Horse of a Different Killer (3 page)

“Well then, we seem to have reached an understanding.” I stood, gave her a departing nod, and walked out into the corridor.

Marching over to the double doors leading into the homicide unit, I pulled one open and spotted Jake already striding toward me. He'd probably been watching my interview with Boyle on one of the wall-mounted monitors.

Though I thought he knew me well enough to predict what I wanted, I stopped and, with a very calm voice, said, “I'd like to see my sister. Please.”

Jake's jowly face was made more dour by the stern, downward tilt of his mouth. He glowered at me, then glowered a little harder, finally ticking his chin up in a quick nod.

“Come on,” he growled, leading me through the room to a solid wood door exactly like the one I'd left. “I'll tell Boyle we'll learn more if we let you two talk.”

“Because you'll be listening?”

He gave me a what-do-you-think? look before unlocking the door and swinging it open.

Emma sat at the table on the far side of the tiny, gray room. Not a hair out of place, not a smudge in her lightly applied makeup, she looked like she always did—polished and elegant. At least she would have if she hadn't been sporting an ill-fitting muddy green shirt with the word
INMATE
printed over the left pocket. The corner of her lips quirked up into a wry half smile when she saw my face.

“I know.” She cast a disparaging glance at the shirt. “This is not my color.”

Her flippant comment made me want to sigh with a mixture of relief and exasperation. I wasn't sure what I would've done if I'd walked in to find her crying and terrified.

Blithe, irreverent Emma I can handle. Scared, helpless Emma is not something I processed well.

A flash of memory hit me again: my sister's bruised and battered face, tears leaking from the corners of her swollen eyes as she recounted what Ortega had done to her.

And, again, I was glad the man was dead.

“You're worried about your clothes?” I asked, lowering into the plastic chair across from her.

“Not really. Though they did take my favorite pair of Gucci boots . . . which I sincerely hope to get back unscathed.” She directed the last comment to the camera bubble over our heads.

“Emma—”

“I'm kidding. They're my second-favorite pair of Gucci boots.” She grinned.

Only Emma.

“Where's Wes?” I asked, referring to our friend and attorney Wes Roberts.

“On his way and ready to spit nails.”

“Good.” Wes lived in Savannah now but still practiced in Florida. He was a great lawyer. I felt a wave of optimism wash over my worry. The sensation lasted about half a second.

“Listen,” she said, her face growing serious, “there's something I need you to do for me.”

I had a feeling I knew what she was going to ask.

“Don't worry. I'll call Mom and Dad,” I told her with as much stoic nonchalance as I could muster.

She shook her head. “It's not that. You wouldn't get through to them, remember?”

Relief hit me hard enough to force a grateful breath from my lungs. I slumped back in the chair. “Right. They're in Big Bend.”

Our parents had called when they'd reached the national park the day before to say they'd be out of cell range for a few days. They'd been traveling the country in their RV, having a ball. I didn't want to be the one to ruin it. Nor did I want to unleash our mother on the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office.

Mom's an ex-teacher. She has that “teacher's voice” thing, and she wouldn't hesitate to use it.

“By the time they're back to civilization this will all be handled,” Emma said. “But that's not what I need to talk to you about.”

“Okay.”

“You have to promise that you'll do it.”

“Of course.”

“Even though Wes is on his way, I'm going to be stuck her a while, so I need you to take care of a party tonight.”

“Beg pardon?”

“It won't be a big deal.”

“But—” Nothing about handling social situations was easy for me. My sister, on the other hand, was an events coordinator and a very good one.

That didn't change the obvious, which I felt obligated to point out.

Straightening, I leaned forward and said, “Em, don't you think you should be more worried about being arrested for murder than a party?”

“Murder? Is that what they told you?”

“Yes. They said a witness saw you at the crime scene lurking over Tony's dead body.”

“Lurking, was I?” She shook her head slowly, eyes bright with amusement. Before I could ask her to let me in on the joke, she said, “You know the cops are under no obligation to tell you the truth, right?”

I blinked at her while that sank in. “Wait. So all this stuff about Tony being dead and you being there—”

“All true,” she said. “I
did
go to speak to Tony. When I went in, I found him in the office very much dead.”

“Em, why would you go to his house?” I had a sinking feeling I knew. “This is about the auction, isn't it?”

“I went to return his money and explain that he was not to contact you again. Which, in hindsight, was stupid.”

“Yes it was. You should have let Wes deal with Tony.” Wes had handled my sister's divorce and made it clear Ortega was never to have contact with our family again.

“Like I said, hindsight.” She lifted a shoulder.

I leaned forward. “You went inside?”

“The door was open, and by open I mean
standing
open.” She spread her arms in a combo, this-wide
and what-was-I-supposed-to-do? gesture.

My lips parted as I gaped at my sister.

“What? It was my house, once.”

I shut my mouth, then opened it again but Emma cut me off before I could speak.

“Don't,” she said.

“What?”

“Say whatever it is you're thinking about saying.”

She hit me with a pointed look and I wasn't sure if my sister was warning me to keep my trap shut because she didn't want to hear any flak or as a reminder that we were being observed.

Probably both. She would get an earful from Wes when he got here and the bigger deal I made about her interacting with Ortega, the more weight the police would give it.

I could think of a dozen questions to ask her, but ended up going with one the cops knew the answer to.

“So, what are you in here for if not murder?”

“They charged me with trespassing.”

“Trespassing?”

“Yep. Even though the door was open and I knew the owner, going inside was trespassing. At least that's what they tell me.”

“Bogus.”

“Probably. Wes will sort it out, but not in time for the party tonight.”

“Em—”

“Listen. Everything you need is on my laptop in my briefcase at home.”

“But I—”

“It's important, Grace. I have a friend, well, you know Kevin.”

“Aikido Kevin?” I asked, thinking of the tall guy who sometimes joined us in my sister's private dojo for class.

Emma nodded. “His brother, Tyler, was just diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. He's an artist, and though the cancer is treatable, his insurance doesn't cover it.”

“And the party is to raise money for his medical bills?”

“Sort of. Tyler will be teaching guests how to paint one of his original designs.”

“Like an art class?”

Emma shook her head. “It's a painting party. We serve champagne then heavy hors d'oeuvres, everyone paints, there are breaks so there's time to chat and have a glass of wine. Tyler's work will be on display and many of the guests own galleries or are influential in the art scene. We're hoping to get him a gallery show from this event.”

I blinked at her.

“It's easy. All you have to do is welcome the guests, introduce Tyler, then make sure everyone is having a good time.”

I could feel my eyes bulging out as she spoke.

“Grace? Are you breathing?”

“No.”

My sister canted her head and studied me. “Okay. On second thought, I have a better idea. I know the events coordinator for the Ritz. Call the hotel and ask for Kendall. She owes me a favor.”

“What do I say?”

“Tell her you're my sister and you need help with an event. She'll likely be busy but that's the nature of the party business. Kendall's good. She'll be able to get the ball rolling once you get her the file.”

“File?”

“On my laptop. It's labeled ‘Painting Party' with the date. You'll see it. Transfer it to the yellow flash drive—it's in the zipper pocket of my briefcase. Okay?”

“The flash what?”

“You know, a portable USB stick.”

“Right—the little rectangle thingy.”

“Make sure you use the yellow one.”

“Yellow USB stick. Got it.”

“Get the file to Kendall and she'll handle it.”

“So, I won't have to go to the party?”

“That will be up to Kendall. Just follow her lead, do what she says, and you'll be fine. Trust me.”

I hit the first snag before I made it out of the sheriff's office. Jake informed me that he and Detective Boyle would be coming to the condo to take possession of Emma's computers. I tried to explain to Jake that I needed one of her work files but he just shook his head.

I thought I could get around it by beating them home, until I realized they were my ride back to Bluebell. I assumed they would drop me off in the lot and follow me home.

Sometimes I hated being right.

After depositing me next to my SUV, they waited, then escorted me all the way back to my sister's beachfront condo. I muttered a quick plea to the heavens that I'd be able to copy the file before they took Emma's stuff. Or, even better, that Wes would somehow get Emma out of the pokey in time for the party.

I looked at the dashboard clock as I pulled into the condo's parking lot. It was after four, which didn't give me much hope. I was going to need that file.

Maybe they would let me print a copy of it?

With a bit of renewed hope, I climbed out of Bluebell and turned to the detectives.

“Emma asked me to fill in for her tonight at an event she's supposed to be handling. I need the file from her computer.”

“We can't let you have access to the computer,” Detective Boyle said. “It's being taken into evidence.”

“I understand. But I really need the information on that file. Maybe I can print it? Or, hell, you can read it to me and I'll take notes.”

“I can't allow that, Miss Wilde. I'm sorry,” she said, not sounding at all sorry.

“Look, she ain't askin' for much.” Jake tried to intercede but Boyle was having none of it.

“She's asking to violate chain of custody.”

He made a derisive noise. “Come on, Boyle . . .”

She ignored his intended meaning and motioned toward the condo building. “After you, Detective Nocera.”

In that moment, I kind of wanted to strangle Detective Boyle. Actually, I knew a tiger who owed me a favor . . . Maybe a good maiming would teach her to be a little less obdurate.

The look on my face must have been broadcasting my feelings loud and clear because Jake stepped toward me and said, “Let's go, Grace.”

I followed him to the building and up the stairs. Detective Boyle stayed close on my heels until we reached the top.

“Where's Yamada?” she asked, looking around.

I assumed she was talking about Charlie Yamada, an investigator with the Jacksonville CSU. He was one of Kai's friends and, apparently, his replacement on this case.

“He's supposed to be here,” Jake said.

With a scowl, Boyle pulled her phone out of her pocket and paced away from us.

As soon as she was out of earshot Jake asked, “What about your dog?”

“Moss? What about him?”

“Don't you need to put 'im up?”

“You afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?”

“Nope.” He cast a meaningful glance toward Detective Boyle, who had ended her phone call and was on her way to join us.

Being slow on the uptake, it took me a second to realize Jake was trying to give me the time I needed to snag the file off Emma's computer before it was confiscated.

“Um . . .” I turned my attention to Detective Boyle and said, “I need a minute to get my dog.”

“Why?” she asked.

I could feel Moss's presence on the other side of the door. Roused from a nap by the sound of my key in the lock, he was ready for dinner and a potty break.

“He's cranky,” I said, at the same time urging Moss to bark. He growled in protest, not in the mood for games.

Hungry
, he told me, then added a howl for emphasis.

Not what I was aiming for but, whatever works.

Boyle took a step away from the door. “That sounded like a wolf.”

“Yes it did. No wonder you're a detective.”

“You can't keep wolves in Florida,” she said.

“Actually, you can. Florida Fish and Wildlife categorizes wolves as a Class II animal and thus legal to own. Though, to be honest, most people probably shouldn't.”

“And you're the exception?”

Jake snorted at that, earning a quick glare from Boyle.

Unlike Jake, Boyle had no idea how much of an exception I was, and I had no desire to enlighten her.

“Yep. Even so, Moss can get ornery. So I'd like to go in and put him in another room so you can get what you need and leave in one piece. He's only part wolf, but he doesn't like strangers.”

It was all a load of hooey.

Moss can be a willful and stubborn beast, even a bit territorial around some people, namely Kai, but he was never vicious. The exception being when in the presence of sociopaths and people who mean me harm.

In truth, Moss would wag his tail in greeting, give the two visitors a quick once-over before demanding to go out and be given food. But I needed to buy time and I was willing to resort to slander to get it.

Boyle's eyes narrowed. “You have two minutes.”

It took me three. First, I had to contend with Voodoo, our new kitten and resident nutcase who'd begun to climb my bare leg as soon as I stood still long enough.

Up!

“Okay, crazy.” I scooped her up and held her in the crook of my arm, letting her bat and play with a strand of ponytail that had fallen over my shoulder.

Most of my time, however, was spent blocking Moss's insistent nudges as I placed Emma's briefcase on the kitchen counter, pulled out her laptop, and began searching for the yellow flash drive.

Hungry.

I know, buddy.
I urged him to be patient.

Hungry.

Nudge.

“Hang on,” I muttered.

Out.

Nudge-nudge.

“Stop that,” I whispered as I fished around the pockets of the briefcase for the USB stick.

“Got it.” I smiled when I spotted the bright yellow rectangle.

Out
! Moss insisted.

Just a second
. “Hey!” My dog shoved his head under my forearm, causing the flash drive I'd been trying to plug into the laptop to go flying from my hand. I heard it bounce off something in the kitchen behind me as it skittered off to who knew where.

When I turned and scanned the room, the thing was out of sight.

“Crap!”

I started to look for it when a trio of knocks sounded on the front door. Loud and authoritative.

No time. I decided to send myself an e-mail with the file as an attachment. Charlie or whoever checked over Emma's mail would see what I'd done but I couldn't worry about that now.

A few keystrokes and mental reprimands to my canine later, I was turning off the laptop and had just shut the lid when the front door opened and Detective Boyle came striding into view.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

I tried to took innocent when I turned to her. Holding Voodoo up in one hand, I said, “Had to grab this little girl. Moss is very protective.”

To emphasize my point, I kept a firm grip on Moss's collar. Not that I could have kept him from doing something if he'd wanted to—my dog outweighs me by at least twenty pounds—but I was still trying to make him seem dangerous.

“I was just trying to find his leash,” I added.

“Really? Does it look like this?” She held up Moss's leash, which she must have spotted on the foyer table as she walked in.

“That's it! Thanks. He really has to pee.”

I took the leash from her as Moss and I passed, then paused when Charlie Yamada stepped through the front door.

He didn't seem to notice Detective Boyle's disapproving look when he greeted me with a smile and said, turning his full attention to Moss, “Hey. So this is the famous wolf-dog?”

“Yep. Moss this is Charlie. Charlie, Moss.” I patted my dog and clipped on his leash.

“Wow,” Charlie said, his face alight with admiration. “He's beautiful.”

Moss, beautiful.
Moss agreed with a slow swish of his tail.

“Thanks,” I said, ignoring my dog's self-affirmation.

A lot of people would be apprehensive around a dog like Moss. Not Charlie. When we'd met, I'd learned Charlie was a big dog person. Meaning he liked dogs a lot and big ones even more.

“Can I pet him?” he asked, finally tearing his eyes off Moss to look at me hopefully.

“Sure.”

“Yamada,” Boyle snapped. “You're not here to play with the dog.”

“Right. Sorry, Detective.”

“Here,” I said, handing him Voodoo, who had started squirming against my grip. “Can you hold her a minute so she doesn't try to escape when we go out?”

I didn't wait for Boyle's veto, just turned and slipped out the door.

Moss watered his favorite bush with relief and we were back inside in less than a minute. We came back in to find Charlie standing right where he'd been, still holding Voodoo, who was trying to wriggle up the short sleeve of his polo shirt.

“Thanks,” I said, taking back the kitten, who promptly hung a claw in Charlie's shirt and squeaked out a plaintive meow at being removed from her new “toy.”

Mine!

No
,
I tried to scold her mentally while I untangled her kitty claw from Charlie's sleeve.

Voodoo voiced her complaint again. Ignoring me entirely.

Mine!

I distracted her by pulling out the Saint Francis medal I always wore from where it hung under my shirt and dangled it in the kitten's line of sight. She lunged for the pendant and I captured her against my chest.

“Sorry,” I said to the room at large.

Charlie was grinning at the kitten, who really is a rather adorable black fluff-ball.

Boyle, on the other hand, was looking at Voodoo like she was something that belonged in a toilet bowl.

Jake had ignored us and, holding up my sister's laptop, stepped from the kitchen.

“I've got this. Yamada, you need help with the other computer?”

“I'm on it. Just might need you to get the door.” He looked at me. “Grace?”

It took me a second to realize he was asking where he could find Emma's office.

“It's this way.” I led them down the hall, pausing to deposit Voodoo and Moss in my bedroom as we passed.

I opened the door to my sister's office and clicked on the light.

Like evil laser scanners in a sci-fi flick, Detective Boyle's gaze tracked over every inch of the room when we entered. She shot a glance at Charlie, then nodded at my sister's sleek, new iMac.

Taking his cue, Charlie unhooked the computer and carried it out of the room. Jake followed to manage the door and I was left alone with Boyle, who continued her perusal until her focus homed in on the large antique wardrobe Emma used to stash her gift-wrapping supplies and other random clutter best kept out of sight.

She squinted at it as if wishing she had X-ray vision.

“It leads to Narnia,” I told her, deadpan.

Boyle didn't react for a moment, and when she finally turned to me, her eyes were hard, her mouth pressed into a thin, closed-lipped smile. “Cute.”

“Thanks. I'll be here all week.”

“You and your sister seem to find this amusing. I don't.”

“You're wrong, Boyle.”

Jake's large form filled the doorway.

“We're done here,” he said, though I couldn't be sure whom he was addressing. I hadn't taken my eyes off Boyle long enough to notice anything more than Jake's dark shape materialize in my periphery.

We filed out of the room and I led the way to the front door, holding it open as the detectives passed.

Jake paused and turned to me before following Boyle down the stairs. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Look,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I know Boyle seems—”

“Like a constipated Chihuahua with hemorrhoids?” I supplied.

His lips twitched with humor at the description. “Call her what you want. She's a hard-ass, true enough, but she's a good cop. Let us run this down. If Emma's got nothin' to hide, you got nothin' to worry about.”