No One Left to Tell

by Karen Rose

“Why do you think he attacked you?” Bashears asked kindly. Grayson hoped that he and Morton had planned the good cop/bad cop routine. If they hadn’t, Morton was a real bitch. Of course she’d nearly lost her old partner, for which she blamed Maynard. And by association, Paige. Grayson decided to cut Morton some slack.

  “I don’t know why,” Paige said, and he watched her visibly relax. She seemed to be good at calming herself. Being shot last summer had apparently given her lots of practice.

  “Did he say anything when he grabbed you?” Bashears asked.

  “No, not a word. He wore gloves, so I doubt you’ll get prints off the knife.” Paige bit at her lip, considering. “He was a trained fighter, though.”

  “How do you know that?” Bashears asked, surprised.

  “He didn’t anticipate my first move. I surprised him enough to avoid getting my throat slit in the first five seconds. But after that, it was like kicking an iron post. I wasn’t going to get away.” She swallowed. “His knife was inches from my gut and he had a good hold on it.”

  “But you kicked it away,” Bashears said. “It landed under your truck.”

  “Only because Mr. Smith stunned him. If he hadn’t…” A genuine shudder shook her and Grayson ran his hand halfway up her back and down, to soothe.

  Maynard noted the touch and frowned. Grayson ignored him, keeping his eyes on Morton, who watched him like a hawk. He wasn’t buying that Morton was a dirty cop. But she was a pain in the ass. She’d taken bad-cop too far.

  “Which brings us to you, Mr. Smith,” Morton said, her temper restrained, but still evident. “What were you doing there, in the garage with Miss Holden?”

  “Right place, right time.” Which was not untrue, he told himself. “Maybe it was karma. Miss Holden provided assistance to the gunshot victim this morning and I was able to provide assistance this afternoon.”

  “Had you met each other before the incident in the garage?” Morton asked.

  “No. I saw her on TV, so I knew who she was as soon as I saw her in person.”

  Morton appeared unconvinced. “You’d have us believe that you were attacked at random, Miss Holden? That it had nothing to do with your Good Samaritan actions this morning or your relationship to Elena Muñoz?”

  “I never said they were unconnected, Detective,” Paige said, her patience strained. “My face is all over the goddamn Internet. People know exactly where I live, thanks to reporters and people making videos. Crazies are bound to come out of the woodwork.”

  Morton smiled. “You said he was a trained fighter. Not a crazy.”

  “I did, because he knew how to fight. Doesn’t mean he was sane. Or rational. People find out you’re a black belt and they want to prove themselves against you.”

  “That’s happened before?” Bashears asked, not unkindly.

  Paige clenched her jaw. “Yes. You know it has. I know you’ve looked me up. And if you haven’t, you’re not doing your damn job.”

  Seems like everyone knows her story except me. Grayson was opening his mouth to speak when his cell phone began to buzz in his pocket. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured, then stepped aside to take the call just as Bashears did the same.

  Maynard took Paige’s arm and led her to a bench, positioning himself between her and Morton, silently daring the detective to say another word.

  “This is Smith,” Grayson said, not looking away from Paige to check the caller ID. Only family and a few friends and coworkers had this number.

  “It’s Stevie.” And she sounded worried. “J.D. and I were the only ones not on the sniper, so we got sent out on a fresh one. Vic’s name is Denny Sandoval. He owns a bar in a Latino neighborhood. He was found hanging in his bedroom.”

  Grayson felt a shiver slide down his spine. He’d seen that name this morning while combing through the Muñoz file. Sandoval owned the bar that Ramon had given as his alibi, but had sworn under oath that Ramon had not been there.

  The bar owner lied, Paige had said.

  Grayson cleared his throat. “Why are you telling me about a suicide?”

  “Because he left a confession note,” Stevie said. “He says he killed Elena Muñoz because she’d cheated on him and he’d attacked her in a rage. He says he shot her when she slowed down for a traffic light. He says he got scared and finished her off with his rifle. He couldn’t live with what he’d done, so he hanged himself.”

  Elena had alleged new evidence and one of the most damning witnesses for the prosecution had confessed to her murder.

  And now that witness was dead. “Did you find the weapons?” he asked.

  “Not all. We found a .22 under the seat of his car, same caliber as the torso shots on Elena. The pistol’s on its way to Ballistics. No sign of the rifle. You asked me about Elena this morning. You never ask unless it’s important. I thought you needed to know.”

  You have no idea. “Are you working this case?”

  “We’re handing it off to Bashears and Morton. It closes their case. The brass are so damn relieved it’s a murder-suicide and not a serial sniper that they’re all rushing to do a news conference.”

  Grayson looked over at Bashears, who was intent in his own phone conversation. Presumably being told the same news. “When did the victim die?”

  Stevie hesitated. “Why, Grayson?”

  “I need to know.”

  “ME estimates time of death at between eleven thirty and one. The guy’s still warm.”

  Not a lot of time to attack Paige and get back to his bar, but just possible on the tail end of the time frame. “How tall was he?”

  “Five ten. Grayson?”

  Definitely not Paige’s attacker. “Is CSU there?”

  “Should they be?” she countered.

  Hell, yeah. “Yes. I have to go.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me,” she snapped. “What the hell is this?”

  “I’ll tell you when I can,” he said. “I’m not where I can right now. I’ll call you soon.” He hung up in time to hear Bashears tell Morton that they had to leave.

  Morton gave them all a severe look. “You know there are no coincidences. Miss Holden knows something. I just hope it doesn’t get her killed next time.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” Paige said politely.

  Bashears gave her his card. “If you have any questions or remember anything that might be useful.” And with that, Bashears and Morton were gone.

  “What was your phone call?” Maynard asked. He’d been watching, his eyes sharp.

  Grayson debated, then shrugged. “Denny Sandoval is dead.”

  Paige sucked in a stunned breath. “Oh my God. How?”

  “Suicide. He hung himself.”

  She turned her body so that she was looking at Maynard. “He’s the bar owner.”

  Maynard appeared to be considering. “Interesting.”

  No, Grayson thought. Not interesting. Bad, very bad.

  Could it be true? Could Muñoz have been innocent? If he was, that weapon had to have been planted. Who could have done it? The cops, as Paige thought?

  Ramon Muñoz might have been innocent. What have I done?

  Nothing. You didn’t convict him, he told himself. A jury of his peers did. Based on the evidence available. Which might be false. Oh God. What have I done?

  Don’t assume. See the new evidence. Then figure out what to do.

  “Ramon’s alibi-buster is dead,” Grayson said quietly. “Ramon’s wife is dead, Paige gets attacked, all in the same day. We really need to talk.”

  Tuesday, April 5, 2:25 p.m.

  Stevie hung up and walked back to J.D., who stood next to the CSU van they’d requested as soon as they’d walked onto the scene.

  “We were right, weren’t we?” J.D. murmured.

  “I think so,” Stevie said. The brass was racing to calm the public, but something hadn’t felt right. Years of experience in Homicide had Stevie trusting her gut.

  “It’s too perfect,” J.D. went on.

&n
bsp; He was right. The bar had been trashed, bottles strewn, the register emptied, while the victim’s body swung from the rafters in an upstairs apartment. But the most expensive liquor had been smashed and wasted, not stolen.

  “The liquor alone was worth thousands of bucks,” Stevie agreed. “Any self-respecting punk would have taken it, not trashed it.”

  “Still, it’s not a random sniper,” J.D. said. “We can all breathe a little easier over that.”

  “Everybody but Elena Muñoz and Denny Sandoval.”

  Five

  Tuesday, April 5, 2:25 p.m.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Grayson said, staring at the VW Beetle while Clay unlocked the doors. “We’ll be in traction if all three of us squeeze into that thing.”

  “It’s my assistant’s car,” Clay said. “Mine was compromised.”

  “Tracking devices,” Paige said. The overabundance of testosterone raging between the two men was getting on her nerves. “We think reporters hid them under our cars.”

  “So that’s what you were looking for,” Grayson said. “When you were up under your truck in the parking garage. Tracking devices.”

  “Yeah. I’d just found one when the guy attacked.”

  Clay’s mouth tightened as he studied the bandage on her throat. “You were lucky.”

  “I know,” Paige said.

  “Not entirely luck,” Grayson said. “You fought back. Pretty amazingly, too.”

  “I’ll say.” A voice from behind had the three of them whipping around to stare. Then glare. It was Phin Radcliffe and he had a microphone in his hand. There was a cameraman with him and the little light on the camera was blinking red.

  So was Paige’s anger. “You put me on TV, without my permission.”

  “I didn’t need permission. The sidewalk and street are public property. As was the parking garage where you narrowly escaped death today at the hand of an attacker with a knife. Can you tell us what happened?”

  His tone had changed as he’d uttered “parking garage,” going from coolly rational to booming catch-this-at-eleven. He’s going to put me on TV again, the bastard. No way.

  Paige took a step forward, but Grayson held her back. “Careful,” he murmured.

  She drew a breath, knowing that Grayson was right. “No comment,” she said.

  “We’re running this story, Miss Holden. We’d like to have your side of it.”

  “My side?” She pursed her lips when Grayson squeezed her arm. “No comment.”

  Grayson helped her into the front seat. “I hope your day improves, Miss Holden.” His back to Radcliffe’s camera, he gave her a hard look when she opened her mouth in surprise. “Later,” he mouthed and she understood what he wanted her to do.

  “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

  He shook her hand professionally. “I was happy I could help.” He wrote something on the back of one of his business cards and handed it to Clay. “My direct line. Don’t hesitate to call if the police need any additional information from me for their report.”

  “Thanks,” Clay said. “We appreciate it. Can we give you a lift?”

  “No. Like I said, I’d be in traction. But thanks for the offer. I’ll get a cab.”

  “Mr. Smith,” Radcliffe pressed, still smiling, “you became the Good Samaritan for our Good Samaritan when you saved Paige’s life. How does that make you feel?”

  “I was just in the right place at the right time,” Grayson said. “Anyone would have done the same.” He turned then and hailed a cab.

  Clay drove away. When they’d turned the corner, he handed the card to Paige. On the back was an address. “Smith wants us to meet him at this address.”

  “Upscale,” she murmured. “Is this his home?”

  “No. He has a town house in Fell’s Point.”

  “Also upscale. Difficult on a prosecutor’s salary. What else did you find out?”

  “Not a lot,” he admitted. “He was engaged once. The announcement was in the paper, but there was never a wedding announcement and no license on file.”

  “Society girl? The engagement, I mean.”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Because he held my hand and stroked my hair. “I’m thinking about his finances, which I should have done before jumping into my look-into-his-eyes plan. If he’s living this far above his means, he could be on the take.”

  But even as she said the words, she knew, knew they weren’t true.

  “You don’t think so, though,” Clay said.

  “No. I have no reason to believe this and I’ve been wrong about men before.” More times than she wanted to think about.

  “But you trust him. Sometimes following your gut isn’t bad,” Clay said. “Besides, to get into his finances deep enough to really know how he gets and spends his money would have taken a long time. Longer than we have. What I want to know is why he was there in the garage, in the nick of time. I’m glad he was, but what was he doing there?”

  “He was following me.”

  Clay rolled his eyes. “I never would have guessed. Why was he following you?”

  “He saw me in the courtroom and recognized me from the video, but he didn’t know who I was.” And now she remembered what had nagged her in the ER. “He whispered.”

  “What? What does that mean?”

  “When we were in the garage, he saw that my cell was a disposable. He asked me what I did for a living. I told him, and then he whispered in my ear. Asked me if I was working for Elena. How would he know Elena wanted a PI?”

  “Good question. And why did he whisper?”

  “Maybe because he was expecting me to answer exactly as I did.”

  “Which was how?”

  “I told him yes, I was working for Elena. Then he asked me in what capacity.” She sighed. “And I told him.”

  Clay frowned. “Told him what, exactly?”

  “That Elena had uncovered evidence. That it was credible. That I didn’t tell the cops and didn’t plan to because Elena said they did it.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  She bit her lip. “I think he believed I wasn’t lying. He didn’t believe the cops were involved and still doesn’t. But he said he understood how I could believe it. I don’t think he really accepted that there was credible new evidence until he got that call.”

  “About Denny Sandoval. I was watching his face. Smith looked stunned.”

  “I know. That’s just too much coincidence, even for him.”

  “Did you tell him what Elena found?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you give him the file?”

  “I have to,” she said slowly. “Because Denny Sandoval’s dead, too.”

  “Smith said that he hung himself.”

  “If he thought Elena had evidence that could send him to jail, he might have killed himself. Although he didn’t strike me as the type. Besides, Elena said the cops were chasing her. Denny Sandoval was no cop. That still leaves cops in the mix. And the guy that attacked me. Can’t forget about him.”

  “Trust me, I haven’t. What do you mean, he didn’t strike you as the type? You’ve met Sandoval?”

  “Weeks ago, when I agreed to take the case, I went to his bar. Really sleazy guy. Elena had to have been desperate to let him touch her.” She thought about Ramon in the prison infirmary. Probably the safest place for him right now. “I need to talk to Ramon. I’ll see Maria first, though. Even Morton couldn’t fault me for paying my respects. Where did they take her?”

  “Saint Agnes, but…” Clay’s mouth tightened and Paige’s heart lurched.

  “No,” she whispered, fearing the worst.

  Clay blew out a harsh sigh. “I’m sorry. I really am. That’s why it took me so long to get to you. I was leaving when I saw a doctor pull Maria’s son aside. The poor kid nearly fainted. I stayed. I called the ER you were in to check on you. They said you had arrived and were stable. So I stayed with Rafe until the rest of his
family got there.”

  “She’s gone? Maria’s gone?”

  “Yes. She’d already had two heart attacks. One when Ramon had the fight in jail and the second when the cops delivered the news about Elena. The third killed her.”

  “Oh God.” Hot tears burned her eyes. “This just keeps getting worse.”

  “I know. I didn’t know how to tell you. What can I do for you?”

  Paige wiped her eyes with her fingertips, then dragged her hands down her face. Be angry. Be furious. She thought better when she was angry than when she was crying. “Drive me to the parking garage. If CSU is done with my truck, I’m taking it.”

  “Should you even be driving?”

  “I haven’t taken any painkillers.” And it hurt. A lot. But getting shot last summer had forced her to learn to deal with pain. “If that guy with the knife comes at me again, I don’t want to be too groggy to fight back. Which is why I want my truck. My guns are locked in a safe under the backseat of my cab. I couldn’t go armed into the courthouse.” She touched her throat gingerly. “If he comes back, I don’t want to be unarmed.”

  Clay grimaced. “Do you have your concealed-carry permit on you? Morton’ll have a field day with you if she catches you without it.”

  “Never leave home without it.” It’d been damn hard to get a concealed-weapon permit in Maryland. No way was she chancing getting caught with a gun without it.

  “Good. Where are Elena’s files?”

  “I got nervous after you left and took the original flash drive and put it in my bank safe-deposit box on my way into town. I made a copy on another flash drive that’s still locked in my safe at home. And I printed copies and mailed them to my old attorney in Minneapolis just in case something happens to me.”

  “Let’s not even go there,” he said. “Still, it was good thinking.”

  “I try.”

  Tuesday, April 5, 3:00 p.m.

  “Come in, Adele, come in.”

  Adele Shaffer walked into the office, its scent familiar and surprisingly welcome. She’d hoped to never come back here. She hoped never to tell Darren she’d been here today.

  Dr. Theopolis waited until she’d chosen a chair before sitting down. A gentleman. He’d always been that way. Maybe the first true gentleman she’d ever known.