“In your car?”
“Yes.”
“Step out, please,” he said, his tone suggesting that it wasn’t a request.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Step out of the car, Catherine.”
Rolling my eyes, I did as he asked and stood in front of him, trying my best not to shake in fear.
“Tell me exactly what you witnessed with Ms. Kuznetsov.”
“Who?” I asked, even though I knew full well who.
“Don’t play coy,” he said sharply.
“Don’t be an ass!” I replied, turning away from him and reaching for the door handle to my car.
“Catherine,” he said with the same sharp tone. And then, much more softly, he added, “Wait.”
I pulled the door open and turned sideways, but I didn’t get in. Instead, I stood there waiting to see if he’d be nice or stick to being a jerk and make it easy for me. I’d committed no crime, but I was still a little nervous about getting behind the wheel of the car when he thought I might be too high from the Xanax I’d pretended to consume.
“Can’t we be civil about this?” he asked me.
“I’ve been more than civil. You, on the other hand, have been a royal prick.”
Shepherd pursed his lips and squinted at me. “Royal prick?”
“Yep.”
“That the best you got?”
I spent the next thirty seconds taking a page out of my sister’s salty-sailor-speak handbook. I called him everything I could think of, combined lots of adjectives and at least one verb, and topped that all off with the Portuguese phrase for “to pleasure oneself anally,” which, ironically, was about the only Portuguese I still remembered from my one year in college spent abroad.
At the end of it, I stood breathing hard and simmering with anger.
“Huh,” he said when I’d finished. “That last one sounds like it’d hurt.”
“You speak Portuguese?”
“I spent a year in Portugal when I was a junior in college.”
“You did?” Before he could answer, I pointed to myself. “Me too!”
“No way,” he said. “What school?”
“UMass Amherst. Class of ninety-eight. You?”
“Same, but I was class of ninety-seven,” he said.
“Huh,” I said.
“Huh,” he replied.
And just like that, most of the tension that’d fueled our previous encounters vanished. “I don’t remember ever seeing you,” I said. “But then, the school was huge.”
“Yeah. Funny. A year earlier or later, and we could’ve been in Portugal together.”
I stepped to the side and closed the car door. Leaning against my sedan, I said, “What do you want to know about Ms. . . . what was her name again?”
“Kuznetsov. Carmen Kuznetsov.”
“Yes. Her.”
“What exactly did you see?”
“I saw her come out of that church like a bat out of hell. She ran right past me and jumped into an awaiting getaway car.”
“How did you know it was a getaway car?”
“The motor was running, the passenger-side car door was open, and the second she jumped in, it sped away.”
“Okay,” Shepherd said. “I’ll give that one to you. Can you describe the driver?”
“No. I was startled at first, and by the time I thought to take note of anything, the car was in motion. I only had a chance to get the license number.”
“It’s bogus,” Shepherd told me. “It’s a retired plate.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it was retired by the DMV, replaced by a guy from Schenectady a year ago. He claims that he threw the old plate in the recycle bin, where we think it was picked up and resold to someone closer to here.”
“Wow,” I said. “Resourceful.”
“Criminals are definitely that.”
“So you think she’s a criminal?”
“We haven’t been able to track her down since her employer’s murder. She wasn’t at the house when the body was found, and the address on her green card is currently being occupied by a couple in their thirties who’ve never heard of her.”
I crossed my arms. “You mean to tell me you had all of that information, or lack of information, and you still thought to arrest me?”
“I needed the ruse,” Shepherd said simply.
“Ruse? You needed a ruse? Who even uses that word anymore?”
“Guys who graduate with a liberal arts degree from UMass.”
I shook my head at him. “You owe me an apology A sincere one this time.”
Shepherd looked at the ground and kicked at a pebble. “That’s not really my strong suit.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
He offered me a lopsided smile. “You’re tough, ain’t ya?”
“When it comes to holding people responsible for their appalling behavior, yes, you could say I’m tough.”
Shepherd blew out a sigh. “Fine, okay. Look, Catherine, I’m—”
At that moment, the door to the church flew open, and out ran the priest. “Detective!” he cried. “Detective! Help!”
Shepherd was in motion far more quickly than I could take in. Before I realized what was going on, he was flying across the pavement, up the sidewalk, and toward the door. The priest saw him coming and turned back to the door too, catching it before it could close and lock them out.
As Shepherd launched himself up the stairs, the priest shouted, “In there! In there! So much blood! Oh, my heavenly Father! There’s so much blood!”
Shepherd flew into the building, and the priest ran in after him. All this happened while I stood dumbly next to my car and tried to process what the heck was going on.
Without thinking, I headed toward the door myself; it was instinctual, really, but I didn’t hurry. I think I was simply in a state of shock. When I got to the door, it opened abruptly, and the priest stumbled out. He was pale, bent double, and I had the distinct feeling he was about to retch.
“Oh my goodness, Father, are you all—?”
That’s as far as I got before the poor man bolted down the steps and around the corner, finding a bush to duck behind before the awful sounds of him becoming sick reached my ears.
It was then that I realized I was holding the door open, and as my own stomach turned uncomfortably, I moved inside and allowed the door to close to block out the sound from the bushes.
I stood against the door for a long moment, my eyes closed and my chest taking in big lungfuls of air. You would think that after raising two boys, I’d be immune to the effects of the sound of gagging, but not so. It’s an instant trigger of nausea for me, and it took me perhaps a full minute to fend off that queasy feeling.
Finally, I opened my eyes and looked around. The church was dim. There appeared to be only two windows at either end of the large room, and both were of stained glass, which caused the light to be filtered and muted. I took a step away from the door and listened as the sound of someone talking came to my ears.
It was Shepherd, and I quickly gathered that he was speaking to someone on the phone. “I need a forensic crew here ASAP. And the M.E. No paramedics and no sirens, though, Trish. The vic is past the point of saving.”
I moved toward the sound of Shepherd’s voice, drawn there by perhaps a morbid curiosity. Peering cautiously around the corner, I saw him standing next to a confessional. The door was open, and a figure was slumped inside. A large pool of blood that covered the floor of the confessional had leaked out onto the floor near where Shepherd was standing.
I put a hand to cover my mouth and stood there staring. Dumbstruck, I couldn’t seem to move or look away.
And I didn’t even notice when Shepherd ended his call and came over to me. Putting a hand on my elbow, he said, “Look away, Catherine.”
My head jerked up, and as I stared at him, my eyes became cloudy with tears, but still I couldn’t seem to move.
“Come with me,” h
e said, placing an arm across my shoulders and physically turning me away from the scene. I leaned against him, unsure of my footing until we got to the door of the church. Shepherd let go of me and propped the door open with a nearby folding chair; then he guided me out of the door, down the steps, and onto the sidewalk.
“Hey,” he said, to get my attention. “You okay?”
“What . . . happened?” I asked. My hands were trembling, and I felt weak in the knees. I’d never seen so much blood before, let alone a murder victim up close like that.
“Someone killed the priest.”
“Who?” I asked. It was a silly question, but it escaped my lips anyway.
“If I had to guess? I’d say a woman in need of a getaway car.”
“Heather’s housekeeper,” I whispered.
“Yeah. Could be.”
“What should I do?” I asked.
Shepherd eyed me silently for a few moments. Then he said, “Go home. Have that guy in your guest house look after you until I can swing by to get your statement.”
“My statement? What statement?”
“You saw Kuznetsov fleeing the scene of a murder, right?”
“Um . . . I guess.”
“I’ll need an official statement for that.”
“Should I call Marcus?” I asked. Again, it was a silly question to ask Shepherd, but my mind didn’t seem to be working so well.
“That’s up to you,” he said. “But at this point, you’re not at the top of my suspect list.”
Shepherd turned away to head back inside the church, and I was left to shiver on the sidewalk.
Chapter 11
“More soup, sugar?” Gilley asked.
I was curled up on the couch in Chez Kitty, staring numbly into space, my mind still processing the sight from earlier in the day.
“No,” I said, shaking myself out of the disturbing memory.
Gilley came to stand next to me. “How about if I just warm up what you’ve still got left in the bowl?”
I looked down. The bowl of homemade minestrone was full and cold. I’d taken only a few sips of the broth. “Thank you, but I don’t think I’m hungry,” I said, offering it back to him.
He took the bowl and walked it over to the microwave. I heard the door open, the clink of the china on the glass turntable, and then a sequence of beeps as Gilley programed the soup to heat up again.
I sighed. My houseguest was a stubborn one.
When he brought back the steaming bowl to me, I refused to take it from him. “Cat,” he said sternly.
“Gilley.”
“You have to eat.”
“I will, just not now. Later.”
Gilley sat down next to me. “I think you’re in shock, sugar.”
I nodded. That felt about right.
“And you know how they treat people in mild cases of shock?”
“No, how?” I asked almost absently.
Gilley shoved the bowl at me. “They get them to eat.”
Sighing, I took the bowl again and lifted the spoon he’d brought to me earlier. Dipping it into the soup, I took another sip. I was surprised at how flavorful it tasted this time. “It’s good,” I said, dipping my spoon again.
“Damn skippy it’s good,” he muttered.
As I finished the soup, and felt better for it, Gilley chatted me up. It wasn’t a conversation that required any deep concentration; he was merely discussing the storyline from a Netflix series he liked, and I quickly understood that this was his way of giving me a little therapy. It was a way to keep me out of my head for a few minutes, and I found myself deeply grateful to him.
Handing the empty bowl back to him when I’d finished, I said, “Thank you. That honestly helped.”
Gilley took the bowl to the sink and brought me a fresh cup of hot tea. “Okay,” he said, sitting back down on the other end of the couch. “Tell me, from the beginning, what happened.”
When I arrived at Chez Kitty, I’d given Gilley a grossly disjointed story, starting at the end with the dead priest in the confessional and backtracking to the interview with Shepherd. I’d left out so much in my effort to explain why I was so rattled, and I wasn’t surprised that he was asking me about it again.
So I started at the very beginning and was working my way through the encounter with the woman at the church who’d come out after Kuznetsov when there was a knock on the door. Gilley got up to answer it, and I said, “I think that might be Shepherd.”
“What?” Gil asked, spinning around midway to the door. Pointing to the hallway, he lowered his voice and said, “Go hide in my closet! I’ll tell the detective you’re not here!”
I got up, waving my hand at him. “It’s all right, Gilley. He told me he was coming.”
“To arrest you? I’ll call Marcus! What’s his number?”
“Gil,” I said, reaching the door. “Chill.”
Pulling it open, I found Shepherd on the front step, looking tired and grumpy. “Detective,” I said with a nod.
“Catherine,” he replied, dipping his chin. “This a good time?”
“Of course. Please come in.”
I stepped to the side and allowed Shepherd to enter. Gilley stood there with his hands on his hips, glaring, and then he seemed to realize that his laptop was open and the screen wasn’t hidden. His computer was still running passcode variables, trying to hack into Heather’s iCloud account. Launching himself toward his computer, Gilley slammed the lid shut and practically laid on top of it from the effort.
“That’s not suspicious,” Shepherd said.
“It’s for work,” Gilley told him. “Proprietary stuff.”
“What do you do?” the detective asked.
“I . . .” Gilley’s face went blank, probably much like his mind.
“He’s a computer coder,” I said. “He’s working on a new app. Right, Gil?”
“Oh, yes. Sure. That’s it. An app. That’s what I’m working on. An app for the Apple phone. I mean the Apple iPhone. The iPhone.”
A sweat broke out across Gilley’s brow.
Shepherd turned to me. “He’s kind of goofy, huh?”
I frowned and glared hard at Shepherd when I saw the hurt on Gilley’s face. “He’s my dearest friend in the world, Detective.”
An awkward silence followed. Shepherd finally dipped his chin again, and with a hand on his chest, he said, “Noted.”
I believe that was as close to an apology as either Gilley or myself was going to get. Gilley gathered up his laptop and the notebook he’d been scribbling notes into and stomped off toward the bedroom.
I motioned to a chair at the kitchen table, and Shepherd took a seat. “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. I always try to be a good hostess, even when my guest is a horse’s ass.
“Water, if it’s not too much trouble.”
I got him some ice water and set down the glass next to him, and that’s when I heard his stomach rumble. Shepherd cleared his throat loudly, trying to cover it, but I’d heard the gurgle, and it made me smile. “You hungry?”
“No, I’m good,” he said. Shepherd’s stomach rumbled again. It said different.
Moving away from him again, I went to the counter next to the stove, got down a bowl, and filled it with some of Gilley’s soup. I brought it over to the detective with a spoon and a napkin; after setting it down in front of him, I said, “Eat.”
“I don’t want to impose,” he said, eyeing the soup hungrily.
“Then don’t decline my offer to feed you. Now eat.”
Shepherd took up the spoon and tasted the soup. “Man, that’s good.”
I pointed toward the bedroom. “Gilley’s.”
“I almost feel bad for insulting him.”
“Almost?”
“I insult a lot of people on a regular basis. You develop an immunity after a while. It’s part of being a cop.”
“Or a terrible person.”
Shepherd’s spoon stopped midway to his mouth. “You think
I’m a terrible person?”
“I don’t know you well enough to have a concrete opinion, but you have actually been terrible to me, so . . .”
“How have I been terrible to you?” he asked, and I was flabbergasted that he seemed genuinely puzzled by my accusation.
“Are you kidding?”
“No. I really want to know.”
“Um, how about, oh, I don’t know . . . the night you arrested me at Pierre’s?”
“What was so terrible?” he asked. “You were a suspect, we had some solid evidence against you, the arrest was legit.”
“The arrest was not legit,” I snapped. “You used it as a way to trick the real killer into thinking you were only focused on me.”
“Well, that night, maybe I was only focused on you.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I demanded.
“Who’s the guy?”
“What guy?”
“The guy from Pierre’s?”
“Maks?”
“Yeah. Maks.”
“He was my date,” I said.
“Yeah, I already know that. Who is he, exactly?”
I blinked. What the hell was he getting at? “Why is that relevant?”
Shepherd shrugged. “Just curious. He’s Canadian, huh?”
I frowned. I had no idea. His accent was more Russian or Croatian, but perhaps he could’ve had Canadian citizenship. “Don’t know,” I said crisply. “I haven’t asked.”
“So you don’t know each other very well, then? Which is surprising given how chummy you seemed that night.”
And that’s when I saw a hint of something in Shepherd’s eyes that I swear looked a whole lot like that green-eyed monster jealousy. Which was ridiculous. Absurd. Impossible. And yet . . .
“Can we stop with the third degree on my social life for a minute?”
“Fine,” he said, setting aside the bowl of soup. “I just thought it was odd that you were out with a guy who travels around with an armed bodyguard. People like that are usually trouble.”
I glared at Shepherd. “You know what you are?”
“What I am?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll bite, what am I?”
“You’re that guy that likes to get a rise out of people. The guy that pushes people’s buttons just to watch their reaction, and while you probably have a few acquaintances, I doubt you have many friends, because no one can stand to be around someone like that for long.”
Coached to Death Page 18