I smiled darkly. “I looked directly into her eyes, Sam. I understand more than you know.”
Sam laid his hands on his knees and inched forward on the couch. “That it?”
I nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
“Do you have the flash drive on you?”
“It’s in my pocket.”
“Great. Walk me to the door, please?”
“Of course,” I said.
I walked Sam to the door, which had a clear glass insert around a wood frame, so that we were in full view of anyone on the street. He turned and stuck out his hand to me.
“Thank you for doing this, Ms. Cooper.”
I took his hand and slipped the flash drive into his palm. “Please, Sam, let’s not be so formal. Call me Catherine.”
Sam smiled, dipped his chin, pocketed the flash drive, and was gone.
Chapter 5
“Cat?” Gilley said, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Hmm, what now?” I said, trying to cover for the fact that I’d been lost in thought.
Gilley eyed me curiously. “You okay, sugar?”
“Fine!” I said, a bit too forcefully. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’ve asked you three times now if you talked to Willem today.”
I shook my head, trying to clear out all the other thoughts clouding my brain. “No. I got his voice mail and left him a message. I haven’t heard back.”
“Ah,” Gil said, still studying me. “So, how about you tell me what’s really going on with you?”
“Going on? Nothing’s going on, honey. Everything’s fine.”
“Cat, you’ve been lost in thought ever since you got home and, incredibly sumptuous as this dinner is, it can’t make up for stilted conversation and you moving your fork around your plate like you’re trying to figure out the best strategy for herding cats.”
I smiled. “You made dinner.”
“Yes, which is why it’s so delicious and should be given the proper attention it deserves.”
To humor him I took a bite of the lemon chicken he’d prepared. “Mmmmm!” I said. “Yummy.”
He rolled his eyes and set aside his own fork. “Come on, Cat. What gives?”
I sighed and put down my utensil as well. “It’s this thing that I heard today about Greta,” I confessed before I realized what I’d actually let slip out.
“Greta? You mean you heard something about the Angel of Death?”
“Yes.” My mind was racing to think of a plausible explanation for where I’d heard it.
“From who?”
“Maks,” I said, settling on a name.
Gilley shivered. “I still can’t believe they had dinner together only a few hours after she tried to murder you. It takes a special kind of cold-blooded killer to act so casually mere hours after shooting up a place.”
“See, that’s just it. There was something he said about Greta’s mental state that’s been bugging me.”
“What’d he say?”
“Well, as only you and I know, Maks had met Greta before—”
“Yeah. She did business with someone he did business with, right?”
“Right.”
Gilley’s expression turned suddenly troubled. “You don’t think Maks is working for . . . for . . .”
“The mafia?”
Gilley nodded.
I waved my hand dismissively, hoping to throw him off track. “Not directly, but he knows a great deal about their organization.”
“Hmmm,” Gilley said suspiciously. “Maybe you should be careful around him. I mean, if he knows so much, he could become a target, right?”
“Maks is careful,” I said. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“And you’re sure he’s running a legitimate business?”
“Quite sure,” I said. That part at least was true.
“Okay, then. What did he have to say about Greta?”
“Well, I was asking him if, through his connections, he knew anything about the Lenny Shepherd murder.”
“Did he?”
“No. But he did say something about it that gave me pause.”
“The suspense here is killing me; would you spit it out already?”
“Yes, of course, sorry. I was asking him if it was possible that Greta had murdered Lenny for the thrill of it. Like, maybe she got bored and felt like killing a random stranger, and Maks said that he didn’t think that fit her persona. He said that Greta was psychotic, not crazy.”
“Huh,” Gilley grunted. “That’s telling.”
“It is, but I’d like to hear what you think it tells.”
“Well, it’s obvious, right? Lenny must’ve been a hit. Someone paid to have her killed.”
“Yes, that’s what I concluded too.”
“Did Maks know if Lenny had any connection to . . .” Gilley put a finger on the side of his nose and pushed on it.
“The mob? No. He says that as far as he knows, she didn’t.”
“Well, there has to be some connection, otherwise, why would Greta kill her?”
And just like that, I understood Shepherd’s obsession with the case, other than the obvious, of course, that Lenny was his ex-wife and a part of him still cared for her even if the divorce had been sticky. He had to know that being murdered by the Angel of Death would definitely mark you as someone connected to the mafia, and that had to be eating away at him, especially as she didn’t appear to actually be connected.
“So who paid Greta for the hit?” I asked aloud.
“Yeah. That’s the real question. As much as Shepherd wants to find Greta and bring her to justice, the real person behind Lenny’s murder could still get away with it even if Greta was caught because we both know she’d probably refuse to talk.”
“She would definitely refuse to talk,” I agreed. “We need to know more about Lenny Shepherd and who she dealt with.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Gilley said, putting up his hand in a stopping motion. “What do you mean, we need to learn more about who she dealt with?”
I set my napkin on the table and looked at Gilley intently. “I think we should dig around a little.”
Gilley’s jaw dropped. “Why would we want to do that?”
Because I was feeling guilty about lying to Shepherd, who was clearly torturing himself with this obsession to solve his ex-wife’s murder. And because I was sitting on all this information that could help his case, and perhaps bring him a bit of release, but I wasn’t at liberty to tell him any of it. And, if I was being honest (and I was), also because the thought of solving another mystery was somewhat thrilling to me.
Of course I couldn’t say any of that to Gilley, so I went with, “Because I think we can help, Gilley. Shepherd’s too close to this to be able to really look at it objectively. But you and I could root around a little and maybe come up with a theory that might help him track down the person who paid Greta to murder Lenny.”
Gilley crossed his arms and raised one skeptical eyebrow while he looked at me. “You liked playing amateur sleuth in the Heather Holland murder case, didn’t you?” he said.
I blushed and got up to pace the floor. “I did a little.”
“More than just a little.”
“Okay, okay. You got me. I found it thrilling. Way more thrilling than sitting around my office, thinking up e-mail marketing content.”
“I thought you really liked being a life coach.”
“I do!” I said quickly. “I honestly, honestly do. But even with that new purpose . . . I don’t know. I feel like something’s still missing.”
Gilley shook his head, staring at his lap before lifting his chin again to me, wearing a disapproving frown. I braced for the lecture that was sure to follow.
Instead, his face transformed into a gleeful smile and he shouted, “I love that idea!”
I blinked. “You do?”
“Hell yeah!” he said, reaching forward to offer me a high five. I slapped his hand. “Girlfriend, I’ve been so bored. I m
ean, I love being your assistant and all, but I miss the days when M.J., Heath, and I used to do the whole gumshoe thing!”
“I thought you couldn’t wait to retire from ghostbusting?”
“That gig I couldn’t wait to give up for sure. Spooks are freaky! Especially the ones we dealt with, but this . . . this whole solving real crimes that don’t involve some demon or grounded spirit is like, huzzah! I’ve found my calling!” I laughed as Gilley flashed me some jazz hands.
“You’re crazy,” I said, pushing on his shoulder.
“No crazier than you.”
“Thank God we’re not psychotic,” I said with a wink, and we both laughed. I sobered first. “Are you sure though, Gilley? I mean, this could be dangerous.”
“That’s part of the thrill though, right?”
I nodded. “It is. At least for me.”
“I’m in, Cat. Let’s do this!”
I nodded again. “Okay!”
And then Gilley and I just stared at each other for a minute, and as the excitement wore off, things felt awkward.
“So, ah, where do we start?” I asked.
Gilley shrugged. “Not sure. Where do you think we should start?”
“Well,” I said, tapping my lip. “I think we should start . . . with a plan!” I felt so relieved to have struck on the idea.
“Perfect!” Gilley said, getting up while grabbing both of our plates and hustling them to the sink. He then retrieved his laptop and came back to the table.
“Okay, so step one,” I said as Gilley opened his laptop and began to type. “Step one is . . .” I tapped some more on my lip, waiting for inspiration to hit me again.
After a looooong pause, Gilley said, “How about instead of step one, two, three, et cetera, we focus on the ways we can get information and work our way backward into the plan?”
“I love that. Yes. Let’s do that. So, how can we get information about Lenny?”
“We’ll start with her known associates,” Gilley said.
“Who are?”
“Well, Shepherd for one,” he said as he typed.
“Yeah, but we can’t ask Shepherd.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll know we’re digging into his case on our own and then he’ll want to shut that right down, and, well . . . because he’s mad at me.”
Gilley eyed me with sympathy. “The Maks thing, huh?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll get over it,” Gilley said, waving his hand dismissively. “But I get it. We won’t ask Shepherd. Who else would know about Lenny, though?”
We both thought on that for a moment, and then we turned to each other and at the same time shouted, “Sunny!”
Sunny was Steve’s sister, and the total opposite in personality. She was as bright and warm as her name, and I genuinely found her delightful.
“Wait,” I said, thinking of an issue almost immediately. “What if she tells her brother that we’re snooping around in Lenny’s business?”
“We’ll ask her not to say anything,” Gilley said easily.
“Do you think she’ll actually do that?”
Gil shrugged. “She might. I mean, she didn’t share with him anything about our snooping around into Heather Holland’s background way back when.”
“But that was different. Heather wasn’t family. Lenny was.”
“All we can do is ask, Cat, and let the chips fall where they may.”
“Good point. Okay. So we start with Sunny. Who’s next?”
“I have no idea, so maybe our plan should just be to talk to Sunny and see what shakes out?”
“Good,” I said. “I like that. When?”
Gilley eyed the clock. “It’s only seven o’clock and Sunny’s husband’s still on the road, right?”
“He is, that jerk.” Sunny was about thirty-eight weeks along in her pregnancy and her record producer husband had been away for most of that time. It made me angry because I remember how anxious and worried I’d been when I was near the end of my pregnancy with the twins. It’d been a torturous time and even though Tom had turned out to be a lying, cheating jerk at the end of our marriage, he’d been an absolute prince to me back when I was pregnant and for several years afterward when the twins were little.
“Maybe going to see her would make her feel less lonely,” Gilley suggested. He then pointed to a delicious-smelling cherry coffee cake he’d pulled out of the oven right before I’d arrived. “We could take that over as a gift for disturbing her.”
“You didn’t want to save that for breakfast?”
“I can bake another one tomorrow,” he said easily. “I still have leftover ingredients.”
“Let’s do it,” I said, with a clap of my hands.
Gilley and I hurried through cleaning up the dinner dishes before we scurried out of Chez Kitty. Before leaving the guesthouse, Gil had found a red bit of ribbon that he wrapped around the coffee cake to make it look more festive.
We rolled down Sunny’s driveway not even three minutes later—she lives just two streets over from Chez Cat—and sat in the car for a moment after I parked. “What’s our story?” Gilley asked as we looked out the window at the warmly lit, blue colonial with bright white trim.
My eyes widened. I hadn’t even thought about what we’d say to Sunny for dropping in unannounced. “Maybe we should just start with the truth,” I said.
“Which is?”
“We’re digging into Lenny’s murder.”
“Should we say why?”
“Hmmm,” I said, thinking.
“Uh oh,” Gilley said, looking over my shoulder.
I stiffened. “What’s uh oh?”
“Sunny just peeked out of the curtains. She knows someone’s in her driveway.”
“Rats. Okay, I’ll have to think of something on the fly. Let’s go in before we alarm her.”
We got out of the car and approached the house. As we came up to the steps the front door opened and there stood Sunny. Beyond her enlarged belly, Shepherd’s twin sister was tall, thin, and Hollywood beautiful. She had lightly bronzed golden skin, very long blond hair, and a radiant smile she beamed at us. “Catherine! Gilley! How great to see you!”
“Hi, Sunny!” I said, coming up the stairs quickly.
Gilley also made his way up hastily and immediately offered her the coffee cake. “We brought goodies.”
Sunny clapped her hands happily. “Ohmigod! You two are not going to believe this, but about ten minutes ago I started craving coffee cake!”
“Do tell,” Gilley said, clearly pleased as we followed her through the door and inside her lovely home.
“It’s true,” she said, waving her hand for us to continue following her to the kitchen. “I wouldn’t believe it myself except that I’ve always been a little bit psychic.”
Gilley and I traded conspiratorial smiles. “Yeah, we’ve also got one of those in my family,” I said.
“Mine too,” Gilley added, winking at me.
Sunny set the coffee cake on the large marble island in the center of her kitchen and reached for the teakettle. “They say there’s one in every family,” she said.
I took a seat on one of the bar stools set along the island and Gilley sat next to me. “I believe that,” I told her.
“Tea?” she asked us.
“Please,” we both said.
Sunny puttered around in the kitchen fetching cups, saucers, cream, and sugar while the water heated. “So what do I owe the pleasure of this lovely little drop-in?” she asked. “Is my brother being a jackass again?”
I chuckled. “No. Well, maybe a little.”
Sunny paused. “Need me to deck him for you? I will, you know.”
Gilley and I both laughed at how serious she seemed, and of course the picture of a profoundly pregnant twig like Sunny throwing a solid punch at her much bigger, more muscled brother was somewhat hilarious to think about too.
Still, to quell her fighting spirit, I put up my hand and said, “No
need. It’s under control.”
Sunny pointed at me. “All right, but you let me know if he’s due to have a can of whoop-ass opened up in his face, you hear?”
“Noted,” I said, stifling another giggle. “We are here in part about him, though.”
Sunny waddled her feet back two steps, bent awkwardly, and put her elbows on the island before resting her face in her open palms and rocking her hips slightly from side to side. “What’s up?”
I smiled a bit at her posture. My back had ached something terrible when I was that pregnant, and I knew that she was trying to find a little relief in any position she could dream up. “I came across some information about Greta,” I said.
Sunny’s brow lifted and the teakettle began to whistle. She moved to pour the boiling water into the teapot and set a timer on her Apple watch, then focused again on me. “You heard something about the Angel of Death?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“It was something someone said—”
“Who?” she asked.
“Someone who’s familiar with Greta,” I said vaguely.
“Who?” Sunny pressed.
I looked at Gilley and he shrugged as if to say, You might as well tell her.
I took a deep breath and started in on my lie. “There’s a man I’m acquainted with who has met Greta, but didn’t know until after learning that your brother was shot that she was actually an assassin. After doing a little digging on his own, he said that Greta never killed for pleasure. She killed for a paycheck or out of revenge.”
Gilley nodded. “Yeah, we saw that firsthand. Oh, and she’ll also kill to cover her tracks. Remember the priest?”
“Yes,” I said. “But that brings me to my larger point—that Greta is definitely psychotic, but maybe not serial-killer crazy. There seems to always be a reason for her taking someone else’s life.”
Sunny’s watch beeped and she jerked at the sound. “Ha!” she said, catching herself. “That scared me. Of course, any discussion about the Angel of Death freaks me out, you know.”
“I can only imagine,” I said.
Sunny began to pour tea into three cups, and she scooted two toward us when she was done pouring. Then she moved over to the coffee cake and lifted the plastic wrap to take a whiff. “This smells amazing.”
To Coach a Killer Page 8