Chapter Nine
San Diego PD, San Diego, California
Tuesday, January 10, 9:15 a.m.
“Thank you so very much,” Kit said into the speakerphone. She looked at Connor, who crossed his fingers. “We really appreciate you calling us back.”
“It’s no problem, Detective.” Mary Cowen was the office manager for foster care in Tulsa, Oklahoma. “I’m happy to help. What do you need?”
“Well, we’re looking for the records of a Viola Feinstein. She’s sixty-one now, so she would have aged out of the system forty-three years ago.”
It was just a hunch, but Kit had hope. Taking Sam’s theory to heart, she’d searched for—and found—the birth certificate associated with Veronica’s fake passport. Viola Feinstein, a.k.a. Veronica Fitzgerald, had been born sixty-one years ago in a suburb of Tulsa.
There had been no record of a legal name change, but Kit thought that Veronica was smart enough to figure out how to change her identity. It had been much easier to do forty-three years ago.
Of course, Veronica could have found Viola Feinstein’s name on a tombstone and gotten her birth certificate and social security number, but it made more sense that she’d have kept the ones originally issued to her.
At least Kit hoped she had.
“Give me just a moment. Those are old records, but we’ve done some digitization over the years.” There was the sound of clacking keyboard keys and then a satisfied hum. “Yes, here she is. Viola Feinstein entered the foster system at the age of five. She was never adopted. She aged out at eighteen. We don’t keep track of them after that. I wish we did.”
“I wish you did, too,” Kit said, “but this information is valuable. Would it be possible to get a copy of her full file?”
“Oh. Well, most of those records remain confidential. What exactly are you looking for?”
“She’s a suspect in a case we’re working, ma’am,” Connor said. “We’re trying to trace her background, including family and childhood friends.”
“You’re going to need to file for an exception or get a warrant,” Mary said. “I’m sorry. I’d like to help you, but there are some things I simply can’t share.”
She wasn’t rude or unpleasant, just bound by the rules of her office and Kit could respect that. “We understand. Thank you for your help.” Kit ended the call. “What now?”
“Well,” Connor said, “now we know where Veronica started out. Part of me wanted to ask if she’d ever applied to be a guardian herself. Like maybe she’d met Munro while they were in the system together, and she wanted to take care of him. But that they later became lovers is just too icky.”
Kit grimaced. “That is icky. But a possibility. If we can’t find anything else, we’ll circle back. But…yeah. Icky.”
“If we knew what Brooks Munro’s birth name was, we could dig a lot deeper. But I’m wondering when they met—in foster care or later? What if it was before they arrived in San Diego? The fifteen years she worked for him was only here.”
Kit had another hunch and brought up the background search site. “Marriage certificates. Viola Feinstein.” She waited and then grinned once she’d sorted the results. “Got it. Viola Feinstein married Monroe Brookman in…oh.”
Connor rolled his chair closer to see her screen, then winced. “Oh. That’s…”
“They married thirty-three years ago,” Kit said. “She would have been twenty-eight. He would have been eighteen.”
Connor’s wince became a grimace. “It could be worse. He could have been thirteen or fourteen.”
“They weren’t together for fifteen years. They were together for more than thirty years. I’m shocked she kept her composure when we interviewed her yesterday morning.”
“Explains the tears, though,” Connor said. “I’m surprised she allowed Munro to marry Wilhelmina. I guess we can add bigamy to Munro’s sins.”
“Little late now. Plus, I think we’ll find that’s the least of his sins. He either killed William Weaver’s PI or had him killed.”
“I guess that would be the worst—so far. But blackmail’s pretty damn bad, too. What do we know about Monroe Brookman?”
Kit typed Munro’s real name into the search engine. “Also born in Tulsa.”
“How did they meet?”
“That’s going to take a little more digging.”
“Then when did they start their life of crime?” Connor asked. “I don’t think they suddenly became Bonnie and Clyde when they arrived in San Diego.”
“I agree. Let’s do a deeper dive for criminal records.”
Connor rose. “I’m getting some coffee. Want some?”
“Yes, please.” Kit hunched over her keyboard, intent on discovering all the details of Viola Feinstein’s and Monroe Brookman’s pasts.
By the time Connor came back with coffee—from the coffee shop next door and not the sludge in the bullpen—she had a decent start.
“I was standing in line, thinking about this,” Connor said as he put Kit’s coffee in front of her. “I kept thinking that if they had a criminal past, wouldn’t that have shown up in background checks when Munro ran for city council, so I called one of my contacts at city hall. They don’t do full police checks on the candidates. And we didn’t run fingerprints on Munro after he died because all his fingers were gone. The ME used dental records for the ID.”
Kit inhaled the aroma of the dark roast, with cream and sugar the way she liked it. “Thank you. Yeah, I thought the same thing but haven’t made the call yet because I hit pay dirt. I called Mary Cowen back and she confirmed that Monroe Brookman was also in the foster system.”
“So Sam was right.”
“He was. Cowen couldn’t help me discover how their paths intersected, so I did criminal background checks. Bonnie and Clyde, a.k.a. Viola and Monroe, started their lives of crime about two years after their wedding. Or at least that was the first time they got caught. He did some time in a county jail for theft. She was picked up a few years later for grand theft. She stole a gold bracelet.”
“I wonder if it was the one she left in the Ferrari.”
“Maybe. I doubt that anything her mother gave her would have lasted thirteen years in the foster system and time in and out of jail. I could be wrong, but…” Kit shrugged. “They went on to do more crimes over the next ten years. Then they just up and disappeared twenty years ago. The last thing on Monroe Brookman’s record is jumping bail on an arrest for swindling.”
“And they became Veronica Fitzgerald and Brooks Munro. They must have paid someone a lot of cash for their new identities. No one has even questioned them up until now.”
“That we’re aware of,” Kit said. “If they’re involved in the murder of Weaver’s PI, who knows what else they’ve done to protect themselves? And maybe that’s what Weaver’s PI found out.”
“Maybe.” Connor frowned at the whiteboard. “Still, nobody noticed when he ran for city council? His face was all over the TV and the internet.”
“He was a small-time crook in another state. Maybe no one was looking for him.” Kit brought up one of Monroe Brookman’s mug shots. “Plus, he’s changed a lot. Had some work done.”
“You’re right. He’s changed enough that facial recognition software wouldn’t have picked him out. What about the PI?” Connor asked. “Munro’s PI, I mean, not Weaver’s dead PI. Are there any criminal cohorts that Munro could have been pals with back then?”
“I don’t know. Let’s place a few calls to the law enforcement agencies who arrested them over the years. We could get lucky and find out that someone got arrested along with them.”
“Veronica would have known the PI’s name, then.”
“Yeah. I didn’t think she was telling the truth about that,” Kit said.
“Neither did I. But something else is puzzling me. The house in the Caymans.”
Kit set her laptop aside. “I’m listening.”
“She’s crazy in love with Brooks Munro, they’re tearing up the sheets and have a love for the ages.”
Kit huffed. “I didn’t need the tearing-up-the-sheets mental image, so thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome. Why would she buy a house in the Caymans with her share of the take if Munro was always here?”
“He couldn’t have expected to stay married to Wilhelmina forever,” Kit reasoned. “Maybe he planned to join Veronica in paradise after the inevitable divorce.”
Connor raised a brow. “ Or what if Veronica was doing the PI on the side because Munro was married and that pissed her off? Maybe the PI planned to join her in paradise. She did tell him that they had to get away. It sounded like she meant together.”
“Huh. I never even considered that.”
“It might not be true. But I didn’t believe she didn’t know the guy’s name.”
“The pilot said he flew her alone,” Kit said.
“What if the pilot lied? She was paying him for his discretion.”
“Maybe,” Kit allowed. “Or he could be afraid the PI would come after him.”
“More likely,” Connor agreed.
“Do we know that Brooks Munro never traveled with her?”
Connor shook his head. “No, we don’t, but we only checked his current alias. Let’s find out if Monroe Brookman’s passport has been to the Caymans.”
Kit made a call to one of her contacts at the State Department, just as she’d done for Veronica’s passport the day before. “Hey, Richard. It’s Kit McKittrick again.”
“Another passport search?”
“Yep. Can you look up Monroe Brookman? He’s fifty-one years old, if that helps narrow it down.”
“Give me a minute.” A moment later he was back. “No record of Monroe Brookman having a passport.”
Kit thanked him and ended the call. “That was a bust.”
“For now, let’s focus on the PI,” Connor said. “If we find him, we’ll know who they were blackmailing.”
“True. We can come at the PI from the past and present. If the PI did accompany Veronica to the Caymans, the pilot might be able to give us a current name. If we’re lucky, we might be able to ID him from Munro’s past arrest records, if he was someone Munro knew from the past. Let’s get numbers for all the jurisdictions where Munro and Veronica were arrested back in the day, and then we can make calls.” She sat back in the chair and studied Connor. “Did you believe Veronica didn’t know the names on the list?”
“Mostly, yes. Only because she doesn’t have much to lose at this point. She’s admitted to blackmail, she was caught with the ill-gotten gains thereof, and she’ll go down for passport fraud.”
“Will she, though? It was her real identity.”
“Good point. One I’m sure her lawyer will pounce on once Veronica comes clean about it. But we did find more than two hundred grand of unreported income on her person, and she has official state documents in a fake name, like her driver’s license, so she’ll be in trouble with someone. In any case, I think that she would have spilled the tea on the blackmail list had she known their names. She was in an intense mental place.”
“She was. You helped to get her to that point. Nicely done, by the way.”
“Thank you.” He cut a small bow. “But what if we hit a brick wall in our search for the PI?”
“Then we go back to the trailer—our most concrete tie to Munro’s killer. We look for a tan Chevy Suburban towing a trailer.”
Connor nodded. “I’d say ask Marshall and Ashton to view the street cams, but they’re off looking into Jacob Crocker’s murder.”
“I already asked Navarro to put one of the analysts on it and he assigned someone, so that’s being covered. New question: how do you think Munro found out that William Weaver was about to rehire Jacob Crocker as his PI? Was that what triggered Munro to have him killed?”
“Maybe Munro didn’t find out. Maybe Crocker didn’t get rid of the information he found out about Munro. Maybe he tried to blackmail Munro and got himself killed.”
“All possibilities. For now, let’s focus on finding Munro’s PI. He has the information we need.”
“For all we know, he’s fled to the Caymans. If I was Munro’s partner and I found out what had happened to him, I’d be on the first plane out. We should check Veronica’s house in the Caymans.” He raised his hand. “I’ll go.”
Kit laughed. “It’s a good idea, but I think we can ask for local law enforcement assistance on that.”
“Fine,” Connor groused. “You’re no fun. Give me a list of people to call about Viola and Monroe’s past life of crime. We could be on our way to the Caymans, but noooo.”
“Pretty sure you’ll live. Let’s start by calling prison wardens. I want to know who Munro’s best friends were along the way.”
San Diego, California
Tuesday, January 10, 11:15 a.m.
“Sam.” A woman sitting at one of the coffee shop’s tables waved to him.
With a smile, he joined her at the table. “Maggie. It’s been too long.”
Maggie Doyle managed one of the drug rehab facilities in San Diego. Shelley had completed her thirty-day stint in Maggie’s clinic, under the care of one of her rehab counselors. But Maggie, a recovering addict herself, was a hands-on manager and interacted with the clients and their families as needed.
“It has. I’d love to spend all afternoon catching up with you, but I don’t have much time.”
“Neither do I. This is my lunch break.” Sam asked a server for his coffee in a to-go cup, then studied Maggie, who was sipping her coffee.
“So,” Maggie said. “You asked about Shelley Porter when you called this morning. What do you need to know that couldn’t have been handled with an email?”
“She was murdered last week.”
Maggie gasped. “ What? How? By whom? Although I guess that’s what you’re trying to find out.”
“It is. Someone lured her out with the promise of ready cash.”
“Done deal for Shelley,” Maggie murmured sadly. “I didn’t have high hopes for her when she left after her thirty days.”
Sam leaned in, aware that Maggie was unlikely to be able to share everything he wanted to know, what with HIPAA laws and all. “Why not? And I’ll also tell you that her mother’s body was found alongside hers.”
Maggie’s shoulders sagged. “I liked her mom. She wanted Shelley to be sober so badly. Unfortunately, Shelley didn’t want to be sober. She liked using. I think she was just biding her time until she could go home and use again. She didn’t like using alone, though, so she was always trying to drag people into her circle.”
“We think that someone knew her vulnerability and used the promise of several thousand dollars in cash to get her to break the rules of her workplace, to deliver some finished merchandise her killer hadn’t paid for.”
“You want to know who knew she would be desperate for dough?”
“Yes. Am I looking for a needle in a haystack?”
“I think you’re looking for a particular piece of hay in a haystack,” Maggie said ruefully. “Shelley wanted to be tough, but underneath she was just another addict desperate for her next fix. Anyone with an eye could have seen it.”
“Did she have any visitors while she was with you?”
“I thought you might ask me that.” Maggie pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket. “I did not give this to you.”
“Nope. Never saw it before. Never even saw you before.”
Maggie chuckled. “You don’t have to go that far.”
Sam took the page and scanned its contents. “She got visits from her mom and her aunt Jennifer. Her friend Julie visited a few times.”
“Nice girl. I really hoped that Shelley wouldn’t drag Julie down with her.”
“I don’t think she did. Julie seemed very sober when we talked to her.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“Yeah.” Sam pointed to an unfamiliar name. “Who’s LeRoy Hawkins?”
She frowned. “He visited once. Said he was a minister with a local church’s youth group. I know the youth minister at that church and his name isn’t LeRoy. So I called the church, but they’d never heard of LeRoy. Unfortunately, by then the man had ended his visit with Shelley and was gone.”
Sam went with a hunch. “Did he happen to have a neckbeard?”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “He did, yes. Do you know him?”
“No, but I want to meet him,” Sam said grimly.
“I see. Is it best if I don’t ask more questions?”
“Probably, but I have a few more. How long do you keep the recordings from your security cams?”
“Three months. Do you need to see them?”
“I think my colleagues at SDPD will. Did you happen to see what LeRoy Hawkins was driving?”
“A motorcycle. Or at least he had a helmet under his arm. I remember wondering how he got the thing fastened under his chin with his thick beard. And I only remember that because the church youth minister he lied about working for asked for his description, so the helmet was in my mind.”
Sam was disappointed. He’d hoped they could get the Suburban on video and check its plates. But at least they had the guy with the neckbeard. Kit would be able to work with that, he was sure.
“He only visited the one time?” Sam asked. “Midway through Shelley’s stay?”
“That’s what the logs show, and we’re pretty diligent.”
“I know you are,” he said warmly. “Did Shelley seem happy to see him?”
“Not really. She didn’t seem to know him.”
“Anything else you can remember about Shelley?”
Maggie shook her head. “Just that she seemed so lost when she finally got clean. I think she’d been using for a long time.” She checked the time. “I’m so sorry, Sam, but I have to get back.”
“So do I. My next session starts in ten minutes.”
“Will you get lunch?” she asked, her tone motherly.
“I have a sandwich in my desk drawer.”
They rose together, Sam spying the server bringing him his coffee. “I’ll get both of these,” he said, giving the server enough cash for both his and Maggie’s coffee, plus a generous tip.
The server beamed. “Thank you, Dr.Reeves. Have a nice day.”
Maggie linked her hand through his arm as they left the coffee shop. “Come here often?”
“Too often. I need to kick the caffeine habit, but that’s not going to happen today.” They got outside and Sam gave her hand a squeeze. “Don’t be a stranger, Maggie.”
“Same, Sam. And enjoy your new job. I catch your name in the news every so often. You seem to be doing well.”
Sam smiled. “I am.”
Maggie began to walk away, backward so that she could still see him. “You’re happy?”
“Yes, ma’am. Very happy.”
“Good. You deserve some happy.” She waved before heading to her car.
Sam took a sip of the coffee, hoping it would keep him going for the rest of the afternoon. He hadn’t slept well last night. Thoughts of Kit had kept him awake.
She’d said she cared about him. Which he’d already known, but it was really nice to hear. But that she’d admitted it had scared her. Still, she hadn’t taken it back and he’d almost kissed her.
He hadn’t because he was hoping to leave her wanting more.
Too much of Sam and she’d be all one-and-done. She’d walk away before they’d even gotten started. So he’d left her hanging and—at the time—had been glad he had. She’d nearly pouted.
Later, lying alone in his bed, he’d wished that he’d kissed her. But he’d have to be strong. Kit needed slow and steady, no matter how much it was killing him.
At least he could give her some new intel. They now knew how Shelley’s killer found out she was an addict.
San Diego PD, San Diego, California
Tuesday, January 10, 11:40 a.m.
Navarro sat behind his desk, his chin resting on his steepled fingers as Kit and Connor brought him up to speed.
“So did you find who you were looking for?” Navarro asked. “Anyone who might have been the BFF of Brooks Munro, a.k.a. Monroe Brookman?”
“We might have,” Kit said. “We were able to talk to the wardens or sheriffs of four of the jails where Munro did time over the years.”
“All as Monroe Brookman?”
Connor nodded. “Theft mostly. A lot of swindling.”
“And his BFF?” Navarro asked.
“Munro seemed to make friends wherever he went,” Kit said, “but we’ve crossed most of the names off the list because they’re either in prison or dead. We’ve got two possibilities. Two distinctly different people from a height standpoint, so we don’t have one guy changing his name again. At least not before he came to San Diego. The first is Walter Grossman. He’s over six feet tall and built like a tank. He’s done time for forgery. The other is Darrin Carter. He’s five-four and, from his photo, he looks like a light breeze would blow him away. We’ve got mug shots of both, and we’re going to show them to the pilot who was going to fly Veronica out of here yesterday.”
“He said he flew her alone,” Navarro said.
Connor shrugged. “We’re hoping he lied. We’ve run both men’s names and their photos through the PI licenses in the state’s database. None of them are a match, but he might not have a license in California. Maybe not anywhere. We’re still hopeful the pilot can point us in the right direction.”
Navarro crossed the fingers of both hands. “Good luck. I’ll give the brass an update. You’re making progress.”
“Any news from the analyst who’s checking street cams for the trailer?” Connor asked.
“Not yet. I’ll let you know when he’s got something.”
Kit started to stand, then sat again when her cell phone began to buzz with an incoming call. “It’s Sam,” she told the others before hitting accept and putting the phone to her ear. “Hey. What’s up?”
“A guy with a neckbeard visited Shelley Porter in rehab,” Sam said.
Kit perked up. That information was almost as good as caffeine. “I’m putting you on speaker. I’m with Connor and Navarro.”
“Hi,” Sam said once they could hear him. “I was just telling Kit that a man with a neckbeard visited Shelley Porter in rehab. Gave his name as LeRoy Hawkins, but I’m pretty sure that was an alias.”
“A guy with a neckbeard asked Norton Landscaping where they got their wraps done.” Navarro exhaled. “I guess we know now how he knew that Shelley was susceptible to a bribe.”
“The rehab manager I talked to said that Shelley was just biding her time until she could go home and use again, and that if anyone had an inclination to see, they would have known. Neckbeard Guy could have picked up on her desperation.”
“How did he know she was in rehab?” Connor asked.
“I’m thinking it was her mother’s Facebook page,” Sam said with a sigh. “Or her aunt Jennifer’s. I just checked and they both asked for prayers for Shelley. They asked friends if they’d visit Shelley, maybe give her a reason to get sober for good. If the neckbeard guy had been watching Jennifer’s social media, he would have seen that Shelley was in rehab.”
“So that box is checked,” Kit said sadly.
“One more thing,” Sam said. “He wasn’t driving a Suburban at that point. He had a motorcycle. Or at least he carried a helmet into the rehab center with him. Damn, I have to go. I have a session starting in three minutes.”
“Bye, Sam,” she, Connor, and Navarro chorused. “Thank you, Sam,” Kit added.
“You’re welcome. Talk to you all soon.”
Kit ended the call, her mind already trying to place this new information. “One of the things that’s bothered me is how long that trailer was in Munro’s neighborhood on Wednesday. It arrived around six that morning. Monroe was with Veronica all night on Tuesday and, according to the guard shack logs, didn’t go home afterward on Wednesday morning. He didn’t get home from work that night until five or so. I kept wondering what the killer did all day while he waited.”
“And?” Navarro prompted.
“And, if he had a motorcycle…” She let the thought trail off.
“He could have left for the day and returned later to take both the Ferrari and Munro,” Connor finished. “We should check the guard shack’s camera feed for a motorcycle.”
“I’ll have the analyst do that,” Navarro said. “You focus on finding this PI. Speaking of whom, are either of Munro’s old prison pals the same size as the guy with the neckbeard?”
Kit shook her head. “We thought of that. Neckbeard Guy is about five-ten with an average build, based on the video Ace Diamond gave us. Neither of Munro’s former prison pals fit that description. We’re hoping the pilot can give us more info. We’re off to question him now. We’ll keep you up to date, boss.”
San Diego PD, San Diego, California
Tuesday, January 10, 1:05 p.m.
Connor groaned. “Not again.”
Kit joined Connor at the observation room glass. Then sighed.
Sitting at the table in the interview room was Steven Neal, the pilot who’d flown Veronica to the Caymans multiple times. He was joined by his attorney.
Laura Letterman.
“Did she give out a two-for-one discount?” Kit asked.
Connor snorted softly. “BOGO get-out-of-jail-free cards. You or me?” He pulled a coin from his pocket. “Flip you for it.”
Kit smiled, feeling a little feral. “Let’s both go in. Shake Miss Letterman up a little.”
“Cool. What’s our strategy?”
Kit shrugged. “Show the pilot the mug shots of Munro’s prison BFFs. Let’s see how he reacts.”
“I think we should have a better game plan than that. I pulled his financials.”
“When did you do that?” Kit asked, wishing she’d done the same.
“I came in early this morning since I had to take off for dinner with CeCe’s folks. Steven Neal owns his plane, but financially he’s barely holding on by his fingernails. He’s living month to month. He’s behind on his taxes and his checking account balance is less than a hundred bucks.”
“A private pilot who owns his own plane should be able to consistently pull in decent money.”
“He actually does,” Connor said. “His schedule is booked for the next four months, and his documented income stream is consistent and robust. Those are the customers who paid for their flights with a credit card or wire transfer. We know at least one customer—Veronica—paid in cash, so there might be even more money coming in that doesn’t go through his business accounts. We can check any flight plans he submitted to see how many extras he flew. But he spent a hell of a lot of money at the racetrack over the summer. By September, he was charging thousands of dollars to his credit cards up at Del Mar.”
The horse racing track had never held appeal for Kit. The animals were beautiful, but even the thought of gambling had always made her slightly ill.
“And that was just his credit cards,” Connor went on. “Who knows what he’s done with the cash payments and tips?”
“Huh.” She went back to studying the pilot, who now sat with his head in his hands. “That means if he gets stuck in jail, he won’t be able to fulfill his contracted jobs.”
“Which means he’ll be deep in debt in less than two weeks.”
She looked up at Connor again. “You’re right. Scaring him with jail time is a better way to go in. Anything else?”
“He was divorced two years ago and has shared custody of his two daughters. Child support is a hefty part of his monthly expenses. He’d be more than able to afford it if he hadn’t spent so much at the racetrack.”
“At least he pays child support,” Kit muttered, because so many parents did not. “But that he does pay it means he cares about his kids and will want to see them grow up, not see them through plexiglass on prison visitation day. Nice work.”
“Thank you. I felt bad leaving last night.”
She smiled at him. “You shouldn’t. It’s balance, and you’re doing well with that. Don’t be like me.”
Connor nudged her shoulder with his. “You’re improving. Everyone says so. Come on. Let’s find out if the pilot knows either of Munro’s prison buddies. Bad cop or good cop?”
“You be bad cop. Letterman isn’t going to believe your good cop again so soon. It’s been months since I’ve tangled with her.”
“Oh, I think she remembers you,” Connor said slyly. “You got the one she let get away.”
“She drove Sam away,” Kit corrected with a huff. “Cheating on him.”
Connor chuckled. “Down, girl.”
Kit sighed. She needed to stow her personal issues with Laura Letterman. And Kit had “got” Sam?
She guessed that time would tell.
By the time they walked into the interview room, Kit was composed and ready for Laura Letterman. The woman wouldn’t want her client to say a word, but she and Connor could make the man talk. Kit was certain of it.
Laura gave Kit and Connor a narrow-eyed glare. “I’ve told my client that you’ll try to rattle him. He’s not to say a word.”
Steven Neal lifted his head. His eyes were bleary, as if he hadn’t slept a wink. His skin was pale and his hands shook.
Kit wondered if gambling was the man’s only vice. He looked like he was going through withdrawal.
“We really just want his help,” Kit said, taking a seat across from the pilot, Connor sitting on her left. He set the folder holding the mug shots on the table.
“Uh-huh,” Laura said, unconvinced. “What kind of help?”
“We’re trying to identify two men who might have been connected to Mr.Munro,” Kit said.
Laura shook her head. “He said that he didn’t know Munro, nor did he fly him anywhere. Are we done?”
“No,” Kit said sweetly. “Mr.Neal, do you know a man named Walter Grossman?” He was the taller, more heavily built of the two ex-cons.
“I don’t know that name.” He seemed to have radically aged since the night before. Perspiration beaded on his forehead even though it wasn’t hot in the room. His body was visibly shaking.
Definitely some kind of withdrawal going on.
“Mr.Neal, would you like a glass of water?” Kit asked, her concern true. If the man passed out, he’d be of no use to them.
“No,” Steven said through gritted teeth. “Who’s the other man you’re looking for?”
“Darrin Carter,” Connor said.
Once again, the pilot shook his head. “No.”
Laura Letterman gathered her purse. “I think we’re done, then. Always nice to see you, Detectives.”
“Not so fast.” Kit patted the table and the pilot looked back up. Without saying another word, Connor slid the photos of Walter Grossman and Darrin Carter across the table.
Laura glanced at the photos, trepidation clear in her expression. Kit guessed that the attorney had been expecting another gruesome autopsy photo like the one Connor had shown Veronica the day before. When she saw they were only mug shots, she relaxed.
Steven Neal, however, did not relax. His eyes widened, filling with fear as his gaze locked on to the photo of Walter Grossman. Then he closed his eyes as his shoulders sagged.
“You do recognize his face, then,” Kit said in her kindest voice. “Who is he, Mr.Neal?”
“Do not say another word,” Laura instructed.
Steven buried his face in his hands again. “I just wanted to fly,” he muttered mournfully.
“You never intended to get caught up in Veronica Fitzgerald’s shenanigans,” Kit said, still kindly. It didn’t matter what the man had intended. He’d knowingly transported a woman carrying large quantities of cash out of the country. But she’d be sweet. For now. “I get that. Where did you see the man in this photo?”
“Steven,” Laura warned.
Connor leaned forward, elbows on the table, taking up more space than he needed. He looked bigger and tougher than he had moments before.
“We know you’re teetering on financial ruin,” Connor said coldly. “We know that between your gambling and child support, you don’t have two pennies to rub together. I’m not even sure how you’re managing to pay your attorney here, but that’s your business.”
That was a good point, and Kit made a mental note to find out who was paying Laura Letterman. She’d bet it was Veronica.
“Is there a question in there, Detective?” Laura asked, just as coldly.
“More a statement of fact, Miss Letterman,” Connor said, his sneer rather remarkable. “We can keep Mr.Neal here for a long time while he waits for his trial. He can’t afford to miss a single chartered flight, much less weeks of missed income. Maybe months. By the time he’s released, he’ll have nothing to return to. His business will have failed, his plane will have been impounded, and his wife will probably want to revoke his parental custody because he won’t have been able to pay his child support.”
Steven looked up then, panic in his eyes. “No.”
“They’re trying to scare you, Steven,” Laura said calmly.
Steven swallowed. “It’s working.”
Kit smiled. “We can ask the prosecutor to make a deal. Maybe let you out on your own recognizance.” Like that would ever happen. The man owned a plane, for God’s sake. He could fly anywhere.
“You know that’s not going to happen,” Laura snapped. “He’d be a flight risk. They won’t allow him to continue flying.”
“Better to be out and working somewhere,” Kit said cheerfully, “than to be in jail and lose what little custody he has of his kids. Flying a plane isn’t the only job on the face of the earth. And he still owns the plane. If he cooperates, he could sell it and start over in a new career.”
Laura just shook her head. “Does anyone ever believe you? That is the biggest sack of lies I’ve ever heard spewed.”
The woman was trying to get a rise out of her. “I might lie when the need arises, Miss Letterman, but I’m telling the truth now, and you know it. If Mr.Neal cooperates, he can at least partially salvage his financial situation and hopefully retain custody of his children.” She turned her gaze on the pilot. “You pay your child support on time. You fought for custody.” Which she didn’t know but felt comfortable guessing. “You must love your children, sir. I’m not going to tell you that you won’t serve any jail time. That’s not mine to promise, one way or another. That’s the prosecutor’s job. I will tell you that helping us identify the man in this photo will only help your chances of getting out of this with the least possible disruption to your life—or the lives of your daughters.”
Steven had paled even further. “He’ll kill me.”
“Who?” Laura asked, suddenly concerned. “The man in this photo?”
Steven nodded, his swallow audible.
“Then it’s best if you help us catch him, isn’t it?” Kit asked, keeping the sarcasm out of her tone, even though she felt it in her mind. “If you don’t, eventually you’ll get out and you’ll be looking over your shoulder forever.”
Steven scrubbed his palms over his face. “Damned if I do tell you and damned if I don’t.”
“More damned if you don’t,” Connor snapped.
“He’s right,” Kit said. “Look, you flew Veronica Fitzgerald out of the country knowing she held a fake passport. You had to have known. You knew she was carrying a lot of cash. If she’s found guilty of money laundering—which I’m certain she will be, considering she was carrying over two hundred thousand dollars in cash yesterday—then you could be charged as a co-conspirator. Altogether, you’re talking about a potentially long time behind bars. We need this man’s name.” She tapped the mug shot. “Now.”
“Or you might not see your kids again,” Connor said quietly, but his voice was sterner than Kit had ever heard it. “Or, if you do, it’ll be through a plexiglass window on visitation day. Is that how you want them to see you, Steven?”
Steven’s jaw tightened, and his eyes filled with tears. “No,” he whispered.
“There’s also the issue of whatever drug has you in withdrawal right now,” Kit went on. “We can try to get you some help. Your situation is still salvageable, Steven. Work with us here.”
Steven closed his eyes, sending tears streaking down his cheeks. “Miss Letterman? What should I do?”
Kit felt a small morsel of sympathy. The man had no priors that they knew of. He really might have gotten in over his head. But she couldn’t afford sympathy now.
Kit met Laura’s gaze directly. “You know we’re right. Tell him.”
Laura looked away on a sigh. “I won’t let him tell you anything until I have an agreement in writing from the DA.”
Kit pushed away from the table. “Of course.”