Текст книги "The Hell Yo "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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That had been easier than expected. I went around the corner of the house. The patio

was a cement slab with a metal canopy. There was a selection of withered plants in pots of

various sizes. I didn’t need to use my flashlight thanks to the dramatic full moon, and the fact

that the dragon planter had been painted in Day-Glo paint. Red eyes glowed eerily from the

shadows. I poked around in the dirt and dead twigs, found the key, and opened the sliding

glass door.

I stepped inside. The place stank of cigarettes, marijuana, garbage…

“Hello?”

The sound of my voice was startling in the emptiness of that house. I’d never been

anywhere that felt so cold, so devoid of life.

I turned on the nearest lamp.

The room looked shockingly ordinary. No horned goat image painted on the walls, no

altar festooned with black candles.

The shag carpet looked like Rice-A-Roni, and there was an assortment of furniture

ready for the Goodwill, although, come to think of it, that was probably where Angus had

purchased it. The coffee table was littered with music magazines and bills. There were

several books on astrology, including a copy of The Devil’s Disciple by Garibaldi.

There was also a copy of The Satanic Bible. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise at

the sight of the ominous scarlet pentagram on that stark black cover.

After a moment I shook off my inertia, telling myself not to be an ass. I quickly

shuffled through the papers scattered across the coffee table. No letters. I glanced around the

room.

Not a single picture on the wall. Now that truly was weird.

I made tracks for the kitchen. It was disorderly, but not dirty, despite the persistent

reek of garbage. A phone book lay open on the table. I glanced at the yellow pages:

locksmiths. Was that significant?

Next to the fake oak cabinets was a bulletin board with photos of Angus and Wanda –

Wanda in a giant sombrero, her face smeared in whipped cream. Birthday party, California

style. There were a couple of postcards, a schedule of classes that neither of them was

attending. That was about it.

All the while I searched, the quiet chill of the place gnawed at me. I began to feel like I

was being watched. Every time the house creaked – and sometimes when it didn’t – I

snapped to attention, staring about myself uneasily.

If I hadn’t already told Jake I would be there, I’d have walked out a dozen times. As it

was, I’d been inside about eight minutes when I decided I’d had it. I would wait for Jake out

front in the Forester. For that matter, I didn’t even know if Jake had got my message. He

likely hadn’t. He hadn’t called me back. He was probably home in bed, sound asleep, right

now. Which is where I would have been if I had any sense at all.

As I crossed the living room, heading for the glass door, it occurred to me that the sour

sick smell that hung over the place like a pall was stronger from the hall that led to the

bedrooms.

I stood rooted in the intersection of rooms, my mouth dry with dread.

Thank you and good night , I thought. At the same instant, I realized that I couldn’t

walk away. Never mind the ethics of the situation, I’d touched the front door knob, the

sliding glass door, the lamp – and those were the articles I knew for sure would retain

fingerprints. The articles I remembered touching.

I could be wrong, I reassured myself. I was often wrong. More and more often, it

seemed lately.

But I knew I wasn’t wrong. Not this time. Not about this.

I turned down the hallway. It felt like when you’re trying to run in nightmare. Despite

the adrenaline overdrive, my footsteps dragged as I paced the length of the hall. I poked my

head around the doorframe.

Moonlight poured from the back window onto the thing sprawled on the bed. White,

limp, and streaked with dark: a body.

“No,” I said. “No. No fucking way.” My voice sounded shocked and loud. Way too loud.

Too loud for the room, too loud in my head. I clamped down on it.

Dimly, I made out the giant circle scrawled on the wall above the headboard. Circle

with a five-point star, and in the center, a terrible symbol – the calling card of a high–

ranking demon.

Chapter Ten

I retreated a step, then a few more, walking backward because – crazily – I was afraid

to turn my back on the body in the bedroom. I reached the living room without falling over

anything. I stood there, white noise filling the space usually needed for thinking.

The glass door slid open behind me. I spun around, blood thundering in my ears. I

don’t do surprises well.

Jake slipped inside, got one look at my face, and was across the floor in two strides. His

hands closed on my arms. He said close to my ear, “Don’t pass out.”

“I won’t.” I thought I said it aloud, but maybe I was just thinking it. My face seemed to

be pressed into his shoulder. I breathed him in. He smelled like the night and like deodorant

soap; he smelled alive.

After a few moments he gave me a shake. “Adrien? Come on, baby. Pull yourself

together.” He gave me another joggle, this one less patient. “Is it Angus?”

I shook my head.

He put me away from him, moving past. I heard the bedroom light click on. Light

spilled down the hallway. I tottered the last steps to the couch, dropped into the sagging

cushions, practiced taking long, calm breaths.

While You Were Out, with special guest Charles Manson.

After a couple of minutes, Jake dropped into the chair across from me. I glanced at his

face. Nice to know I wasn’t the only one sick with horror.

“I think it might be the girl from the bookstore,” he said.

“Velvet?” I was aghast.

Jake looked confused. “The one you called Kinsey. The blonde.”

Kinsey. Right. Where did I get Velvet from? That was a weird jump.

“Who’s Velvet?”

I shook my head.

He was silent. Then he said abruptly, “Did you see the symbols over the bed?”

“Not clearly.”

“Could you handle another look?”

I stared at him.

He explained, “I think they match the carvings in the tree where we found the Zellig

kid. I think, but I’m not sure, that they match the stuff painted on your doorstep. Would you

be able to tell?”

Why did he have to know right that minute? Why the fuck couldn’t he wait till he

looked at the photos himself?

I gave him a long, unfriendly look, forced myself to get up. I walked back to the

bedroom.

How had I not instantly recognized that smell for what it was? I swallowed hard.

Jake followed. As feeble as it sounds, the fact that he stood at my shoulder did bolster

me. I kept my gaze focused on the wall, not looking at what lay beneath, but Jesus Christ, the

thing was written in blood – her blood.

I reached for the door frame, and he startled me by catching my wrist.

“Try not to touch anything.”

That didn’t register. The fact that he gripped my arm hard enough to leave his own

fingerprints didn’t register.

“I think it’s the same.” The voice didn’t sound like mine.

He let me go. I turned, found my way back to the couch. I put my face briefly in my

hands, trying to scrub away the picture in my brain. I’ve seen bad things, but that was the

worst, by far.

Jake came and stood over me.

“He set you up. You do realize that?”

I lifted my head. Blinked at him. “Huh?”

“Your pet nutcase. Angus.”

“You think Angus killed her?”

“If he didn’t, he sure as hell knows who did. He didn’t accidentally pick tonight to send

you over here.”

I tried to remember the details of my conversation with Angus. “He was terrified.”

“That fits.”

Did it? Maybe it did. Angus knew about the Eaton Canyon murder. I didn’t want to

believe he had been involved in that, but it was hard to explain his knowing, yet not being

incriminated. Why wouldn’t he have gone to the cops? What excuse was there?

It was over anyway. He had Angus’s phone number. In a matter of hours, Angus would

be arrested for murder. At the least, he would be brought back and questioned. Maybe that

was just as well, because this had to end.

I became aware that a long silence had fallen between Jake and me. I glanced at him.

“Have you called it in?”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know what to do about you.”

“Say again?”

His expression was bleak. “How do we explain your presence here?”

I shrugged tiredly. “Angus asked me to swing by and pick up his mail.” I wondered if

Angus would be willing to back that story once he was officially under suspicion for murder.

“And I called you because I knew –”

I got it at last. How did I know of Jake’s interest in the case? How did I happen to have

his cell phone number? And why had Jake come sneaking over here at my offer of an

unofficial peek into Angus’s home? The answers to these and other obvious questions

inferred a personal and intimate acquaintanceship between me and Jake.

He said slowly, as though he were thinking aloud, “It’s reasonable that you could have

called me. I could have come to the bookstore following up a lead.”

“What lead?”

“Okay, scratch that. You called me when the kid disappeared. We met during the

Slasher investigation, and when this happened you gave me a call. You were concerned

about the kid, and I gave you my cell phone number and told you to call me if you heard

from him.”

It was fascinating, in a painful and weird way, to watch him try to rationalize away any

reason for a personal link between us. To cover the fact that he had been friends – and

occasionally more – with a gay man.

“Then what?” I asked with a strange detachment. “You came over here and found

the…her?”

“Why not?”

“What about my fingerprints?”

“What did you touch?”

I told him. He shook his head dismissingly. “It’s hard to lift latent prints from rough

surfaces like terra cotta and unfinished wood. Even getting them off a curved surface like a

door knob is tricky.”

“They can do it with chemical processing.”

“Yeah.” I spotted the tinker-toy wheels turning. “But I don’t want to risk destroying

the perp’s prints. Anyway, your fingerprints aren’t on file, and there’s no reason for you to be

printed now.”

He spoke confidently, working it out as he went along. Contemplating him from what

seemed like miles away, I felt kind of hollow.

“Is it worth the risk? We’ll have a shitload of trouble trying to explain why we lied, if

your story doesn’t hold up.”

His eyes flicked to mine. “Or even seriously interviewed,” he said as though I hadn’t

spoken. “There’s a good chance I’ll catch the case. I’m part of the occult-killing task force.”

Oh, good. Promotion ops for Jake.

I planted my hands on my thighs, pushed myself to my feet. “Sounds like you’ve got it

all worked out,” I said politely. “Is there any reason for me to hang around?”

He shook his head. I’m not sure my words actually registered.

“Can I leave by the front, or do I need to climb over the back wall?”

“Hang on.” Pulling a hanky out of his pocket, he went to the front door and gingerly

opened it, touching the knob as little as possible. Opening the screen door, he stepped out,

studied the street, and then turned back to me. “It’s clear.”

“I gripped the front knob.”

Without a word, he wiped the door handle. So much for not destroying evidence.

My eyes met his for an instant before I turned to slip past him.

He grabbed my shoulder. “You’re wrong,” he said roughly. “I wouldn’t compromise an

investigation to protect myself. Not even to protect you.”

I couldn’t help a bitter laugh. “This isn’t for me.”

“Jesus, Adrien. Neither of us needs this complication right now. We both know you

didn’t do her, that it went down just as you said. What the fuck would be gained by going

through the formality of questioning you? Why would I want to waste department time and

resources checking your story out? Christ, do you want your picture in the papers again?”

I sure didn’t, but it troubled me that he was destroying possible evidence. The harder

he tried to convince me that this was all in the interests of the investigation, the more I

knew it was to protect himself.

He must have read my thoughts. Abruptly, he let me go. “Think what you want,” he

said curtly.

I stepped out, the screen door springing shut behind me with a little bang.

* * * * *

Angus had left three frantic messages on my machine. I listened to them, stomach

curdling with irrational guilt, then I erased them. I wondered how long it would be before

the cops audited the phone records of wherever he was staying and came to interview me.

But then, we weren’t trying to hide the fact that I had called Jake, we were concealing

how well I knew him.

I poured myself a snifter of brandy. Actually, it was more like a soup bowl. I downed it

in a couple of gulps, then refilled my glass.

I was going to have to lie for Jake, and I wasn’t sure I would be able to. I wasn’t sure I

wanted to. Through the warm haze of the brandy, I listened to that whisper of rebellion,

then turned down the volume.

Guy Snowden had also left a message: crisp and to the point.

“I had a visit from LAPD today. I’d like to meet with you again. I’d like to introduce

you to a friend of mine.”

When I finished the brandy – and I do mean all the brandy – I gave Guy a call.

Predictably, his answering machine picked up.

I hesitated, wondering if he was awake, maybe listening in the darkness for one

particular voice.

I quietly replaced the receiver in its cradle.

Chapter Eleven

Over a bowl of oatmeal and a bottle of aspirin, I watched Angus and Wanda being

arrested.

The morning news brimmed with murder. Footage of Angus and Wanda being

escorted out of a cabin in Lake Tahoe was replayed on every channel. Unreal. Angus and

Wanda, handcuffed, trying to hide their faces, were escorted by burly sheriffs through a mob

of cameras.

What would happen to them? I assumed Wanda’s family would come to her rescue, but

I had never heard Angus mention any family besides this NorCal “Grampy.” He couldn’t

afford legal defense. He’d wind up with some court-appointed public defender.

I changed the channel and watched Angus being guided into a patrol car once again. It

was surreal. Eyes shining, the blonde reporter blabbed on with pseudo gravity to the folks at

home. You’d have thought they had nabbed the Zodiac Killer.

I turned off the TV, dumped my dish in the sink. Belatedly, it occurred to me that

Angus knew the truth about my relationship with Jake. How long before that came out in

questioning? The minute he found out that Jake was the cop who’d discovered the body, he’d

put two and two together. He’d spill. Or did Jake have a plan for keeping Angus quiet?

I considered Jake’s theory that Angus had tried to set me up the night before. It didn’t

make sense. Set me up for what? It wasn’t like the cops had been waiting for me to stumble

onto the crime scene. If anyone was being set up, wasn’t it most likely Angus? The body had

been found in his house.

I was sketchy on the details of how he had angered his former playmates, but there was

no doubt he had ticked off some unpleasant people. Then he’d compounded his offense by

skipping out. Was it too much of a leap to suppose that, when they’d been unable to retrieve

him through the power of negative thinking, they had decided to use the police?

Or to approach from another angle: Angus’s defection had posed a kind of threat to

them. They had neutralized him by framing him for murder.

Granted, committing murder was quite an escalation from harassment and vandalism,

but if these were the same people who had killed Tony Zellig and Karen Holtzer, then

murder wasn’t anything new.

Why this girl, though? Kinsey had clearly been one of “them.”

Okay, qualify that. She had been one of the group looking for Angus. Did that mean

she was part of Angus’s…what was it called? Coven? According to Guy Snowden, Angus had

belonged to a harmless Wicca group. I’d met Wiccans, and they didn’t seem like the same

species as Kinsey and the Poison Dwarf. Angus had been frightened of his former friends; the

scariest thing about the gang at Dragonwyck was their addiction to wheatgrass.

The symbols left at the shop and the grave sites of Tony Zellig and Karen Holtzer had

been inverted pentagrams – black magic. The Wiccans had been disturbed by them. So what

did that mean?

Might there be two different factions? Was there some kind of woo-woo turf war going

on? It was hard to picture Angus – the Angus I knew – as a major player in a diabolical

chess game. He could be a pawn, though.

Thinking about it made my brain hurt. Or maybe that was the hangover. I decided to

let it go and get downstairs.

* * * * *

I hadn’t been downstairs for ten minutes when Lisa phoned.

“Oh, Adrien, they’ve arrested That Boy!” She always referred to Angus as “That Boy.”

“They say he killed a girl. That he may be a serial killer!”

“That’s bull– ridiculous,” I said. “I think he’s been framed.” First time I’d actually put

the thought into words, but I realized I did believe this. I sure as hell did not believe that

Angus was a serial killer, and I hadn’t noticed any of the symptoms.

“Oh, darling!” A blend of sympathy and dismay. Mostly dismay.

Cradling the phone between my cheek and shoulder, I glanced over at Velvet. She was

busy addressing the shop’s Christmas cards. We’d spent an embarrassing amount of time

yesterday trying to print labels. In the end we’d decided it would be faster to do it by hand.

I lowered my voice. “Lisa, would it be possible to talk to Mr. Gracen? Could something

be worked out with my trust fund?”

“Have you decided about the house, then?”

“Huh? No. I was thinking of Angus. There’s no way he can afford decent legal defense.”

“Adrien, you must be joking.” Her tone was sharp. “Were it possible to lay your hands

on that money, helping that boy would never be an acceptable reason.”

“Is the money mine or not?”

“The money is in trust for you. The reason it is in trust is to prevent this very kind of

thing.”

“Oh, right. Thirty-two years ago my grandmother miraculously foresaw that one day I

might need cash to help a friend –”

“He’s not a friend, Adrien. He’s someone who works for you. Someone whom I have

always said was most unsavory.

“My God, you should hear yourself.”

“What does Jake say?”

“Jake? What the hell does Jake have to do with it?” The mention of Jake made me

madder than anything so far.

“Don’t swear at me, Adrien. Jake is a police officer. He has experience in these matters.

And he’s your…oh, what is it called? Your partner.”

“Jake has nothing to do with anything. Angus is my responsibility.”

“Your responsibility? How is that boy your anything?”

“He works for me. I don’t think he has anyone else.”

She answered tartly, “Rather a feudal attitude, don’t you think, from someone who

thinks I’m a snob?”

“Will you help me or not?”

“I will help you by doing whatever is in my power to prevent you from accessing that

money. That money is your future. You have no idea when you may need that – that

cushion.”

Right. Because – fingers crossed – my health might give out at any moment, thereby

fulfilling Lisa’s dire predictions for the past sixteen years.

“All I needed to know,” I said crisply and hung up.

After which, I stared in disbelief at the receiver sitting there in its cradle. I’d never

hung up on Lisa in my life. I don’t think I even interrupted her very often. Jeeeesus. I waited

for the phone to ring.

Waited.

Slowly I expelled a long breath. I glanced over at Velvet. She looked away hastily.

* * * * *

Late morning, the Misses Dauten showed up en masse. It was like someone had decided

to film a shampoo ad in my shop: The door flew open, and suddenly the place was full of

shiny bouncy hair, bright eyes, bright smiles, bright voices. All that was missing was the

kicky soundtrack.

“We have to talk to you about the engagement party,” said Nancy – no, Natasha.

Natasha?

“What engagement party?”

They laughed merrily at that – all of them, including the kid – although I didn’t get

what was so funny.

“No, but seriously,” I said. “Isn’t that kind of thing for first weddings and…well,

younger couples?”

“Now you sound like Daddy,” chided Lauren, which shut me up. She spread a selection

of embossed cream and white cards on the counter like a Vegas dealer fanning the deck.

“What do you think?”

I stared at the elegant assortment of invites. “But…I was under the impression that we

had to…stall. That you couldn’t pull off a wedding so close to the holidays.”

Lauren nodded as though this was a good point from one who didn’t have all the facts.

“You have to look at this from Lisa’s point of view,” she said kindly.

Well, yeah. When did one not? Did they honestly think they had to explain the center

of the universe to Galileo?

They continued to stare at me expectantly. I realized I was expected to cast a vote for

stationery.

I pointed at a crisp white card with crisp black writing. Lauren’s fawn-colored

eyebrows drew together infinitesimally. Natasha bit her lip. Emma – initial test results

continuing to prove promising – had wandered off to explore.

“Whatever you think is fine,” I declared.

They looked relieved.

“So here’s the plan,” said Lauren. She proceeded to outline the festivities for a small

intimate gathering of one hundred and eighty of the prospective bride and groom’s nearest

and dearest.

“How many people are invited to the wedding?” I asked faintly.

Lauren shrugged dismissingly. “Three hundred or so, I believe.”

I blinked.

They burst out laughing at my expression. “I’m teasing ,” said Lauren. “The wedding is

going to be very small. Private. Family and close friends.”

“But very elegant,” vouchsafed Natasha.

I was still trying to assimilate that as they detailed the engagement party plans which

included the Mondrian SkyBar, ice sculptures, scented candles, champagne cocktails, and

1940s Big Band music. So bizarre. I still had the images of the night before buzzing in the

back of my brain like flies, and they were talking party favors.

I think I had blanked to the Indian Head test pattern when I heard a voice pipe,

“Sooooo, what do you think?”

“Wow,” I said.

They laughed delightedly. Were they always like this, bubbly as champagne, talking all

at once, finishing each other’s sentences, laughing at each other’s jokes in a kind of silvery

harmony? Could they maybe be on some kind of medication?

The shop bells jangled, the door opened. In walked Jake and a lanky scarecrow of a

man who had to be another plainclothes cop. They stopped short at what might have

appeared to be an in-progress fashion shoot. The scarecrow brightened, scoping out my

sisters-to-be.

Jake looked as tired as I felt. His eyes found mine. “Hello again, Mr. English,” he said

formally. “Detective Rossini and I were hoping you would answer a few questions in

connection with the Angus Gordon case.”

The Dauten Gang never moved a muscle, but you could feel the shock wave bouncing

off the safety shield of their poise. They didn’t so much as exchange glances, yet I knew they

were communicating telepathically, a la Village of the Damned .

“If it’s not too inconvenient,” Rossini said. He appeared to be talking to Lauren’s

breasts.

“Sure,” I said. Not in front of the womenfolk, though. I turned to Lauren. “Sorry about

this. Maybe we can finalize details later.”

She didn’t respond.

Emma appeared at my elbow with a tattered copy of The Mystery of Lilac Inn. “How

much is this?”

“Five dollars,” I said automatically. “But for you, ten.”

She giggled, happily oblivious to the electricity snapping in the air.

I took the book, handed it across the counter to Velvet, who watched us like a favorite

TV show. She looked blank. “Put it in a bag for her,” I muttered.

“Oh. Sure. Right.” She took the book belatedly.

I glanced over my shoulder. Lauren seemed to be trying the telepathy with me. I

wasn’t getting the message. Jake’s message, on the other hand, was coming through loud and

clear; I didn’t have to meet his eyes.

“We’re done here, right?” I said to Lauren, resorting to old-fashioned speech.

“Are we?” Natasha said ominously. Was she concerned about the police presence, or

did she suspect me of trying to skip out on my share of picking hors d’oeuvres?

“Is everything all right, officers?” Lauren inquired evenly.

I wondered what Lisa had told them that led them to conclude that I might need

protecting from the fuzz.

“Everything’s fine,” I said quickly. “I’ll call you. But really, whatever you guys – girls –

ladies –”

They laughed, though their laughter was no longer so silvery sweet. Rossini and Jake

stared in fascination.

“I’m fine with whatever you work out.”

“What about the book?” inquired Emma, gazing seriously up at me with those big blue

eyes.

“It’s a gift,” I said. “A before-Christmas gift.”

“Adrien,” Lauren said quietly, “do we need to call Daddy?”

“Caaa –” I sounded like Michael Palin in A Fish Called Wanda. “No. Seriously.”

Naturally I couldn’t say aloud, And don’t tell my mother! But I telepathed for all my life was

worth.

They looked unconvinced. I couldn’t look at the cops. Then Natasha exclaimed,

“Christmas! We haven’t talked about Christmas yet!”

“Oh, my gosh!” Lauren responded without missing a beat.

Ad lib or did they rehearse this stuff?

“We’ll talk,” I assured them. They were making protesting noises as I grabbed the book

bag from Velvet, pushed it into Emma’s hands. I gestured for the coppers to follow me.

They followed, unspeaking, footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. I led them into the

backroom, shut the office door firmly.

“What did you need?” It came out abruptly. I was angry with Jake, angry to find myself

in this position – and I was apprehensive.

“I’m sure you’re aware that we’ve arrested Angus Gordon?” Rossini said.

I nodded. Glanced at Jake, then looked away. Easier if I didn’t look at him. If I

pretended he wasn’t there at all.

Abruptly, I remembered the first time I’d met him. Even less happy circumstances than

these. We’d sat in this same crowded office with him asking questions about a murder. Today

the other cop – Rossini – did most of the talking. I answered mechanically. They showed

me photos of Kinsey. She was a year or two younger and a lot cleaner in the photographs.

I admitted I had seen her before, that she had come into the store asking for Angus. I

admitted I had given Angus money when he had expressed fear over harassment from fellow

students.

Rossini was inclined to follow this line of questioning. He began to ask about my

relationship with Angus.

“Safe to say, Gordon was more than an employee?”

I opened my mouth, but Jake cut in. “We’ve already established Mr. English’s role.”

This breach of etiquette naturally irritated the other detective. He tapped his pencil on

the edge of the desk as though trying to recover his train of thought.

“For the record, Mr. English, what were you doing last night from the hours of, say, six

p.m. to ten p.m.?”

Ten p.m. So she hadn’t been dead for long when I walked in. I wondered if she had

been killed at the house. Looking back from a safe distance, I thought that – considering

those terrible wounds – there hadn’t been as much blood as you’d expect at the crime scene.

Which isn’t to say that it hadn’t been plenty gory…

Once again I was standing in that dark hallway staring at the broken bloody corpse

lying in the tumbled bed clothes.

I wondered what would have happened if I’d walked into the house forty-five minutes

earlier.

I swallowed hard. “I closed the store around five-thirty. I ate dinner here –”

“What’d you have for dinner?” Rossini interrupted genially.

“Uh…a kind of Lean Cuisine thing.” That was the truth; it was the question itself that

gave me pause.

He didn’t speak, so I went on. “I host a weekly writing group on Tuesday nights. They

met from seven to nine. After that I did paperwork, and at some point Angus called.”

“At what point? What time exactly?”

“Eleven-ish. Eleven-thirty at the latest.”

No comment. He could verify the time, and certainly would, if he was any kind of cop

at all. It didn’t matter; this was all basically true. “I went to bed after leaving the message

with Detective Riordan.”

I thought it was a pretty tight alibi – assuming I actually needed one. Maybe it was

remotely possible that I could have hunted Kinsey down and murdered her in the hour after

Partners in Crime dispersed – or killed her before everyone arrived and then calmly

discussed sentence structure for a couple of hours before carting her corpse over to Angus’s –

but I was betting on Rossini’s commonsense. (Although the guy did wear red socks with blue

trousers.)

Where my story fell apart was after the time of the murder. Hopefully no church ladies

selling raffle tickets or Girl Scouts peddling cookies had turned up banging on my door after I

split for Angus’s. Hopefully, the police had no interest in my actions after the hours of six

and ten.

Rossini made a note.

“The message you left was regarding this phone call from Gordon?”

Jake’s silence was like a fourth person in the room, a formidable presence.

“Right.” It took willpower not to look toward Jake. Why would Rossini ask that?

“Why again did you think Detective Riordan should investigate Gordon’s house?”

He was a smart cop. He had good instincts. He knew something was fishy with my

story, but the fact that Jake, in essence, vouched for me, made it awkward.

“I guess the…fear factor,” I said. “Angus sounded terrified. He sounded in fear of his

life. Besides, Detective Riordan had told me to get in touch with him if he – Angus –

called.”

I cast a look at Jake, wondering if it had occurred to him yet that Angus was unlikely to