Chapter Eight
PATSY
I finished my report as quickly as possible, not skimping on the details Candy and the SAC would need.
Whenever an agent discharged a weapon, there would be scrutiny, especially when a suspect was shot.
I’d be having an interview with OPR in the next couple of days and, as Candy said, until I’d jumped through the psychologist’s hoops, I’d be confined to the office.
I changed out of the FBI sweats I’d put on in the BearCat.
I wanted to leave the office in my own comfy jeans and T-shirt.
Cassidy and Mike walked me out to the car park, then followed me home.
I started thinking about the conversation I’d had with them in the office, turning it over and over in my head until I had a bloody awful headache by the time I parked my VW.
I’d really hoped to be coming home from a long day at the office to share a quiet evening with Wes.
He intrigued me. Once he’d shed some of his shyness and begun to open up, I’d found a gentle, brilliant man underneath the messy clothes and battered trainers.
Cassidy and Mike followed me to the front door and the minute I opened it, the smell of something amazing greeted me.
I couldn’t help smiling at the idea that Wes had taken the time to make me something for tea.
As soon as I stepped into the apartment, I stopped short, glancing around. Holy Mother of God!
It looked completely different…cleaner and tidier than I’d ever seen it.
Gone were the stacks of magazines, grubby shoes, clothes, and piles of dirty dishes.
There were hoover marks on the carpet. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bothered to hoover, much less remove the layer of dust I could draw pictures in, on every piece of furniture I owned.
The lights were on, candles were lit, and low, and classical music came from the old console stereo I’d found at a flea market.
“Wes?” I called out when I didn’t see him in the kitchen. When he didn’t immediately answer, I said, “Have a seat, guys. Let me find him.”
“No problem, Patsy. We’ll wait here,” Mike replied.
I didn’t miss the way they subtly moved their hands to the weapons holstered at their waists. Resigned, I didn’t wait for them to sit before striding down the hall. Wes came walking out of the bedroom just as I reached it. He grinned the moment he saw me. “Hey,” I said, smiling back.
“Patsy, I wasn’t sure when you’d be home.
” Something in my expression must’ve given him pause, because the sweet smile disappeared.
He reached out and took my biceps in his big hands, squeezing gently.
Murderer. Pah! “What’s wrong? I know I took some liberties around the house…
I mean I cleaned up a bit,” he suddenly rushed to say.
“And I know I was being presumptuous but—”
“Wes,” I said softly. “It’s not that. I love what ya did—and we’ll definitely be talkin’ about the amazin’ smell of food in the house in a wee bit. But right now, the two detectives ya met last night are here with some questions for ya.”
The momentary flash of fear in his eyes made my stomach do a flip-flop as he dropped his hands. “Why?” He frowned. “This isn’t about whoever broke into my car…I told you I didn’t want trouble, Patsy.” He looked past my shoulder toward the front room.
“Wes…it’s not about that. I made ya a promise,” I said quietly. “They have some questions about somethin’ else.”
“What?”
“They have a few questions about Marigold and her mother.”
He looked back at me. “I don’t even know them.”
“I know. Just tell them that. It’ll be good as gold.
I’ll be with ya.” I wasn’t sure how he’d take my offer, but hoped he’d know I was only trying to be supportive with the two detectives.
I really needed him to trust me, just as I needed to trust Cassidy and Mike to be fair.
It’s the reason I considered them friends, and why I’d reached out to them rather than some random LAPD uniform to interview Father Gilmartin.
Wes nodded slowly. “Okay, I’ll answer their questions then.”
I offered him my best smile. “Goodo.” I listened to him following me down the hall. As we came into the lounge, Cassidy and Mike halted whatever quiet conversation they’d been having and turned to watch us. They hadn’t moved their hands from their weapons.
“Hi there, Mr. Chaudry,” Cassidy said. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to us.”
“Hello again.” The tone of his voice was cool. “Patsy tells me you have some questions for me.”
“Pull up a pew,” I offered, waving at chairs.
“Sure,” Cassidy replied as we all joined him at the table.
Mike grabbed a small notepad and pen from his coat pocket, flipping pages until he stopped on one with some writing.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us tonight. We just wanted to follow up on some things that we talked about briefly with Father Gilmartin last evening after Patsy called us about the two men who accosted him.”
Wes nodded. “Sure. I don’t know how I can help but please, go right ahead.”
“Thank you,” Cassidy began. “If you recall, when we asked Father Gilmartin what his two attackers said to him, he told us that they wanted him to pass a message onto the mother of a little girl by the name of Marigold Bishop. The mother’s name is Betty.”
“I remember.”
“Good,” Cassidy said. “We located them earlier today at a shelter where they’ve been living.”
Wes nodded.
“With Marigold’s mother’s permission we asked the little girl to describe what she might have seen that prompted two men to attack the priest.”
Wes nodded.
“Father Gilmartin said the two men said they’d hurt Marigold if she kept talking about what she’d seen,” Mike said, reading from his notes.
Wes nodded. “I remember but I’m still perplexed as to why you want to talk to me.”
“We asked her if she’d seen something that would prompt the threat to her. It took a little while to get it out of her—” Cassidy exchanged a glance with his partner before continuing. “It seems Marigold witnessed a homicide.”
“What?” Wes glanced at me, and I reached out, touching his forearm. He covered my hand with his own before looking back at Cassidy who hadn’t missed the contact. “What could I possibly know about a homicide?”
Predictably, Cassidy pulled the crumpled sketch out of his pocket and unfolded it, sliding it across the table.
“She witnessed a homicide in an alley not far from Blessed Sacrament,” he said, tapping the sketch with his finger.
“This is a composite drawing our sketch artist produced of the suspect Marigold described as the attacker.”
Wes picked up the picture as Cassidy withdrew his hand.
He stared at it for a few seconds and then looked over at me.
His wide eyes were filled with shock, and the expression sent a whole new wave of anger coursing through me.
He broke eye contact and dragged his gaze back to Cassidy.
“This looks like me.” When Cassidy and Mike only stared back, Wes bit his bottom lip.
“You think Marigold described me as a…as a murderer?” He sounded incredulous but I knew that tone well enough now to hear the fear beneath the question.
It only confirmed his complete innocence to me.
“We think it’s a remarkable likeness which is the only reason we wanted to talk to you, Mr. Chaudry,” Mike said, his face stoic, giving nothing away.
“I didn’t commit a murder!” Wes vibrated in the chair beside me, his fingers tightening painfully on mine. “Patsy, I’m not a murderer.” The plea in his soulful, oddly-colored eyes was obvious.
“I know, Wes. I told them yer not capable of murder,” I reassured him.
His subtle nod and the relief on his face was immediate. He turned back to the detectives. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“You don’t know a man by the name of Abraham Feldman?” Mike asked, tapping his pen on his notes.
Wes immediately shook his head. “No. I never met anyone by that name. Is that the dead man?”
Neither detective’s expressions gave anything away as Mike avoided the question and asked another. “How about Eli Goldfarb?”
“No. I’ve never met anyone by that name either. What’s going on, Detective?”
“A homicide victim—” Cassidy stopped when his phone rang. Glancing at it, he pushed his chair back and stood. “I need to take this. Will you excuse me?”
We nodded as he swiped to answer it. “Ryan.” He paused as he looked at Mike, hooking a thumb at the front door. Covering the phone, he whispered, “Gonna step out a second.”
I watched him go and turned back to Mike. “While we wait, let me get ya a cold drink.”
Mike smiled. “Do you have coffee?”
“I’ll make a pot.” I laid a hand on Wes’ shoulder as I stood.
“Be right back.” He nodded, looking slightly shell-shocked.
I couldn’t blame him. I squeezed his shoulder before heading for the kitchen and suddenly clocking the aroma of Italian food again.
A dish was covered with foil and a breadbasket sat beside it.
I peeled back a corner on the Pyrex dish and the scent of freshly baked lasagna wafted up at me as my stomach did a wee gurgle.
Hot tears burned behind my eyes as I realized Wes had not only cleaned my entire apartment but he’d also made a gorgeous meal for us to enjoy before all this shit came raining down on him.
Worry churned in my gut. I pushed the foil back down and peeled back the warm towel on the breadbasket.
They were the yummiest looking cheesy garlic rolls I’d ever seen.
I let out a growl of frustration as I walked over to the coffeepot.