Chapters (46)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Acknowledgements
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- thirty-eight
- thirty-nine
- forty
- forty-one
- forty-two
“My officer caught you sneaking around Renny’s Garage, just hours before we found you with Detective Kennedy’s body.”
“No, he didn’t catch me sneaking around. He caught me repairing my bike. You can check with the garage and with the bike shop in Vancouver, where I picked up the tire this evening. With Michael.”
“You didn’t like him horning in on your job.”
“No, I believe he was the one complaining. And he got over it. Otherwise why would we be out on a dinner date?”
“It was a setup.”
“For what? Is that the motivation you’re seriously going with? I killed him because he was interfering with a job?”
“I have no idea what your motivation is. I don’t care.”
It was at that point that I shut up, because I realized he was just fishing for answers, hoping to get a confession he could hand over to the sheriff’s department.
When I stopped talking, he was stuck. So he backed up and took another run down the same path, making me repeat my story. When I was done, he hit the wall again. So he had me tell my story again. Killing time until he heard from the doctor or the sheriff’s department? Or praying I’d slip up and give him something?
Chief Bruyn wasn’t an idiot. Just incompetent, at least when it came to issuing more than a speeding ticket. The town expected him to be tough, yet he wasn’t a tough guy by nature. So he overcompensated. Find a private investigator crouched over a dead body? March her down to the station, interrogate her, and, hopefully, toss her in jail.
When he was about to make me go through my story a fourth time, I said, “Have you notified the Dallas Police Department?”
“Why would I—?” He stopped. A look of stark “oh, shit” terror, quickly hidden behind a scowl. “Detective Kennedy was off duty. I’ll notify them in due course.”
“A cop is never off duty.” As he glowered, I dropped my gaze, just a fraction, and forced myself to add, “Or that’s what I’ve heard.”
The meek approach worked. He stepped out and told his officer to call the Dallas PD. Then he lowered his voice and told the officer to say Detective Kennedy had died of a fall, and they hadn’t yet determined whether it was an accident or a homicide. Funny, he hadn’t mentioned the accidental possibility to me. Is that why I wasn’t with the sheriff’s department? They thought it was an accident?
The officer came back and said the Dallas PD wanted to be kept informed. They also wanted to know if Bruyn had notified Detective Kennedy’s next of kin.