Chapter Eight
San Diego PD, San Diego, California
Monday, January 9, 4:15 p.m.
Connor walked into the interview room, a friendly smile on his face. “Miss Fitzgerald, so nice to see you again.”
Veronica sneered at him and said nothing.
“You don’t have any reason to keep my client here,” Laura said boldly.
Connor chuckled. “I’d say we have two hundred thousand, four hundred and fifty reasons to keep her here. Plus the fake passport, of course. The Feds will handle that one, but they’re letting us have our go first. Isn’t that nice? We all just get along.”
Laura didn’t smile. “I’ve advised my client not to say anything.”
“I’m sure you have. I just wanted to clear the air with her. Hopefully get a few things straight.” He set the folder on the table. “So. You drive a Chevy Stingray. Hot car, by the way. I wish I had one. But on a cop’s salary, I can’t afford it.”
Veronica snorted. “Your rich parents would buy you one.”
“Veronica,” Laura said quietly.
Veronica rolled her eyes. “I know his parents from the country club. All they can talk about is their important son who’s an important detective. I am not impressed.”
Connor grinned. “I am. I didn’t know they bragged about me. Now, I must commend you on your frugality. Munro bought himself a quarter-mil Ferrari, but you bought a much less expensive car. Seventy-five thousand retail. Still, how does an admin assistant to a city councilmember afford a car like that?”
“It was a gift,” Veronica said stiffly. “And I can prove that.”
“From Munro?”
Laura sighed. “Don’t answer that, Veronica. I’m serious.”
“Hell of an admin appreciation day gift,” Connor commented. “We tallied your rent, the car, and did a cursory check on your credit cards. You spend a lot more than you make. And you have no debt. You paid your bills and Munro’s with money orders. That was real nice of you, ma’am. Getting money orders for him when you bought yours. Or maybe the money was coming out of the same pot?”
Veronica looked away, her lips pursed.
“Okay. You’ve made ten trips to the Caymans in the last four years under your Viola Feinstein passport. Any reason?”
“Vacation,” she said, lifting her chin.
“You must really love it there. I’m wondering if we’ll find that you’ve also opened accounts in Cayman banks under the Viola alias. Or if you have a third passport we just haven’t found yet.”
“You’re fishing, Detective,” Laura said.
“Of course I am,” Connor said, still pleasant. “I wonder if Steven Neal—he’s the pilot we just picked up, Miss Letterman—will tell us about some of Veronica’s trips.”
Veronica’s eyes flashed anger. “He didn’t fly me there.”
Connor smiled. “Will he back you up? You’re going down for felony passport fraud and, if you can’t explain where all that money came from, extortion as well. He’s just in trouble for being your pilot at this point. He claims that he wasn’t the person you called this morning when you said ‘They know,’ and ‘We have to get out of here.’?”
Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth, then shut it when Laura hissed her name.
“Yeah,” Connor said, “we were listening. I wish you hadn’t thrown up, though. I’m a sympathetic puker.”
“He’s not,” Kit said in the observation room. “I think Sam is, though.”
“He totally is,” Joel agreed.
On the other side of the glass, Veronica glared at Connor.
Laura sighed. “Are you going somewhere with this, Detective?”
“Of course.” He turned to Veronica. “We’ll check into the flights you took with your Viola passport. I’m thinking you did the trip in two legs—San Diego to Mexico City and then to Grand Cayman. We’ll find the flight records. Steven Neal doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d stay quiet to save you.”
“Did Connor meet the pilot?” Navarro asked.
“Nope,” Kit said. “He’s really improving his interview technique. Veronica bought that line.”
“If he knew anything about what you were doing,” Connor continued, “and I suspect he did because you were bullying him into flying you today—then we’ll offer him a deal to tell us everything he knows about you. We’re especially interested in your partner. The one who wasn’t gutted like a pig.”
He said that like he was discussing a sunny day.
Veronica flinched and held herself very still as Connor changed the subject from Munro’s body back to her flights.
“They were generally long weekends, your trips to Grand Cayman. That’s a hell of a long flight for a short visit.”
“So?” Veronica asked belligerently.
“So, we plan to start with the supposition that you boarded each of those flights with a backpack full of cash, like you had today. And that you deposited it, then turned around and came back. We’re also assuming that Munro didn’t keep the cash. You did. You bore the entire responsibility should you have been caught. He doesn’t seem very nice to me.”
“He didn’t have to be nice,” she said with rigid dignity. “He was my employer.”
“And your lover,” Connor said in a tone just short of singsong.
Veronica maintained her composure, but it was a close thing. If Connor played her right, he could break her walls down.
“You can’t prove that,” Veronica said.
“Ah, but we can. Right after we hauled you into booking, we had CSU go over your apartment with a fine-toothed comb. Tested the hell out of those sheets. Hell of a thing, rapid DNA testing. Cuts the wait time down to two hours. Results are in, and guess whose DNA we found?”
Veronica’s face slowly grew a waxy shade of green. But, to her credit, she said nothing.
“Oh, come on,” Connor coaxed. “Not even a guess? Well, I suppose you already know. You were having…carnal relations with him. Good old Brooks Munro. Does your other partner know about the two of you? I think you two were the brains of the operation, not Munro. If his killer figures that out…well, I wouldn’t want to be either of you.”
Veronica drew a breath and let it out. She opened her mouth, but no words emerged.
There was a tension in the interview room that Kit could feel on the other side of the glass. She realized she’d leaned forward—as had Navarro and Joel.
“Who’s the PI, Veronica?” Connor asked.
Veronica flinched, her eyes registering shock.
“Very nice, Connor,” Kit murmured. “Very nice indeed.”
“Did you know there was a PI?” Joel asked.
“No,” Kit said. “It makes sense, though. If Brooks Munro had a list of secrets, someone had to have dug them up. I can’t see random people confiding in Munro.”
Navarro sat back with a grim smile. “Get the PI’s name, Robinson.”
That, Kit thought, might be asking too much. “We might be able to find his name on her phone. Having confirmation that she was working with a PI is good, though.”
“I mean,” Connor was saying casually, “everyone knows that Munro wasn’t the type to pry secrets out of powerful people. Movers and shakers, our source said. But Munro was a sleazy man. I’m surprised anyone stuck with him for more than a few weeks. You were his lover for fifteen years.” He said it like he was truly impressed. “Everyone in city hall knows you two were going at it like rabbits, by the way, so nobody will be surprised. What does surprise me is that you’d let the person who did this to the man you’ve slept with for fifteen years go free.”
He opened the folder and spread the photos across the table. Veronica gagged, but nothing came up.
“Really, Detective,” Laura snapped, turning the photos over.
“Stop,” Connor commanded, his tone suddenly hostile and aggressive. “ Look at these, Veronica. Look at what they did to him. They stabbed him twenty-five times. They cut off his fingers and toes. And they mauled the hell out of his dick.” Connor rose from his chair, leaning across the table to dangle the photo of Munro’s mutilated genitalia in front of Veronica’s face. “I. Said. Look.”
Veronica looked, her eyes frozen on the photo as what color was left in her face drained away. She then curled into herself on a ragged sob.
If Kit didn’t dislike her so much, she might feel sorry for her.
“Don’t you want to know who did this?” Connor demanded. Laura urgently called her client’s name, but Connor shouted over her. “He felt every one of these brutalities, Veronica. Every single one. They hurt him. The man you loved was tortured . Over and over and over again. Don’t you want whoever hurt him to pay?”
“Yes,” Veronica cried on a strangled gasp. “I want them to pay. But I don’t know who they are.”
“You know who’s on the list,” Connor countered coldly, his pleasant facade no more.
Veronica shook her head. “I don’t. I managed the money. That’s all.”
Laura sighed. “We’ll want to talk a deal with the prosecutor.”
Connor sank into his seat. He slid the photos back in the folder. “That’s not up to me. Where did you think he’d put the list, Veronica?”
“It was supposed to be in his house. In his study. I looked in his study, but it wasn’t there. Then she came home and I couldn’t look anymore. I searched the office at city hall, but it wasn’t there either, and then it got sealed off by you people and I couldn’t look anymore.”
“She” would be Wilhelmina, Kit thought. She wondered if Wilhelmina suspected that Munro’s home office had been searched. It didn’t seem like it had been searched when Kit and Connor had been there on Saturday night. Not a paper was out of place.
Either Veronica was a neatnik or Wilhelmina—or someone else—had altered the scene. They’d had CSU go over every inch of that study and hadn’t found any prints that didn’t belong to Munro himself. They’d search again, but Kit didn’t think they’d find the list. It was likely that whoever had tortured Munro had gleaned the location of the list and had taken it for themselves.
But why? How did they plan to use the information? How did they even know the list existed to begin with?
Connor’s voice had settled back to calm, but there was no more pleasantry. “Are we looking for an electronic file or a piece of paper?”
“A notebook,” Veronica said. “In a three-ring binder. It wasn’t online. Brooks didn’t trust that he wouldn’t be hacked. I never saw the contents. The PI never saw the payments. I never even knew the PI’s name.”
Connor regarded her in silence for a moment before asking, “Was it Jacob Crocker?”
Veronica’s shock was apparent. “No.”
“Who’s Crocker?” Joel asked.
“PI to William Weaver,” Kit said, “the guy whose life Munro ruined over a council seat. Crocker’s dead. Shot while on a stakeout for another client, according to Weaver. We wondered if Munro had anything to do with that because Weaver was about to hire Crocker again. I guess we have the answer to that question. Veronica knows exactly who Jacob Crocker was.”
“Okay,” Connor was saying evenly. “So you never saw the names. Clearly Brooks knew who they were, as did the PI since he was the one who dug up the dirt to begin with. What was your role?”
“I handled the payments and kept the money straight. Told Brooks who wasn’t paying on time. I don’t know what he did with that information.”
“That’s a lie,” Kit said. “Or at least Ronald Tasker thought so. He thought Munro and Fitzgerald sent him the compromising photos of his wife as retaliation for nonpayment. They wanted Tasker to blow up, goading her to report his illegal dealings to the police. Which Tasker’s wife knew about because Munro and Fitzgerald told her about them. At least that was Tasker’s take.”
“He blew up all right,” Navarro muttered.
“I don’t know if they expected Tasker to murder his wife and chop her into pieces,” Kit said dryly.
“Hush,” Joel said, because Veronica was still talking.
“Each of us had a piece of the pie,” she said, “so none of us could betray the others and steal it all.”
“No trust among thieves,” Connor murmured. “How long had this been going on?”
“Eight years. Before Brooks was first elected to the city council.”
“Why was it so important for Munro to be on the council?” Connor asked. “It’s just the city council.”
Veronica sighed wearily. “To you, maybe. You grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth. Brooks and I didn’t. He wanted to be a U.S. senator. To have respect.”
“So he stole to get it.”
The woman lifted a shoulder. “Not like he was the first to do that.”
Connor frowned. “That doesn’t make it right. How much money are we talking about?”
“It varied.”
“Guess,” Connor snapped.
“I would go to the Caymans when I had a half mil saved up.”
“So ten trips means five million dollars. Not as much as I thought, especially not split three ways.”
“Split into quarters,” she said, looking twenty years older than she had that morning. “I don’t know where the others put their money.”
“That’s more like it,” Connor said. “You said quarters. Is there a fourth partner or did you all take a different percentage?”
Veronica slowly shook her head. “No fourth partner. Brooks got half. The PI and I each got a quarter.”
“Didn’t that make you angry?”
“Only a little. Brooks was taking the risks. The PI and I were faceless. The targets knew only that Brooks held their secrets. So he got a bigger percentage of the take.”
“If you kept track of the money and never met the PI, how did he get his cut?”
“Brooks gave it to him. I’d prepare the accounting statement and give Brooks seventy-five percent of the take—his and the PI’s share. I only knew the targets by a number. Brooks knew the numbers and the names. The PI only knew the names.”
“So you’d put a million and a half dollars in a suitcase and hand it to Munro?”
She frowned. “Where did you get—? Oh. I said I’d save up a half mil before going to the Caymans. That took me several months to save up. I paid out the funds every month to Brooks, who then paid the PI. Like I said, I don’t know where they hid theirs.”
“How did your blackmail victims pay you?” Connor was asking.
“Cash. Nonsequential fifties. Left in a storage locker.”
“Where was the storage locker?” Connor asked.
“Only Brooks and I had a key, but it was too risky for Brooks to check. That was my job.”
“He trusted you one helluva lot.”
“He did.”
“Why?”
“We were lovers,” she said bitterly. “As you said.”
“Had to have been more than that. Where was the storage locker?”
“It changed locations, month to month,” Veronica said. “That was Brooks’s idea. He didn’t want our targets to be able to go to the cops. Most of them could afford the money we charged. They were all too rich for their own good. Needed to be taken down a peg or two.”
“How do you know they were rich enough to afford your blackmail?”
“Brooks said so. I believed him. He never lied to me.”
“You mentioned that neither of you grew up with a silver spoon. Does that mean you knew him growing up?”
She closed her eyes, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Where?”
Veronica shook her head, for some reason unwilling to share that information.
“Who do you think killed him? Was it over the blackmail list? Or do you think it was his constituents?”
“I don’t know,” Veronica said. “And that’s the truth.”
“That’s a lie,” Kit said quietly. “She’s got to know it was the blackmail list. They tortured him for the location. Unless she did find it, hid it, and is lying to all of us, including the PI. That’s a distinct possibility.”
“It is,” Navarro said. “But you’ll get to the bottom of it. You two make a hell of an investigative team. Add in Sam Reeves, and you’re unstoppable.”
Kit just hoped that was true.
Connor’s shoulders sagged, his exhaustion starting to show. These kinds of interviews were as hard on the cop as they were on the suspect. Well, in different ways. Connor got to go home at the end of the ordeal. Veronica would go to a cell.
“Anything else?” he asked.
Veronica shot him an icy glare. “Isn’t this enough?”
Laura’s sigh sounded defeated. “More than enough. My client wishes to go to her cell now. I’ll see you at the arraignment, Veronica. Please don’t say any more.”
“There’s no more to say,” she muttered mournfully.
“Another lie,” Kit murmured. “She knows so much more.”
“Yep,” Navarro agreed. “We’ll keep working on her.”
Connor got up and was at the door when Veronica spoke again. “Detective, have you found his car? The Ferrari?”
“No. Why?”
“I left a bracelet in the glove box. It was my mother’s. Nothing expensive. Just…sentimental value. I’d like to get it back.”
“If we find it, I’ll check.” Connor left the interview room and joined them in observation. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, dropping into a chair.
“Nicely done,” Kit said.
Joel squeezed Connor’s shoulder. “What she said.”
Connor closed his eyes. “I need a nap.”
Kit had to smile. He sounded three years old. “Go crash. I’ll do a summary and pull together our next steps.”
San Diego PD, San Diego, California
Monday, January 9, 8:15 p.m.
“Hey.”
Kit turned from the whiteboard at the sheepish voice, smiling when she saw Sam standing in the doorway to the SDPD conference room. “Hey, yourself. Did you get some sleep?”
“I did. Then I got fed. You have a visitor. Is it okay to let her in?”
A familiar voice came from behind him. “It means put all the gory photos away,” Akiko said. “I’ve got your dinner.”
Kit gathered the autopsy photos and any crime scene details that her sister shouldn’t see. “All the gory photos are put away. Please, let her in. I’m starving.”
Akiko ducked under Sam’s arm, a covered glass baking dish in her hand. “I got a great haul today. White sea bass and lingcod. Mom and I cooked them up and we had a feast at the house.” She arched a brow. “I texted.”
Kit sighed. “I’m sorry. I got distracted and forgot to reply. But it smells really good.”
Akiko had come to McKittrick House shortly after Wren’s murder. She and Kit had become friends first, then sisters. Out of all the kids fostered by Harlan and Betsy, Kit was closest to Akiko, who operated a fishing charter. The family benefited when she had a good day on the water.
“How did you and Sam come up together?” Kit asked, digging into the meal.
Sam sat at the conference table, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Your folks invited Georgia and Eloise for fish and I was with them.”
“He was still tipsy,” Akiko stage-whispered, then laughed when Sam shot her a dirty look. “Well, you were. I picked them up on my way from the harbor. Stopped by to get your mail too, since you haven’t slept on the boat in a while.”
Kit stopped chewing to consider that. It had been days since she’d slept in her own bed. Going home to McKittrick House was so much nicer.
“So I had dinner with them and Betsy made me drink a gallon of coffee,” Sam said. “But the dinner was amazing, so it was worth it in the end. Akiko brought me back here because I left my car in the lot this morning. Where’s Connor?”
“He took a break to have dinner with CeCe and her parents. He’ll be back soon, and he’ll definitely want some of this fish. They’re vegetarians. He doesn’t want to be rude, so he eats a meal there, then goes somewhere for meat.”
While Kit explained, she was watching her sister. There was something wrong. Kit was almost certain of it. Akiko had yet to meet her eyes. But she’d ask later. Kit trusted Sam, but Akiko might want to keep whatever was wrong private.
“Vegetarian is an extremely healthy lifestyle,” Akiko said. “But I get his point.” She stood up and headed for the door. “Enjoy the food. Mom says to bring the dish the next time you come home. She says that will probably be tonight.”
Kit’s mother was not wrong. But Kit did have to go back to her boat soon. It technically wasn’t her boat. She rented it from one of her older foster brothers who was in the navy, stationed too far away to use it.
She really didn’t spend much time on the boat anymore, now that she thought about it. “I’ll walk you out. Sam, can you stay? I need to bring you up to speed.”
“Of course,” he said in a way that made Kit wonder if he’d seen Akiko’s preoccupation, too.
Kit waited until she and Akiko were at the double doors leading out of the homicide division. “What’s wrong?”
Akiko shook her head. “It’s tough having you for a sister. I can’t hide anything.”
“Akiko…”
Her sister sighed. “I got a call a few days ago from someone I didn’t know. She wants to meet me. She claims to have known my mother.”
Kit blinked, too stunned for a moment to speak. “Your mother?”
Akiko had no memory of her mother. She’d been left outside a firehouse as an infant and had been immediately sucked into the foster care system.
Akiko nodded. “I don’t know what to tell her.”
“How did she know your mother?”
“I don’t know. She said she’d tell me when we met. I told her I’d think about it and call her back. I don’t know what to do.”
Alarm bells were clanging in Kit’s head. “Give me the number the woman called from. I’ll check it out. And if you decide to go, I’ll go with you.”
Akiko closed her eyes in relief. “I hoped you’d say that.”
“Like there was any doubt.” She could see that her sister needed a hug. She opened her arms. “Come on.”
Akiko looked surprised, and then her eyes grew glassy with tears. She moved into Kit’s embrace and held on tight. “Thank you. I needed this.”
Kit wrapped her arms around her slender sister. “I could tell. Promise me you’ll wait until I can go with you. As soon as this case is over. Promise me.”
“I promise.” Akiko pulled away. “You can tell Sam if you want. I know he was wondering, too.”
“If he asks, then fine. But I won’t volunteer your personal information.”
“I trust you. I always have.”
Kit felt her own eyes sting. “And I you. Be careful. Do you have any charters booked?”
“Yes, but they’re all parties I’ve booked before and Paolo will be with me.”
Kit knew Akiko’s first mate, and the man was more than able to defend them. Akiko could take care of herself in a pinch, but Kit was always comforted when Paolo went out on the charters. Akiko took her clients far off the coast, where the fish were big. Too far to get help if she needed it. Paolo was a lifesaver.
“Good.” Kit remained calm for her sister’s sake, but her gut was screaming that something was wrong with this setup. “Don’t fret. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Did she give you your mother’s name?”
Another shake of her sister’s head. “Said she’d tell me everything when we met.”
“I don’t like mysterious people,” Kit grumbled. “Just…be careful.” She waited until Akiko had passed through the doors before returning to the conference room, where Sam was studying her whiteboard.
“You’ve added some names,” he said.
“Yep. Today was an eye-opener for sure.”
He glanced at her as she sat beside him. “I know about Connor’s interview with Veronica Fitzgerald and that Laura Letterman is her defense attorney. Joel called to let me know. After he gave me shit about getting trashed on two margaritas.”
Sam’s cheeks had pinked up, and Kit thought it was cute. Not that she’d say so. Sam seemed embarrassed enough.
“Don’t feel bad. After that interview, Connor took a nap like a baby.”
“While you worked.” He looked meaningfully at the board.
“Well, yeah. He’s done the same for me when I’ve been too tired to function. He woke up and we interviewed the pilot. He knew Veronica was transporting cash. He’d searched her backpack once when she’d fallen asleep on one of the flights to the Caymans. Said he wanted to make sure she didn’t have any guns. He could overlook the cash, but not guns. She wasn’t armed, so he let it slide.”
“She had a gun today when you picked her up.”
“That was in her handbag, not the backpack. He said he would have searched her handbag too, but she was clutching it to her even in her sleep. The money she paid him for each flight was too good for him to make waves. So he kept his mouth shut and did what she asked.”
“Did he know anything about the other guy? The PI whose name Veronica claims not to know?”
“No. The pilot said that he only flew her.”
“Not very economical on Veronica’s part,” Sam observed. “There were other ways to hide cash much closer to home.”
Kit smiled. “I thought of that as we were talking to the pilot. Turns out she’d bought a town house in George Town in the Caymans. Paid cash. The title is under her Viola Feinstein alias.”
“The bad guys always seem to go for houses on the beach.”
Kit shrugged. “Not everyone enjoys the desert.”
“True.” He pointed to the whiteboard. “What’s next?”
Kit brought him up to speed, including her plans to reinterview Wilhelmina Munro and to find out who might have known of—and taken advantage of—Shelley Porter’s addiction.
“I can find out where she went to rehab,” Sam offered. “There could be a connection there. If they knew she was an addict and still using, they’d know she’d grab the cash bait.”
Kit wrote that on the whiteboard as a next step. “We’re also taking another look at the murder of Jacob Crocker, William Weaver’s PI. No one was arrested for his murder. There may have been some physical evidence that can help us. As luck would have it, that was Marshall and Ashton’s case. They were upset that they couldn’t solve it, so they’ve taken point.”
Sam smiled at her. “Look at you, delegating like a pro.”
She lifted her brows. “I am a pro.”
“Not at delegating.”
She sighed. “Fair point. I’m learning.”
“I have something else for you. I got another call tonight while Akiko was driving me here. Carla Norton, the landscaper’s wife. She’d called Jennifer Porter to offer her condolences on the loss of her sister and niece. Jennifer asked her how someone could have known that she did the wraps for Norton Landscaping.”
“I just assumed the killer had seen it on Jennifer’s website. Norton’s wraps are in their photo gallery.”
“Well, the killer would have had to check the website for every auto body shop in the area. Possible, but time-consuming. Carla asked their staff if anyone had requested a recommendation for detailing trailers. One of her landscapers said he was approached by a ‘dude with a neckbeard and sunglasses’ who asked who’d done the wrap. Her employee told him.”
Kit made a face. “A neckbeard and sunglasses means the employee didn’t get a good look at his face. Great disguise unless he actually has a neckbeard. When was this?”
“At least two months ago, according to Carla Norton. She said her employee was working on a lawn at the time and didn’t think anything of someone asking about the wrap.”
“Why would he? And two months ago? That means Munro’s killer has been planning this for a while.”
“Not terribly surprising. Getting the wrap done—and coordinating a potential mob to help him kill Munro—that would take some time.”
She grimaced, still hating the multiple-hands theory. But she had to consider it, of course. It was just…
Someone would have spilled that secret, either before the deed or in the days after. There was still time. Someone might come forward. But Kit’s gut told her not to hold her breath waiting.
Her gut also told her that Sam had more to say. “You look like you’re busting to share.”
He grinned. “I am. Neckbeard was driving a tan Chevy Suburban, a model somewhere between 2015 and 2018. Carla’s employee didn’t get the plates, but it could be a lead.”
Kit sat up straighter. “Not the Ford truck he drove when he picked up the trailer?”
“Nope. Maybe you can look at the street cams again. A tan Chevy Suburban dragging a trailer with no wrap, assuming he cut the wrap off after abducting Munro and stealing the Ferrari.”
Kit smiled at him, feeling a zing of excitement at the new direction. “Now, that we can do.” She wrote it on the board. “We don’t know where he took Munro between Wednesday night when he grabbed him and when he dumped him in Anza-Borrego. We don’t know where the torture took place.”
“If it were me, I would have just done it in the trailer. Backed the Ferrari out and…well, do what he did. Then I would have abandoned the trailer. If someone found it, so what? It couldn’t be linked to me.”
“I’m not sure if I’m impressed or scared that you’re putting yourself in a killer’s mind.”
“Part of my job,” he said lightly, but she could hear his irritation.
“Sorry. I did it again. I know you deal with killers. It’s just that you’re so damn… nice .”
“So are you.”
“Not really. Not nearly as nice as you.”
“ That could be true.” He said it with a smile that told her she was forgiven. Again. “Carla Norton gave me the name of the landscaper who talked to the man. Said he’d be happy to talk to you. I emailed the guy’s contact info to you.”
Kit checked her phone and, sure enough, there was the email from Sam. “We’ll try to talk to him tomorrow. Wanna come with?”
“Can’t, sorry. Have sessions most of tomorrow and I’m on duty at New Horizons starting at four.”
“Pesky day job.”
He shrugged. “Pays the bills. SDPD doesn’t pay enough to cover my rent.”
“Certainly not enough to put you in the crosshairs of someone like Ronald Tasker. Promise me that you’ll be careful. I don’t trust that man.”
“Neither do I. But if he meant me harm, I’d already be dead.”
Kit shuddered. “Don’t say that.”
“Doesn’t make it any more likely to happen, Kit.”
“I know.” She pointed to her head. “Here. But here…” She tapped her chest. “Gives me the wiggins.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
“That’s a lot,” she said quietly. “Be careful, Sam. Promise me.”
He met her eyes, his sober. “I promise. If you promise the same.”
She nodded once and held out her pinkie.
He chuckled and pinkie-swore with her. “Feel better now?” he asked.
“Not really. I’d feel better if you went into a bunker and never came out, but I feel that way about everyone I care about.” She sucked in a breath, realizing what she’d said as soon as the words had come out of her mouth. The words, and the sentiment behind them, hovered between them.
Sam just regarded her evenly from behind his Clark Kent glasses. “Gonna take it back?”
“No,” she said firmly. “No take-backs.”
His gaze grew heated as it dropped to her mouth, but he quickly turned his focus to the whiteboard. “Anything else?”
She was disappointed. He’d considered kissing her and he hadn’t. They were at work, though. Maybe later.
“The Ferrari,” she said. “That’s been bugging me. Goddard hasn’t found a trace of it online and none of the car dealers have seen it. Munro’s killer could be taking it far away to sell and could even be keeping it as a souvenir, like you said. But why? Why take the car at all? It complicates everything. I might have thought that it was a last-minute decision, that maybe there was evidence in or on the car that could connect to the killer, but he was planning this two months ago.” That he’d asked one of Norton’s employees about the wrap so long ago was important new information and had shifted her perspective. “So why go to all the trouble of stealing the car?”
“If I were that filled with rage at Munro, enough to be able to do those things that were done to him—either by myself or as part of a group—and if I’d been a victim of Munro’s blackmailing…”
She sat up straighter. “I’d see that Ferrari as mine . My money bought it. My money that Munro stole . I’d want something back for the money he took.”
“Bingo.”
“Huh.” She tilted her head, considering it. “So he might not ever sell it or even drive it. Just having it might be enough.”
“Like the people who buy stolen paintings and hide them in a vault. They know they have it and no one else can enjoy it and that’s part of the appeal.”
“So there’s a good chance his killer still has the car.”
“I’d say there’s a very good chance.”
“And when we find the killer, we’ll find the car and that will be enough to put him away right there.”
“Assuming there was just one killer.”
Kit made a face. “Dammit.”
“Why are you so against multiple killers? It worked for Agatha Christie.”
Kit laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m no Poirot.”
“You’re better.”
Her cheeks heated. “Aw, shucks.” She pointed to the whiteboard, uncomfortable with his compliment. “What about the mysterious PI?”
He settled in the chair. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. To be making the kind of money Munro was pulling in—sounds like about ten million over the last eight years?”
“Give or take. Veronica made five million and Munro kept twice that.”
“Joel said that Munro and Veronica grew up together. She was ten years older than he was.”
“True. They wouldn’t have been in the same school. We need to find out how they met.”
Sam hesitated, then shrugged. “It might be a long shot, but try the foster care system.”
Kit flinched. “What?”
“The bonds you’ve forged with your brothers and sisters are through shared pain. Sounds like Veronica and Munro shared the same strong bond. Strong enough for him to trust her with millions of dollars. She held all the cash. She could have stolen from him.”
“Maybe she did.”
“Do you think so?”
“I don’t know. I’ll dig into Munro’s background. He never mentioned anything about growing up in foster care or even growing up poor.”
“He wanted to be respected. He wanted to be upper crust. Having a poor childhood would have barred him from some circles.”
“Sad but true,” Kit murmured. “But that is an excellent point.” She frowned, rewinding their conversation. Then she got it. “You think the PI was one of Munro’s childhood friends, too.”
“Maybe. It’s a theory, at least. It would have taken a lot of trust—on both Munro’s part and the PI’s—to agree to a scheme like this. Especially with the arrangement Veronica claimed they had. That not one of them had all the information.”
“Except Brooks Munro.”
“He had the information, but he let Veronica handle the money.”
“True.” Kit’s mind was reeling. “We need to have dinner more often. You’ve given me several more threads to pull.”
Sam smiled. “Happy to be of service. But to be technical, we didn’t have dinner together.”
Kit nodded once. “We need to rectify that situation.”
He held her gaze, his green eyes steady. “We do.”
“After this case is solved.”
“Or Saturday night, whichever comes first.” He held up his hand when she opened her mouth to argue. “Connor is having dinner with CeCe. He makes the time. You can, too.”
Her argument fizzled. “You’re right again. Saturday night. Where will we go?”
“I’ll let you know.”
And that she wasn’t nervous about it? Or annoyed at losing an entire night of investigating?
That should scare the hell out of me.
But it didn’t. Because it was Sam. And she trusted him.