I didn’t dare look to where I’d seen Boyle leading my sister away. I couldn’t even risk thinking about it.
To Hugh, I said softly, “Give me a minute with Boris, okay?”
He hesitated, then moved to where Ozeal was crouched. Both of them ducked through the opening, one after the other. After a few seconds, the door slid closed.
Boris watched Hugh leave and turned back to me, eyes hopeful.
As I begin to regain my senses, I understood what the tiger wanted. The reward for his trick.
Swim!
“Not much room in here,” I told him, standing slowly and stepping out of the pool. Goose bumps rose on my skin almost instantly. “How about some catnip instead?”
Boris loved catnip and five minutes later he was happily rolling around with a bag of it and I was headed through the guillotine door into the tiger house.
Brooke, who had fetched the catnip and was now acting as gatekeeper, lowered the door behind me with a rasping clang.
“Thanks,” I said as I moved through the next gate and secured the latch. “Did you and Cody happen to see a red backpack when you loaded that hay in Bluebell?”
She blinked at me, uncomprehending.
“I try to keep a change of clothes—” A more careful look at her face had me pulling up short. The girl looked almost as upset as she had the first time we’d met, when she’d believed I was trying to kill her, so her expression made me step back and ask, “What?”
After a second, I understood.
Through the closed door, to the tiger house, I could hear Anita Margulies peppering Ozeal with questions. Evidently, the reporter had followed my sister as far as possible, then doubled back to spring on Ozeal.
What had I expected? Of course the reporter would be asking questions. It was her job, but I didn’t like what I was hearing. Not at all.
“Do you deny a connection to organized crime?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ozeal said.
“Do you know Charles Sartori?”
“Stay here,” I ordered Brooke in a low tone.
Trying to ignore my dripping clothes and sodden appearance, I stepped out of the door and into the spotlight.
The reporter whirled toward me as soon as I opened the door. “Miss Wilde, what do you have to say about your sister’s arrest?”
The camera swung to focus on me like the Eye of Sauron.
It took effort, but I ignored both the question and the camera and looked at Ozeal.
The usually unflappable woman seemed shell-shocked under the barrage of questions. It made me want to snatch the camera, throw it to the ground and stomp it into little bitty pieces.
“Is this facility a front for organized crime?”
“Four hundred,” I said, keeping my voice as clear and steady as I could.
“Excuse me?” The reporter looked at me as if I’d spoken in pig latin.
“There are less than four hundred Siberian tigers left in the wild. Careless accusations put not only this tiger’s home but his life at risk.” I looked her in the eye. “It’s appalling.”
Her lips parted.
Yes. I just accused her of being a tiger killer.
Phil, the cameraman, started to angle his lens to point at the ground. The reporter noticed and shot him a look sharp enough to slice flesh. He straightened.
“People deserve to know the truth.” Anita Margulies threw her shoulders back in defiance. “My source tells me there’s a connection between this facility and Charles Sartori’s criminal organization.”
Apparently, Mrs. Margulies didn’t know the big connection was Sartori’s daughter, a sixteen-year-old girl who loved animals and volunteered to help them. I wasn’t about to drag Brooke into it.
“Your source?” I scoffed. “You mean Detective Tammy Boyle, who herself has been investigated for probable ties to organized crime?”
Oh yeah. I went there.
Anita Margulies’s eyes narrowed. I could tell she was weighing her options, but I didn’t know what else to say to make her back off.
The tiger stats had been my trump card. I mean, really, what kind of a soulless degenerate would spit in the face of a critically endangered species?
My question was answered a moment later when she thrust the microphone into my face.
“What ties do you have to the Sartoris?”
“Anita.” It was Hugh. He materialized to sidle up next to the reporter. Smiling, he gently pushed the microphone away then leaned down to murmur in her ear. An emotion I couldn’t read slid over her face. Her brows knit and she turned to look up at Hugh with wide, questioning eyes.
He nodded.
The reporter’s gaze lingered on his face a moment before it swept over me, Ozeal, and finally settled on her cameraman.
“Okay. Let’s go, Phil.” Phil looked as confused as I felt but he lowered the camera to do as he was bid.
“I’m not promising anything,” the reporter said to Hugh.
“I understand,” Hugh said, still smiling.
He did?
“Let me see you out,” he offered with a sweep of his arm.
I wanted to be impressed and should have been grateful but, as I watched Hugh walk the news crew away, I felt bewildered and aggravated.
When he placed his hand on the small of her back, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I need to go check on my sister. Ozeal, do you mind if I use the office bathroom to change?”
Ozeal, who seemed just as confused as I was, simply nodded.
As luck and my own lack of preparedness would have it, I didn’t have much to change into.
Before loading the hay into Bluebell’s cargo area, Brooke and Cody had taken the time to relocate a few items to the backseat. I found my red backpack, which was supposed to be stocked with a change of clothes and a few other necessities.
I opened the pack and discovered it held two pairs of socks, a bra, and a light jacket.
Great. I could go to the sheriff’s office soaking wet or dressed as a flasher. With a sigh, I tossed the pack onto the seat and slammed the door.
“Grace?” Brooke’s voice was tentative as she approached.
I turned to her.
“I just wanted to say thanks. For not letting that lady talk to me.”
“Sure.”
“And”—she hesitated—“just . . . be careful, okay? You can’t trust the cops.”
I was beginning to think she was right.
CHAPTER 11
I tried to keep her advice in perspective as I drove downtown toward the sheriff’s office.
Being the daughter of a Mafia boss, Brooke didn’t have the highest regard for law enforcement officials. Still, something about her words struck home.
Obviously, I couldn’t trust Boyle, but what about Jake, or even Kai?
My trust, once won, is not easily torn asunder. Which made me question if I really trusted Kai at all.
I pushed the troubling thought away and called Wes.
“I’m walking into the JSO now,” Wes told me. “Where are you?”
“About fifteen minutes out.”
“Text me when you get here. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
He hung up and a moment later, my phone chimed, signaling I had a text. It was from Kai.
Just heard about Emma. Meet me at entrance.
I knew he was referring to the security checkpoint near the set of glass doors that led to the investigations division.
By the time I’d parked, the aftershocks of my tiger-induced adrenaline rush were in full effect. My legs ached. My hands shook uncontrollably. I barely managed to climb out of Bluebell without my knees buckling.
It would pass, but I still hated trembling like a terrified terrier.
Str
iving for control, I walked as fast as I could up the stairs to the entrance of the Police Memorial Building and pushed my way through the glass front doors. I had to fight the urge to pace as I waited for Kai and busied myself by reading the names on the wall of fallen heroes.
So engrossed with my thoughts, I didn’t hear anyone approach.
“Grace.”
I glanced around—it was Hugh.
“What are you doing here, Romeo?”
“I wanted to see what was happening with Emma.”
“Have you talked to anyone?” I asked.
“I went over to the jail but she must not be in their system yet. They sent me over here.”
The jail was a mere covered walk away from the sheriff’s office. Convenient.
“Kai is on his way,” I said. “He should know more.”
We stood there staring at each other for a couple of minutes in impotent silence.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I said, expecting he had a question about Emma or maybe even Ortega.
“What happened today?”
Where to begin? “The detective who arrested Emma is off her rocker, for starters,” I said.
“I’m talking about what happened with you and Boris.”
“Oh. That.”
I’d planned to tell Hugh about my ability. Partly because he was dating my sister but more because it didn’t seem fair that Brooke should know when Hugh, a friend and colleague, didn’t. Still, I didn’t really want to talk about it in the foyer of the sheriff’s office.
“I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“What did you say? To the reporter,” I asked.
He gave me a half grin. “Only what she needed to hear.”
His gaze drifted away from my face to settle somewhere behind me. The cocky expression shuttered slightly and I knew he wasn’t looking at Kai before I heard the words “Miss Wilde.”
Still, the voice set my teeth on edge.
Boyle.
I tried to school my features into a placid mask before I turned to face her.
“Detective,” I said with a calmness I didn’t feel.
“I’m glad you’re here. Would you come with me, please?” Something about the way she said it brooked no argument. I thought about digging in my heels just to be ornery, but was curious what new trap she might try to spring.
I glanced back at Hugh.
“I’ll let him know,” he said.
I gave him a nod and went with Detective Tammy Boyle.
We walked down the long, vaulted hallway leading toward the homicide unit. The hall was deserted, all the doors closed. The sun had set and the skylights over our heads had become a dull, gray line.
Boyle didn’t lead me into the homicide unit, as I’d expected. Instead, she opened the door to a claustrophobically small interview room and motioned me inside. She asked me to sit. As I did, I noticed a file folder lying on the compact table.
The detective sat across from me and critically eyed my clothes and still-damp hair.
“J Beverly Hills,” I said.
She blinked at me.
“It’s the conditioner I use. Great stuff. Kind of pricey, but it smells amazing.”
I started to call her out on the trap she’d set for Emma by tipping off Anita Margulies, but Boyle opened the folder and slid a piece of paper over to me.
“We’ve recovered a series of text messages from your sister’s phone.”
The printout was an exchange between Emma and myself. The time stamp before each message showed the texts to have taken place from 4:57 to 4:59 p.m. the day before Ortega was murdered.
The first was from me. I read silently.
Me: Tony called again . . .
Emma: Ugh! Idiot
Me: What do you want me to do?
Emma: Nothing. I’ll take care of it
I made a show of turning the paper over as if checking for more texts, then looked up at Boyle.
“And?”
“This.” She tapped the paper lightly. “It shows intent.”
“Intent to do what?”
“I think it’s pretty clear.”
And I thought she was pretty crazy. I barely managed to catch the words before they flew out of my mouth.
There was more to this talk—I could feel it. Boyle was trying to maneuver me, into what position I wasn’t sure, but if I wanted to avoid it, I was going to have to keep my trap shut.
Boyle gave me her cool cop-stare.
I met it, wondering when she would figure out it didn’t work on me.
“The medical examiner has finished the autopsy on Anthony Ortega. Would you like to know the cause of death?”
I didn’t answer.
She didn’t elaborate.
We looked at each other for a full minute. I took the time to make a few observations.
Boyle’s eyes were an appealing dark brown—large and liquid like a horse’s, but there was no warmth in them.
She had freckles, just a few, sprinkled over her nose. They were cute. People probably took in the big, brown eyes, freckles, and petite frame and underestimated her. I wouldn’t make that mistake.
“Do you know what a spiral fracture is?” Boyle finally asked.
Of course I knew; I had a medical degree, after all. I still didn’t say anything.
She kept her brows raised, waiting for me to answer.
I didn’t oblige.
“No? Huh, I would have thought you would have learned that in veterinarian school.”
Veterinarian school? I had to hand it to her, Boyle knew how to push buttons.
“Spiral fractures are caused by rotational force on a bone. A twisting.” She mimicked the motion with her hands like she was wringing out a wet towl.
I said nothing.
“Your sister has bruises and scrapes on her knuckles.” Boyle flipped over what I’d thought was a blank piece of paper. It was a photo of the back of Emma’s hands. “We documented them the first time we brought her into custody. Do you know how they happened?”
I wanted to spring to my sister’s defense, tell Boyle the scraped knuckles were from hitting the heavy bag in the dojo, but I pressed my lips together.
“We’ve recovered a note from your sister’s computer. In it, she mentions never letting Anthony Ortega hurt anyone again.”
She sat back and regarded me.
“You understand what all this means, don’t you? Your sister is going to be charged with first-degree murder. Do you know what that is? Life in prison or the death penalty.”
A cold knot began forming in my stomach. Not of dread or fear but of anger.
“Bullshit.” I think the fact that I’d spoken surprised her more than the word.
“I see.”
I shook my head, disgusted. “No you don’t. You, Tammy, are one of the least perceptive human beings I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. You only see what you want to see. It doesn’t matter what I tell you. You’ve made up your mind.” The truth of my words pressed down on my shoulders like a lead blanket. Fighting against the feeling, I stood and took the few steps required to reach the door.
It was locked.
I turned back to see Boyle regarding me with a smugness that told me she wasn’t going to let me walk out of an interview a second time.
“Am I under arrest?”
“If you want to help your sister, you’ll sit back down and talk to me.”
“No.” My voice was surprisingly mild given how badly I wanted to leap across the room and throttle her.
“Look, I’m trying to help her, Grace. Tell me about the abuse. I know Tony had it coming—”
The door swung open and Kai leaned into the room.
“Grace,” he said, with an expressionless glance at Boyle, “your attorney is looking for you.”
I followed him into the corridor and away from the interview room. My shoes let out sodden squeaks as we walked and I was reminded that my hair was a tangled mess. I went to comb my fingers through it and saw they were still trembling.
A combo of no food, worry, anger, and the lingering epinephrine in my body.
Kai noticed the tremors. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just need to eat something. Thanks for rescuing me.”
He wasn’t appeased. “What happened? You’re soaked.”
“Boris almost drowned me.” I dismissed his look of shock with a wave and a shrug. “My fault.”
The knots in my shoulders relaxed a little when I caught sight of Wes. Like always, he looked as polished and put together as a GQ model.
Hearing us approach, he looked up from his phone and gave me a gentle smile.
A hundred questions leapt to the front of my mind but leading them all was “Where’s Emma? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s being booked.”
“Can I see her?”
“They won’t be finished until after visiting hours are over. We’ll come back in the morning.”
I searched my friend’s face; he looked confident, as always, but his expression cooled when he looked at Kai.
The two had met a couple of times, but to prime his memory I said, “Wes, you remember Kai.”
He inclined his head. “Of course. Though right now I’m going to advise you not to speak with Sergeant Duncan unless I’m with you.”
“Why? He’s not on the case.”
“It doesn’t matter. Until we have a chance to go over a few things, it’s better if you don’t speak to the police at all.”
“But—”
“It’s okay,” Kai said. “He’s right. Go get something to eat.” He glanced at Wes. “She shouldn’t be driving.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yes,” Wes said, “because you’re coming with me.”
He started to lead me away but I turned back. “Kai, I’m sorry. Last night . . .”
“Was my fault,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
• • •
Wes had insisted I ride in the town car while he took Bluebell to pick up Chinese.
Horse of a Different Killer Page 17