went to her heart. Owen Lassiter. I needed to find him, but he found me! She tried to remember to breathe.
“Mrs. Wilkes.” The candidate was talking to the woman at the desk. He took her hand in both of his. “Welcome, Kenna. Rory told me you’d be here.”
Holly thought she saw Mrs. Wilkes blush. Huh.
The phone rang, but the Wilkes person ignored it, she was so locked in to Lassiter’s greeting. When he let go of her, finally, she didn’t seem to know where to put her hands.
Then Owen Lassiter himself turned to her. To her! He held out his hand, smiling at her, drawing her in with those eyes. “And who do we have here?”
Holly almost blushed, seeing him. He would never recognize her.
Not until she wanted him to.
“I’m Hannah,” she said. “I’m so delighted to see you.” See you again, she was careful not to say.
She could almost feel the camera in her bag.
Perfect.
When things worked, they just worked.
17
“Is it the Bridge Killer? Is it? Oh, Detective Brogan, I’m not sure I can do this now.”
“Take your time, Mrs. Darden,” Jake reassured the woman on the couch. The low-slung coffee table between them could not have held one more doily-covered plate of cookies or little muffins. “Let me know when you feel up to continuing.”
Jake sat in the striped wing chair, pretending to read over his notes, while Sellica Darden’s mother composed herself. Leota Darden had made it through about five minutes of Jake’s questions, poised and polite, even offering Jake tea, answering carefully.
She’d been too distraught to talk last night, so they agreed he’d return first thing this morning. He hoped that wasn’t a mistake.
Wearing a flinty gray silk dress that ended below her knees and what his mom called sensible shoes, Mrs. Darden had shooed all but one of her other Saturday morning callers down the hall. The woman now sitting beside Mrs. Darden, pinched face and bright red fingernails, gave Jake a dark look. He’d seen it in many other living rooms. It meant, Get out, cop.
He wished he could. But this was part of the deal. Death. Trying to explain it. Trying to understand it. Intruding on grief. Sitting in people’s living rooms, bringing up exactly what grieving families didn’t want to hear.
The scent of flowers, heavy-headed dark red roses and masses of carnations, mixed with the fragrance of brewing coffee and burning candles. A black-framed photo of a sleekly stylish young woman wearing a white turtleneck and ropes of pearls was displayed on the mantelpiece, a single white lily in a slim crystal vase beside it.
The ME’s photos of Sellica that Jake had studied last night were not so attractive. He hoped her mother would never see those.
He had started with the easy questions.
Yes, Mrs. Darden told him, her Sellica kept in touch. Yes, she knew what her daughter did for a living. No, she hadn’t mentioned being afraid of anyone.
He’d ignore her question about the Bridge Killer. But that’s what was haunting him, too.
What’s more, the newspaper sure as hell isn’t ignoring it. Tuck’s story this morning was total bullshit, speculation and psychobabble. The “Bridge Killer” cases aren’t exactly the same—and that proves they’re connected? That girl never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
“Did Sellica ever mention trouble of any kind?” Jake asked. “Anyone who threatened her? Bothered her? Followed her?”
But Mrs. Darden was deflating, collapsing, fingers to her forehead. “It is, isn’t it. The Bridge Killer.”
“I won’t lie to you, Mrs. Darden.” So much for ignoring it. “But I don’t think there’s a Bridge Killer. And that’s why I need to—”
The other woman sniffed. “Ridiculous. Of course there is. I read the newspapers. You people couldn’t stop him, and now—” She stopped, giving her head a fretful shake. She clutched at Mrs. Darden’s arm. “Oh, I’m sorry, Leezey. Honey. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m all
“Mrs. Wilkes.” The candidate was talking to the woman at the desk. He took her hand in both of his. “Welcome, Kenna. Rory told me you’d be here.”
Holly thought she saw Mrs. Wilkes blush. Huh.
The phone rang, but the Wilkes person ignored it, she was so locked in to Lassiter’s greeting. When he let go of her, finally, she didn’t seem to know where to put her hands.
Then Owen Lassiter himself turned to her. To her! He held out his hand, smiling at her, drawing her in with those eyes. “And who do we have here?”
Holly almost blushed, seeing him. He would never recognize her.
Not until she wanted him to.
“I’m Hannah,” she said. “I’m so delighted to see you.” See you again, she was careful not to say.
She could almost feel the camera in her bag.
Perfect.
When things worked, they just worked.
17
“Is it the Bridge Killer? Is it? Oh, Detective Brogan, I’m not sure I can do this now.”
“Take your time, Mrs. Darden,” Jake reassured the woman on the couch. The low-slung coffee table between them could not have held one more doily-covered plate of cookies or little muffins. “Let me know when you feel up to continuing.”
Jake sat in the striped wing chair, pretending to read over his notes, while Sellica Darden’s mother composed herself. Leota Darden had made it through about five minutes of Jake’s questions, poised and polite, even offering Jake tea, answering carefully.
She’d been too distraught to talk last night, so they agreed he’d return first thing this morning. He hoped that wasn’t a mistake.
Wearing a flinty gray silk dress that ended below her knees and what his mom called sensible shoes, Mrs. Darden had shooed all but one of her other Saturday morning callers down the hall. The woman now sitting beside Mrs. Darden, pinched face and bright red fingernails, gave Jake a dark look. He’d seen it in many other living rooms. It meant, Get out, cop.
He wished he could. But this was part of the deal. Death. Trying to explain it. Trying to understand it. Intruding on grief. Sitting in people’s living rooms, bringing up exactly what grieving families didn’t want to hear.
The scent of flowers, heavy-headed dark red roses and masses of carnations, mixed with the fragrance of brewing coffee and burning candles. A black-framed photo of a sleekly stylish young woman wearing a white turtleneck and ropes of pearls was displayed on the mantelpiece, a single white lily in a slim crystal vase beside it.
The ME’s photos of Sellica that Jake had studied last night were not so attractive. He hoped her mother would never see those.
He had started with the easy questions.
Yes, Mrs. Darden told him, her Sellica kept in touch. Yes, she knew what her daughter did for a living. No, she hadn’t mentioned being afraid of anyone.
He’d ignore her question about the Bridge Killer. But that’s what was haunting him, too.
What’s more, the newspaper sure as hell isn’t ignoring it. Tuck’s story this morning was total bullshit, speculation and psychobabble. The “Bridge Killer” cases aren’t exactly the same—and that proves they’re connected? That girl never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
“Did Sellica ever mention trouble of any kind?” Jake asked. “Anyone who threatened her? Bothered her? Followed her?”
But Mrs. Darden was deflating, collapsing, fingers to her forehead. “It is, isn’t it. The Bridge Killer.”
“I won’t lie to you, Mrs. Darden.” So much for ignoring it. “But I don’t think there’s a Bridge Killer. And that’s why I need to—”
The other woman sniffed. “Ridiculous. Of course there is. I read the newspapers. You people couldn’t stop him, and now—” She stopped, giving her head a fretful shake. She clutched at Mrs. Darden’s arm. “Oh, I’m sorry, Leezey. Honey. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m all
Similar Books
