Something Wicked by Lisa Jackson Page A

he gauged the strength of the rain. A deluge. Maybe he’d been too hasty in ignoring Ella’s umbrella.
    â€œHi, Hale. I need to talk to you some more about the Donatella homicides. Go over some Bancroft Bluff records again. Sometime today convenient for you?”
    That caught him up. He’d been expecting to hear something about the baby. “Something happen?”
    â€œWe’re going over the case again, and I volunteered to talk to you and your grandfather again, in fact everyone from your side of the partnership associated with the Bancroft Bluff project.”
    â€œAhh . . .”
    â€œWould you rather have someone else?” she asked, misinterpreting his reluctance.
    â€œNo. Hell.” He made a face. It was just that the last thing he wanted to do was rake all that up again. Not that he didn’t want to find the killer. It was enough to freeze the blood the way the Donatellas had been executed, and it filled him with rage whenever he thought of the person who’d taken the lives of his friends. If going over all their testimony and files again would help, fine. “My grandfather should be in this afternoon. How does one o’clock sound?”
    â€œCan we make it two?” she suggested. “At your offices.”
    â€œThat’ll work,” he said.
    With that he ran out to his TrailBlazer, hitting the remote several times and reaping the reward of flashing lights, which let him know the doors would be open. He slammed himself inside, then switched on the ignition as beaded water broke and ran down the sleeves of his jacket, and drips slid down his neck and under his collar.
    He drove first to the residential demolition site on the Promenade, the walkway that ran in front of Seaside’s oceanfront houses. Finding a parking spot across the street, he waited a few moments, looking at the house they were about to tear down, with its once proud, now tired and worn wooden siding and porch. It had been a very nice home once, but years of pounding wind and rain and sand had beaten it down. The new owners wanted something modern and gleaming, and though Hale was a fervent believer in giving the customer what they wanted, in this case he’d tried to talk them into saving something of the original beach cottage architecture to keep with the surroundings. His advice had fallen on deaf ears.
    Seeing the new owners, the Carmichaels, he climbed from his car and jogged across the street, meeting them on the front porch. They were young and wealthy, and Ian’s grandfather was friends with Declan. Hale shook hands with both Ian and Astrid, who was six months pregnant. He could hardly talk about the house at all for all the questions Astrid asked him about his “own” pregnancy. How was Savannah feeling? How was Kristina doing? Were they excited? Had they picked out any names? Did they think Savannah would go past the due date? How late did they plan to go before asking about being induced?
    â€œI don’t really know,” Hale admitted when confronted with this last question.
    â€œI bet you’re just so excited,” she declared. “Oh, my God. If I was as close as you are . . .” She made a squealing sound and looked delightedly to her husband.
    Ian put an arm around her and asked Hale, “So, when’s the demolition?”
    â€œShould be next week, barring unforeseen circumstances.” This was old news, and Ian was clearly just trying to turn the conversation away from babies and to something else.
    But Astrid would have none of it. “As soon as my little girl comes along, we’ll have to get together. If you move closer to Seaside, they could go to the same schools together. You should really consider it.”
    â€œLeave him alone,” Ian said good-naturedly. “Now, about that outdoor planking. You don’t think it should be wood?”
    â€œNot if you want it to last,” Hale said, leading them through the