Die Job by Lila Dare Page B

Headquarters building in Kingsland, a town a few miles south of St. Elizabeth and just west of I-95. The familiar single-story building with narrow windows not much bigger than arrow slits in a medieval castle sat in a square of grass that almost matched the tan brick. Shrubs clipped by someone with a ruler and a level stood between the windows like prisoners lined up against an execution wall. The inside was not so grim: standard waiting room fare, a reception desk, and doors leading to interior offices. Propped against the desk and holding a mug of coffee, Agent Dillon was talking to Officer Kent, an earnest young cop with jug ears who hero-worshiped his boss.
    “Marshal, how’s it going?” I said by way of greeting, watching the tips of Officer Kent’s ears turn red at what he took to be a slur on his hero. Dillon sighed at my
Gunsmoke
joke, clapped Kent on the shoulder, and led me to a conference room. It consisted of a long table, rolling chairs, a window looking to the lot behind the building, and photos of former special agents in charge hung on the walls. Bureaucratic blah. He’d interviewed me in his office in the past, and I raised my brows as he indicated blueprints spread on the table. I stepped closer to examine them, brushing past Dillon and catching the male scent of him, spiked with a lime aftershave and soap. I flushed and made a showof shifting the documents on the table to get a better view.
    “Rothmere,” Dillon said. “I need you to show me where everyone was Saturday night. I understand the students were supposed to be paired up, but our interviews at the high school yielded surprisingly few hard and fast alibis. Only a couple of the teams stuck together the whole time and could alibi each other.” Frustration sounded in his voice. “It seems everyone had to use the bathroom at some point or wander off to chat with a friend stationed in another room, or go outside to watch the damned fireworks. I’m hoping you can help.”
    “I’ll try. I don’t even know all the kids’ names, though, so I don’t know how much help I’ll be.”
    I showed him where I’d encountered various kids and the route I’d taken chasing Lonnie. I gave him times as best as I remembered them and closed my eyes to try to remember who I’d seen outside watching the fireworks.
    “That’s it?” he asked when I finished.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Pretty loose supervision. You only saw each pair of kids—what? Ten minutes in an hour? One of them could’ve driven to Disney World and shot Mickey for all you know.”
    “It’s not like I was the only chaperone,” I said hotly, mad at him for remarks that pricked my already sensitive conscience.
    “Where were the other chaperones?”
    “Coach Peet took Tyler to the bus,” I said, “and I assume he stayed there.”
    “No, he didn’t,” Dillon said, tossing the pencil down. “He took Tyler to the bus but left him with the bus driver who then fell asleep. Tyler snuck away, so we can’t account for Peet, Tyler, or for that matter, the bus driver.”
    “What about Tasha Solomon? Her daughter was part of the class.”
    “
Dr.
Solomon. Mother of Ari Solomon. Spent most of the evening in the carriage house museum with a couple of teens who got excited about an owl hooting and thought it was the ghost. She and they split up when the fireworks drew everyone outside, though.”
    I nibbled on my forefinger, thinking. “Do you think someone deliberately set off the fireworks to create an opportunity to . . .”
    “To kill McCullers? Possible. Although Lonnie Farber copped to the fireworks and vehemently denies going back in the mansion.”
    “And if it was him, up on the landing when Braden got hurt, there’d be no need for another ghost costume, would there?” I said, thinking about the sheet Spaatz and I had found in the armoire.
    “You’re right.”
    The faint hint of surprise in Dillon’s voice told me he hadn’t made that connection and I felt a