“I’m listening,” Crowley said.

I told him the whole spiel, and all the while, I knew he thought I was crazy as the proverbial tick.

Chapter Seventeen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

AFTER THE PHONE conversation with Crowley, I was restless. He’d promised to “look into” everything I’d told him, but I wasn’t going to hang by my thumbs in the meantime, waiting for justice to be served. Lillian had already been buried, and unless the autopsy report showed something out of the ordinary, her body would have to be exhumed. That required a court order, at the very least; digging up bodies was drastic business. No judge would sign off on the heavy equipment without proof.

I paced.

Distorto’s words flowed ominously through my brain.

There’s a way into your apartment.

I don’t need a key.

I imagined waking up in the middle of the night to find Geoff standing over my bed, and my heebie-jeebies came to a full boil.

I reminded myself that I had some options.

I could swallow my pride, brave Alex’s antipathy and take refuge at Greer’s place.

I could rent a room in some motel.

I could drive back down to Cactus Bend and bunk in with the Larimers.

None of those things had much appeal. I was a private detective, I had money in the bank, I owned a biker bar. Time I started acting more like a Bad-Ass.

I grabbed my purse.

The first thing I was going to do was make a run to Sunset Villa and beg, borrow or steal that sign-in sheet, the one with the U.R. Dead signature and the smiley face. Maybe Geoff’s fingerprints were on the paper, or even some smidgeon of DNA.

I considered giving the home a jingle first, but only briefly. A telephone call would give Rotika and the floral-scrubs bunch time to dispose of the sheet, recruit better security or simply have the cops waiting when I got there.

Better to take them by surprise.

I locked up, ran down the stairs and sprinted for the Volvo.

Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the lot at Sunset Villa, looked around to make sure Geoff hadn’t followed me and walked purposefully toward the entrance.

Rotika was on duty at the reception desk, and her eyes went wide when she saw me.

“You were on TV,” she said, sounding almost accusatory.

I nodded. “I need that sign-in sheet, Rotika. You know the one I’m talking about.”

“I chucked that out,” she said. Her face fell a little. “Looked like Mrs. Travers had herself a nice service. Wish I could have gone, instead of just catching it on the news. Lots of people there.”

Was I the only person in the world who hadn’t seen the segment?