Montgomery said, coming up behind her and wrapping
his arms around her. “Your client’s dead.”
“That may be,” Charlie said, disentangling herself reluctantly, “but she paid us in
advance to find Les, and if Lorrimore suspects Gigi had a hand in Heather-Anne’s death,
Les may be the only one who can prove otherwise.”
“How?” Montgomery accepted defeat, let his arms drop, and returned to his beer.
“He can testify that Heather-Anne had a deranged husband after her. Reasonable doubt.
He can explain why he decamped from Costa Rica and ended up in Aspen. You know”—she
paused, furrowing her brow—“we don’t even know for sure that Heather-Anne was the
intended victim.”
“What, someone mistook her for someone else? Come on, Charlie.”
“No. She said one of the men Les cheated threatened to hurt his kids. Maybe Heather-Anne’s
murder is a message to Les.”
“Thin.”
Charlie rounded on him. “My partner’s a murder suspect. I’m going to do what it takes
to clear her.” Her own vehemence and concern for Gigi startled her. She hadn’t wanted
Gigi as a partner, but the woman was growing on her. Damn it. “Because it reflects
badly on Swift Investigations, of course, to have one of the partners on trial,” she
added loftily. “It’s bad for business.”
“Of course.”
The amused understanding in Montgomery’s voice made her want to hit him. Or kiss him.
Or … She shooed him out the door, beer bottle in hand, so she could get to work.
13
I wasn’t under arrest. That happy thought bounced through my brain as I drove home
from the Embassy Suites Sunday afternoon. That didn’t mean the police wouldn’t change
their minds and nab me any minute. Detective Lorrimore had talked to me for what seemed
like hours, going over the same questions again and again, like I was going to change
my story the eighteenth time I told it. I knew she wanted to put me in jail and throw
away the key. I’d been relieved when Charlie’s friend, Detective Montgomery, had stopped
by and dragged Lorrimore into the hall for a few minutes. I’d tiptoed to the door,
hoping to overhear something, and been embarrassed when a uniformed cop came through
the door while I had my ear pressed against it. The officer almost knocked me on my
fanny, and the door bruised my forehead. Looking in the rearview mirror, I tried to
arrange my hair to cover the bruise. A horn blared beside me, and I jerked the Hummer’s
wheel so I ended up back in my own lane, giving the scowling woman an apologetic smile.
Passing the exit for Fillmore, I suddenly realized I didn’t want to go home. I wanted
to talk to Charlie. Whipping the Hummer toward the exit, I waved guiltily at the two
lanes’ worth of people honking at me. A quick left on Fillmore and another left into
the merge lane had me headed north on I-25 again within minutes. I got off at Woodmen
and worked my way back toward Charlie’s house. A couple of police cars and a few news
vans sat outside the Embassy Suites, and I ducked down in the seat as I passed it.
“Glad to see you’re not getting fitted for an orange jumpsuit,” Charlie greeted me
when I ding-donged.
“Orange is so not my color,” I said. “I can not go to prison. What would the kids do?” Kendall would probably move in with her friend
Angel, and they’d become groupies, following that band they were obsessed with around
the country. She’d never finish high school and would end up shacked up with some
loser in Schenectady or Amarillo when the drummer tossed her aside like a used Kleenex,
penniless and alone in a strange town. Dexter might well end up in the jail cell next
to mine for doing something dangerous and stupid with his dangerous and stupid friends.
I sighed.
Charlie beckoned me in, and I followed her through to the kitchen. She grabbed two
Pepsis from the fridge, tossed one to me, and led me back to the living
his arms around her. “Your client’s dead.”
“That may be,” Charlie said, disentangling herself reluctantly, “but she paid us in
advance to find Les, and if Lorrimore suspects Gigi had a hand in Heather-Anne’s death,
Les may be the only one who can prove otherwise.”
“How?” Montgomery accepted defeat, let his arms drop, and returned to his beer.
“He can testify that Heather-Anne had a deranged husband after her. Reasonable doubt.
He can explain why he decamped from Costa Rica and ended up in Aspen. You know”—she
paused, furrowing her brow—“we don’t even know for sure that Heather-Anne was the
intended victim.”
“What, someone mistook her for someone else? Come on, Charlie.”
“No. She said one of the men Les cheated threatened to hurt his kids. Maybe Heather-Anne’s
murder is a message to Les.”
“Thin.”
Charlie rounded on him. “My partner’s a murder suspect. I’m going to do what it takes
to clear her.” Her own vehemence and concern for Gigi startled her. She hadn’t wanted
Gigi as a partner, but the woman was growing on her. Damn it. “Because it reflects
badly on Swift Investigations, of course, to have one of the partners on trial,” she
added loftily. “It’s bad for business.”
“Of course.”
The amused understanding in Montgomery’s voice made her want to hit him. Or kiss him.
Or … She shooed him out the door, beer bottle in hand, so she could get to work.
13
I wasn’t under arrest. That happy thought bounced through my brain as I drove home
from the Embassy Suites Sunday afternoon. That didn’t mean the police wouldn’t change
their minds and nab me any minute. Detective Lorrimore had talked to me for what seemed
like hours, going over the same questions again and again, like I was going to change
my story the eighteenth time I told it. I knew she wanted to put me in jail and throw
away the key. I’d been relieved when Charlie’s friend, Detective Montgomery, had stopped
by and dragged Lorrimore into the hall for a few minutes. I’d tiptoed to the door,
hoping to overhear something, and been embarrassed when a uniformed cop came through
the door while I had my ear pressed against it. The officer almost knocked me on my
fanny, and the door bruised my forehead. Looking in the rearview mirror, I tried to
arrange my hair to cover the bruise. A horn blared beside me, and I jerked the Hummer’s
wheel so I ended up back in my own lane, giving the scowling woman an apologetic smile.
Passing the exit for Fillmore, I suddenly realized I didn’t want to go home. I wanted
to talk to Charlie. Whipping the Hummer toward the exit, I waved guiltily at the two
lanes’ worth of people honking at me. A quick left on Fillmore and another left into
the merge lane had me headed north on I-25 again within minutes. I got off at Woodmen
and worked my way back toward Charlie’s house. A couple of police cars and a few news
vans sat outside the Embassy Suites, and I ducked down in the seat as I passed it.
“Glad to see you’re not getting fitted for an orange jumpsuit,” Charlie greeted me
when I ding-donged.
“Orange is so not my color,” I said. “I can not go to prison. What would the kids do?” Kendall would probably move in with her friend
Angel, and they’d become groupies, following that band they were obsessed with around
the country. She’d never finish high school and would end up shacked up with some
loser in Schenectady or Amarillo when the drummer tossed her aside like a used Kleenex,
penniless and alone in a strange town. Dexter might well end up in the jail cell next
to mine for doing something dangerous and stupid with his dangerous and stupid friends.
I sighed.
Charlie beckoned me in, and I followed her through to the kitchen. She grabbed two
Pepsis from the fridge, tossed one to me, and led me back to the living
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