Текст книги "Legacy"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

CHAPTER 16

DANIEL FREY LIVES IN MISSION VALLEY IN A large, upscale condo development overlooking the city. It’s a gated community and I lean out the car window to ring his unit.

In a moment he answers with an abrupt, “Yes? Who is it?”

“What kind of greeting is that?”

“Anna?” A pause. “You’re here to see me?”

“No. I’m here to see your neighbor. The cute old guy. Of course, I’m here to see you. Are you going to buzz me in or what?”

There’s another pause.

“Frey, what’s going on? Why aren’t you buzzing me in?” No answer. Another pause. Then, finally, the gate swings open.

I punch the accelerator and speed through before he changes his mind. What was that all about? I know I haven’t seen him since we stopped a demon raising last Halloween, but we parted on good terms. I saved his life, for Christ’s sake. Well, technically, an empath saved his life. I saved his ass, though, which allowed the empath to save his life, so that should count for something.

By the time I reach his door, I’ve worked myself into a pretty good sense of indignation. My finger is about to hit the doorbell when the front door swings open. Frey greets me with a frown and steps outside, pulling the door closed behind him.

“This really isn’t a good time, Anna,” he says.

For a minute, I’m too distracted by what he has on to be irritated by the less-than-hospitable greeting. He tries to pull a white terry robe closed, but he’s not quick enough and the robe isn’t big enough to keep me from seeing what he’s wearing underneath.

Frey is a shape-shifter whose other form is panther. His human job is teaching, at my mother’s high school, in fact. It’s how we met. He’s in his forties, tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that reflects humor and intelligence. He’s a conservative dresser, leaning toward slacks and open-neck polos. So to find him in a pair of baby blue pajamas with black cats stenciled all over them provokes an openmouthed gape.

His mouth forms a thin, rigid line. “What’s wrong?”

Astonishment is giving way to an irresistible urge to laugh. Not the right reaction if I want his help. I swallow hard and struggle to erase the smile off my face.

The effort is not lost on Frey. His frown deepens. “Well?”

“I need to do some research. I figured your library would be the place to start.”

“Research about what?”

“Your cousins.”

“Cousins?”

“The were side of the family.”

The brows draw together. “Shape-shifters are in no way related to weres. They are pack animals, dangerous in and out of their animal bodies.” He looks at me and for the first time, something besides aggravation touches his expression. “Anna, you want nothing to do with weres. Hasn’t Williams ever told you that?”

“No. He had his chance, too. I saw him last night. Anyway, I’ve got no choice in this. I need to know what magic they possess. What spells they can cast. I need the information before tonight.”

He glares at me, a dark intensity shadowing his eyes. “What happens tonight?”

“I have to meet with a were. It’s business.”

“What business could you possibly have with a were?”

Frey and I used to be able to read each other’s thoughts, the way I can with vamps. That changed when I stupidly bit him once, and fed from him, which broke that connection. I see in his expression that he wishes he could crawl into my head right now and pry the information out of me. I also see deep concern and a dawning realization that he may be able to do something to stop me.

“Frey,” I say with a warning shake of my head. “You can’t stop this. Don’t try. No tricks. I know you think you would be protecting me, but believe me when I say if you do anything to try and prevent this, I’ll be angry. More than angry. I’ll be downright pissed. We both know that wouldn’t be good.”

He continues to stare at me, the internal debate obviously still raging. He, too, has the ability to cast spells. I have firsthand knowledge. He cast one on me a while back. Judging from that experience, though, I know he has to be present to invoke it and to keep the object of the spell under its control. Unless he plans to stay with me all day and night, I don’t think he can really do anything to prevent my meeting with Sandra.

Still.

“If you want to help, let me use your books. Find out how to protect myself. Doesn’t that make sense?”

The debate comes to an end. His expression is still anxious but he does swing open the door.

His sartorial taste isn’t the only thing that’s changed.

The last time I was in Frey’s home, the decor was minimalist to say the least—the walls, the carpet, the furniture, all the same color—gray. There were no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks on the tables, not a single book on the smooth, marble block that serves as a coffee table.

That was then.

Today the walls are alive with colorful works of art—bold landscapes done in great slashing strokes of green and yellow and red. The furniture has been rearranged, not symmetrically, but clustered in front of the fireplace. Throw pillows tumble over each other and spill onto the floor. A stack of books and a fan of magazines battle for space with a huge bouquet of violet lilies on that same marble coffee table.

It takes me a minute to absorb it all.

“Wow,” I say, turning to Frey, “when you redecorate, you don’t fool around, do you?”

“But he does fool around with the decorator.”

The voice comes from behind me, startling me into whirling around. I never heard her approach, never sensed the presence. She must have come from outside, the balcony. “What are you, a cat?”

She smiles. “Sorry. I should have made more noise.”

Frey moves around me to stand beside the woman. She’s tall, only an inch or two shorter than his six feet, and willowy thin. She has light brown hair drawn back from her face. Her eyes, blue, cool, are carefully hooded as she looks at me. She’s pretty in an edgy way, velvet over steel.

She’s dressed in a pair of pajamas that match Frey’s—only hers are pink with little black cats—and, oh, a couple of other major differences: her top is low-cut, revealing a curve of breast, and her pants ride low on her hips, exposing a tanned stretch of trim abdomen. No robe for this one. She’s immodesty personified.

Makes me see Frey in a new light. He and I had sex. Once. It was pretty damned good, too, but if this is Frey’s girlfriend, he must have talents he hid from me.

She’s watching me, a half smile playing on those full lips. It hits me then. She’s reading my thoughts. Shit. She’s a shape-shifter, too. She now knows everything that’s gone through my head in the last few minutes. Too late now to close the conduit.

You might have let me know.

She laughs. Why? This was so much more fun.

Are you a panther, too?

No.She links her arm through Frey’s. A tiger.

Figures. I knew she had to be some kind of cat.

Frey is looking from one of us to the other. “This isn’t fair,” he says. “I can only hear one side of the conversation.”

She tilts her head up and gives Frey a kiss on the cheek. “Go tend to Anna’s needs,” she says. “I’m going to shower.”

Color floods Frey’s face as he watches her walk toward the bedroom. She must have thrown him a parting remark that I wasn’t privy to.

“Care to share?” I ask.

“No.” He straightens his shoulders and gestures toward the hall. “Let’s go to the library.”

I follow in his wake. “Does the sex kitten have a name?” “She didn’t tell you?”

“No. Would I be asking if she did?”

“Layla. Her name’s Layla.”

“Any last name?”

We’re at the door to the library and he swings it open. He doesn’t answer. He’s never been secretive with me before and it’s creeping me out.

“She said she’s a decorator? Where does she work?”

No answer. Again. If he doesn’t give me something to work with, how am I going to check this kitty out?

He’s at the shelves, trailing a finger over a row of books. Frey’s library is extensive, three walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Each book has the name of a literary classic embossed on its spine.

The room smells of old paper and aged leather, like an antiquarian bookstore. Except that these books are not literary classics. They’re books on magic. Cleverly disguised and protected by a spell.

Frey makes his decision with a grunt and a snap of his fingers. He pulls down a volume and turns to me, clutching the book against his chest.

“I’m still not sure I should do this,” he says.

I hold out a hand for the book. “Look at it this way, if you don’t and I walk into a were trap, will you ever forgive yourself?”

Again the grunt but this time, he puts the book in my hand. “Read the first three chapters. And chapter seventeen. They contain the relevant information.”

The book lies heavy on my palm. The title says Great Expectations, and if I were human, what I’d see when I opened the book would be the Dickens text. What I see now upon opening the book is Old English calligraphy.

English?

I look up at Frey. “The last time I looked at one of these books, the text was some kind of hieroglyphic. Are they all different?”

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “I wasn’t sure about you then.”

“You have the ability to change the text?”

“Oh, Anna, I have all sorts of abilities. You’d be amazed.”

I stare at him. Having met Layla, he’s probably right. As for the books, I knew they were spell protected. It appears Frey is the spellbinder. Impressive.

He takes my arm and steers me toward the door. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Anna. And call me if you have any questions. In fact, call me after your meeting.”

“You’re that concerned about my meeting with the were?”

He looks grim again. “After you read those chapters, I’m hoping you’ll reconsider the meeting. No business can be that important. Or if you must go, take someone with you for backup. Williams maybe. He seems to have some free time on his hands right now.”

My thoughts are suddenly of Sandra. Irrational thoughts, like I don’t want to share her with anyone. I shake my head to clear the cobwebs. That I would be thinking such a thing seems to make Frey’s point.

I raise the book. “I will read this before I make any decisions. I promise.”

He doesn’t seem too impressed nor does he look relieved at my words. He opens his mouth to say something else when the bedroom door opens and a naked, wet Layla appears in the doorway.

“Oh,” she says, making no attempt to cover herself or duck back into the room. “Anna, you’re still here?”

Like I hadn’t caught that probe she deliberately sent out a second before opening the door. Rolling my eyes at both of them, I head out the front door.

Layla is a piece of work, true, still I don’t know why I’m feeling so agitated as I make my way back to the car. The last time we were together, Frey told me that he had a girlfriend. I didn’t give it much thought. I would have expected her to be someone like himself. Dignified. Sedate. This tiger is clearly a man-eater. She’ll gobble him up and spit him out in a New York minute if he isn’t careful. Makes my spidey sense tingle. She’s had a profound influence on someone I consider a friend—right down to taking over his living area.

I press the car lock on the remote and slip into the driver’s seat. Layla will have to wait. I have plenty on my plate at the moment. Still, she’s added to my to-do list.

Right after Gloria and David . . . and Sandra.

I have an hour or so before Gloria calls to let me know if I’m going to meet her at her home or in jail. Might as well get a jump on my “research.” I settle the book on my lap.

It’s as far as I get. My cell phone rings. I’m mighty popular this morning. The number on the display is a familiar one.

“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

“Oh, Anna.” My mother sounds breathless and excited. “You are never going to guess what happened.”

“You sound happy so it must be something good. Tell me.”

“I’d rather do it in person. Can you come over now?”

Crap. I glance at my watch. I’d just make it to East County, where they live, and have to turn around and come back to meet Gloria. “I can’t right this minute. Can’t you tell me over the phone?”

She starts to laugh. “No. I have to see your face when you hear this.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“When can you get here?”

“Late this afternoon, maybe?”

“Excellent. Come for dinner. We’ll be waiting. À bientôt, ma chère fille.”

She disconnects without waiting for me to respond.

Ma chère fille?

I close my phone and drop it back into my bag. What was that all about? My mom has always been a Francophile, but since when did she start talking to mein French?

CHAPTER 17

I CAN’T IMAGINE WHAT KIND OF SURPRISE AWAITS me this afternoon. Maybe she and Trish enrolled in a French-cooking class and they need a guinea pig to experiment on. Dad is not big on French cooking. Since I can’t eat any kind of cooking, it may turn out to be a less-than-momentous occasion all around.

Oh well. May as well not waste good reading time. I settle back in the car seat and open the book to the first chapter. Unlike the first time I opened the book, it takes several seconds for the conventional text of Great Expectationsto fade. Maybe once outside the confines of Frey’s library, the book protects its secrets on its own. Does it hold off revealing the true text until it’s sure the hands that hold it are no longer human? I must ask Frey how this works.

When the transformation is complete, it takes concentration on my part to interpret the actual text. Old English calligraphy is not the easiest to read. The language is flowery and antiquated. I flip to the front and understand why. The book is not dated. No author listed. No publishing information. No publisher, actually, since the pages seem to be handwritten. In ink. I’m surprised Frey would let me out of the house with such a valuable book. Knowing Frey, though, the book may be equipped with its own security system. If I tried to rip out a page or accidentally dropped it in the bathtub, my head would likely explode.

The first chapter is devoted to the history of lycanthropes, as the book refers to them (the word itself coming from the Greek– lykos, wolf, and anthropos, human). Roots that reach back into prehistory. It is believed that young warriors of many Indo-European civilizations went into the wilderness to live as wolves wearing animal skins and eating raw meat as a test of strength and courage. A closely related tradition was that of the “berserkers” or bear people, who fought with wild, unrestrained aggression in battle. Losing control of their animal aspects was often blamed for acts of horrifying violence.

Still, it was thought that a physical transformation of man into wolf or bear was impossible—that the human body of a werewolf would be at rest while the animal form prowled. Some medieval records dispute that and give accounts of werewolves being killed before a complete transformation. The creature might have human hands or feet covered with hair.

Not a pretty image. I wonder if it’s true. I’ve only dealt with shape-shifters to this point. Does Sandra change completely or is she half beast, half woman?

The rest of the chapter explains the many theories of how a transformation takes place, though none of them involve the moon. Most have to do with charms and potions and belts of animal skins. Nothing that is of interest or could be of help to me if things go badly between Sandra and me tonight.

Nor is there anything that points to Sandra being particularly dangerous. Is Frey overreacting?

Maybe the next two chapters and chapter seventeen will be more to the point.

I glance at my watch the same instant my cell phone rings. It’s after ten so this must be Gloria.

“How did the hearing go?”

“Can you come pick me up?”

She sounds tired. “I take it that means you made bail?”

“Yes. I had to relinquish my passport, though, and put two of my houses up for collateral. Barely covered the twenty million. With all that, the prosecutor still wasn’t happy. Wanted me held without bail.”

Imagine that. “You were charged with murder, Gloria.”

“Thanks for reminding me, Anna. I’d forgotten why I’m in this shit hole.”

Well, well. The bitch is back.

“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

I disconnect before she can make another smart-ass remark. Maybe I’ll get lost on my way to the jail and let her cool her heels for a while. I’m on the clock now, at two hundred an hour.

GLORIA IS WAITING ON THE STEPS OF POLICE PLAZA when I pull up. I don’t blame her for waiting outside. I’d be outside, too. Jail stinks.

I start to honk my horn to get her attention when a young guy comes streaking around the corner and bounds up the stairs. Late for a court hearing, maybe?

Except that he doesn’t head toward the door. He heads for Gloria. Straight for Gloria.

I slam the car in park and jump out. The expression on his face, desperation, anguish, stirs the hair on the back of my neck. I let the adrenaline kick in and race after him.

There’s a long, sloping expanse of grass between the curb and the stairs. Gloria is standing at the top. I open my mouth to shout a warning when she spies the kid and does something so completely unexpected it brings me to a dead stop.

She opens her arms.

The kid falls into them and starts to sob.

Gloria sees me at the bottom of the stairs. She straightens up and gently pushes the kid away. She’s whispering something to him, right at his ear, something my vampiric hearing can’t pick up. He turns and looks at me. Then as quickly as he bounded up the stairs, he’s running back down. Like a jackrabbit avoiding a fox, he makes a wide arc around me. Before I can put out a hand to stop him, he darts away.

It only takes me a nanosecond to decide not to go after him. I’ve filed his image in my head. I’ve seen him before.

I join Gloria at the top of the stairs staring in the direction of the now departed young man.

“Who was that?”

When she fails to respond, I turn to look at her.

“Gloria? Who was that? Not a reporter. He’s too young to be a reporter. He was upset. You hugged him. He’s not another boyfriend, is he? Somebody else you’ve been cheating on David with?”

A thundercloud of anger sweeps across her face. “He’s a kid, Anna. Barely fourteen. No, he’s not a boyfriend.”

“Then who is he?”

“He’s a friend. That’s all I’m going to say. Can you please get me the hell out of here? I want to go home. Take a long, hot shower. Then we can talk about what you’re going to do to find Rory’s killer.”

She’s already three steps ahead of me, running down the stairs in her haste to get to my car. Or to avoid answering any more questions about the mysterious young man. I’m not sure which. Not that it matters. I have a clear image of the kid’s face in my memory. I know I’ve seen him before. It’s the only reason I didn’t stop him or press her for answers. I’ll get those on my own.

The kid can run, Gloria, but he can’t hide.

Not for long. Not from me.

CHAPTER 18

WHEN WE’RE IN THE CAR, IT SUDDENLY OCCURS to me that there were no paparazzi at the courthouse. A bloody carcass doesn’t attract vultures faster than a celebrity in trouble attracts the media. I half turn in the seat to look at Gloria.

“How’d you pull it off?”

I don’t have to explain what I mean. She waves a hand. “My lawyer let it leak that I’d be arraigned at one this afternoon. Oops.”

I have to admire his ingenuity though I pity the guy who walks out of the courthouse on a pandering charge and has a hundred flashbulbs go off in his face. I crank over the engine.

David’s place has always been home to Gloria in San Diego. Since she knows better than to think I’d take her there, I ask, “Where are you staying?”

“I thought I’d stay with you.”

The ten thousand reasons why thatis not going to happen bubble to my lips like a geyser ready to spew. Luckily, I stifle the eruption when I realize she’s kidding. I know she’s kidding because she’s staring at me with a “gotcha” smirk on her face.

“I have a suite at the Four Seasons,” she says.

“I should have guessed. Where else would you stay but the most expensive hotel in San Diego?”

She ignores the sarcasm, rests her head against the seat and closes her eyes. I accelerate away from the curb. At least she’s riding in front with me. If she’d gotten into the backseat, I might have been tempted to kick her skinny ass right out of the car.

She’s quiet on the ride to the hotel. I use the time to concentrate on that kid and where I’ve seen him before. It won’t come. I’m not worried, though. I know I’ll remember. Something will trip the memory and his identity will float to the surface of my subconscious like pond scum.

The Four Seasons is San Diego’s newest and finest. We pull up to the front entrance and a valet is there to open my door before we’ve come to a complete stop. Another valet is at Gloria’s door, gushing like an excited schoolboy when he recognizes her. He either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that she’s coming from a night in jail. He rushes past us to open the door to the lobby. Gloria sweeps past him like the queen with her livery.

I follow after getting the valet ticket. No one rushes to open the door for me. I’m only her driver.

Gloria is at the front desk, collecting messages and her key. At least she waits for me to catch up before starting for the elevator. She goes straight to the elevator cordoned off with a red rope. A uniformed bellboy opens it for her and we pass into a car with only two stop buttons. PH1 and PH2. She inserts a key card and hits PH2.

The elevator whisks us up in perfumed silence and whispers to a stop. The door opens into the suite’s marble foyer. It’s a setup I’ve only seen in movies. There is a fountain, lots of greenery, and a carved, twelve-foot-high double door. She opens it with the same key card she used in the elevator and steps aside so I can go in first.

I’ve been in a lot of beautiful homes and hotel rooms, but nothing like this. The penthouse faces west with a view over the city, over Pacific Coast Highway, over a vast expanse of ocean. It’s an unobstructed view, inside and out, both because we’re twenty stories up and because the entire wall is made of glass. No structural beams or window frames. How they did it, I couldn’t begin to guess. There is furniture on both sides of the glass, classical leather pieces on the inside, wicker chairs and lounges on a terrace outside. It’s breathtaking.

It becomes more so when Gloria presses a button and the “wall” retracts. The salt-air smell of ocean wafts in.

Gloria takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“God. I was afraid I’d never smell fresh air again.” She tosses her key and the stack of messages on a small mahogany table near the couch. Not all of the messages, though. Before starting for a door to the right of the living room, she extracts three from the pile and palms them. She calls back to me, “I’m going to shower and change. There’s coffee in the kitchen. Order room service if you’re hungry. I can’t stay in these clothes another minute.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply but disappears into what I assume is the bedroom, closing the door behind her. I wonder whose messages she so subtly removed. She obviously didn’t want me to see who left them. Takes all the fun out of being nosy if the object of your snooping is on to you. I go through the ones she left behind anyway. Nothing but calls from print reporters representing everything from the Enquirerto the Wall Street Journal.

She took the interesting ones with her.

I wander in the opposite direction, finding the kitchen behind another of those carved doors. There’s a coffeemaker already set up on the counter. I push the button and beans grind, water filters and coffee drips into a cut-glass decanter.

A coffeemaker with a crystal decanter. Why am I surprised?

There’s something else on the counter. A copy of a search warrant. The objects of the search include a gun and a key card. Since there are no accompanying receipts, the police left with nothing.

All the same, I open cupboards and look on my own. What I find is everything the type of person who can afford to stay here would need for spur of the moment entertaining . . . tins of foie gras and caviar, sleeves of toast points and wafer-thin crackers, expensive chocolates. More exploring finds the wine cooler hidden behind cherry cabinet doors, six bottles of wine and six bottles of champagne. China, crystal, a silver service, gold-leaf flatware.

I sniff, letting vampire senses kick in. No residual smell of blood means there were no bloody clothes stuffed in any of these corners. No smell of cordite or oil. No gun, either.

A low, muted chime announces that the coffee is ready. I grab a coffee cup and close the cupboards. I didn’t really expect that there would be anything to find. Gloria is vain and selfish, arrogant and narcissistic. But she isn’t stupid.

Besides, I don’t think she had a chance to come back here last night. She was at the restaurant with David and me and then she was in jail. Judging by the looks of the place, the hotel must have a concierge service on call to clean up after a warrant search. The place is immaculate.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and doctor it with cream (real, none of that flavored crap) and sugar, and have taken a seat on a chaise on the terrace when Gloria rejoins me. Her skin glows, her wet hair falls in waves around her face. She has on pale yellow silk pajamas that look both tailored and expensive. Wearily, she falls into a chair opposite me. She gestures toward my cup.

“Any more coffee?”

My evil twin wants to say, “Yeah, in the kitchen. Do I look like a gofer?” The fatigue in her eyes, however, unleashes a rare moment of compassion and I find myself getting up, going into the kitchen and pouring her a cup. I’m not compassionate enough to ask if she wants cream or sugar, though.

She accepts the black coffee with a grateful smile. After drinking a moment or two in silence, she says, “What do we do now?”

I place my cup down on the glass-topped table between us. “Now you tell me about Rory. Anything that will point me to someone other than you with a motive to want him dead.”

She tilts her head, eyeing me over the cup. “I really don’t know anything. We didn’t tell each other personal things. There was no need.”

I start to say something nasty about her lack of moral fiber when Lance and last night’s escapade flashes into my head. Okay. So if you asked me to tell you anything personal about Lance, like where he lives or who his enemies are, I wouldn’t be able to answer, either.

On the other hand, I didn’t go into business with the guy or cheat on my boyfriend with him.

“I know you spent your time screwing, but you must have come up for air once in a while. Did you ever overhear a telephone conversation that seemed off? Ever see anything that particularly disturbed O’Sullivan or made him mad?”

Gloria ignores my tone and lets her gaze drift out across the sea. After a moment, she replies, “Not really.”

“Not really? Come on, Gloria. Think. This is going to be the shortest investigation in history if you don’t give me something to work with. The suit he threatened you with. He suspected you of embezzling?”

She waves a hand. “It was harassment. He kept the books, for god’s sake. He knew there were no missing funds. It was another ploy to get me to back down. To resume our relationship.”

“I’ll need to see that note. Is it still at the restaurant?”

She nods. “I’ll call the manager and tell him to give you access to the office. Is there anything else?”

“Is there anything else?” I’m having a hard time reconciling this lethargic Gloria with the sharp-tongued harpy I’m used to. “Yeah, Gloria, there’s something else. Why did you go to Rory’s house yesterday? He was blackmailing you for sex. He was alone. You weren’t afraid he’d force himself on you?”

Gloria isn’t listening. She’s focusing on the coffee cup in her hand. A hand that begins to tremble. She places the cup carefully on the table.

That’s when it hits me. “Did you take something, Gloria? A sedative or a tranquilizer?”

This time when she looks at me, I see it. The dilated pupils, the glassy stare. “You did, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t get a moment’s sleep last night. I’m so tired.”

Great. “Stay with me. Tell me about O’Sullivan’s home life. How did his wife act toward you in public? Did she ever let on that she knew the two of you were fuck buddies?”

A spark of life. Gloria leans forward. “If Laura knew we were having an affair, she never let on. Never. We had dinner, the three of us, many times. Sometimes, in the beginning, David joined us, too.”

“You had dinner with David and Rory and his wife while you were screwing Rory. Balls of steel, Gloria. No wonder his wife has it in for you.”

“I know what she told the reporters,” she says. “She lied. I don’t think she knew a thing about Rory and me.”

“At least until last night.”

“Until last night.”

I shake my head. “You’re sure O’Sullivan didn’t say anything to his wife sooner? She says he confessed the affair weeks ago and she forgave him.”

Gloria narrows her eyes. “Let me ask you something. If your husband confessed he was having an affair, would you invite the woman to his birthday party? Or a few days ago, invite her to your home for lunch?”

“Only if strychnine was on the menu.”

She bobs her head. “Exactly. I’m the actress. There’s absolutely no way Laura could have treated me the way she did if she’d known Rory and I were having an affair. She’s his second wife, by the way. The trophy wife. She knew him. She’d have her sensors out for any indication that he was being unfaithful. She’d recognize the signs. After all, it’s how she hooked him. She worked as his personal assistant. Emphasis on the personal.”

Gloria watches me as she spins her tale. It sounds like motive enough. The second wife protecting her turf against the perceived usurper. It’s neat and tidy. It could well be true. All the same, Gloria seems to be overlooking one important fact. While the current Mrs. O’Sullivan may not be an actress, the story she spun for the police was convincing enough to land Gloria in jail.

“I’ll look into the wife’s background. See if she has a gun registered in her name.”

“Your friend, Chief Williams, should be able to help you, right? He’ll give you access to the police reports?”