Shoots to Kill by Kate Collins

sorry—that I’m not still locked up.
    “Libby, what time did you leave your apartment this morning?” Dave asked.
    “I had an appointment to meet with Sally Mitchum— a customer—at eight, to deliver some art, so I left about twenty-five minutes before eight to pick up the paintings at the shop.”
    “I’ll need the customer’s address and phone number to verify that,” Dave said.
    Libby gave him the info from her BlackBerry, which I also wrote down.
    “Did anybody see you leave the condo or the parking lot?” Dave asked. “Did you wave to anyone on your way to your client’s house?”
    She thought a moment. “Not that I remember.”
    “Did you go straight back to town after you met with your customer?”
    “Yes.”
    “Does anyone else have access to your car or the keys to your car?”
    “Not at five o’clock in the morning. My keys were with me all night, in my purse.”
    Dave jotted some notes on his yellow pad. “Is there a duplicate set?”
    “Mummy kept a set when she bought the car”—Libby reached for a tissue from the box on the table, holding it beneath her eyes to stanch her tears—“in case I got locked out.”
    “How about your brother?” Dave asked. “Didn’t you tell me earlier that he lived with your mom? Wouldn’t he have access?”
    “Oliver lives in the apartment over her garage and comes and goes from her house whenever he likes, but he wouldn’t hurt Mummy. She supports him.”
    “When you went to your car this morning,” Dave continued, “was it parked exactly where you left it last night?”
    “I think so. It was in my parking space.” She paused, her forehead wrinkling, then looked up in dismay. “My car seat! I had to move my seat up because it was farther back than usual.”
    I’d been watching Libby’s expression closely, and this sudden recollection of the car seat seemed to genuinely astonish her—which gave me my first doubt about her guilt.
    “How tall is Oliver?” Dave asked.
    “Five foot ten, but you don’t think—” She shook her head. “No. That’s impossible.”
    Was Libby having doubts about her brother or giving us a performance?
    “How tall are you?” Dave asked her.
    Libby glanced at me with a tearful smile. “Five foot two, just like Abby.”
    “Do you ever leave your keys lying around your art shop?” Dave asked.
    “I usually drop them on my desk next to my purse.”
    “Is this desk in a private office?”
    “No, we’ve partitioned off an area in our storage room.”
    “Would you list your employees for me?” Dave asked.
    “It’s just Oliver and me and Mum—” She caught herself, then instantly burst into tears, holding her hands over her face. “Oh, God, what am I going to do? How can she be gone?” She wept so hard she had to gasp for breath, and I found myself comforting her again as my own eyes welled up. I vowed to call my mother as soon as I left Dave’s office.
    “Have some coffee,” I urged, my voice thick and raspy. “It’ll make you feel better.”
    “Would you like to take a break?” Dave asked her gently.
    Libby shook her head, quieting after a moment. She blew her nose, then took a deep breath and said in a wavering voice, “I’m sorry. I still can’t believe . . . it doesn’t seem real, like I’ll wake up in the morning and this will be just a horrible nightmare.”
    “I understand,” Dave said.
    “Does Oliver know yet?” Libby asked, reaching for her cup with trembling hands.
    “I don’t know,” Dave said. “I haven’t heard any news about your brother.”
    “He must be wondering where we are,” she said, almost to herself. “I can’t think why he hasn’t tried to call me. Do you mind if I check my cell phone?”
    “Go ahead,” Dave said.
    She took out a bright pink phone and flipped it open, pressing buttons with her thumbs. “He didn’t call. Maybe he’s at the shop.” She tried there, with no luck. “Where could he be?”
    “Did you have just the two employees?”