Chapter Two
San Diego PD, San Diego, California
Saturday, January 7, 9:05 p.m.
Kit rubbed her eyes. They’d gone through only a fraction of the papers they’d taken from Munro’s home office, and her head ached. She was hungry and over-caffeinated.
She turned to the whiteboard, where she and Connor had started compiling names of suspects. They’d both agreed that Wilhelmina Munro would remain on the list for the time being. She might have an alibi for the time of her husband’s death, but murder for hire was still a possibility.
Kit pointed to the folders stacked on the table. “We’ve got two dozen unhappy contractors who claim that he cheated them and at least three unhappy husbands who believed their wives were cheating with him. Plus, constituents who hated him for various reasons.”
Munro had kept printed copies of the threatening emails he’d received. A few were highly detailed about what the sender would do to Munro. Kit wondered what kind of threats he’d received over the phone or in person if these were the kinds of threats people had felt comfortable enough to put in writing.
Connor nodded. “We’ve also got anyone who wanted him to influence the justice system on their behalf—like he tried to do with Sam—but who got sentenced to jail anyway. So far it’s only Ronald Tasker, but I figure there have to be others.”
At the moment, Tasker was at the top of their list of suspects, given the way he’d sliced up his wife after killing her. He was in prison, but again, he was rich enough to have hired it out.
Kit tapped the articles they’d found on the local newspaper’s website. “Plus the guy he beat in the last election, whose life was ruined after Munro spread the rumor that he was a pedophile.”
“Why is it always a pedo? That’s the rumor people trot out whenever they want to make someone look bad.”
“Because it’s one of the worst things we as a society can think of,” she said quietly.
Connor glanced at her sharply. “Kit. Did you…?” He shook his head. “Never mind. None of my business. I’m sorry I asked. Forget it.”
She knew what he was asking. “No, not me. Almost happened once, in one of the foster homes before McKittrick House, but no.”
Connor’s jaw tightened. “How did you stop them?”
Kit smirked. “I stabbed him with his own letter opener. I was only eleven, so I didn’t stab him very hard, but I drew blood.”
“Good.” The word was filled with dark satisfaction.
Kit hadn’t liked Connor when they’d first met, but she’d grown fond of him over the nine months they’d been partners. He was a frat boy with a heart of gold.
“He claimed I’d stabbed him for no good reason, but it was in his groin, so it was tough explaining why he was alone in my room with his pants down.” She sighed. “But I was still labeled a violent troublemaker because I’d stolen the letter opener from his desk and had hidden it under my pillow.”
“Unbelievable.”
“But true. I got moved to another home that was worse. But that’s where I met Wren, so it was worth it.” It had been nearly seventeen years since Wren’s murder, but not a day went by that Kit didn’t miss her sister. Not a day went by that she didn’t renew her promise to find whoever had killed Wren and tossed her body into a dumpster. “That foster father liked girls who looked like Wren, and she was terrified. I wasn’t going to let her get hurt, so we ran away.”
Of course, there had been much more to it than simply running away, but Kit wasn’t going to tell Connor that she’d nearly killed the foster father the night they’d fled. She’d been only twelve and hadn’t known how many of his wife’s sleeping pills to put in his evening whiskey.
The McKittricks knew. She’d finally shared it with them when she was sixteen years old, expecting them to turn her away, but they hadn’t. They’d loved her anyway. They’d adopted her anyway.
“Where did you run to?”
“A barn,” Kit said with a smile. “It was cold out and we snuck in there to get warm. We took a blanket from one of the horses and huddled under it. And then this big man came into the barn and caught us. I was so scared. But…that night changed my life.”
“Harlan McKittrick,” Connor murmured.
Kit nodded. “My origin story. Harlan and Betsy McKittrick saved my life.” She realized she’d reached into her pocket for the small carving she never went anywhere without—the cat with a bird sitting on its head. A gift from Harlan, made with his own hands. Kit was the cat and Wren was the bird. It had become her good-luck charm.
“I’m glad you found that barn,” Connor said, his voice catching.
“Me too. But those foster fathers really were pedos. This guy who Munro accused wasn’t.”
“William Weaver.” Connor taped Weaver’s photo onto the whiteboard. “His wife left him and took his children. He lost his job and his home, and vowed retribution against Brooks Munro. Who denied he’d spread the rumor, of course.”
“Of course. But by the time Weaver had been proven innocent, the damage had been done.”
“Hell of a thing to do for a city council seat.”
“Had to have been lucrative for Munro. The council salary isn’t that high, and Wilhelmina paid for the house, but he bought the Ferrari himself.”
That information had come from Rafferty, who’d also disclosed the amount Wilhelmina had given Munro as allowance. It hadn’t been enough to finance a Ferrari lifestyle, so money had to have been pouring in from somewhere else.
“That model Ferrari isn’t all that expensive,” Connor said.
Kit coughed. “Um, for those of us who don’t have trust funds, a quarter mil is a helluva lot of money.”
Connor winced. “Sorry. I meant there are far more expensive models. He got the bottom-of-the-line Ferrari. Top-of-the-line is twice the cost. So it was more about image than quality.”
“Rich people,” Kit muttered.
Connor chuckled. “I drive a Toyota, y’know.”
“I know. It’s why no one has keyed your car in the parking lot.”
“My strategy is working.” He spread out the photos CSU had taken of Munro’s garage after Wilhelmina had reported him missing. “His Ferrari is gone.”
There’d been a pool of blood where the sports car should have been parked.
“I know. But why? Was Munro injured when he discovered someone stealing his car?”
Connor wrote it on the whiteboard under Theories . “It’s possible, considering they dumped his body in the desert. I’m thinking they didn’t expect it to be found.”
“He wasn’t buried, though. Not well, anyway.” That bothered Kit. “Why didn’t his killer at least try to bury him?”
“Are we sure he didn’t and the wind didn’t shift the sand away?”
“No. But the park rangers didn’t think that was the case because of where the body was positioned. It was behind some boulders.” She found the photo and grimaced. The body truly had been a mess. Poor Sam. He wasn’t used to such things. Not yet, anyway. If he continued as a police shrink, he’d see more.
A soft knock on the open door had her whipping her head toward the sound.
And speak of…well, not the devil. Sam Reeves could never be a devil.
But there he was, holding a familiar warming bag. It belonged to her mother and had “McK” written in bold Sharpie on every side.
“Sam?” Connor asked. “What’re you doing here?”
“Dinner,” Sam said.
Kit was starving. And whatever her mother had made smelled amazing. “I thought you were going to text to make sure we were here.”
“I did. Six times.”
Kit checked her phone. Sure enough, there were six unread texts. “I’m sorry. We lost track of time.”
Sam smiled, but it looked forced. His face was pale, his eyes stricken. He must have still been upset over finding Munro’s body, so Kit turned the photo over so that he wouldn’t have to see it again. “I figured as much,” he said. “Can I come in?”
Connor gestured him to the table. “Of course. Is there food for me, too?”
Sam set the bag on the table. “Of course. It’s a whole chicken pot pie.”
Connor groaned. “Gimme. Gimme now.”
Sam took a step back. “Don’t bite my hand off. There’s enough for a small army in there.”
“Or just me and Connor, who can put away as much food as a small army,” Kit said dryly, opening the bag and pulling out the plates and serving containers. No paper plates for Betsy McKittrick. She’d sent her best Corelle, the cheerful blue and pink flowers on the plates making Kit smile. “Ooh, and candy bar cake.” She took a sniff. “Snickers.”
“Oh my God,” Connor moaned. “Food now. Please.”
Kit rolled her eyes and served him a plate. “At least you’re quiet when you’re stuffing your face.” She glanced at Sam and paused, her hand on the serving spoon. He still looked upset. “What’s wrong?”
Sam looked away. “I…I’m sorry, Kit. I didn’t mean to listen in.”
She frowned, then understood. “Oh. My origin story.” He’d overheard. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she needed to wipe that guilt from his expression. “I probably would have told you at some point anyway, so it’s fine.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.” He took a look at the whiteboard, his eyes going wide. “That’s a lot of names.”
“We’re not close to being done,” Connor said with his mouth full. He swallowed. “Munro’s Ferrari is also missing.”
“The killer stole it?” Sam asked.
“Maybe,” Connor said. “If it was the killer, why do you think they would have done it, Sam?”
“To sell it? Why does anyone steal a Ferrari?”
Kit agreed. “It could be as simple as that.”
Connor shook his head. “Logistics,” he said, then stuffed more food in his mouth.
Kit looked at the photo of Munro’s garage, startling when Sam took the spoon from her hand. He served her some pot pie and gently nudged the photo back into its folder.
“Eat, Kit. Your mother made me promise that I’d get you to eat.”
Kit tucked in and sighed happily. “Mom’s food is the best.”
“Five stars,” Connor said, mouth full once again.
“Manners,” Kit snapped. “At least I wasn’t born in that barn. You might have been, though.”
Connor only grinned, waiting until he’d swallowed to speak again. “What are the logistics? Did the killer hide in Munro’s garage? Did he stab Munro at least once there in the garage? There’s enough blood for one good gushing wound, but not twenty.”
“He definitely slit Munro’s throat in the desert,” Kit said. “We were wondering why he didn’t bury him.”
“Depends on when he dumped him,” Sam said, taking the chair beside her. “There were high winds the day before we hiked. I was watching the weather, afraid that we’d have to cancel if it didn’t die down. It did die down, of course, but if it was that windy when he was dumping the body, he was either fighting the wind and the sand or he figured the wind and sand would do his burying for him. Or some of both.”
“Okay.” Kit paused, her next bite on the fork. “That makes sense. Next question is, why did his killer choose that spot in that park to hide a body? I’ve asked the park service for a list of names of people who entered the park for the last three days, but the park has open entry, so they’ll only have names of people who used the areas they charge for.”
Sam made a face. “His killer didn’t drive a Ferrari in that sand, I can guarantee.”
“So what are the logistics?” Connor asked again. “He enters Munro’s garage—how and from where? He stabs Munro at least once. Does he put him in the Ferrari? That’s not smart if he intends to sell it. Blood’s a bitch to get out of the stitching on the leather seats.”
“Where did he take the Ferrari?” Kit started a new list on the whiteboard, a marker in one hand and her fork in the other.
Sam took the marker from her hand and gently pushed her back into her chair. “Eat. I’ll scribe.”
Connor snickered. “Eat, Kit. Or he’ll tell your mommy.”
“Then I’ll tell her never to feed you again,” Kit shot back.
Connor mimed zipping his mouth shut.
“I thought so,” Kit muttered. “The detectives that responded to the initial missing-person call put out a BOLO on the Ferrari but got nothing. They tried to trace the GPS, but again, they got nothing. It appears to have been disabled. The last location was the garage itself.”
Sam noted that. “So whoever took it knows cars. I wouldn’t know how to disable a GPS.”
“It’s not that hard,” Connor said. “I did it once or twice in my misguided youth when I didn’t want my folks knowing where I was. My dad figured it out and put another tracker on the undercarriage, and I was busted. But I was able to disconnect the GPS that came with the car.”
Kit shook her head. “Mom would have grounded me and taken away dessert for a month if I’d tried that.”
“I was grounded for two months and my allowance cut to just enough to buy lunch at school,” Connor said morosely. “Anyway, I think it’s interesting that Munro didn’t have an auxiliary tracker on his car. Or that his wife didn’t put one on. If he’d cheated on me, I’d want to know where his ass was at all times.”
“And if she did and hasn’t told the cops?” Kit mused. “Still not sure I bought her innocent act.”
“You notified her?” Sam asked.
“She already knew,” Connor said.
“Tamsin Fucking Kavanaugh,” Kit muttered.
Sam grimaced. “Not her again.”
Sam had been on the receiving end of Tamsin’s poisoned pen the spring before when someone he’d cared about had been murdered.
“Tamsin and Munro were bumping uglies,” Connor said.
Sam grimaced again. “Good God, man. First Munro’s dead face and now the image of him and Tamsin doing it? Now I’m wishing I hadn’t had dessert. Have you talked to her yet?”
“No,” Kit muttered. She wasn’t looking forward to that interview. Tamsin Kavanaugh would want some quid pro quo of her own, and Kit would rather eat her own foot than owe the woman anything. “But back to the Ferrari. If the wife is involved, she could have had the Ferrari towed somewhere.”
Sam jotted that on the whiteboard. “It also could have been a souvenir. Especially if his killer wanted some financial retribution.”
“Good point,” Connor said, filling his plate again. “Write that down.”
Sam did so and stared at the board. “Did you get the footage from the security cameras around Munro’s house?”
“We did,” Kit said, “but they’re pretty useless. You see someone in a hoodie and a face mask—like a Halloween hockey mask, not a medical mask, and then they spray-painted the camera lens.”
Sam studied the photo, frowning. “I don’t guess you can trace the mask.”
Kit shook her head. “The party store sells thousands of the things every year.”
“Spray-painting the camera lens is old-school,” Sam commented. “It would have been safer to disable the cameras, but the killer didn’t do that.”
“The weird thing,” Connor said, “is that the Ferrari doesn’t show up on any of the cameras around the neighborhood that day. I’m thinking that whoever took it had an enclosed trailer of some kind, like they use for transporting race cars. They could have driven the Ferrari in and closed the back door.”
“Does a trailer show up on the security cams?” Sam asked.
“Haven’t had a chance to look yet,” Kit said, pushing her empty plate away. “It’s also possible that there were two different doers. One stole his car and the other grabbed and stabbed him.”
Connor shrugged. “For now, let’s assume there’s just one or if there were two, they were working together. He could have gone there to steal the car and was interrupted by Munro. He stabs him, grabs him, then…what? Takes him to the desert to slit his throat?”
“That seems extreme,” Sam said. “The wounds on Munro’s torso indicate either rage or some kind of torture. Or both. The missing digits on his hands and his one shoeless foot seem to point to the latter.”
Connor’s expression was disgruntled. “True. So he goes there planning to steal both Munro and the car? He had to have planned ahead for the car. That sounds more like a revenge scenario. He kills Munro and keeps his car, like you said, Sam, as a souvenir.”
Kit checked her phone. “The video from the guard shack and three of the neighbors’ camera feeds have been uploaded to the department server by the detectives who took the missing-person report.” Who’d been more than delighted to hand their files over to Kit and Connor. Nobody wanted this case. “Let’s establish the existence of the trailer before we go off in that direction.” She eyed the list of suspects they’d assembled so far. “If we know for sure that there was a trailer, access to one is something else to check each suspect for.”
“I can check the feed,” Sam offered. “I’ve got nothing else planned tonight and I took Siggy home on the way to bring you your dinner. That would leave you free to continue strategizing how you’ll talk to all these people.”
“We’d appreciate that,” Kit said. “Depending on who we interview, we might ask you along for the ride.”
Sam’s nod was immediate, if not a little grim. “Absolutely.”
San Diego PD, San Diego, California
Saturday, January 7, 10:30 p.m.
Sam hit the rewind button with a silent sigh. He’d gotten lost in thought again and missed about two minutes of footage from the security camera on the guard shack at the entrance to Munro’s gated community.
It wasn’t because the work was tedious—even though it was. It wasn’t even that Kit was at the end of the table, talking animatedly with Connor, her blue eyes focused and intelligent as they explored more of Munro’s life for investigative direction, even though it was that, too.
It was the knowledge that she’d had to stab her foster father with a letter opener to keep from getting assaulted.
Sam had been standing outside the door, his fist raised to knock, when he heard Connor’s stumbling question. Had Kit been raped as a child? Or sexually abused in some other way?
Of course Sam had wondered. How could he not? But he would never have asked her.
Hearing her tell her “origin story,” as she’d called it, had been devastating. She’d been eleven years old, for God’s sake. Eleven.
Then when she was twelve, running away with Wren…
There’d been something in there that she hadn’t shared. He knew the cadence of her speech well enough to figure that out. Plus, there’d been that little pause after he’d confessed his eavesdropping. She’d been freaked out at first, and then her eyes had narrowed, just the slightest bit. As if replaying everything she’d said.
And the look of relief in her eyes had been unmistakable.
Something else had happened when she and Wren had run away. But he wouldn’t ask. Someday she’d tell him herself.
Or she wouldn’t. Either way, it didn’t change how he felt about her.
She’d just been a little girl, and his heart ached. But she wasn’t a little girl now. She was a grown woman who’d made something spectacular of her life, and he was in awe of her.
But fantasies of punishing those sons of bitches who’d tried to hurt her in the past would have to wait. Sam needed to help her in this moment.
He concentrated on the camera feed once again, staring at the monitor Kit had set up for him. And finally watched a trailer driving in and out of Munro’s gated community.
“I think I’ve got it,” he called to the two detectives, who instantly stopped talking and came to look over his shoulder. “The trailer is pulled by a Ford truck. The sign on the side of the trailer says ‘Norton Landscaping.’ I don’t know if it’s a real company or not.”
Kit was already googling the landscaping company on her phone. “It is a real company, owned by David Norton. From their website, it looks like they employ at least twenty people.”
“Seems bold,” Sam said, “using their own trailer. I wonder if Munro’s killer stole it.”
Connor was typing on his own phone. “I’ll look up the owner and we can pay him a personal visit at home first thing in the morning.”
“We should check the stolen property reports first. They may have already reported it missing.” Kit smiled at Sam. “Thank you. You saved us a lot of time and aggravation.”
Sam’s cheeks heated, but he was pleased. He liked doing things for Kit. She was so self-sufficient, she often made it difficult to help her. “No problem. I wish the camera had gotten the driver’s face.”
“Hopefully the gate guard got a description,” Connor said. “We’ve already got the guard on our interview list, but now we know what to specifically ask him. We can ask the neighbors, too. Hopefully someone saw this guy before he put on his mask.”
Sam wasn’t so sure. “People tend to ignore manual laborers. My mother is an exception. She bakes banana nut bread for whoever does even the smallest job, then sits and chats with them. But even she can’t tell me what they looked like. She does know the name of every spouse, child, and pet of every plumber and electrician who’s ever come to her house. But she couldn’t describe them.”
“That’s so nice,” Connor said. “Banana nut bread is delicious.”
Sam grimaced. “Not Mom’s. Unfortunately for the workers, my mom is a terrible cook and an even worse baker, but her heart’s in the right place. My point is, I’d be surprised if anyone really noticed this guy’s face if he was posing as a worker.”
Kit nodded. “You’re probably right. But most neighborhoods have at least one super nosy person who watches from the window. Maybe Munro’s will have one of those.”
“I wonder if Norton Landscaping has existing customers in Munro’s neighborhood.” Sam opened the company’s website and clicked the testimonials tab. “If they were there often, the gate guard might have just waved the driver through, and no one would have thought twice about the trailer.”
“Good point.” Taking the chair beside him, Kit tapped her phone and began to read. “Sam. Look.”
Sam jerked his attention away from her profile. He’d been staring at her like a lovestruck teenager, but it was hard not to. She had a girl-next-door kind of face, her strawberry-blond hair pulled back into a sensible ponytail. That such a sharp brain lurked behind such a sweet face turned him on like nothing else. But he was here to work.
He saw Munro’s name on the screen and sucked in a breath.
“Brooks Munro was a client,” Kit told Connor, showing him the testimonial. “He gave them a nice recommendation.”
Connor took the chair beside her, turning it around so that he straddled it. “?‘Gifted and professional,’?” he read. “?‘They’ve been caring for my lawn for three years. Their work is exceptional.’ Well, I guess that question is answered. Either someone from the landscaping company is bold, careless, or they’re missing equipment. When did you clock it?”
“It left at five forty-five on Wednesday evening.”
Kit nodded. “Is that consistent with your theory about the windstorm in Anza-Borrego?”
“Not Wednesday night, no. But Thursday, the wind started to get bad and there were wind warnings through Friday night.”
“Okay, then,” Kit said. “If he drove out there Thursday or even Friday night, he could have dumped the body in the dark, hoping it would be covered by sand.”
“And that park’s famous for stargazing, right?” Connor asked. “So it would have been really dark. Nobody would have seen him. Or her.”
“Or her,” Kit murmured. “Did you see when the trailer entered the neighborhood, Sam?”
“At six a.m. It was there all day. I checked the feeds from the neighbors and the only place the trailer could have gone was Munro’s house. His is the only one on a dead-end street and that’s the way the trailer turned.”
Kit frowned. “That’s super early to be entering the community. Why so early? And why did they stay all day?”
They were all quiet for a minute before Connor shrugged. “Those are good questions. For now, let’s focus on the trailer itself. Maybe one of the neighbors will remember seeing it parked in front of Munro’s house or—more importantly—remember seeing the driver. He was there for nearly twelve hours. Plus, the trailer’s twice the normal length.”
Otherwise, Munro’s killer wouldn’t have been able to fit a Ferrari inside.
Kit checked her phone for the time. “It’s too late to talk to the neighbors tonight. Tomorrow, we can talk to the woman who lives closest to him.”
“But that’s still a fair distance,” Connor said. “She might not have seen anything. They’re both on five-acre lots, but her house is even bigger than Munro’s. Maybe not as ostentatious, though.”
That was a better opening than Sam had hoped for. “Munro’s house is ostentatious,” he said, bracing himself for their question. Because he hadn’t mentioned this detail earlier, and he should have.
Her blond brows shot up. “You went to his house for your meeting?”
“I did.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” she asked.
Sam winced. “I guess I didn’t want Navarro considering me a suspect again.”
Kit coughed to hide a laugh. “Yeah, I can understand that. Weren’t you suspicious that Munro asked you to his house?”
“Not really. Not at the time, anyway. When I called to ask for an appointment, his admin said he wasn’t coming into the city that day and if I wanted to meet with him, I’d have to go to his place. Afterward, I was annoyed at myself for not being suspicious. I should have brought a tape recorder. When I told Joel, he just sighed and told me to stop trusting people so much.”
Kit’s expression softened. “I think that makes you you. Don’t change.”
Sam felt his cheeks heating yet again. Every time she paid him a compliment, he wanted to shout from the rooftops. Tone it down before you make an even bigger fool of yourself.
Because he should have suspected Munro. “I didn’t think I had anything he’d want. Now I know differently. That was the first time I’d been approached to tamper with my evaluation of a defendant. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Kit squeezed his shoulder briefly, and he missed her touch when she pulled her hand away. But they were working right now. He didn’t like it, but he understood.
“Where did he take you? In his house, I mean?” she asked.
“His study. I have no doubt that it was set up for recording. If I’d agreed, he could have used that against me. I realized that as soon as he asked me about Ronald Tasker. So I clearly said no and immediately left. I took a selfie of myself at the guard shack so that I could prove the time of my escape.”
“Smart,” Connor murmured. “What a sleazebag Munro was. We need to ask CSU to check for microphones and recording equipment.”
“Yes,” Kit said with a sigh, “because we have interviews to do.” She gestured to the whiteboard. “So many interviews.”
“What time should I meet you tomorrow for these interviews?” Sam asked, half expecting Kit to have changed her mind.
“Meet us here at seven a.m. First stop is David Norton. I want to be at the front door of his house by eight.”
Sam nodded once. “I’ll be here.”
Linda Vista, San Diego, California
Sunday, January 8, 8:00 a.m.
Kit got out of the department car, closing the door quietly. No need to wake up people who had the luxury of sleeping in. Sam got out of the passenger seat and Connor emerged from the back, grumbling that he hadn’t had enough beauty sleep.
David Norton, the owner of the landscaping company, lived in a two-story house in a tidy, quiet middle-class neighborhood. A trailer was parked in his driveway, the graphics identical to the one that had likely been carrying Munro’s Ferrari. The trailer was only about half the size, though.
“Hopefully he has a good explanation for why his company’s trailer was at Munro’s house all day on Wednesday,” Kit said. “I’d like to cross a few names off our list today. Let’s go.”
Once they were on the front porch, she knocked at the door, then stood back to wait.
The door was opened by a boy, maybe six or seven years old. He was missing three of his front teeth. “My parents don’t want to buy anything.” He looked over his shoulder, then leaned closer. “Unless it’s Girl Scout cookies. Mom’ll let me have those as long as we don’t tell Dad.”
Kit cleared her throat to hide a laugh. “Sorry. Not selling anything good like that. Can you call your mom or dad?”
His lip stuck out in a pout as he walked back into the house, leaving the door wide open. “Mom!” he yelled. “Some lady’s selling something that’s not cookies.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. David! Come and watch the sausage. I gotta get rid of whoever’s at the door.” A forty-something woman approached, her eyes widening as she took in the three people on her doorstep. “Can I help you?” she asked warily.
This would be Carla Norton, David’s wife. They’d done a records check before leaving the precinct that morning. No outstanding tickets and neither had any registered firearms.
Kit produced her badge. “I’m Detective McKittrick, San Diego PD. These are my colleagues, Detective Robinson and Dr.Reeves. We’d like to speak to you and your husband. It’s important.”
Carla’s back went ramrod straight as the color drained from her face. “Who’s dead?” she demanded in a whisper. “Davy or Danny?”
Kit blinked, caught unprepared. “Um, neither, ma’am. Not to my knowledge, anyway.”
She sagged. “Oh God. I thought you were here to—” She shook her head. “Come in.” She led them to a living room. “Please sit down. I’ll get my husband.” She turned but paused. “You’re not here about my sons?”
“No, ma’am,” Sam said kindly. “Are they missing?”
She nodded jerkily. “Ran away a month ago. I keep expecting…” She forced a smile. “I’ll be right back.”
Kit eyed Sam as they sat on the sofa while Connor took a wingback chair. “Have you seen them?” she asked Sam softly. “At New Horizons? Or heard their names?”
“I don’t think so, but kids often give fake names. I’ll ask around later to see if any of the other kids have seen them.” His smile was sad. “Poor mama.”
The mother in question reentered the room, followed by her husband, a tall man who, according to his driver’s license information, was forty-nine. His expression was closed as the two sat on a love seat. “What’s this about?” David asked, his tone harsh.
“We’re homicide detectives, sir,” Connor said. “We’re investigating the murder of Brooks Munro and we’re hoping you can help us.”
David Norton frowned. “Brooks Munro the councilman? He’s dead? Are you sure?”
Oh yes. Kit thought about the gaping maw that had been Munro’s throat. Very sure. “He is,” she confirmed. “When did you last see him?”
David stared at them. “I haven’t. I don’t know why you’re here.”
“He’s one of your customers, isn’t he?” Connor asked.
“Uh…”
“He is,” Carla said quietly. “He gave a recommendation and we put it on the website.”
“Oh. All right. Well then, yes. He’s one of our clients. But I’ve never personally met the man. I’d have to check our records to find out when we last serviced his lawn. Why?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused.
Connor pulled a folded paper from his pocket. He’d printed screenshots of the trailer leaving Munro’s community. “Is this your trailer?”
David took the paper, Carla looking over his arm to see. Both frowned, then looked at each other. “David? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” he muttered, then met Kit’s eyes. “This is our logo, our artwork, but we don’t own a trailer of that size. Where did you get this photo?”
“It left Brooks Munro’s community the day he disappeared,” Kit said, watching their reactions. She had no intention of answering his question. At least not until she was sure that he wasn’t somehow involved in Munro’s murder.
Carla’s hand flew to her mouth. “David?”
David shook his head, looking confounded. “This is not our trailer. I don’t know whose it is, but it does not belong to me or to my company. Do I need a lawyer?”
“Would you allow us access to your service records?” Connor answered, dodging the question about lawyers. “We’d like to see when your company serviced Mr.Munro’s property.”
“Yes,” Carla said firmly. “David, we have nothing to hide.”
“Famous last words,” David muttered, then shook the printed screenshot. “How did this happen? How did someone get a trailer with our logo?”
“We don’t know, sir,” Kit said honestly. “We were hoping you could tell us.”
David slowly exhaled. “Sorry, guys. I’m calling my lawyer.”
“David!” Carla exclaimed.
“We’re not guilty, Carla. We’re smart. I’ll have my lawyer contact you, Detectives. I assume you have a business card. If he says it’s okay, I’ll give you access to my service records.”
Kit handed him a business card, annoyed and trying hard not to show it. “Can you answer one question for us?”
“Depends,” David said cagily. “What’s the question?”
“Are your trailers painted or wrapped?”
“Wrapped,” he said readily enough. “We use a body shop in Mission Valley. I’m happy to give you their information.”
If the trailer truly didn’t belong to Norton Landscaping—and it was easily enough checked—then Munro’s killer had to have gotten it somewhere else.
Kit opened the Notes app on her phone. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Jennifer’s Body Shop,” David said.
Kit looked up from her phone. “Seriously? Wasn’t that a movie? Jennifer’s Body ?”
“A horror movie,” Carla said. “But this Jennifer is a real person and she runs a body shop. She’s…dramatic. But she does good work and we always get a discount.”
“Okay,” Kit said. “Did she also design the graphic for the trailer wraps?”
“That’s two questions,” David said, grunting when Carla elbowed him.
“Dammit, David,” she hissed. “This is serious.”
“So am I,” he snapped. “We need to let our lawyer handle this.”
Carla shook her head. “Jen’s boyfriend is the graphic designer. I think his name is Bran. Like the cereal.”
David’s lips thinned. “Whatever.”
“I want the cops out of our lives,” Carla said quietly to him, then looked at Kit. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Kit rose. “Thank you for your time.”
Connor handed Carla one of his business cards. “Call either of us if you change your mind. And if you could have your attorney contact us as soon as possible, we can get the information we need and be out of your hair.”
From the corner of her eye, Kit saw Sam slip Carla one of his business cards, the one from New Horizons. The woman’s eyes filled with tears as she clutched the card to her chest.
“I volunteer at New Horizons,” Sam murmured. “It’s a shelter for teen runaways. If you send me their photos, I’ll pass them around and keep my ear to the ground for word of your boys.”
David sucked in a breath. “Carla.”
She lifted her chin. “They’re my sons, David. I will find them.”
David closed his eyes, but not before Kit saw the pain there. “I want to find them, too. But they don’t want to come home.”
Carla’s jaw twitched. “And if they did?”
“They’d have to obey the rules of the house,” David said wearily.
Carla looked like she wanted words with her husband, but she just promised to email Sam photos of her sons before showing Kit, Sam, and Connor out.
“Well,” Kit said when they got back to the car. “That was different.”
“What was that at the end, Sam?” Connor asked.
“Seems like David made some rules that Davy and Danny didn’t like and they ran away. David has given up on them coming home, and Carla refuses to do so.”
Connor squeezed into the back seat with a grimace. “Chances of finding those kids after a month suck.”
Sam sighed as he slid into the front passenger seat. “I know. I’ll make some calls, just in case. And the kids that come through New Horizons hear things. A few of them trust me enough to tell me the word on the street.”
Kit started the car. “Next stop, Jennifer’s Body Shop?”
Connor snickered. “I wanted to laugh so bad.” He waved his hand. “Drive on, Jeeves.”
“That’s Detective Jeeves to you,” Kit said lightly. “Run checks on Jennifer and her boyfriend Bran.”
“Like the cereal,” Connor deadpanned. “On it.”
Sam was already on his phone, sending texts. “New Horizons?” Kit asked.
Sam nodded. “If I can help them find their kids, I will. Carla Norton’s already emailed me the photos. I’m passing them on to the staff on duty today.”
Kit’s heart squeezed. The kids passing through the teen shelter were lucky to have a man like Sam on their side. “I know you will. Okay. Jennifer’s Body Shop, here we come.”