Last to Know: A Novel(42)

“Mrs. Osborne.” Harry acknowledged her with a small polite bow.

“It’s Rose. Remember?”

“This is Detective Rossetti.” Harry waved in the detective’s direction.

“You both look very official. Somehow I get the feeling you’re not here for my dinner party, though you’d be a bit late for that anyway.”

“Mom? What’s going on?” Her daughters came to stand next to her, staring inquiringly at the two strangers. Roman joined them. He stood quietly behind. He was wearing glasses that hid his expression.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening, Mrs. Osborne.” Rossetti was doing the talking since Harry had fallen silent, mouth shut tight as a trap into which he had no wish to fall. “In fact it’s your husband we would like to talk to.”

“Wally?” “Dad?” The girls and their mother spoke as one.

Then Diz said, “I saw him go outside a couple of minutes ago. He’s probably taking a walk by the lake.”

“Walking off the vodka,” Roman said. His father was drinking too much.

Harry looked at Rose, who seemed to pull herself together, take control.

“I know where he’ll be,” she said. “I’ll go get him for you.”

Rossetti held up a hand. “No need, Ms. Osborne, the detective and I will find him. You said he won’t have gone far.”

“No, no, of course he won’t, he never does.”

“Unless he takes the boat out,” Diz blurted, then immediately wished he had not. “I mean, like, just sometimes he does that. But not like now. Not usually at night anyhow.”

A muffled whine came from the direction of the BMW. Harry looked outside and saw Squeeze with his head out the back window, kicking up a racket. Harry’s eyes met Rossetti’s, and they excused themselves and went to check what was going on. The dog was staring intently toward the birch woods by the lake shore.

Harry let him out and the dog ran immediately into the trees. They could hear him snarling as they threaded their way after him, saw he had a man backed up against a tree. The man held his hands protectively out in front. Slumped at his feet was the body of a young woman. Harry would have recognized that flame-colored hair anywhere.

His heart fused into lead as he took in the chilling scene. That same heart was telling him to get the bastard, to kill as he must have killed. Adrenaline surged. Then his brain reminded him that he was a detective, that his job was to catch killers, not to kill them. No matter who the victim was.

His hands shook as he called off the dog, who came immediately to his side, never once removing its eyes from the man who still stood, too terrified even to move.

Rossetti swung his flashlight over Jemima Forester’s body, then up into the man’s face. It was Wally Osborne.

Out of the corner of his eyes he caught a glimpse of something else. A movement. Rossetti saw it too. The Sig Sauer was already in Harry’s hand, safety off. He yelled, “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

The person stopped for a split second, then took off, fast, into the night. The rat-tat-tat of gunshots ripped into the trees, echoing across the lake, black under the moonless sky. Harry was running hard, the dog ahead of him, while Rossetti cuffed Wally, calling for medics and reinforcements.

“Stop or you’re dead,” Harry was yelling. “Arms over head, down on the ground. Now!”

The person stopped suddenly, did as he was told, flung himself onto the gritty path, arms and legs splayed, hands flat. Snarling, the dog stood guard.

Gun in hand, Harry walked carefully toward his prisoner. “Bastard,” he groaned softly, almost to himself, thinking of Jemima Forester lying back there and this killer … on the ground in front of him …

He walked closer, knelt, went to check for weapons, saw his prisoner was a woman. Blazing, he grabbed her hair, lifted her head to face him.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, stunned.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Bea said so loudly Harry thought the shots must have deafened her. “I didn’t mean anything, I just came out for some air, I saw her there, I wanted to see what was wrong, see if I could help … I don’t know who she is … I don’t know why she’s there … I don’t know why she’s dead … oh God, oh God…”

Harry let go of her hair and Bea put her face in her hands, muttering to herself about not knowing what she should do.

Harry noticed she did not ask who the girl was, did not ask what had happened, did not ask if she was hurt or dead. Did not ask what the girl was doing there. Bea did not ask one thing about the victim.

Squeeze stood guard while he went back and checked Jemima, turned her onto her back, pressed his hand hard on her chest, felt nothing. Blood from a throat wound mixed rustily with her long red hair. Small pearls were scattered across the ground, remnants of the necklace she was wearing, part of which still lay across her white neck.

He went back to Bea. “Get up,” he told her, keeping his voice deliberately neutral. “Hands behind you.”

Bea did as she was told. Harry snapped the cuffs on. She stared at him, stunned. “You can’t do this,” she said. “Why are you doing this? What have I done? Why don’t you speak to me, let me tell you what happened…”

“So? Tell me.” Harry stood in front of her, his face unreadable. Behind him Rossetti was on the phone to Medical Emergency, explaining the situation.