Chapter Ten
New Horizons, San Diego, California
Tuesday, January 10, 4:10 p.m.
Sam looked up from his paperwork at the knock on the doorframe of the New Horizons office he shared with some of the other volunteers. “Sheila. What can I do for you?”
Sheila Sunley came into his office, two cups of coffee in hand. “I needed a pick-me-up, so I got you one, too.”
The pint-sized dynamo was the director of New Horizons. Very few teenagers could resist her bubbly personality.
Sam accepted the coffee with a grateful smile. “I feel like I’ve read these pages ten times already and I still can’t tell you what they say.”
The stack of papers was part of a new state policy governing nonprofit therapy groups. It was written in legalese, which Sam could usually parse. But his mind was elsewhere today.
He had another date with Kit on Saturday night.
Sheila nodded at the pages in his hand. “I had the same problem. That’s why I handed them over to you.”
“Gee, thanks,” he said dryly.
“You’re welcome,” she chirped. “I do have other news for you, and I guarantee that your ‘thank you’ will be far more sincere.”
Sam sat up straighter. “Hit me.”
She smiled at him. “The Norton boys, Davy and Danny.”
Sam couldn’t contain his grin. “You found them?”
“Yep. I sent out their photos to shelters across the state. I got one reply just now, from a shelter up in Ukiah.”
“Ukiah? I’ve heard of it, but…” He searched the name on his phone and blinked. “That’s over six hundred miles north of here. How the hell did they get way up there?”
“Hitchhiked, according to the shelter director.”
“Makes sense, I guess. Ukiah’s right off the 101. Are they still there?”
“They left this morning, but she thinks they’ll be back this evening for dinner and a bed. I thought you might want to pass the news on to their mom.”
“I’m nearly positive she’ll get in her car right away,” Sam said. “She could be there by morning, for sure. Will the boys go home with her?”
Sheila shrugged. “The woman I talked to said she got the feeling that the kids were tired of moving around. The director said she’d call if they came back.”
“I’ll call Mrs.Norton right away. Thank you, Sheila.”
“You’re more than welcome. Sometimes the kids’ stories end well, Sam. We grab onto those and let them carry us through the stories that don’t. I have to help the kitchen get ready for dinner. We’ve got a full house.” Her cheeks dimpled. “We’ve even recruited some new volunteers to help serve.”
Sam paused, his cell phone in his hand. “New volunteers? Who?”
“You’ll see. Bye, Sam.”
She took her coffee and left the office, humming under her breath.
Sam pushed his curiosity for the new volunteers aside and dialed Carla Norton. She answered on the first ring.
“Mrs.Norton, this is Dr.Reeves. I might have a location on your boys.”
Her gasp ended in a choked sob. “Where? I’ll go right now.”
“They’re up in Ukiah, at a homeless shelter. They were this morning, anyway. The director thinks they’ll be back for dinner and a bed. I figured you would want to get up there ASAP.”
“Absolutely. Thank you, Dr.Reeves. Thank you so very much.”
“You’re welcome. Drive safely.” He ended the call and sighed in relief.
There were so many homeless kids wandering the country. Hopefully by tomorrow two of those kids would be on their way home. He only hoped that Mr.Norton would be able to mend the rift with his sons.
But that was their business now.
He’d readjusted his glasses so that he could once again try reading the new state rules when giggles met his ears. This time when he looked up, he saw three teenage girls gathered in his doorway.
“Here’s trouble,” he said with a smile.
Rita, Tiffany, and Emma giggled again and piled into his office. “Are you feeling better, Dr.Sam?” Rita asked. “I mean, my real name is Margarita, but I won’t drink the things. Tequila is nasty.”
His cheeks heated. That the kids had seen him under the influence had been embarrassing when he’d been tipsy. Now that he was sober, it was even worse. “How do you know what tequila tastes like?”
Rita rolled her eyes. “My last foster home before Mom and Pop McK had a fully stocked bar.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Your foster parents gave you access to a fully stocked bar?”
“No,” Rita said in a duh tone of voice. “But one of the kids could pick locks and stole a bottle one night.”
Tiffany turned to study her friend. “Did the kid teach you to pick locks?”
“He did,” Rita said. “I’ll show you both later.”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just don’t use your knowledge for evil, okay?”
“I won’t,” Rita promised. “The only thing Pop McK keeps locked up is his shotgun. I don’t want to even touch it.”
Both Tiffany and Emma shuddered in agreement.
“Are you the new volunteers Miss Sunley mentioned to me?”
Tiffany nodded. “We are. We wanted to earn community service credits for graduation. Rita figured we’d work here and give back.”
Sam’s chest warmed. He’d met Rita through the McKittricks as she’d just been placed with them when he’d met Kit back in the spring. Tiffany and Emma had been runaways Sam had discovered on a street corner downtown. That they were all planning for high school graduation made his heart happy.
“I think that’s amazing. You girls make me so proud of you.”
“Awwww,” the three chorused in unison. “Thank you, Dr.Sam.”
He laughed. “Go on now. Dinner isn’t going to serve itself. Who brought you down here?”
“Pop,” Rita said. “He’s whittling in the common room. He had a bunch of kids gathered around him to watch.” She smiled slyly. “He’s making something for you.”
More warmth bloomed in Sam’s chest. He’d already had one Harlan McKittrick carving—of Siggy. He couldn’t wait to see what Harlan carved next.
But both Tiffany and Emma had turned to shush Rita. “That was supposed to be a secret,” Emma hissed.
Rita looked crestfallen. “It was? I’m sorry, Dr.Sam.”
Sam could only smile affectionately at the three of them. “I’m old, girls. I’ll have forgotten about it before you’re halfway to the kitchen.”
“You’re not that old,” Tiffany said pragmatically. “Like, maybe forty?”
Sam winced. “Ouch. I’m only thirty-six. Go on before you decide I’m ready for retirement.”
They left as they’d come in, giggling.
Sam hoped he’d hear them laugh for a very long time.
He’d settled in to read the new rules once again when his cell phone buzzed. Sighing, he checked the caller ID and was once again alert. “Maggie Doyle,” he said once he’d hit accept . “How are you?”
The rehab director didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “I’ve got the footage from our security cameras from the day LeRoy Hawkins visited Shelley Porter. Who should I send it to?”
“Kit McKittrick or Connor Robinson. They’re the lead detectives. Did you get a clear view of his face?”
“Not clear. Now that I’m looking at the recording, I can see that his beard isn’t real, but I didn’t notice that when he came in that day. It’s a thick beard, designed to make you notice it and not his face. I hope it helps.”
“I hope it does, too,” Sam said. “Thank you, Maggie.”
“You’re always welcome. Gotta run. Don’t be a stranger.”
With a sigh, he gave up on looking at the new rules and called Kit.
“Are you all right?” was her first question, before she even said hello.
“I’m fine. At New Horizons. Heads up, the director from Shelley’s rehab, Maggie Doyle, is sending you security footage from when the neckbeard guy came to see Shelley.”
“Excellent. It’ll give us something to do while we wait for Joel and Laura to hammer out a plea agreement for the pilot.”
Sam winced. “Laura?”
Kit sighed. “Sorry, Sam. Both Veronica Fitzgerald and Steven Neal, the pilot, have obtained legal counsel. Laura Letterman.”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose once again. “I bet Joel is having a fun time.”
“Not so much. He hates her a lot more than you do.”
Which was odd, really. Sam should hate Laura Letterman more than he did. She had cheated on him, after all—with Joel, a stranger at the time who hadn’t known Laura had a fiancé. Not until Sam had walked in on the two of them in bed.
He grimaced, the mental picture still crisp.
But it had led to Joel and Sam becoming best friends, so there was that.
“I don’t have to see her, do I?”
“Nope. Hopefully the pilot will give us the name of Munro’s PI.”
“You got a lead on the PI? Good job, Kit.”
“Thank you,” she said, which was a cause for celebration right there. Kit never simply said thank you without diminishing her own achievements. “We found a few of Munro’s buddies from prison. The pilot recognized one of them, but Laura wouldn’t let him give us the name the guy’s currently using until Joel put his plea offer in writing. He was in court today, so he’s just getting started on the plea deal. We’re headed to see Wilhelmina Munro while we’re waiting. We have news for her.”
“What kind of news?”
“Munro and Fitzgerald were married thirty-three years ago. Wilhelmina’s not Munro’s legal wife.”
“Oof. That’s not going to be a fun conversation.”
“No, I don’t think it will be.”
“Could they have gotten divorced before Munro married Wilhelmina?” Sam asked.
“There’s no record of a divorce—and we’ve been searching. Anyway, thanks for the heads-up. See you later.”
This time when the call ended, Sam put his phone away, grabbed the cooling coffee Sheila had brought him, and went to the kitchen to help with dinner. And if he happened to see what Harlan was carving, he wouldn’t let on that he knew it was for him.
The state’s new rules could wait another day.
San Diego, California
Tuesday, January 10, 4:15 p.m.
“I’d almost prefer a death notification,” Connor muttered as he knocked on the front door of Wilhelmina Munro’s rented condo.
“I don’t imagine she’s going to take the news well,” Kit said.
They’d come to tell Wilhelmina Munro that she wasn’t legally married since he’d already been married to Veronica Fitzgerald. This was not going to be fun.
At the same time, if Wilhelmina had had any part in Munro’s murder, hopefully discovering that she wasn’t legally bound to the man—and had never been—might make her upset enough to let something slip. Murder might have been cheaper than a divorce, but she was about to learn she hadn’t needed to do either of those.
Connor was frowning at the door that no one was opening. “I can hear movement in there, so someone’s home. Mrs.Munro?” he called, knocking again. “It’s San Diego PD. We need to talk with you.”
“Just a minute!” a voice called back from inside.
It was at least a minute. More like two minutes before the door opened, revealing a slightly sweaty and disheveled Wilhelmina Munro. “Can I help you?” she asked, dabbing at her brow with a tissue. “I was just working out.”
“We need to talk to you, ma’am,” Kit said. “May we come in?”
Wilhelmina sighed. “I guess so.” She opened the door wider and Connor and Kit filed in. “Would you like to sit down?”
Kit sidestepped the yoga mat on the living-room floor. “Thank you. Where is Mr.Rafferty?”
“He went grocery shopping. Why? Should he be here?”
“Oh no. I was just curious.” It was better that the man wasn’t there. They might get different answers from Wilhelmina without Rafferty hanging on her every word. When they were all seated, Kit drew a breath. “We’ve learned new information about Mr.Munro.”
Wilhelmina’s brows lifted. “What did he do?”
At least the woman wouldn’t be surprised that Munro had lied. “He wasn’t born Brooks Munro,” Connor began. “He was originally Monroe Brookman and he’s served time in prison.”
Wilhelmina’s body stilled. “For what?”
“Mostly white-collar crime,” Connor said. “He…well, he had a partner.”
“Veronica Fitzgerald,” Wilhelmina said flatly. “Those two were thick as thieves.” Her laugh was hollow. “I guess it’s because they were thieves.”
“Among other things,” Connor said. “They were also married.”
Wilhelmina’s eyes widened. “They were what ?”
“Married,” Kit said. “They married thirty-three years ago. They still are married.”
Wilhelmina paled. “He…” She cleared her throat. “He’s a bigamist?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kit said. “We’re sorry to have to tell you this.”
Wilhelmina looked down, her hair falling forward to cover her face. Her shoulders began to shake and Kit wondered if they should have waited for Rafferty. Then Wilhelmina made a gasping sound and raised her head, and Kit realized that the woman hadn’t been crying, after all.
She was laughing. “Oh my God. You’re kidding me. Please say you’re not kidding me.”
“We’re not,” Kit said warily. “We thought you’d be upset.”
“Oh, I am,” Wilhelmina said, wiping her eyes. “I’m furious.” Her laughter abruptly halted. “It’s just that Raffie will feel so vindicated. He never liked Brooks. I knew something was going on between Brooks and Veronica, but I didn’t think they were married . And for how long?”
“Thirty-three years,” Connor said, watching Wilhelmina like one might a cornered wildcat.
“Wow.” She sat back and dabbed at her eyes with the tissue she still held. “So what about the house? The one that I bought for him?”
Kit fought not to wince. “I’m not certain. Veronica might inherit, given she’s his legal wife.”
Wilhelmina’s lovely features morphed into a scowl. “Over my dead body.”
Kit winced again but said nothing because Wilhelmina had lurched to her feet and was pacing the room.
“That sonofabitch,” Wilhelmina muttered. “That selfish, criminal sonofabitch.”
That about summed up Brooks Munro, Kit thought. “It’s best if you contact your attorney, ma’am. I’m sure they can unravel any financial complications Munro’s deceit has caused you.”
Wilhelmina hadn’t stopped pacing. “Oh, I will. That sonofabitch.”
“What are your plans?” Connor asked. “Will you be returning to Boston?”
“Yes.” Wilhelmina stopped pacing to face them. “But not until this case is closed. I want to know who to thank for killing that no-good thief. Not only did he take my money—a lot of money—but he took five years of my life. I thought our marriage was legal. I dreaded divorcing him, but Veronica saved me from that anyway. Do I have to bury him?”
“No, ma’am,” Kit said. “That’s Veronica’s responsibility.”
“Well, at least there’s that,” she muttered.
Connor had relaxed, the difficult news now out of the way. “We were also wondering if you knew how Mr.Munro paid his employees.”
“Cash. He paid all the household bills with cash or money orders. He wanted to minimize any financial transactions. He said it was so that no one could report to his constituents how much money we spent. How well we lived. It could make him look inaccessible to his public.” She winced. “Plus, I don’t think the housekeeper was documented, so he definitely paid her with cash. I stayed out of all those dealings. But there’s a safe in his office, on the shelf behind his desk. I don’t know the combination, but I assume you can blow it open or whatever. Is there anything else?”
There had been a safe in Munro’s home office, but it had been empty when CSU had gotten it open. So they still didn’t know where Munro had hidden the profits from his blackmail scheme.
Kit pulled a copy of Walter Grossman’s mug shot from her pocket. “Do you recognize this man? He may have been one of Munro’s friends or colleagues.”
Wilhelmina studied the photo. “He looks familiar, but I don’t think I ever met him. Maybe I once saw him talking to Brooks a long time ago? I don’t know his name. I’m sorry.”
“No worries,” Kit said. Hopefully Joel was getting the name the man had been using in San Diego, because there was no record of a Walter Grossman living in San Diego County. “We’ll be going now if you don’t have any questions for us.”
Wilhelmina began walking to the door. “No questions. Please let me know when this case is solved. I’d like to close this chapter of my life and move on.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Kit paused as she passed the yoga mat. “You dropped something, ma’am.”
A fifty-dollar bill peeked out from beneath the mat.
“Dammit,” Wilhelmina muttered, grabbing the bill from the floor. “Rafferty dropped some of the money I gave him to buy groceries. I hope he realizes it before he gets to the cash register. If you see him on your way out, please tell him to come back. He didn’t leave too long ago.”
“We will,” Connor said. “Have a good day, ma’am.”
Kit and Connor said nothing until they were back in the department sedan. “She took it better than I would have,” Kit said.
Connor huffed a laugh. “I thought she’d be throwing things.”
“She still might. She just might not have done so while we were there.”
“Then I hope the owners of that rental have good insurance. There were some expensive sculptures on the shelves. The one next to the front door was worth at least twenty-five thousand dollars. Maybe more.”
“For a statue?” Kit should her head. Rich people. Then she frowned. “Wait. Is that normal? I mean, for luxury rentals to have expensive artwork?”
“Depends on who she rented it from.” Hands on the steering wheel, Connor stared at the building, a thoughtful look on his face. “She lived in San Diego for years, so she might know the owner. If that’s the case, I wouldn’t be surprised. But if it’s just an Airbnb? I’d say that’s unusual. Let’s find out who owns it.”
Kit did a property search. “It’s owned by Robert Jackson.” She googled the man and nodded. “He owns the Cliff Hotel franchise here in the city. She’s the heiress of the Cliff fortune. They probably know each other.”
“I’ve heard his name. He’s certainly rich enough to afford sculptures of that quality and if they knew each other from the hotel business, he’d trust her not to steal them. We should still check with him, though.”
“I’ll get his contact info and call him while you drive back to the precinct. Let’s get going. I’m hoping we’ll find that Joel has pried an alternate name for Walter Grossman out of the pilot.”
Mira Mesa, San Diego, California
Tuesday, January 10, 6:30 p.m.
Walter Grossman, now known by his Wayne Walters alias, lived in a small bungalow-style home that was completely dark.
Standing on the curb, Connor studied the house with a frown. “His car’s in the driveway. If he’s home, he should have at least one light on.”
“He could be waiting for us, especially after Veronica warned him that we ‘knew something.’ Let’s do a walk around before we knock on the door.”
“He might have cameras. He’ll see us.”
“Then I’ll walk around, and you watch the front door. If he tries to leave, stop him.”
“Thank you for your wise words of wisdom,” Connor said sarcastically. “I say we call for backup.”
He was right, especially since Grossman was Munro’s muscle. “I’ll still cover the back. I don’t want him getting away. We won’t attempt entry until backup arrives.”
It had taken several hours for Joel Haley to get Wayne Walters’s name from Steven Neal. The pilot had heeded his attorney’s advice, waiting for the prosecutor to offer him a deal in writing.
Kit hoped they weren’t too late. Veronica had warned the PI yesterday that they had to get away. Walter Grossman, a.k.a. Wayne Walters, might have already left town. Or the country.
Steven Neal also admitted to having flown Veronica and the PI to the Caymans together many times. He believed the two had been sexual partners but were more like friends with benefits than in a deep relationship.
Connor had become annoyingly smug about that, seeing as his hunch had been right. Veronica had been fooling around with the PI and had lied about knowing him to protect him from being captured by the police.
Kit quietly made her way around the man’s house, looking for cameras. If they existed, they were well hidden.
When she got to his back door, she sighed. Drawing her weapon with one hand, she dialed Connor on her cell with the other. “The window in the back door has been broken. The door itself is ajar.”
“Dammit,” Connor hissed. “Don’t do anything yet. Backup’s only a minute away.”
A minute and a half later, Connor had joined her at the rear of the house, his weapon drawn. Two uniformed officers followed him.
“There are two more at the front,” Connor told her.
“Then let’s do this.” Kit nudged at the door with her toe, sending the door opening on a squeak of hinges.
“Police!” Kit called as she and Connor entered the home.
“Fuck,” Connor muttered, because the place had been tossed.
The kitchen was a disaster area with piles of flour and sugar on the countertops. Broken crockery and glassware littered the floor. Every drawer and cabinet had been emptied.
Someone had even pulled the porcelain sink out and tossed it on the floor, where its pieces mixed with the shattered glass.
Carefully, Kit moved toward the living room, taking care not to disturb the scene. Connor followed close behind.
The living room was in a similar state, the sofa and chair cushions slashed, their filling covering the floor like snow. The flatscreen had been yanked from the wall and lay on the floor, also shattered.
Holes had been punched in the walls, the drywall pulled away, leaving the studs in plain view. Even the insulation had been removed.
With every step they took they found more debris.
The spare bedroom/home office was also a mess. Half of it anyway. One side of the room was a disaster area. Books had been pulled from the shelves, the ripped-out pages littering the floor.
But the other side of the office was pristine, except for a single wall where a painting had been removed and thrown on the floor. On top of the painting was a square panel of drywall about three feet square. The panel had been removed from the wall, revealing a wall safe. The safe was completely empty, its door left open.
“He found what he was looking for,” Connor murmured.
Kit nodded once, then kept going—until she got to the bedroom, where a single lamp on the nightstand dimly burned. “Dammit,” she hissed.
They were too late.
Walter Grossman lay on the floor next to his bed, his throat slit, killed in the same way that Munro, Shelley, and her mother had been.
They knew he’d been killed sometime after nine on Monday morning, when Veronica had called him in a panic, telling him that they had to get away.
The suitcase he’d clearly been packing had been dumped, its contents all over the floor and the inside lining slashed with a knife. The mattress had also been hacked apart, its stuffing strewn about.
“Shit,” Connor said as he crouched next to the victim. “Six of his fingers are missing, two on the right hand and four on the left. And…there they are in a neat little pile.” He pointed to the dresser where the killer had left Grossman’s fingers stacked in a pyramid.
“More torture,” Kit said grimly.
“The PI would have had the blackmail list. His killer wanted it, just like he wanted Munro’s. If he has both, nobody else will know who’s on it.”
“I wonder if that means Veronica also knows who’s on the list,” Kit said thoughtfully. “If she was sleeping with the PI.”
“Maybe.” But he sounded doubtful. “If she does know, maybe showing her a crime scene photo of Grossman will loosen her tongue. I wonder if she would have been the next victim. Our arresting her could have saved her life.”
“This means the killer knew who the PI was,” Kit said. “I wonder how he knew.”
Connor grimaced. “I bet Munro told him after losing a few fingers and toes.”
“Then why wasn’t Grossman already dead before Veronica called him yesterday morning?”
“Good question. Maybe he was out of town. Veronica will hopefully know.”
Kit crouched on the other side of the body. The victim’s hands were zip-tied in front of him, his legs tied at the ankles. “Grossman had a gun.” She pointed to the end of the barrel, just visible under the dead man’s hip. “I wonder if he got a chance to use it, and why his killer didn’t take it.”
“Maybe his killer didn’t want the hassle of a gun that might be traceable.”
“Makes sense. I wonder if Grossman killed Jacob Crocker, the PI who was working for William Weaver?”
“We can have the ballistics of this gun checked.” Connor frowned. “I want to know how the killer got the jump on Grossman. If the killer really is the guy with the neckbeard, Grossman was a lot bigger. Grossman’s profile from the prison says he was trained in martial arts. He should have been able to take out a guy with a knife or at least do some damage.”
Kit flipped the switch on the wall, turning on the much brighter overhead light. “Maybe that’s why.” She pointed at Grossman’s leg, where there was evidence of a gunshot.
The left thigh of his black cargo pants was darker than the rest of the fabric.
“He had a gun when he grabbed Shelley from the body shop. No surprise that he used it to incapacitate Grossman.” Connor inspected the wound without touching the body. “Bullet’s gone. The fabric around the wound is cut away and the skin’s been hacked open.”
“He’s thorough. We’ve got to give him that. I’ll call this in and get CSU and the ME out here ASAP.”
San Diego PD, San Diego, California
Tuesday, January 10, 8:05 p.m.
“What is it now , Detectives?” Laura Letterman demanded as she took the chair next to a weary Veronica Fitzgerald.
Kit and Connor took their seats opposite the lawyer and her client. On the other side of the glass were Navarro, Joel Haley, and Sam.
At least Kit had been able to prepare Sam for seeing his ex. He hadn’t been happy about it but had agreed to observe.
Kit wanted his opinion, especially as Veronica had lied about so many things.
“Walter Grossman—or Wayne Walters, as you might have known him—is dead,” Kit said flatly.
Veronica flinched as if she’d been slapped. “No.”
“Veronica,” Laura warned. “We agreed. Say nothing.”
“You knew him, Miss Fitzgerald,” Connor said. “Your lawyer knows that we know that you’ve been traveling with him to the Caymans, because the pilot—her other client—told us so. Walter Grossman accompanied you on nearly every trip. You’ve been screwing him even though you claim to have loved Brooks Munro. We’re tired of your lies, Miss Fitzgerald.”
Laura glanced at her client, who’d closed her eyes and pursed her lips. “She’s not talking to you.”
“His throat was slit, Veronica,” Kit said, her tone terse. “And six of his fingers were cut off. His house had been thoroughly searched. Except for his home office. Half was trashed, the other half had been left alone. Walter kept his blackmail binder in the office, didn’t he?”
Veronica’s head shake was barely noticeable.
“He didn’t?” Kit asked.
“He can’t be dead,” Veronica whispered.
“We know it was him who you were talking to on Monday morning,” Connor said. “When you said that you had to get away. We found a burner phone in his pocket and his call log showed a call from your burner.”
Veronica lifted her chin. “How did you get into his cell phone?” she demanded. “He kept it locked. Even I don’t know the password.”
“We didn’t,” Kit said with a shrug. “We just lied.” She nearly laughed at the outrage on Veronica’s face. “Doesn’t feel good to be lied to, does it?”
“Detective,” Laura said in an irritated tone.
“Counselor,” Kit returned in the same tone. “Your client has lied to us multiple times. If she can possibly, for once , tell the truth the first time we ask, we might be able to catch the person who killed both of her partners. Where was Walter Grossman when you called him from your office yesterday morning?”
Veronica leaned in to whisper in her attorney’s ear.
Laura shrugged. “I don’t think that can hurt you. Go ahead.”
“He was in Vegas on a job.”
“A job for whom?” Connor asked.
“For himself. He didn’t just work for Brooks. He was a freelance PI.”
“He isn’t licensed,” Kit said.
“Didn’t need to be. His clients preferred that he wasn’t, actually.”
“Did he own a gun?” Connor asked.
Veronica nodded. “He carried everywhere he went.”
Kit studied the older woman. “Didn’t Munro get angry that you and Grossman were doing the horizontal tango?”
Veronica shrugged. “Maybe. But he was married to her . I had needs. I knew he wasn’t marrying for love, but he did marry her. Up until this past month, he was living with her. I told him when he first married her that I wouldn’t be celibate while he was married.”
“He slept in your condo the night before he died.”
Sadness flickered in Veronica’s eyes. “She was gone. Even when she lived with him, I only got the scraps. He could have divorced her. Could have been with me full time. He liked her money, though.”
“How did he pick Wilhelmina?” Connor asked. “I assume he chose her for her money.”
Veronica glanced at Laura, who shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“He had Walter check out all the available rich women in town. Then Brooks signed up for her yoga class. He could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. He’d done his research, knew all the right things to say. She fell hard and fast.”
“Made him sign a prenup, though,” Kit said.
Veronica lifted one shoulder. “He expected that. He figured he’d take her for all he could get until she divorced him.”
“Then move on to the next rich woman?” Kit asked.
“Maybe. Depended on how much he was able to get from her. He got the house as a wedding present, so that was helpful. He’d had his eye on that property for a long time before he’d even met her. He lived in the general area when he was first elected to the city council, but it was a small house. He wanted more.” Her mouth curved bitterly. “ She was his ticket to ride.”
“But why?” Kit asked. “Why did he need to marry Wilhelmina? You said he started blackmailing people eight years ago. Why did he need her money?”
Veronica’s lip curled in disgust. “He had money, but he wanted the respectability her name would give him. He wanted to be invited to all the parties. He wanted to be dignified. Plus, she gave him access to rich people that wouldn’t have given him the time of day on his own. And rich people pay more blackmail.”
“And the house?” Kit pressed. “If he wanted it so much, why didn’t he just buy it himself?”
“He didn’t want a record that he’d bought the house with cash, and on paper he wasn’t worth that much before he married her. Her buying the house for him solved the paperwork issue.”
“What about Tamsin Kavanaugh?” Connor asked. “The reporter. His wife said they were having an affair.”
Veronica shrugged. “That was just a fling. We didn’t have the kind of relationship you’re thinking. I didn’t mind his flings.”
“You were married,” Kit said dryly, noting Veronica’s surprise before the woman evened out her expression. “Robbed the cradle there, didn’t you?”
“Detective,” Laura snapped. “Are you finished?”
“No,” Kit said easily. “How did the whole scam start? Were you drinking with Munro and Walter Grossman one night and you all thought it sounded like a good idea?”
Veronica shot her an icy look. “No.” She leaned over to whisper in Laura’s ear again.
Laura shook her head. “You get a deal first, then you tell them that. Any other questions, Detectives?”
“Do you know a guy with a neckbeard?” Connor asked.
Veronica laughed, a shrill, hysterical sound. “No. Why?”
“We think he killed your husband and your lover,” Connor told her. “He also killed a young woman and her mother. They were unfortunate loose ends. She was only nineteen.”
“Sucks to be her, then,” Veronica muttered. “I don’t know anyone with a neckbeard.”
“What about a tan Chevy Suburban?” Kit asked.
Again, Veronica shook her head. It had been worth a try.
Kit figured she’d try one more question. “Do you know who’s on the blackmail list?”
Veronica met her eyes. “No. I truly don’t. I have everything to gain by telling you, but I don’t know. Can I go now?”
“In a minute.” Kit turned to Laura. “I’ll ask the prosecutor to contact you with a possible deal for the information about how the scam started. If we can figure out just one person on that list, we may be able to figure out who killed Brooks Munro. I really hope your client wants to help us.”
“She will help you only if she can protect herself in the process,” Laura said. “That’s how it goes, Detective. Surely you’re not so naive as to believe otherwise.”
Kit just smiled, the barb missing its target. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me naive, Counselor. It’s kind of nice. Thank you.”
Laura looked irritated once again. “Take my client back to her cell. Veronica, I’ll see you tomorrow morning for your arraignment. Say nothing to anyone. I’m serious.”
Veronica nodded, then turned back to Kit and Connor. “What will happen to Walter’s body?”
Kit softened her voice. It benefited no one for her to be cruel to Veronica at this moment. It might even leave the woman with a favorable impression that could be useful later. “If no one claims his body within thirty days, he’ll be cremated and his remains held for three years. At that time, he’ll be buried in a mass grave with a service. It’s nondenominational. I’ve been to a few. They aren’t fancy, but they’re respectful.”
Veronica swallowed. “Same with Brooks?”
“Only if you can’t claim his body,” Kit said. “You, as his legal wife, are his next of kin. You’ll be contacted so that you can make decisions.”
“What about her ?” Veronica said, trying for a sneer, but it fell flat when her voice cracked.
“Munro committed bigamy. She isn’t his legal wife. You will have the final decision.”
Veronica’s face tightened in satisfaction. “Thank you, Detective.”
Kit nodded once. “You’re welcome. We are sorry for your losses, ma’am.”
Veronica gave a curt nod and followed the uniformed officer from the room.
Kit was gathering her things when Laura spoke, her tone icy and bitter.
“It won’t work, you know. You, being nice to her. You’re just trying to get her to open up and talk to you. I should think you’d be ashamed of yourself, but you don’t have shame and you don’t have compassion. You only care about what you want.”
Kit kept her voice soft, even though she was angry inside. Most of her anger was aimed at the defense attorney, but some of it was aimed at herself. At one time, Laura’s words had been true and that stung.
But they didn’t have to be true forever. People could change. I can change.
I have changed for the better. And at least some of that was due to knowing Sam Reeves.
“I can be nice and still hope she tells me what I want to know. Kindness isn’t a zero-sum. You were…nicer the last time we worked on the same case.” Then again, Kit hadn’t been seeing Sam the last time she and Laura had crossed paths on a case. She’d chalk today’s venom up to jealousy. “I hope we can have an amiable working relationship in the future. Have a good evening.”
Connor followed her out and into the observation room.
Sam was smiling at her as she came in. “That was nice, Kit.”
Tension fell away like shrugging out of a heavy coat. “Thank you. She wasn’t necessarily wrong.”
Sam shrugged. “Well, neither were you. Kindness isn’t a zero-sum.”
Navarro cleared his throat. “So now what?”
“I’ll draft a deal,” Joel said. “It’s up to Veronica if she takes it. How much is the start of their scam worth to you?”
Connor scratched his head. “We don’t know. If we can’t get at least one person from the blackmail list, it’s worth nothing.”
“We’re back to square one on the damn list,” Kit said. “Sam, did you believe Veronica when she said she didn’t know who was on the list?”
“I did, actually. Something that big would be valuable in negotiating a better deal. If she knew, Joel would already have heard from Laura.”
“I agree,” Joel said. “I’ll talk to my boss about it. We’ll come up with something. In the meantime, what’s next?”
Kit looked at Navarro. “Have Marshall and Ashton had any luck finding the guard from Munro’s neighborhood guard shack?”
Navarro shook his head. “The man wasn’t from San Diego and his family hasn’t heard from him in several years. Marshall and Ashton are still tracking down his friends. Guy was kind of a loner, it seems, but he was a reliable employee. He hasn’t shown up for his shift all week.”
“Not good,” Joel said grimly. “I don’t want to borrow misery, but we need to assume he’s dead. Have we put out anything on TV or online, asking for community help?”
“A press release went out this afternoon,” Navarro said. “We listed him as a person of interest, posted his photo, and asked if anyone out there has seen him. So far, nothing, but I’ll keep you up to speed. What else do you have?” he asked Kit and Connor.
Kit sighed. “Other than the guard, our main leads involve tracking the Chevy Suburban pulling an unwrapped trailer and hoping some of Brooks Munro’s belongings ping on Bruce Goddard’s robbery radar.”
“We also have the threatening emails Munro received from his constituents,” Connor said. “That fits the ME’s multiple-hands theory.”
Navarro slowly shook his head. “I don’t think it was his constituents. Just my gut.”
Joel raised his hand. “Same.”
Sam nodded. “Me too. The blackmail makes all the sense, especially given the theft of the Ferrari. Someone wanted to claim that car because Munro had stolen from him. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“I wonder where Munro kept his cash,” Connor said thoughtfully. “Weaver, the guy Munro ruined to win his last election, said that one of Munro’s household staff claimed he had a safe where he took cash from to pay them. But the safe in his office was empty.”
“We’ll search the house again for another hiding place,” Navarro said. “Let’s call it a night. We’ll all think more clearly on a decent night’s sleep.”
Kit was so tired that she didn’t even argue. And when Sam offered to walk her to her car, she was grateful.
“You were good with Laura,” Sam said once they’d reached her Subaru. “She can be…sharp-tongued.”
Kit sighed. “Like I said, she wasn’t entirely wrong.”
“But she didn’t used to be so bitter. I’m sorry she said those things to you. You were—and are—kind. End of story.”
Kit found herself leaning into his shoulder. He was warm and safe and smelled so good. “Thank you, Sam.” She realized what she was doing and pulled back. She was tired, which meant that it wasn’t a good time to be leaning on anyone. She wasn’t as clearheaded as she needed to be to take that step. “That means a lot coming from you.”
He opened her car door for her, stroking his hand over her hair as she climbed behind the wheel. “Are you going to the boat or to McKittrick House?”
“Home. To Mom and Pop’s.”
“Good. Text me when you get there so I know you’re safe.”
She smiled up at him. “If you do the same when you get home.”
“Of course. I pinkie-swore to be careful.”
Kit was laughing as she drove away, her heart a little bit lighter.