Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(25)

“You should go, then.” Miles hoped he wasn’t lobbing an emotional land mine at the poor chick, but he had to say something. “Go to Rose’s. Have pastry in her honor. She would have liked that.”

Amy’s face wavered, crumpled. She began to sob.

The umpteenth big-ass emotional misstep for the day. How soon could a person yank their hand back from a sobbing bereaved person at a funeral? Miles stood there, helpless, until Steve rescued him, loosening Amy’s clutching fingers, rubbing her hand between his own. He gave Miles a nod that politely invited him to f*ck off, which Miles was grateful to do.

Oh, man. Close call. He found an empty corner in the back, and waited for the crowd to file out so he could slink out behind them like a whipped dog. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to breathe.

“So. How did you know the deceased?”

He almost yelped. It was an unremarkable middle-aged, bald guy in a suit.

Cop. The look in his eyes gave him away. Miles was sensitive to it by now. The McClouds all had that vibe. Seth, Tam, Val, Nick, Petrie, and Aaro, too. Professionally alert, professionally suspicious. Of course, any cop with half a brain would eyeball Miles. These days, he looked like a psycho freak who was building a fertilizer bomb. Even in a suit.

“I’m Miles Davenport,” he said. “You must be Detective Barlow.”

The guy’s eyes sharpened. “And how would you know that?”

“I have your number in my phone,” Miles said. “I got it from Steve last night.”

“When were you planning on calling me? And about what?”

Miles pulled out his smartphone, and called up the archived voicemail. “I was wilderness camping. Came down last night, found this message from Matilda. She sent it to me a week ago.” He set it to play, and handed the phone to Barlow.

Barlow listened to the message, clicked around on the device for a moment, studying it. He handed it back to Miles, his face expectant.

“I called Matilda back,” Miles explained. “Got her granddaughter. She and Steve told me what happened.”

Barlow shook his head. “Hell of a thing.” He was silent for a moment, and said, “That message was sent the day she was killed.”

“I noticed that,” Miles said.

Barlow waited, but Miles didn’t have more to say. Nor was he embarrassed by silence. He’d spent weeks wrapped in silence.

“So,” Barlow finally said. “How did you know Matilda?”

“Like the message said. We had a mutual interest in Lara Kirk. She’d asked me to help find Lara. She’s the daughter of Joseph—”

“I’m familiar with the case. So. What do you think of all this?”

Miles shrugged. “I didn’t find out a damn thing about Lara, and I looked hard. Evidently, Matilda kept looking after I gave up.”

“Should’ve kept at it.” Barlow ran his eyes over Miles. “You might have had more luck with them. If they’d run into you, instead of her.”

It hurt to hear it, but he couldn’t deny it. “Could be,” he said tightly. “Too late now. Wish I knew what she’d found. But I don’t.”

“I wish that, too,” Barlow said. “So where were you on the morning of October twenty-eighth, Mr. Davenport?”

Miles let out a slow breath. “Like I said. Wilderness camping.”

“Kind of cold, for camping. Got anybody to corroborate that?”

Miles shook his head. “I was alone.”

Barlow’s face was impassive. “That’s unfortunate.”

“You think I’m the one who killed her?” Miles asked.

Barlow studied him, at great length. “You don’t look too upset by that idea,” he remarked. “Cool as a cucumber.”

Miles counted down from five. “I’m not a killer,” he said. “Matilda was my friend. She was a sweet old lady. I liked her. I had no reason to hurt her. And I’d never hurt anybody who didn’t really need hurting.”

Barlow perked up. “Yeah? And who might that be, according to you? This person who needs hurting?”

Miles tried to sigh out the tension in his chest. “Any sick, twisted piece of shit who would throw a helpless old lady down the stairs. That guy needs some serious hurting, and if I ran into him, I’d be happy to provide it.”

“Vigilantism is against the law,” the cop reminded him.

Miles waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

Barlow just kept staring, so Miles sighed, and laid it out there. “You’re trying to decide whether to take me in for questioning?”

Barlow shrugged.

“Please, don’t,” Miles said wearily. “It’s been a hell of a day already, and I’m not your man. Plus, if I find out anything, I’ll tell you.”

“Before or after you do the serious hurting to people who may or may not have had a trial by law with a jury of their peers?”

“I’ll be good,” he said. “Look, do you know Sam Petrie?”

The guy’s eyes slitted. “Why?”

“I was just with him an hour ago, at the wedding of a mutual friend. He knows me. Call him. He’ll vouch for me.”

“Wait here,” Barlow said. “Stay put.”

He went out onto the steps to make his call. Miles crossed his fingers that Petrie had kept his phone on and was still coherent. Barlow kept Miles in his line of sight as he conducted his conversation.