Chapter Seven #2
Her decision had been made for her when one of Navarro’s other detectives told Baz that West and Lennox hadn’t done a single interview since Navarro had put them on the case.
They’d been sitting on their asses, watching surveillance footage the whole damn day.
Apparently, West was afraid he’d be shot next, which was why he was behaving so passively.
Kit had—without letting Navarro know what she knew—asked her boss if he’d consider assigning someone else to the case in addition to West and Lennox and he’d flatly said no.
Even requesting a staffing change, he’d said, was proof that she was too biased.
There were other murder investigations that were just as important as Mary Sherman’s, and Kit was going to have to wait her turn.
Something was clearly off with Navarro. At any other time, she’d try to figure it out, to offer to help her boss. But this was Akiko’s safety.
And mine. And Sam’s. And Baz’s.
“Does your grapevine have any info on the status of the DNA tests Marshall and Ashton requested before they got shot?” Kit asked Baz.
“They’re being run today—Mary’s, Akiko’s, and the skin cells found under Mary’s fingernails. Ryland said the crime lab hoped to have results by this evening. Ryland cashed in a few favors and got the tests moved to the front of the line.”
Kit felt more than a little guilty about that. Other people’s cases were also important. Maybe Navarro had a point.
But she couldn’t worry about that right now. The throbbing in her arm was a reminder of what was at stake. Someone really didn’t want the SDPD involved in this case.
“I’d prefer to know who Mary is to Akiko before we knock on this guy’s door, but I suspect he knows we’re here.” She pointed to a camera over the front door. “We’re not trying to hide who we are, driving up in Sam’s SUV.”
“Maybe we should have rented a car,” Sam said.
Kit shook her head. “That makes us seem even more underhanded. We’re here and I, for one, want to know why Mary spent four weeks here over the past few months and why Ricky Nicchi shot at our shooter.”
“And if he wears size thirteen shoes,” Sam added.
“That too.” Kit got out of the car and stretched. They’d been in the car for four hours because traffic on the 5 had been even worse than normal. “Let’s have a chat with Mr. Nicchi.”
They didn’t even have to knock on the door. It opened when they were halfway up the front walk, the space filling with a man so large that the top of his head nearly brushed the top of the doorframe.
He took one look at them and something flickered in his expression. Interest? Guilt?
It was hard to say, because it was gone far too quickly.
This guy’s a pro.
Kit started to open her mouth but he shook his head. “I know who you are. We can’t talk here.”
Kit met his gaze without flinching, glad that they were separated by ten feet. Otherwise, she would have had to crane her neck to look up at him and she hated that.
“Then where?” she asked levelly.
“I have a secure office next door.” He pulled the door closed and approached, his gait smooth and…elegant. Almost like he was dancing.
Akiko walked like that.
He stopped a foot from them and Kit had to stifle the urge to put her hand on the weapon holstered at her hip. He was careful not to loom, but he was still huge. And quietly lethal.
“I’m not armed,” he said, holding his arms out to his sides.
“I don’t think you need to be,” Kit said.
He chuckled. “You’d be right. But bullets don’t care what color your belt is.”
Kit blinked and, beside her, Sam stiffened. Baz’s indrawn breath was quiet, but she’d heard.
That was what Dahlia Sherman had said when she’d asked Glenda Baker’s son to help her acquire a gun. It might be a coincidence. It might be a phrase used in dojos all over the country.
But it made Kit’s gut uncomfortable, and she paid attention to her gut. “Lead on, Mr. Nicchi.”
He did so, and a few minutes later they were seated in a nondescript office that was totally soundproofed.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked pleasantly. “You’ve been on the road for hours.”
“Traffic’s a bitch,” Baz said mildly. “But I’m good.”
“Same,” Kit said.
Sam shook his head, saying nothing. It wasn’t like him to be rude. Kit wished she could ask him what he was thinking, but she’d have to wait.
Nicchi frowned. “Suit yourselves. But for the record, I’m not planning to poison you.” He took a seat and folded his hands on the table. “You may ask whatever you like, but I’ll tell you up front that I won’t be able to answer much.”
“We’re not here in an official capacity,” Kit said.
“I know,” Nicchi said. “In fact, a phone call from me might get you fired.”
Kit lifted her brows. “You’re well informed.”
“It’s my business to be. Ask your questions.”
“All right. Why did Mary Sherman spend four weeks here between October and this past week?”
“Mary Sherman?”
Kit rolled her eyes. “I don’t have time for games, Mr. Nicchi. You know exactly who Mary was. You know she’s dead, and I’m betting those shoes left in her living room would fit your feet like Cinderella’s slipper.”
He chuckled again. “You’re funny, Detective.”
No, I’m really not. “Was Mary Sherman Akiko’s mother?”
“No. She wasn’t.”
Kit didn’t think he was lying. “Then who was she?”
“Her aunt,” Sam murmured.
Nicchi looked reluctantly impressed. “The doctor’s right. But I can confirm that without violating any client confidentiality as DNA testing will show that. I’m sure you’ve requested it.”
“We have,” Kit said. But if this was true, there was much about Mary Sherman that wasn’t adding up. According to her daughters, Mary Sherman had been an only child. She’d been in foster care.
We need to find her foster family. Maybe they can provide some answers.
“Then who was Akiko’s mother?” Baz asked. “Because there’s no record of Mary Sherman having a sister.”
“Records can be changed,” Sam said quietly. “Names, places, new birth certificates. Or maybe Mary shared only one parent with her sibling, and they didn’t have the same name. Isn’t that true, Mr. Nicchi?”
Nicchi’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
Kit wondered what the hell Sam was talking about. “What can you tell us?”
“Not much.”
“Were you having an affair with Mary Sherman?” Kit asked, annoyed that this man was making her dig for every scrap of information.
“No,” he said, the word clipped. “She was my client. And that’s all I can tell you.”
“She’s dead,” Baz reasoned. “Don’t you want to know who killed her?”
“I think he already knows,” Sam said.
Nicchi’s flinch was infinitesimal, but Kit saw it.
She agreed with Sam a hundred percent. Nicchi knew a whole lot more than he was telling, but she said nothing, waiting for what Sam would say next. She’d learned over the past months that Sam Reeves was incredibly good at reading people and getting past their defenses.
Sam let his statement sit for a moment before continuing, addressing Nicchi directly.
“And if you’d been successful yesterday, Mary’s killer would also be dead.
But you weren’t successful, Mr. Nicchi. You fired on the man in the hoodie from a few yards away with a sniper rifle, accurate to a thousand yards.
A rifle you’re extremely qualified to fire, if you haven’t lied about your marksman credentials. Did you lie, Mr. Nicchi?”
Nicchi didn’t blink. “No, I do not lie, Dr. Reeves.”
“I didn’t think so,” Sam said. “So why isn’t the shooter dead? I can only assume you hit him where you’d planned to.”
Nicchi’s expression became slightly mocking. “I can only assume you believe you have the answer. So why isn’t he dead, Dr. Reeves?”
Sam only smiled. “You either wanted to send a message to whoever sent the shooter to Mary’s house or you wanted the shooter to live so that the police would catch him and make him answer all the questions you’re choosing not to.”
Nicchi was clenching his teeth. Then he relaxed, his expression becoming as bland as Sam’s. “Who do you think sent the shooter?”
“I don’t know, but I think you do. Mary trusted you,” Sam said, his tone becoming gently accusing. “She allowed you to come into her home. She turned her security system off so that you could come and go undetected. Her husband believes she was having an affair with you.”
“Her husband is wrong,” Nicchi said flatly. “About many things.”
“He’s an asshole,” Kit said.
Nicchi nodded once. “On that we can agree. He didn’t deserve her.”
“Mary trusted you,” Sam repeated. “She risked her husband’s anger to come here. To see you. To spend a total of four weeks with you since October. Mr. Sherman might have divorced her over you.”
“He wouldn’t have,” Nicchi said, a little too confidently. “She kept his space tidy, his meals hot, and his bed warm, when he bothered to join her there. He’s lucky she didn’t divorce him.”
“Mary trusted you,” Sam said once more. “Yet you sit here and refuse to help us catch her killer—a killer you didn’t finish off yourself. I have to wonder why.”
Nicchi didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.
Which was telling, Kit thought.
“You took a risk yourself,” Kit said thoughtfully, “going to Ella Sherman’s neighborhood to begin with. You knew there might be police there. Yet you went there and you fired shots, knowing you’d be captured by someone’s security cameras. It’s a wealthy neighborhood. Everyone has cameras.”
“Detective, is there a question in there?”
“Eventually,” Kit said with a smile. “See, I don’t think you typically do risky things.”
“I fly a plane,” Nicchi said lightly. “That’s risky.”