed to know about his heart condition. ‘You two stay here and figure out where we’re going next.’
Thorne shot her a grateful look. Thank you, he mouthed.
‘You need witnesses, Thorne,’ Jamie said through clenched teeth. ‘Remember? Unimpeachable alibis?’
‘Gwyn can be my witness. I won’t cause any trouble, Jamie. I promise.’
He waited until they were in the lobby to bend down and whisper in Gwyn’s ear. ‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure how to keep Phil from overdoing it.’
She patted his arm. ‘I know. We’ll keep him covered, okay?’
His arm tensed under her palm and his eyes skittered away. ‘Okay. Let’s go see if Brent Kiley is home. We may have to try him at the firehouse if he’s not here.’
Brent Kiley was home. He opened his door looking rumpled and bleary-eyed, as if he’d just tumbled out of bed. His sweatpants had grass stains on the knees and his T-shirt was on inside-out. His graying hair stuck up in all directions. Clearly they’d dragged him out of bed.
‘I’m not interested,’ he snapped, and started to slam his door.
‘We’re not selling anything,’ Gwyn said, leaning forward enough to put her palm on the wood. ‘I promise. We just want to ask you a question.’
Kiley’s eyes had dropped to her bosom, and a familiar fear shivered down her spine. Her blouse was conservative. She showed no cleavage whatsoever, but that never seemed to matter. She resisted the urge to step back, to flee. Barely.
But only because Thorne was standing behind her. His very presence made her feel safe.
‘Mr Kiley,’ she said sharply, channeling her old self.
His gaze lifted to meet hers, his expression growing dark. ‘If this is about the Bettuzi case, I can’t talk about it.’
Gwyn blinked once, startled for a second. Recovering, she shook her head. ‘It’s not. This is about a call you responded to nineteen years ago.’
Brent Kiley had been staring at Gwyn, but now he seemed to realize that Thorne was there. His bleary eyes widened and he took a step back. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, a thread of panic in his voice.
‘Not to hurt you,’ Thorne replied calmly. ‘Do you . . . do you know me?’
Brent shook his head, but his eyes told a different story. ‘I saw you on the news, is all. You killed some woman. Why are you even out, walking the streets?’
‘Because he’s not guilty,’ Gwyn snapped. ‘Look, we need to ask you a question and we’d appreciate a straight answer. Can we come in? This may not be a topic you want your neighbors to overhear.’ With her head she gestured left, where a door had opened a sliver. ‘And that one is listening to every word we say.’
Brent scowled, holding up his phone. ‘Fine, but I’m dialing 911 if you make a move I don’t like.’
That he so readily agreed was a blinking neon sign that he knew something – hopefully something he wanted to tell them. No sane person would allow into his apartment a man Thorne’s size who’d also been accused of vicious murder.
The inside of the apartment was typical man-cave, Gwyn thought. Empty pizza boxes were piled high on a dinette table and the trash overflowed with beer cans and paper plates. It gave her new appreciation for the neatnik Thorne was. She’d never seen his place messy, except for the previous morning. It had been her first clue that something was wrong.
Brent went into the kitchen and called, ‘You want a beer?’
‘No, thanks,’ Gwyn replied. ‘Too many carbs.’
He emerged with a can and popped the top. ‘Huh. I figured you’d tell me that it wasn’t even noon.’
Gwyn shrugged. ‘I run a nightclub. It’s five o’clock somewhere.’
‘True. My schedule at the firehouse fucks with my brain. I never know what the hell time it is.’ He gestured to a sofa that was quite nice. And clean. ‘You want to sit?’
‘Sure,’ Gwyn said.
‘I’ll stand,’ Thorne rumbled.
‘Yeah,’ Brent muttered as he flopped into a ratty recliner. ‘You do that. So, what’s your fuckin’ question?’
‘Richard Linden,’ Gwyn said levelly, aware of Thorne standing right next to the edge of the sofa, within grabbing distance if she needed him. ‘You responded to the scene of his murder.’
‘Yeah,’ he said shortly. ‘I remember. Kid was carved up like a deer.’ He glanced over at Thorne. ‘You were arrested for that.’
‘And tried, and cleared,’ Thorne said, menace edging into his tone.
‘Yeah, I remember that too. What do you want to know?’
‘Yesterday’s victim was Patricia Linden Segal, Richard’s sister.’
Brent froze, the beer can only an inch from his lips. Slowly he lowered it and put it on a side table. ‘What?’
‘Yeah.’ Gwyn tilted her head. ‘I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.’
‘I did a shift yesterday. I caught the murder on the news before I started. When I finished my shift, I came home and fell into bed. You woke me up.’
‘Sorry,’ Gwyn murmured. ‘I work nights too. I hate to be woken up.’
He waved his hand. ‘Whatever. What’s your question?’
Gwyn focused on his face, watching for any flicker of guilt. ‘Did you see any foreign object in Richard Linden’s body when you transported him to the ER that day?’
‘Yes,’ he answered readily, making Gwyn blink again. Beside her, Thorne stiffened.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ Brent shrugged. ‘I told the cop what I saw. Not the detective, but the first-responder cop. Nobody ever followed up and nobody ever mentioned it. And if you tell anyone I told you, I’ll call you a liar.’ He straightened abruptly, frowning again. ‘Are you wired?’
Gwyn rolled her eyes. ‘No.’
‘Good. Nobody ever threatened me.’
Gwyn’s brows shot up, struck by his odd segue and the emphasis on me. ‘But your partner was threatened?’ she guessed.
Brent just toasted her with his beer can. ‘He pushed because it wasn’t in the police report. The cops gave some song and dance about how they were holding it back so that they’d have details only the killer would know. I figured it was healthier to keep my mouth shut.’ He opened his arms and gestured broadly to the room. ‘And here I am.’
‘Where’s your partner?’ Thorne asked quietly.
Because neither Jamie nor Anne had been able to find his address.
Brent shrugged. ‘Don’t know. He up and walked a few months after your trial. Well, limped. Had a car accident. Some asshole came at him broadside, shoved him off the road and into a ravine. He managed to climb out with a broken leg. When he got the cast off, he quit and walked. Never saw him again.’
‘So why are you telling us this now?’ Thorne asked.
‘I’m not,’ Brent said with a slight smile. ‘I said nothing.’
‘Meaning you won’t tell anyone else,’ Thorne said with a frown. ‘Like the cops, even if this is important somehow.’
Brent shook his head. ‘You were a nice kid,’ he murmured. ‘You stayed there at Richard’s side and did all you could to save that prick’s life. If you hadn’t been acquitted, I’d planned to tell what I knew to the papers. That evidence had been manipulated. But you were acquitted. And I liked my legs, attached and unbroken. So I shut up.’
From the corner of her eye, Gwyn saw Thorne nod. ‘Did your old partner see the truck that hit him?’ he asked.
Brent gave Thorne a mock salute. ‘I saw what you did there. I never said it was a truck.’
‘Was it?’ Thorne asked levelly.
Another shrug. ‘Yeah. Just like the one that killed your girlfriend the year before. Scared the shit out of me. So I kept quiet. Call me a coward, but I had kids to feed.’ He looked around him morosely. ‘Not anymore, though. They’re in college, and when they come home, they stay with their mother.’
‘You’re divorced,’ Gwyn said softly. ‘When?’
Another salute. ‘You’re smart,’ he said with undisguised admiration. His eyes dropped to her breasts again, then jerked back up to her face when Thorne growled. ‘My wife left me right after his trial.’ He pointed at Thorne. ‘I’d started drinking. Partly because I was so damn scared that truck would come after me or my kids. Partly because I knew I’d stayed silent to save my own skin and I was ashamed. So, now you know it all. I won’t share this again. With anyone.’
‘Got it,’ Gwyn murmured. ‘Okay. Thank you for your honesty. You take care of yourself, okay?’
He nodded, but didn’t move from the recliner. ‘You can show yourselves out.’
Gwyn rose and left, Thorne close behind her. ‘That was enlightening,’ he murmured when they were back in the hall, headed for the stairs.
‘Yeah. I’m thinking we’re not going to find his old partner. If he’s still alive, he’s reinvented himself as someone new.’
‘I agree. You were good in there. Thank you.’
She smiled up at him. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the van so you can stop looking around for ninja assassins.’
Because he was, his eyes constantly circling, checking the corners for anyone lurking. ‘Fine,’ he grunted. ‘And for the record, I really don’t like assholes like him checking you out like that.’
Surprised, she could only stare up at him as they made their way down the stairs to the lobby. ‘I . . . I wasn’t provoking him.’
He shot her a startled glance. ‘I know that. Did I say that?’
‘No.’
‘I never even implied it, and if I did, I’m sorry. I just meant that I don’t like it. It’s disrespectful.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘And I wanted to rip him apart for making you feel afraid.’
‘I wasn’t afraid.’
He glanced down. ‘No?’
She smiled up. ‘No. I knew you were there.’
The taut line of his jaw seemed to relax. ‘Good,’ he said as they exited the apartment building. The sun was bright and Gwyn stopped abruptly, dropping her head to keep the glare from her eyes while she searched her handbag for her sunglasses.
Then it all seemed to blur. Glass shattered and she was suddenly being launched to the grassy area to the left of the sidewalk. She coughed when Thorne landed on top of her, nearly suffocating because her face was buried in the grass. She struggled, her protests coming out as muffled noise.
The weight pressing her into the ground receded as Thorne braced his body on his forearms. ‘Stay down,’ he barked. ‘Somebody just shot at us. At you.’
What the fuck? Her breath was coming faster, warm against her face because the pocket of air was so small. Thorne. He was vulnerable, all six and a half feet of him. She wanted to throw him off her, to drag him to safety, but she couldn’t move and he wouldn’t budge.
Behind them, a vehicle gunned its engine and approached. How? They were at least fifty feet from the parking lot. It came to a screeching stop on the sidewalk, and suddenly Thorne’s weight was gone, and Gwyn was scooped up in strong arms and all but thrown through the open side door of Jamie’s van. She landed on the floor between the front and middle seats, pain streaking up her back.
‘Hurry!’ Jamie barked.
Thorne climbed in behind her and the van sped away before he could even close the door. It shut automatically and she could see a white-faced Phil looking around wildly, his cell phone in his hand. He’d called 911 and was on the line with the operator now.
Jamie threw the van into reverse, drove across the grass to the parking lot, and took off with a squeal of tires. ‘Stay down. All of you.’
‘Where are you going?’ Phil demanded.
‘I have no fucking clue,’ Jamie snarled, then ground his teeth and grabbed his partner’s hand, quieting his voice. ‘Yeah, I do. To the hospital. I’m getting everyone checked out. No arguments.’
‘All right,’ Phil said calmly. He spoke into the phone. ‘We’re going to the closest hospital . . . No, I don’t think it’s smart for us to stay put.’ He glanced back at Thorne. ‘You can send your officers to the address I just gave you. We’ll be at the hospital if they wish to interview us.’ He gave the operator his phone number, then disconnected. ‘I’m all right, Jamie,’ he said quietly.
Jamie’s nod was frantic. ‘Let’s make sure, okay?’
Gwyn stared at Thorne’s pale face. ‘What the fuck just happened?’
‘You were almost shot in the head,’ he whispered. ‘If you hadn’t stopped to look in your bag . . .’
‘For my sunglasses,’ she murmured, still feeling numb. ‘My bag’s back there somewhere. My ID is in it. I’ll need it back.’
‘We’ll have the cops pick it up. We’re not going back there.’ Thorne was already punching a number into his phone. ‘JD? It’s Thorne. We have a situation.’