By unspoken agreement, they hadn’t talked about the Knitter or Dutch or anything related to Prachi’s death during dinner. He imagined she’d been bursting with questions. Unfortunately, he had no good answers.
“Harold’s in the wind,” he told her.
“Hiding?”
“Either hiding, dead, or drunk somewhere. Nobody at his apartment complex has seen him. The ex-wife gave us a list of bars to try. The police will check them tonight, but for now, he’s unreachable.”
“You don’t really think he’s dead, do you?”
He grimaced, wishing he hadn’t raised the specter of another death, but, having done so, he had to see it through. “We’d be foolish not to consider it as a possibility. I suspect he’s not. And I really hope they smoke him out fast because Officer Minet was told there’s no protective detail for you without some direct connection between Prachi Agarwal’s death and Steve Harold. We need him to identify the Knitter.”
She nodded grimly and resumed loading the dishwasher. He tried to keep his focus on the leftovers he was ladling into a storage container and loading into the refrigerator. She was arranging the dirty dishes all wrong. He knew he should wait until she left the room and try to quietly reorganize them as he usually did. For some reason, tonight he just couldn’t ignore it.
He joined her at the sink. “Hey, you know, if you put all the silverware in the basket facing the same way sometimes it doesn’t get completely clean. But, if you alternate forks and spoons and put some of them upside down, they won’t stick together.”
She turned her head slowly to pierce him with a look. “Did you just critique my dishwasher loading?”
His tone had been mild—jovial, even. Hers was … not. He took a closer look at the dark half-circles under her eyes and forgot about her lousy dishwasher-Jenga skills. He rubbed her shoulder. “Why don’t you hit the sack? I’ll finish up here.”
She smiled up at him. “I didn’t mean to rip your head off—even if you are a bit of a freak about things. I’m just …”
“Tired?” he supplied helpfully.
“Agitated. I had a crappy day. We’ve got the hearing tomorrow afternoon, which we’re scrambling to get ready for. We need to focus. But while I was in my class, I got an email from Naya. Our client agreed to meet with the CEO of Playtime Toys in the morning.”
“What’s the point?”
“I assume it’s a last-ditch effort to work something out before the hearing. It’s futile, but this deal means a lot to Naya. So, we’re going to leave Will to handle all the last-minute hearing prep, and she and I will waste a morning at Recreation Group’s office hearing what Playtime Toys has to say.” She rolled her eyes.
“Could it be a deliberate attempt to prevent you from presenting your best case at the hearing? You know, spread you thin?”
“Could be. But their lawyers should be there, too, so it’ll hurt them just as much. I doubt it’s malicious, it’s just stupid. And, then to cap off my lousy day, some weirdo followed me from the probation office.”
The community probation office, designed to provide a convenient location for services for people on probation, was not in the best section of the neighborhood. He frowned. “Panhandler? Pervert? What kind of weirdo?”
“Neither. This guy stuck out because he was clean, well-dressed, affluent looking. I feel like I’ve seen him around before. But he gave off a definite sketchy vibe. That’s actually why I stopped at the grocery store—to shake him.”
He stared at her for a long moment.
“What?”
He stared some more.
“I did lose him, though. Don’t worry.”
He shook his head but continued to look at her stone-faced, waiting for her to catch on. He knew the exact second she did because she went wide-eyed and pale.
“You think it was the Knitter?”
“Or somebody working for him.”
She usually wasn’t this clueless—in fact, she usually wasn’t clueless at all. He wondered just how much strain the bar fight and its consequences had caused her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a copy of the police artist’s sketch. He unfolded it and smoothed the sheet flat on the kitchen island.
“Did he look like this guy?”
She leaned in front of him and studied the drawing. “That’s him,” she said almost instantly and with conviction.
It was good enough for Leo. His wife had a frighteningly accurate memory. He nodded. “I’ll call Minet.” He moved toward the doorway.
“Wait.” Sasha plucked at his sleeve.
“What?”
“Two things. One, I have seen him before.”
“Where?”
“In Jake’s, the day I got in the bar fight. He was there when I called Maisy.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. He was a little too attentive to me, watching me. I thought he was just a creep.”
“What’s the second thing?”
“Tell Officer Minet there’s probably security camera footage at Trader Joe’s.”
He crossed the room and kissed her. “You’re brilliant.”
When he lifted his head, he looked through the kitchen window. He swore he caught a flash of color and motion just outside the gate. He squinted and waited. Maybe it was just his eyes playing tricks. Then Mocha trotted to the backdoor and let out an urgent whine.
“What’s the matter, boy? Do you need to go outside?” Sasha asked the dog.
Leo squeezed her shoulders. “Check the locks then go upstairs to the kids’ room.”
“Connelly—”
“There’s someone in the alley. Go.”
She ran to the door and rattled the knob to make sure it was locked. Then she raced to the front of the house to check the front door. He bolted up the stairs to unlock his gun safe.
Sasha picked Finn’s sock monkey up from the floor beside his bed and tucked it under his arm. He moaned, tightened his grip around Monkey, and sighed in his sleep. She smoothed Fiona’s sweaty curls away from her forehead. Fiona didn’t stir.
She stood watching them for a moment, and then she went to the window and tried to pull it up. Locked. She pressed her head against the pane and stared down into the backyard. Connelly must have turned on the spotlights. The toys and bikes scattered across the yard were transformed into vaguely sinister lumps in the shadows cast by the light. She took one more look at the sleeping twins. Then she tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs, avoiding the step with the squeaky board.
The front porch lights were on. The living room lights were on. The dining room chandelier was on, its dozens of little light bulbs casting little shadows on the wall. The kitchen was dark, except for the dim light cast by the sole bulb in the vent over the stove.
Connelly had dragged a chair to the big window in the breakfast nook and was staring out into the night, his Glock in hand. Coffee was brewing.
“Kids still asleep?” he asked without taking his eyes from the window.
“Yep.” She picked up her briefcase and dragged the other chair over to the breakfast nook, bringing it to a rest beside him.
“You don’t have to keep me company. You should get some sleep.”
He was right. She should get some sleep. But there was a zero point zero percent chance she was going to fall asleep while her husband was up all night guzzling coffee and playing sentry.
“I’m just going to read over some materials for tomorrow,” she told him. “And I can fetch your coffee for you so you don’t have to leave the window.”
He shifted his eyes slightly and looked at her. Whatever he saw in her face apparently convinced him not to argue. “Okay.”
She settled in next to him. “Did you call Officer Minet?”
“Yes. Still no sign of Harold. But the computer folks digitally aged that yearbook picture to see which fraternity brother, if any, is a match for the police sketch.”
“And?”
“And the Knitter appears to be a ma
n named Brady Linghold. They’re trying to find out everything they can about him. I told Minet to let me have a crack. Hank’s working on it right now. I also told her Mr. Linghold may be in the neighborhood. She’s going to have a unit do patrols all night. They’re also pulling the security camera video from the grocery store.”
“So, in the meantime, you’re going to stare into the backyard with a loaded gun?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like a plan. Aren’t the motion detectors on?” She wasn’t sure why the floodlights were still ablaze.
“I switched them off. I want the lights on all night. I want him to feel as though he’s going to be spotted the second he sets foot on our property.”
“It could have been a dog or a squirrel or something that you saw,” she said.
“Could’ve been. Wasn’t.”
She bit back her response. Instead, she got two mugs down from the cabinet and poured them each a cup of coffee. Connelly took his wordlessly. She sipped hers as she sorted through her hearing papers. A sheet of paper peeking out from the front pocket of her bag jarred her memory.
She set aside her CPSIA argument and reached for the case Will had given her. She almost did a spit take with her coffee when she realized what the case was about. It was an old Pennsylvania Supreme Court decision collecting self-defense cases and discussing the elements required to establish the imminent peril defense. She read it, scribbling notes in the margins. Then she dug a highlighter out of her bag and read it again, more slowly.
36
The crisis management consultant shrank back against the neighbor’s garage door and blinked into the light that seemed to pour from every window of Sasha McCandless-Connelly’s home—every room on the first floor was lit up, with the exception of the kitchen. Then the outside lights blazed to life; the sudden blast of brightness was disconcerting. He stood and watched for a while, certain that he was also being watched from within. They knew—or feared—that someone was out here.
If he’d believed in luck, which he did not, he’d have been convinced that his was souring. Ever since he’d taken on the assignment for Playtime Toys and Charles Merriman, he’d been beset by a string of misfortune. It was time to cut ties with old Charles, he mused. Asking for a refund had been just the beginning, he suspected. Next would be a veiled threat to go to the authorities. And then—who knew?
The attorney could wait. He’d deal with her another day. He slinked around the corner and crept to the end of the alleyway. Then he strolled out onto the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, nice and slow. Just a guy out taking his after-dinner walk.
37
Sasha greeted Connelly with a fresh mug of coffee as he stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He waved the drink away.
“No thanks. My stomach is already bathed in pure acid from our all-night caffeine bender. It’s all yours.”
She smiled gratefully and sipped at the blessed beverage. The night had passed slowly, but uneventfully. She could use all the coffee she could guzzle. “Any word from Hank?”
“Brady Linghold, also known as the Knitter, was a fair-to-middling business student at Penn State. In his junior year, he was busted for running a gambling ring out of his girlfriend’s dorm room.”
“Not the fraternity house?”
“I’m sure more level-headed brothers would have shut that down. They could have lost their charter for that sort of thing. Anyway, he was sentenced to community service and anger management—because he apparently took a swing at the arresting officer. In the course of the program, he learned how to crochet and knit as a way of controlling his temper. Hence, the nickname.”
“I don’t think it worked,” Sasha deadpanned.
He chuckled. Then he narrowed his eyes and gave her a curious look. “Are you learning any fiber arts?”
“No. I’m learning to count to ten and focus on my breathing.”
“Hey, just like Fiona.”
She mimed kicking him in the shin. “Anything else?”
“He’s been involved in loads of financially questionable transactions. Our forensic financial guys are going to talk with his bank in the Caymans. I also talked to Officer Minet. She’s going to head out to Playtime Toys to chat with the CEO and see if she can confirm that he hired Linghold. Presumably, he’ll lawyer up, but you never know.”
“Probably. Listen, can you ask Minet to hold off on her visit to Playtime Toys? Charles Merriman, the CEO, is meeting with us at Recreation Group this morning, remember?”
Connelly frowned. “This is now a murder investigation. It’s not really the sort of thing you put on the back burner.”
She gave him a look. “It’s important to Naya that we blow up the deal as professionally as possible. This matters to her. Merriman’s not going anywhere. And it’s not like he’s personally running around killing people.”
He huffed. “I’ll talk to Cheryl.”
“Thanks.” She headed for the closet to pick out a dress and jacket to wear to court.
He trailed behind, still talking, “And, last but not least, a patrol officer found Steve Harold in a bar on the South Side just before last call. Once he sobers up, they’re going to push on him pretty hard to get him to give up Linghold. I really want to be there, but given the circumstances—the bar fight and all—the district attorney thinks it’s cleaner if I’m not.”
“It is,” she confirmed.
She slipped on a light blue sheath dress and its matching suit jacket. “So what are you going to do today? You can’t hang out here.”
“I’m sure I could handle anyone who shows up, but ...”
“The kids.”
“Right.”
“Could you go to Hank’s place? Together, the two of you could fend off a small military unit.”
“We probably could.”
“But I guess we really can’t risk endangering his family,” she said, rethinking.
He nodded. “That’s sort of where I came out on it, too. I’d really like to tag along with Minet when she interviews Merriman if I can find someone to watch the kids. Are your parents still out of town?”
“Until Wednesday. But if you’re really worried about the Knitter, my parents’ place would be a bad choice anyway. Their idea of home security is leaving the spare key under the same flowerpot that it’s been under since I was in second grade.” She thought for a moment. “Daniel and Chris have a doorman. Nobody gets into that building unannounced. Unless Chris has a piano student in for a lesson, he’s usually pretty free during the day.”
“What about their furniture of death?” Connelly countered.
“As between furniture of death and actual murderer, I think sharp edges would be the lesser of the two evils. The bigger problem will be the fact that Daniel ignores the ‘no juice’ rule.”
Connelly flexed his biceps. “Don’t worry. The enforcer will be there. You put your face on. I’ll call Daniel.”
“Okay, but if you do run out with Minet and leave them with Chris and Daniel, tell them I mean it. No juice for the twins. It’s not good for them.”
He nodded solemnly. “No juice. I promise, so long as you make me a promise.”
“What is it?”
“I want you to drop us off and take the SUV. Don’t walk anywhere, okay? Until we find this guy, we’re on high alert.”
She waited a beat for his obligatory jab at her over the fact that her car was in the shop following a collision with a parking garage column that jumped out at her. But it didn’t come.
“No walking,” she agreed, trying to pretend the jitters in her stomach were related to her upcoming court appearance only.
38
“Yes?” Charles Merriman’s voice shook.
The consultant was pleased to hear the quaver of fear. “I’ve reconsidered. I’d like to meet to talk about the refund you requested.”
“Really?” Audible relief oozed from Merriman. Then, suspicion. “We don’t need to meet. Just re
verse the wire.”
“It’s not that simple.” Although, of course, it was that simple. And Merriman likely knew as much. The consultant coughed. “We need to discuss the strings that would be attached to the return of the funds.”
“The … strings?” Merriman echoed, his indignation evident.
“Yes, strings. You’re complicit in anything unfortunate, shall we say, that may have happened. It’s important that you understand that if I go down, you’re coming with me.” As he spoke, he ran his fingertip along the point of his blade in a gentle motion, almost a caress. He drew just a drop of his own blood.
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” Merriman huffed.
“Ten o’clock. We’ll meet at the coffee shop across the road from your fish and chips restaurant.”
“No, I can’t. I told you—I’m meeting with Recreation Group this morning. Right at ten, as it happens.”
“Hmm. Do I have your word that you’ll maintain your silence about my work for you?”
“Yes, of course. It goes without saying,” Merriman said eagerly.
“Good.”
“Does that mean you’re going to give me back my money?”
“I’ll see to it that you get what you’re due, Charles.” The consultant smiled to himself.
He ended the call and checked the time. He’d plan to arrive at Recreation Group’s offices by a quarter past ten. He didn’t expect the meeting would last more than an hour.
39
Sasha eased the SUV into a spot between a Suburban and a pickup truck in the parking garage attached to Recreation Group’s suburban Wexford campus. She was pleased to see that Cranberry Township was somewhat more generous about sizing its parking spots than was Downtown Pittsburgh. Connelly would never let her live it down if she scratched his vehicle.
She grabbed her bag, took one last swig from her travel mug of coffee, and headed for the stairwell. As she clattered down the stairs, one hand on the metal railing, she checked her messages with her other. Nothing worth breaking her neck over. She slid the phone into her bag.
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