The Second Girl(54)

“Talk to me, then.”

“If you interviewed him, he might have given you some information we can use.”

“You mean information that’ll help you with the Amanda Meyer case?”

“Yes, and anything else you may have talked to him about.”

I sense that he’s digging for something more.

“What, you need something to use before you interrogate him? You got Edgar in the box, right?”

“Well, no, but we do have him in a bag.”





Forty-eight



What the f*ck happened?” I ask, trying not to sound too thrilled. As bad as it is, I like this scenario better than the other.

“We hit his home at a little after six hundred hours. His mother actually answered the door for the knock-and-announce. She was surprised as hell we were there and didn’t have a clue. While I was trying to calm her down because of the search warrant we had, the entry team made their way in to clear the house. It’s a big house, real big, but it didn’t take long for them to find him.”

“How was he killed?”

“Can’t say yet,” Scott tells me, and now I know he’s fishing. He won’t give up the crime scene.

“Mother didn’t hear anything?” I ask.

“Slept soundly.”

“What about his father?”

“They’re divorced,” Hernandez says.

I forgot they were there.

“Was there any sign of forced entry?”

“We have guys there still looking into everything.”

That’s a load of bullshit, I think. They know. They’re just keeping it from me. I’m not a brother in blue anymore, so I can’t expect them to share everything.

“So you think this has anything to do with Amanda? Maybe one of Angelo’s boys got to him?”

“We don’t know what to think.”

“So I’m sure you got a detail on Amanda’s house, then?”

“We have agents there,” Hernandez says.

I look her way again. She’s cute. Petite. The sidearm tucked into her fancy tactical thigh holster is almost the size of one of her shapely forearms.

“That’s good to hear,” I reply.

Damn stupid kid, Edgar. I’m sure the first thing he did after I left him was to mouth off to the wrong person about our little encounter at the river, and that’s what got him killed. Because they got scared.

I think about Justine. She might be in danger, too, or already dead.

“Well shit, that’s too bad; but what do you need me for?”

“Frankie, we’re going to need everything you have.”

“What is it you think I have?”

“Everything you got with respect to Miriam Gregory,” Davidson says. “And anything else you might have, especially if you interviewed the decedent.”

“Detective Caine has been working that case much longer than I have, but then I’m sure that’s why he’s here, right?”

“I know how you guys work,” Caine advises me, with a bit of authority. “Your rules aren’t our rules, so I’m thinking maybe you got better results than I did.”

He’s starting to piss me off, so I don’t acknowledge him.

“I hear you used to work this kinda shit when you were on the job,” Hernandez says. “I heard you were really good at it.”

I’m starting to like her, but I know she’s just working me, like Davidson is. They’re holding back on something real.

“I was okay,” I tell her, and then to Davidson I say, “You got McGuire and Luna on this?”

“Definitely; they’re on it.”

“All due respect there, Scott, whatever it is I have, which is probably less than what your new friend Caine has, is confidential. I have clients to protect. You and I go back and we’re talking a murder investigation, so I’ll do what I can to help, but I have to call my client first.”

“Understood.”

I notice Caine shaking his head. It wouldn’t be too hard to knock that sly smile off his face, but I don’t want to have to deal with the repercussions. I might have some more serious repercussions to deal with here later on.

“Mind if I go into the other room to make a call?”

“It’s all yours, but use the open room over there.”

I walk a few steps into the adjacent room. It’s separated by a small archway. It’s close, but still far enough that they won’t hear my conversation unless the room is bugged, which I seriously doubt.

I’m not about to call the Gregorys and scare the hell outta them with this. It’s Justine I’m worried about, and it’s her mother I call.

She answers. “Hello?”

I speak low so they can’t hear me in the other room. “This is Frank Marr, Mrs. Durrell.”

“What can I do for you, Frank?” she asks like she’s known me for a long time, but I think it’s just that she’s had one too many. I guess that’s how some of those suburban wives work it off—chase down a nice healthy run with a coupla drinks.

“I have a follow-up question for Justine. You mind if I talk to her for a second?”

“Not at all, Frank. Hold on.”