15th Affair (Women's Murder Club #15)(64)

“This is your story, not mine,” said Alison Muller, exhaling like her breath was smoke.

“Well, here’s my theory. He did it because he knew you. And as a world-class femme fatale to his former cop turned security chief, I think he would have been an easy score for you. You were beyond his wildest dreams. And—I’ll admit this part is hypothetical—I think you told Dugan that you’d run away with him to the People’s Republic of China and start a new and exciting life together. Am I warm, Alison?”

She was staring past me through the windshield, considering her options.

I knew it. I wasn’t just warm. I was red-smoking-hot.

“Look,” she said, “I’m going to get disappeared for a while. I want you to tell my daughters that I’m OK. That I love them. There are a few things I want them to have and there are some things I have to tell Khalid.”

I understood what she was saying. She didn’t know when she’d see them again. Or if.

“Happy to help. Tell me you killed Shirley Chan and it’s a deal.”

Alison sighed, shook her head, and said, “What a bitch.” She was referring to me.

Then she said, “OK. I didn’t know if or what Michael had told her about me. She was smart and she could have turned people against me. I went into her house and I put her down. OK? I killed her. Now shut the hell up. I can’t stand the sound of your voice.”

“Back at you, babe. You kind of make me sick.”

I took the phone out of the holder, showed Alison the big icon of a microphone on the faceplate, rewound it a touch, and played back “You kind of make me sick.” Then I said, “We’re still rolling. Let’s have the message for your family.”

While she talked to her kids, I was thinking, Gotcha. Shirley Chan’s death wasn’t a government-ordered hit. Killing a mother of two small children was Muller’s own personal cover-up to protect herself.

If the CIA spat Muller out, we could charge her for Shirley Chan’s murder and do our best to build a case. I thought I could do it starting with her confession.

When Muller finished talking into the recorder, I pressed Stop and said, “That’s a wrap.”

She smiled—a hat-tip to me for making the deal. And then she started to laugh. Man, it was catching. I laughed, too. This hilarity was more about relief and hysteria than it was about humor, but we were both into it, chortling and giggling like high school girls.

Technically, I laughed last.

And of course, best.





CHAPTER 97


CHRIS KNIGHTLY’S BIG face filled the open car window.

“You girls having fun?” he said.

I didn’t like the guy, but screw him. I had what I wanted, on the record. Knightly unlocked and opened the creaking back door and said, “Let me help you out, Ali. Watch your head.”

Joe opened the front door, and as Knightly and Muller walked toward a chopper, he got in behind the wheel, reached over, pushed my gun muzzle toward the floor, and peeled my fingers off the butt one by one.

“It’s OK, Linds. It’s all OK.”

He opened his arms and I went into them. He held me and kissed the top of my head, and I just gave myself over to the pleasure of that hug—but not for long. I disengaged, sat back in the passenger seat, and said, “What happens now?”

Joe said, “I’m going with Knightly, taking Muller in for interrogation. Munder is a good guy. He and a few others are taking a chopper to the Vancouver airport. You’ll go with them. I’ll call you when I can.”

I nodded. There was no point asking him, “Where are you taking her? How long will you be gone?” I took back my gun and holstered it. I let Joe open the door for me and I got out, looking around at this little airfield that had been a shooting gallery a short while ago.

Agent Munder came over and told me there was a bathroom in the hangar if I needed it and that a coffee urn and some rolls had been set out earlier for the crew.

“Help yourself.”

A little while later, he gave me a hand up into the helicopter, which was too loud for conversation. I was glad. The flight to the airport was short. I waited in the lounge with Agent Munder for the flight to San Francisco, which was also short.

Conklin and Cindy met me at SFO, and they both hugged me to pieces. I sat in the backseat on the drive into the city, leaning toward them over the seat back so I could tell them about my fifteen hours with the CIA.

I fell asleep while I was talking.

Cindy walked with me upstairs to the apartment and sat with Mrs. Rose and Julie until I’d finished taking the best shower of my entire life. And then everyone left us alone.

I sat in Joe’s chair holding our child, and then I sobbed deeply until she started crying, too. Poor Martha was dumbfounded. She barked and yipped and circled until I was all cried out.

We napped. Then we went to the park, my girls and me.

We sat by the lake and watched ducks and people. I made small talk with Martha and Julie. But my mind was working hard.

As usual, I still had questions.





CHAPTER 98


THE PHONE RANG at seven the next morning while I was brushing my teeth. It was Brady.

“Hah-wo,” I said.

“Are you all right?”

I spat and rinsed. “Good as new.”