Doggone Read online

  ‘‘When I called, I left a message for DeVries.’’ I said. ‘‘When he called back he said he’d talk to me if I went through the interview with him and answered some questions he had.’’

  ‘‘What questions?’’

  ‘‘We never got to that. We played phone tag and set up the meeting for last night. It was interrupted by the shooting. DeVries hasn’t called back. Naturally, I wondered—’’

  Overthal clicked the phone on. ‘‘Agnes, bring a copy of the Charles Smiths interview transcript into the conference room right now.’’ He hung up before she could answer. ‘‘Tell you what, how about we go through it together while we’re trying to find Henry?’’

  It was a trap. He was curious. Maybe even a little paranoid, although we were up to something, so maybe a little paranoia was warranted. No wonder DeVries had worked for Overthal. The had a lot in common. It didn’t matter. I wanted to see the transcript enough to risk his suspicions. ‘‘That would be fine.’’

  The phone rang. ‘‘Yeah,’’ Overthal snapped, leaving the phone on speaker.

  ‘‘Sir, I haven’t been able to reach Henry DeVries. I’ve left messages. Mr. Rooten is on the phone for you.’’

  ‘‘I’ll take it in my office.’’ Overthal stood. ‘‘If you’ll excuse me for a minute . . .’’

  ‘‘Certainly,’’ Siobhan said.

  Overthal left the room.

  ‘‘Nice fib,’’ I complimented her.

  ‘‘It just takes over, doesn’t it?’’

  ‘‘That’s always been my excuse.’’

  ‘‘Let’s not tell Connor,’’ Siobhan suggested, pink in her cheeks.

  Oh, yeah, let’s not. ‘‘Agreed. But listen, Siobhan, they know you. Sooner or later this guy is going to want to ask more questions and they know how to find you.’’

  ‘‘He won’t call.’’

  I thought about the bulldog look on the manager’s face. ‘‘He will.’’

  ‘‘Lower-level executives don’t call Reeds asking for information. Jack and I are the golden couple of San Diego society.’’ She sounded better. ‘‘We attend ten-thousand-dollar fund-raisers for the homeless in designer clothes. We have absolutely no contact with anyone who has anything to say other than ‘Thank you’ and ‘You amaze me, Dr. Reed.’ And even that is only whispered by ‘our equals.’ ’’ Siobhan used air quotes. ‘‘Jack makes sure of that.’’

  ‘‘Well, then the owner will call.’’

  ‘‘He won’t call me.’’

  I felt bad about Siobhan being the only point of contact for these guys. Maybe I should just leave my card.

  ‘‘He’ll call my grandma Gertie.’’

  Oh, no. More family drawn into my web of lies. ‘‘Grandma, being a left leaner, will tell him to get lost.’’

  ‘‘If that’s the case, why did they play leapfrog when you dropped your name?’’

  ‘‘Because his second call will be to my conservative husband.’’

  ‘‘This is the one with the new marina condo?’’

  ‘‘Right.’’

  So maybe it wouldn’t go anywhere. I hadn’t even met Siobhan’s husband and given the circumstances, she’d have no reason to tell him anything. I couldn’t see a guy newly released from the constraints of matrimony following around the wife he left to find out how she spent her day. I was a little surprised a news guy wouldn’t know the ins and outs of the local high-powered marriages, but maybe that was a good thing. Lily knew, because she knew the family, but maybe Siobhan’s significant other was keeping his mouth shut outside the close personal relationships. For her sake, I hoped so. Siobhan didn’t need the gossip mill churning over her marriage. She didn’t seem like the sort to tell the girls at lunch to mind their own business.

  The door opened and Agnes stepped in. ‘‘Mr. Overthal said he wanted this. His office door is still closed.’’ She placed a bound transcript on the table. ‘‘Do you need anything else, Mrs. Reed?’’

  ‘‘Nothing, thank you.’’

  The girl left.

  I picked up the transcript and pushed back my chair. ‘‘I don’t think we need anything else, do you, Siobhan?’’

  The corners of her lips twitched up. ‘‘We’ll get caught.’’

  I opened the door a crack and looked out. The hall was empty. We had a straight shot past the awed receptionist to the front door. ‘‘The trick is to act like you’re not up to anything. You’re the great and powerful Siobhan Reed, remember? Clerks do not ask questions.’’

  Siobhan stood, tugged her jacket down, and put her scarf around her hair. She slid her sunglasses on. ‘‘Right behind you, Holmes.’’

  Chapter Eight

  Trying to read in the car as Siobhan rocketed away from the radio station was making me carsick. Opera blasting from the speakers as getaway music wasn’t helping.

  ‘‘That was so much fun,’’ Siobhan enthused. ‘‘Is your job always that much fun?’’

  ‘‘Sometimes people shoot at me.’’

  ‘‘Yes. I suppose that’s not fun. But exciting. Nothing exciting ever happens to me. Do you know I didn’t think about him the entire time we were in that place?’’

  I didn’t need to ask who ‘‘him’’ was. My cell phone rang, and I closed the transcript.

  ‘‘Sara Townley,’’ I yelled. I reached forward and turned down the CD. The relief to my brain was instantaneous, but my ears still rang.

  ‘‘I’m sorry. Who?’’

  ‘‘It’s Detective Montoya.’’

  ‘‘Hi.’’

  ‘‘Hi. Listen, I got your message and I’d like to talk with you. Can we meet?’’

  I glanced at Siobhan. She was conducting the opera with one hand, driving like a banshee. Adrenaline poisoning.

  ‘‘I’m not alone.’’

  ‘‘The commander struck me as a stick-like-glue kind of guy.’’

  I grinned. He would if he could. ‘‘It’s not him. I’m actually with my sister-in-law.’’ I had in-laws. How weird was that idea?

  ‘‘I could meet you later,’’ Montoya offered.

  Later meant Connor and the glue thing. I held the phone to my chest. ‘‘Are you over it for today or could I talk you into another meeting?’’

  Siobhan beamed. ‘‘Another? Really?’’

  ‘‘With the police?’’

  ‘‘I’d love to do the police.’’

  I shook my head. We had lying, stealing, and doing the police. Connor was going to kill me when he found out. What the heck? She wasn’t thinking about ‘‘him’’ anymore.

  ‘‘Do you mind if I bring her?’’ I asked Montoya.

  ‘‘Not at all.’’ I could hear a smile in his voice. ‘‘Where do you want to meet?’’

  I held the phone against my chest. ‘‘Where should we meet him?’’

  ‘‘How about Café Lulu? It’s in the Gaslamp Quarter. F Street.’’

  ‘‘Café Lulu?’’ I asked into the phone.

  ‘‘It’ll take me a while to get there. How about an hour?’’

  ‘‘See you then.’’ I hung up.

  ‘‘Café Lulu it is. One hour.’’

  ‘‘We’re close,’’ Siobhan said. ‘‘We’ve got time to run into Artesia and get our nails done.’’

  I looked down. Then I looked over. Siobhan’s nails were perfectly painted, her hands soft-looking and delicate on the steering wheel. In contrast, it looked like I used mine as shovels. No chance I was putting them in front of a stranger.

  ‘‘That’s okay. If you want to go, I’ll just hang out and read through the transcript. Try to see if there’s anything useful in it.’’

  ‘‘I don’t mind waiting with you. It’ll be fun.’’

  I could see that the adrenaline was wearing off. Siobhan had stopped tapping her hands. The color in her cheeks was fading, and she sagged a little in her seat. Well, sagged as much as a could-be charm school instructor with perfect posture could ever sag.

  ‘‘It doesn’t take two to r
ead a boring transcript, Siobhan. I appreciate the offer but if I want to get this thing into my hard head, it’s probably better if I try to find a quiet place and concentrate.’’

  ‘‘If you’re sure, maybe I’ll just go ahead and get a little reflexology and an aromatherapy treatment.’’

  I hoped neither of those things would leave a mark.

  ‘‘Sounds perfect. Take your time and I’ll meet you at Lulu’s afterward.’’

  ‘‘I’ll drop you off.’’

  ‘‘Thanks.’’

  I ordered a latte and found a table near the back. Three pages into the transcript, I wished I’d ordered espresso. I was running into a little postshooting, post-sex, post-ex-fiancée lull myself. Or maybe Henry DeVries was the most boring interviewer on the planet.

  ‘‘Hi, Sara.’’

  I looked up. ‘‘Detective Montoya.’’ I closed the transcript and flipped it, facedown, onto the chair next to me. Good thing he wasn’t gunning for me. He could have shot me from less than a foot without me ever knowing he was there.

  ‘‘Can I get you a coffee?’’ he asked, a bright smile lighting his features.

  ‘‘My hair already hurts, thanks, but you go ahead.’’ He laughed. ‘‘That’s a lot of caffeine. I’ll be right back.’’

  My phone rang. ‘‘Sara Townley.’’

  ‘‘I thought you were sightseeing.’’

  ‘‘Connor? How did you know . . .’’ That wasn’t good. How much did she tell him? Everything? ‘‘What makes you think I’m not?’’

  ‘‘You’re not.’’

  ‘‘You’re right. I’m not sightseeing. Unless you consider good looking Latin men landmarks.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Gotta go. Hot date with a hot guy. Hate to make him wait.’’ I hung up and turned the phone off. It didn’t compare to a virulent vixen over veal chops, but it did perk me up a bit.

  ‘‘Is he the jealous type?’’ Montoya asked as he took the seat opposite me.

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘Your husband. I didn’t exactly bond with him last night, but today I feel sorry for the guy.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Men married to women who wear the expression you were wearing when you were on the phone deserve pity.’’

  I laughed. ‘‘He’s tough.’’

  ‘‘He’s overmatched.’’

  ‘‘Are you always such a sweet talker, Detective Montoya?’’

  ‘‘As long as he’s not here, call me Hector.’’

  ‘‘So, Hector, did you identify the guy in the street yet?’’

  ‘‘Not yet.’’

  ‘‘Henry DeVries had a criminal record. His fingerprints were on file. Identifying him should have been a snap, pardon the pun.’’

  Montoya sipped his frozen drink. His brown eyes were steady. He was flirting but his heart wasn’t in it. He was here to work.

  ‘‘Pending notification of next of kin, we haven’t officially identified the body yet. My turn. What would a thousand-dollar-an-hour Seattle law firm want with a right-wing talk-show guy one step up from public access?’’

  ‘‘And here I was thinking you hadn’t been busy, Hector. No comment.’’

  He smiled. ‘‘It’s going to be hard to take our relationship to the next step like that, Sara.’’

  ‘‘This from a man who won’t confirm what we both already know. You’re right, Hector. Our future doesn’t look bright. But I’m going to give you another chance. Any witnesses?’’

  ‘‘Other than you and your lesser half?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  I leaned closer and looked straight into his eyes. ‘‘Are you lying or just not sharing?’’

  He leaned in. ‘‘Maybe I’m telling the truth.’’

  ‘‘That would be a disappointment.’’

  He leaned back and laughed. A couple of women at a table behind him did double takes and started a whispered conversation. Probably checking his ring hand.

  ‘‘I am truly sorry for my shortcomings.’’ Hector put a hand over his heart.

  The woman behind him gave me a thumbs-up sign and fanned herself. I nodded my agreement.

  ‘‘What?’’ He looked over his shoulder.

  ‘‘I was just agreeing with the women behind you, who think your shortcomings aren’t readily apparent.’’

  He blushed. ‘‘Thanks.’’ He looked down, sipping his drink.

  ‘‘So, no witnesses, huh?’’ I asked again, trying to take advantage of his discomfort. ‘‘None of the neighbors saw anything? What about the two homeless guys?’’

  ‘‘In the wind. Funny you didn’t ask about the other radio station employees. I mean, DeVries ran his show out of that location. Twenty-four-seven station, there would be sound engineers, whatever, pretty much all night.’’

  No way was I falling for that. Montoya had to know as well as I did that DeVries’s location was a remote. ‘‘Exactly. Have you had a chance to talk to all of them yet?’’

  ‘‘No point. DeVries worked alone. His show was remote. His feed went back to the main station on Towne Center Drive and was sent out from there. But you already know that.’’

  I was busted. I knew it. He knew it. Then again, if I didn’t object to a blatant liar why would he?

  ‘‘I do?’’ I went with Marilyn breathiness and sand-storm eyelash twitching.

  This time his smile started slow and stayed lazy. And lethal. Guess it wasn’t all work with him after all.

  ‘‘Is that why you wanted to see me?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Well, one reason, anyway. I could have read you the riot act over the phone but it wouldn’t have been as much fun. For the record, Sara, you are not to interfere with an ongoing police investigation. You are not to contact the principles in this investigation, nor are you to leave anyone with the misapprehension that you are in the employ of the San Diego police, or any other police, for that matter.’’

  ‘‘I never said I was a cop, and I’m surprised they remembered my name.’’

  ‘‘I went with the description.’’

  The station had Siobhan’s name but he was going off my description. They might not have even mentioned Siobhan. A stranger asking questions could be sacrificed to the cops. A society doyenne who knows your boss and your boss’s boss, not so much. Interesting. ‘‘Oh. Do I want to know?’’

  ‘‘It was flattering. Well, half-flattering.’’

  ‘‘I’m guessing the receptionist was the unimpressed one.’’

  ‘‘Could have been worse; she could have called security and had you thrown out. That station has more than its share of questionable visitors. They’ve got full-time security.’’

  Siobhan was right: The old guard hung together. I wanted to know if they called Montoya or if I came up when he went to them, but I couldn’t figure out how to ask.

  ‘‘Sara, I need to ask you some other questions.’’

  ‘‘Okay, but I don’t promise to answer.’’

  ‘‘Of course you don’t. Is there any chance that you were the target?’’

  ‘‘Think I’m that much of a pain?’’

  He shrugged. ‘‘Do you have any connection to San Diego other than your husband?’’

  If the radio station employees hadn’t seen fit to share my connection to Connor’s family, I wasn’t going to. ‘‘I met Shamu once as a kid.’’

  ‘‘How long have you been in town?’’

  ‘‘A day.’’

  ‘‘Ever been here before?’’

  ‘‘Nope.’’

  ‘‘Who knew you were going to be in that neighborhood? Anyone from your work?’’

  Joe. That was a dead end. ‘‘No one.’’

  ‘‘Your family? Friends?’’

  ‘‘No one,’’ I repeated.

  ‘‘Except your husband.’’

  ‘‘He saved me.’’

  Montoya leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. ‘‘A
ny rough spots in your marriage, Sara?’’

  I shook my head.

  ‘‘None? No fighting? No money trouble? No misunderstandings of any sort?’’

  ‘‘He hates my job.’’

  ‘‘Would a near miss help him convince you to leave it? While he gets to play hero?’’

  ‘‘Nobody kills a perfect stranger to make a point.’’ Montoya jumped the curb with that one. ‘‘Connor’s not like that, and if he were, he wouldn’t miss his primary target.’’

  ‘‘He’s a SEAL, Sara. They’re wired differently.’’

  ‘‘I doubt the navy keeps psychotics in their ranks. He’s been in the service his entire adult life. They would have noticed.’’

  ‘‘Meaning you wouldn’t? I didn’t get the impression you’d known him long.’’

  I squirmed in my chair. Hadn’t I just calculated it yesterday? Sixteen days together. Six months total. ‘‘I know him. Look, Detective—’’

  ‘‘Hector, remember?’’

  ‘‘Detective. I don’t know if you’re trying to scare me or unnerve me or what, but I am not the target. Connor is not some puppetmaster. Stop wasting your time chasing us and find the guy who killed the as-yet-unidentified body in the street. Your street, by the way.’’

  Montoya grabbed my hands and held them tight. ‘‘On my street, a political figure was gunned down with a military weapon. He was shot from a fast-moving vehicle. He was struck once, in the aorta. What the armed services refer to as center mass. With a navy wife standing next to him.’’

  ‘‘Sara?’’ Siobhan stood just outside my peripheral vision. Her voice quavered. ‘‘Am I interrupting?’’

  ‘‘No. He’s leaving.’’

  ‘‘Sara—’’ Montoya began.

  ‘‘It’s Ms. Townley.’’ I pulled my hands free. ‘‘And we’re through.’’

  Montoya stood. He held the chair for Siobhan and she slid into it, perching on the edge. ‘‘Take care of yourself, Sara. Ma’am.’’

  ‘‘Is everything okay, Sara?’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’

  ‘‘Want me to get some coffee? Or we could eat.’’

  ‘‘I was thinking a drink.’’

  Siobhan stood. ‘‘What would you like?’’

  ‘‘I’m thinking a grown-up drink.’’

  Her eyes went wide. ‘‘Are you sure everything’s okay? Who was that guy?’’