‘‘Sara,’’ my lawyer warned with a twinkle in his eye, ‘‘technically he is the one doing the interviewing. Maybe we should let him get on with it so we can leave?’’
‘‘Maybe then he’ll have time to teach you about libel, too?’’ Montoya spat.
‘‘Slander,’’ Peter Christenson corrected. ‘‘Alleged slander, at that.’’
‘‘Why were you meeting with Henry DeVries, Sara?’’ ‘‘She’s not going to answer that.’’
‘‘She already told me.’’
‘‘Then why are you wasting our time?’’
‘‘Good one,’’ I congratulated him. I looked at Montoya. ‘‘Your turn.’’
‘‘What was the relationship between Gretchen Dreznik and Henry DeVries?’’
‘‘Beyond the scope,’’ Christenson said.
I put my hands in the pockets of the orange jumpsuit. I wasn’t under arrest. They’d taken my clothes as evidence. Just as well. I never wanted to see them again. It was funny. Funny strange, not funny ha-ha. Two hours ago I’d tossed my cookies because of a dead body. Now I was cracking jokes. Bad ones, but still. Good thing I had the expensive suit to do my talking. Who knew what I might say?
‘‘Are you aware that hundreds of thousands of dollars were embezzled from the account of a patient of Dr. Dreznik?’’
‘‘Beyond the scope.’’
‘‘You were at the bank branch where the bogus account was set up. You were seen in the company of the man accused of the crime.’’
‘‘Accused?’’ I asked. Were they after John?
Christenson patted my hand. ‘‘Has a warrant been issued on this alleged crime?’’
‘‘I’m not at liberty to say.’’ Montoya threw the cold shoulder back at my lawyer. He winked at me.
‘‘Then we won’t be speculating.’’
‘‘You know, Sara, your husband played nicer. Then again, the navy doesn’t have the same protections as we do in here. Connor isn’t going to be able to take the Fifth. Not with his own people. If you don’t get your story out, well, he’s going to be left holding the bag. Or his friends will. Not everyone can afford Mr. Christenson’s services. In fact, members of the armed services aren’t always entitled to counsel at any price. Isn’t that correct, Counselor?’’
‘‘They didn’t—’’ I started.
‘‘Are you arresting her?’’ The lawyer gripped my hand tighter.
I bit my lip. They couldn’t have lawyers? They couldn’t remain silent?
‘‘Not at this time.’’
‘‘Then we’re leaving.’’ Peter rose and held my chair.
‘‘Up to you, Sara.’’ Montoya rose. ‘‘If you’re not willing to talk to me, I can’t help you.’’
‘‘Except for the snarkiness, Detective, I appreciate that you’re just doing your job. You have to understand. That dead person everywhere I go thing is no joke. My husband’s mad. His friends aren’t thrilled, and the shrinks are loonier than the patients. The guy I was sent here to find by my tightwad of a boss is still missing, and I’m being stalked by a Labrador retriever. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not even the scariest person I’ve met today.’’
‘‘No.’’ Peter clucked. ‘‘That would be me.’’
Chapter Fifty-one
‘‘You bitch!’’ Lily screamed, and charged me, claws extended.
The cops escorting me from the building stopped to arrest her. If I were having the day she was having, I’d be a little out there, too. Lily’s married boyfriend was out on bail and facing the loss of his earning capacity when the medical board investigated his billing practices. Her boyfriend’s wife, a scion of society, now knew about the affair and would probably have something to say as soon as she stopped burning her adulterous soon-to-be-former spouse’s clothes. Her financially supportive but deeply antisocial aunt was looking at multiple counts of conspiracy to commit murder and murder for hire. To cap it off, the woman sleeping with the best thing that ever happened to her got to watch as she was taken away in silver handcuffs that clashed with the engagement ring she’d taunted me with. Connor, cleverly, said nothing.
I’d spent twice as long being questioned by the police as any of them. It paid to be a choirboy. It helped that none of their guns matched, the bullets and the blood-spray pattern made it clear that all of us had been standing too close to have shot Gretchen. The same could be said of me, of course, minus the weapon, but somehow my general demeanor had screamed psycho killer on the loose, whereas the naval contingent looked like angels. Tex and Blue were gone by the time Christenson walked me out.
‘‘Let’s get out of this sun.’’ Peter Christenson moved us down the stairs. Two limos stood at the curb. Drivers stood next to open passenger doors.
The driver at the front car touched the brim of his hat as I slid into the backseat. I’d seen smaller restaurants. It smelled new. Which was a nice change from me. I smelled old.
The lawyer leaned into the car. ‘‘The police know not to question you without me present, but don’t talk to anyone about this, Sara. You and Connor can’t be called to testify against each other, but don’t speak on this subject with his family or the other members of his team. It will compromise them.’’
I offered him my hand. ‘‘The next time I’m arrested for something, I’m definitely calling you.’’
He smiled. ‘‘The next time I want to see a young woman under investigation for murder body-slam the cops in their own ring, I’ll be sure to come. Technically, I’m retired, but it’s nice to keep my hand in. Don’t trust Montoya.’’
‘‘I’m sticking with name, rank, and serial number from now on.’’
‘‘Yeah, right,’’ Connor muttered.
‘‘Well, Gertie was right. You’re a firecracker, and this has been a most interesting day.’’
‘‘Thanks, Pete.’’
‘‘Anytime. Oh, and she asked me to give this to you.’’ He handed an envelope to Connor. ‘‘Said it belonged to you.’’
The door closed and the car pulled away. ‘‘Grandma Gertie sent him?’’
‘‘They’re old, uh, friends.’’
Gertie had to be ninety. Peter a suave seventy, max. ‘‘Get ’em young, train ’em right. Go, Gertie.’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ He opened the envelope and tipped the contents into his palm. Round, shiny. More carats than Peter Rabbit needed, and it made Lily’s look like a chip.
Connor held it out.
I shook my head. ‘‘Thanks, no, I’m trying to cut back.’’
He swallowed a laugh.
‘‘Any word on John?’’ I asked.
He put an arm around me and I snuggled into him.
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Any luck finding the shooter?’’
‘‘Edward Abernathy, aka Charles Smiths, was found twenty minutes before Montoya let you go. Duct-taped hands and feet in a maintenance shed less than a mile from the warehouse.’’
‘‘He didn’t get far. Any evidence tying him to Gretchen’s murder?’’
‘‘Murder weapon. Fingerprints. Gunpowder residue. Might get lucky with his house, too, now that the police know where to look.’’
I tipped my head back to look up at him. ‘‘What made the police look in that particular maintenance shed?’’
‘‘Anonymous tip.’’ He kissed my nose.
‘‘A team sport?’’
‘‘Something like that.’’
‘‘I don’t suppose anyone asked him why he blew up Blue’s truck?’’
‘‘It might have come up. Officially, no comment. Unofficially, he’s got a couple of nasty dog bites he might have acquired while trying to manhandle somebody who wasn’t interested in going somewhere while we were distracted.’’
‘‘Good for Pavarotti. Is there any chance Abernathy got to John after we were at his place? Charles, I mean. I suppose I can’t keep calling him John.’’
‘‘The guy’s smoke. I’ve seen Rangers with brighter
trails.’’
‘‘Not SEALs?’’
He kissed my head. ‘‘Never. Although we could use that dog.’’
I chuckled. After today, it felt odd. ‘‘How did Abernathy get the shot off? Or get away, for that matter?’’
‘‘Someone went in before her backup was in place. Blue and I got there first. Gretchen already had you. We didn’t get the chance to look for secondary targets. Tex and Troj were just coming into the field when the scene went loud. Their primary mission was cover. As soon as we were secure, they cleaned up.’’
‘‘Abernathy didn’t get far.’’
‘‘They know what they’re doing.’’
I sighed. ‘‘I got her killed.’’
‘‘No. She released that thing into the world. She brought him there to kill us.’’ Connor tucked me closer against him.
‘‘Why didn’t he? I stood in the middle of that room. You, too. If he could kill Henry DeVries from a moving car, he could kill us.’’
He squeezed harder. ‘‘Any guy who could make the shot on DeVries didn’t miss when he took out Gretchen. Whatever she thought, his target was her. We were lucky, not good.’’
‘‘Any chance you’ll be good and I’ll get lucky?’’
He pushed the button to close the slide.
‘‘Always a chance, Trouble.’’
Chapter Fifty-two
‘‘This makes no sense.’’ I sank down on to the sofa. ‘‘I had the lab double-check. John Doe can’t be Charles Smiths. According to the medical examiner’s report that your pal Peter managed to get us, both parents were B positive. The sample was A neg,’’ Blue said.
‘‘How can they be sure it’s Charles’s DNA?’’ I pulled my legs under the old T-shirt of Connor’s I was wearing. I would have put it on in response to the knock on the door except people had once again stopped knocking. Connor had pulled on briefs and nothing else. Blue was fully dressed.
‘‘Montoya took it from some silverware in the apartment. The only fingerprints in the place were yours, Rock’s, and one unidentified. No match to the original report done on Charles Smiths for Esteban, but an eight-point match to the flea collar. Two types of saliva, one human, one canine.
‘‘The dog’s matched my competition there.’’ Connor read from the report, nodding at Pavarotti, who was pushing her head between us on the couch.
I stroked the dog’s fur. She yodeled and closed her eyes.
‘‘Meaning John’s probably not a murderer, either. He didn’t kill his parents because they weren’t his parents. Not even as part of some mental health problem. And he didn’t have a reason to kill the maid. Or even a reason to know there was a maid.’’
‘‘You were right about him, I think. He was troubled, not dangerous.’’
‘‘Where is the real Charles Smiths?’’ I asked. ‘‘And who is John Doe?’’
‘‘Reed’s claiming he didn’t know John Doe wasn’t Charles Smiths.’’ Blue shrugged.
‘‘Reed is sticking to his story,’’ Blue said. ‘‘Abernathy was released on a decision by the prison medical review board based on good faith. It was only after he was free that Abernathy approached and threatened Jack. He wanted to steal an identity so he could get enough money to leave the country. According to Jack, Abernathy wanted to use one of Jack’s rich patients because they were all mentally unstable and wouldn’t be believed if they did complain. Jack went along because he was afraid for his life and his family.’’
‘‘So Jack was just protecting Siobhan and not afraid he’d get caught bilking his patients?’’ I asked.
Blue shrugged.
‘‘What does he say about the real Charles Smiths?’’ Connor asked.
‘‘He says John Doe is the real deal. That he went on walkabout. That Gretchen convinced him if anyone found out that his star patient ran away he’d be held responsible. Then Abernathy showed up looking to become somebody else. Two birds with one stone.’’ Blue scratched his chin. ‘‘I don’t know. Hate to say it, but I’m buying it.’’
‘‘The blood test says different,’’ Connor protested.
‘‘I’m not saying it’s true. I’m saying Reed’s not lying. Not about this, anyway.’’
‘‘He’s lying about everything,’’ I cried.
‘‘Yeah, but it’s all shades of gray stuff. This one is a fact that can be checked. He’s a doctor. He gets blood-type analysis. He wouldn’t bullshit something that could bite him in the ass like that,’’ Blue said.
‘‘Do you believe that?’’ I asked Connor.
‘‘I don’t know, babe,’’ Connor said. ‘‘Jack’s not an original thinker. Maybe Gretchen manipulated him into switching them, because why quit a winner?’’
‘‘She’d done it before.’’
‘‘Yeah, maybe.’’
‘‘Think John’s another patient? From back then, I mean? He definitely has issues, but maybe he didn’t before they got hold of him.’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ Connor said.
‘‘What do you think happened to the real Charles Smiths?’’ I asked.
‘‘He was a messed-up kid. He killed his parents. The doctors who were supposed to help him had their own agendas. We might never know what happened to him,’’ Connor said.
Blue smiled. ‘‘John Doe has been Smiths the longest. I say that makes him the real Charles Smiths. The dog’ll vouch for him.’’
I smiled back. ‘‘I like that.’’ Pavarotti slapped her head against my hand.
‘‘Either way, Jack’s laying it all off on Gretchen,’’ Connor added.
‘‘That’s fair. She was planning on blaming him for everything,’’ I said. Connor stared. ‘‘I’m not defending him. I’m just saying. I thought it was going to be Lily. John said ‘she’ the night of the polygraph, and Lily definitely had violent tendencies. She threatened me that day.’’
‘‘What day?’’ Connor asked.
I gulped.
‘‘The morning she used her key to wait for me. Blue didn’t tell you?’’
‘‘Not the details.’’ Connor looked thoughtful.
So Blue didn’t tell him everything. Just as well. Less yelling all around. Blue rolled his eyes at me.
A couple of hours later, Pavarotti started her aria. Loud. Up and down her vocal register. Connor reached around me and lifted a sneaker from the floor. He flung it at the closed bedroom door. The song stopped. The dog breathed loudly in the hall, Connor breathed in my ear. I moved to get out of bed. He tightened his hold.
‘‘She’s not sleeping with us.’’
‘‘Jealous of another woman? Really?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Oh, honey, that’s sweet.’’ I leaned over and kissed him. He slid a leg over mine and opened his mouth, kissing me with a lot of wet heat.
‘‘Um.’’ I sighed.
He wrapped around me, rolling me beneath him. Warm and hard, and I pushed him off.
‘‘What?’’ He lifted his head. His hair stood up. My work, I suspected.
‘‘Can’t you hear her?’’
‘‘Huh?’’
Pavarotti was up to glass-shattering. ‘‘Maybe she has to go out.’’
‘‘I’ll go.’’ He released me and reached for his jeans.
‘‘No, that’s okay.’’ I dropped a T-shirt over my head and went to get my tennis shoe.
‘‘Not while there are still crazies out there.’’
‘‘There will always be crazies out there.’’
‘‘Exactly.’’
‘‘Fine. We’ll go together.’’ I opened the bedroom door. Pavarotti jumped up, nearly head height. ‘‘Sorry, girl, didn’t realize we’d reached the red zone.’’
I patted her. She paced to the front door and back. Connor clipped her leash to her collar and we trooped to the elevator. Pavarotti practiced scales all the way to the ground floor. When the elevator doors opened, she pulled us to the front door.
‘‘Didn’t we take her out
earlier?’’ I asked, trying to remember.
‘‘Yeah. After dinner before . . .’’ He leaned down and kissed me.
I wrapped my arms around his middle and pushed the outer door open. Pavarotti yanked hard on the leash and was free. She ran to the walkway and down to the heavy shrubbery. In a pool of moonlight she stopped. The man stepped away from the shadows, his hand reaching for the dog. Pavarotti’s tail pounded like a metronome.
‘‘Jo—Charles?’’ I asked, nearly calling him John. He’d been Charles for years. If he wanted to be Charles, who was I to say different?
‘‘Do you know me?’’
‘‘Yes.’’ As well as anyone did.
‘‘Does he know me?’’ John pointed at Connor. He nodded.
‘‘Okay.’’ John turned away.
‘‘Charles?’’ I called after him.
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘Do you know who else knows you?’’ I asked.
His hand reached out and grabbed fur, stroking. The dog vocalized low in her throat.
I brushed at the tear that slid down my cheek. ‘‘Your dog.’’
Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in the Animal Instinct Mystery
series by Gabriella Herkert.
Available August 2009 wherever books
are sold or at penguin.com
‘‘Not again,’’ I sighed.
I knelt and reached for the man’s wrist. Cold, pulseless. I used the beam of my flashlight to get a better look, then was sorry I had. Russ retched behind me.
‘‘No. You are absolutely, positively not going to—’’ I jumped up.
Russ’s breakfast spewed with the force of a geyser. I dodged but still got sprinkled with postconsumption huevos rancheros. The dead guy did worse. His flannel sleeve and the side of his face were doused with bile and eggs. A clump of green pepper stuck to one staring eye. Propped on his knees by the pitchfork sticking out of his chest, he looked like a praying Cyclops. Russ burped loudly. I danced a couple additional steps away from the mess.
‘‘Sorry,’’ he said, wiping his mouth with a snowy handkerchief. ‘‘I’m not good with’’—he gestured toward the body—‘‘reality.’’
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