The Girl Who Survived(60)

“We’re sorry,” Johnson said. “For your loss.”

“Sorry . . . For . . .” Celeste’s seemed confused.

Thomas said gently, “He’s gone.”

“Gone?” she repeated, but understanding crossed her features. Her face fell. “You mean he’s gone as in . . . as in dead? You’re saying that he’s not hurt somewhere, that he didn’t have a heart attack and is at the hospital and—”

“He was found today in the mobile home in the mountains,” Johnson said directly. “He’d been murdered.”

“Oh.” She gasped, all remaining color draining from her face. “Murdered?” And then it hit. Her entire body crumpled as she dropped into one of the folding chairs and let out an animal cry of pain. “Ooowwww-ooo...no, no, no!” Tears flooded her eyes and she dashed them away, using the back of her hand. “Damn it.” She sniffed. “I just knew something like this would happen,” she squeaked, and found a box of tissues near the coffeepot. She plucked one and blew her nose. “How many times did I tell Merritt to give it up, that the Jonas McIntyre case would kill him? Huh? How many?” She dabbed ferociously at her eyes.

“You think someone connected to the case killed him?”

“Well, who else? He lived and breathed that case for twenty damned years.”

“He had other clients,” Thomas reminded her, but she waved a hand, like she was swatting at a bothersome fly. “Ancient history. I need to see him. Where is he? Oh, dear God.”

Thomas thought about the condition of Merritt’s body, the jagged red smile slashed across his neck. “He’s been taken to the morgue.”

“Then let’s go there.” She read the hesitation in Thomas’s eyes. “What happened to him? He was . . . killed how?”

“His throat was cut.”

She gasped again, a hand flying to her mouth. “Who would do something like that?” Again her face scrunched as much in revulsion and horror as sadness.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Johnson said. “Did your husband have any enemies?”

“Only the ones associated with that case.”

“We’ll need a list.”

“Fine. You can start with Natalie McIntyre,” she said. “Or, wait—her name changed. Natalie—oh, it will come to me.” She sucked in her breath, then snapped her fingers. “Natalie Brizard. That’s it. Some fancy French name, I think. Her maiden name. Doesn’t matter. But she, Natalie? She ran Merritt ragged with her calls and clues. It was weird, ya know?” Celeste looked up from her chair and was apparently warming to her subject. “It wasn’t as if she was all that into her son, if you know what I mean. Never visited him. Got involved with someone else pretty soon after the trial. I think her connection, the reason she kept calling Merritt, was the money. When Sam died, he left a pot load of assets. Stocks, bonds, property, interest in oil wells or off-shore drilling or whatever, and when she and Sam divorced, she thought she got the shaft. ‘A pittance.’ That’s what she told Merritt.”

“You think she would kill your husband?” Thomas asked, remembering the brutal murder.

“Oh. No.” She’d finally collected herself. Rubbed her eyes. “You asked about enemies and there was no love lost between Natalie and Merritt. He was Samuel’s divorce attorney, but, no, I don’t think she would . . . She isn’t capable of . . .” But Celeste couldn’t finish the sentence as she thought about it. “You said Merritt was in the morgue. I-I need to see him.”

“First,” Thomas said, “Let’s go to your place. We’ll need to search through Merritt’s things, look for clues, you know. And maybe we can talk there. I would advise you to wait to see your husband.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Not pretty,” Johnson said.

Celeste’s lips pursed as she thought. “Fine. Roxanne and Donna can deal with my clients. They have their numbers. As for clues at our place—good luck. Merritt kept everything digitally, on his phone and laptop, oh, and his iPad, too. But he took all of them with him. There’s nothing at the house except old, old files in the attic.”

“What about a desktop computer?” Johnson asked.

“Nope, got rid of it years ago.” She popped her head through the connecting door to the salon, had a quick conversation with Donna, then slipped into a jacket and picked up an oversize coral bag. Unlatching the back door, she said, “Let’s go this way. I don’t want anyone seeing me like this.”

“Are you okay to drive?” Johnson asked as the cold slapped them in the face.

“Yeah, fine.” And she did seem it. For as destroyed as she had been upon learning the news, she now seemed to have pulled herself together, a determined look in her eye as she marched in three-inch heeled boots along the snowy alley. Flipping up the hood of her coat, she said, “This is Jonas McIntyre’s fault.” Her breath fogged in the air as they walked briskly to the corner of the long building, snow continuing to fall, the wind brittle. “His sister came in earlier—oh, God.” She stopped dead in her tracks at the corner of the building. “Kara. She was going up to see Merritt this morning.”

Johnson, in lockstep with her, said, “She’s the one who called us.”