Were they shot? Did they witness something?’
‘Our guys will be checking local hospitals …’
‘There’s also the possibility that our bandits are witnesses …’ said Ren. ‘And they’re not exactly going to be lining up to help.’
‘Maybe she was one of them,’ said Janine. ‘Maybe she was to take the cash and go one way, they were to go the other, so if they were pulled over they’d have nothing … she’s home and dry with the money.’
‘Maybe,’ said Ren, ‘the word maybe is making my head spin.’
‘What if,’ said Janine, ‘she was with someone who turned on her and killed her … someone she knew?’
‘“What if” is just another maybe,’ said Ren.
‘You should write country songs,’ said Janine.
‘I write them in my head all the time,’ said Ren.
‘Sorry … back to Robert Prince … inherited wealth … inherited from where?’ said Janine.
‘Robert Prince is heir to the Prince family millions … hundreds of millions. He is the son of Acora Prince and Desmond Lamb. His great-grandfather was Patrick “Prince” O’Sullivan, son of Irish emigrants who settled in Butte, Montana, when they fled the potato famine. They had three sons, the most successful of which was Patrick. Patrick got involved in copper mining, met and married his wife in Butte, made lots of money, made even more when he sold the mine. The last name Prince is because … do we need to know this?’
‘Yes,’ said Janine. ‘For curiosity’s sake.’
‘We both know that curiosity has a record …’ said Ren.
‘That’s appalling,’ said Janine.
‘OK,’ said Ren, ‘the Prince last name is because the O’Sullivan family looked after the grounds of a castle back in Ireland and the locals used to joke that the O’Sullivan father had ideas above his station and that he thought he was the prince himself. So Patrick, who by all accounts was a great joker, changed his name to Prince when he became a big shot. Patrick’s son, Walter Prince, is Robert’s grandfather.’
‘Well, Acora Prince certainly liked the name, seeing as she didn’t change it to her husband’s and didn’t allow her son to either,’ said Janine. ‘Unusual for those times.’
‘Rich families are weird,’ said Ren.
‘So, there’s an Irish connection,’ said Janine. ‘The Princes. The Flynns. Where in Ireland are they from?’
‘The Princes? West Cork.’
‘And Laura Flynn’s from?’
‘Waterford,’ said Ren. She Googled a map of Ireland. ‘Well, they weren’t neighbors,’ she said, ‘they’re over one hundred and fifty miles apart.’
Robert and Ingrid Prince’s holiday rental was eight miles south of Golden and designed to make the most of the spectacular view out over the front range.
‘It’s like a hotel,’ said Janine. She drove up to the gates.
‘It’s like a glass box,’ said Ren.
Janine pressed the intercom button. A woman answered.
‘Hello,’ said Janine, ‘I’m looking for Mrs Ingrid Prince?’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘My name is Detective Janine Hooks, I’m from the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office, I’m here with SA Ren Bryce from the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force in Denver. We’d like to speak with you about Laura Flynn.’
‘Laura?’ said Ingrid. ‘Why? What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Could we please come through?’ said Janine.
‘Yes, I’m sorry, of course,’ said Ingrid.
The gates swung open. Janine drove in and parked beside a gold Range Rover.
‘Do they own this place?’ said Janine.
‘No, but they could – that’s the main thing,’ said Ren.
‘Yes,’ said Janine. ‘OK, now let’s go hang with a Swedish former model, just in case we were feeling too good about ourselves.’
Everything about Ingrid Prince’s face said model – everything about her posture, her aura, the movement of her long limbs. She even managed to open the door with grace. She was wearing a floor-length gray strapless jersey dress with an oversized beige cotton cardigan. Her blonde hair was tied up and she had on a gray cotton headband. Her skin was flawless, unlined, glowing.
‘Come in, please,’ she said. ‘Take a seat.’
She gestured to an open-plan living area. There was a magnificent curved stone fireplace with a thick oak beam running the length of the chimney breast and an alcove beside it stacked with logs. On the floor in front lay a pristine rich cream rug. Three brown leather sofas were arranged in the center of the room around a solid, blocky coffee table in the style of a vintage suitcase.
After a moment’s seating panic, Ren and Janine sat side by side, and Ingrid Prince sat perpendicular.
‘Please,’ said Ingrid. ‘Just tell me.’
Janine leaned forward. ‘I’m afraid we found Laura Flynn’s body this afternoon close to Pike National Forest—’
‘Body?’ said Ingrid. ‘Pike National Forest? I’m sorry, I’m not following …’
Ren shifted forward in her seat. ‘Mrs—’
‘And where’s Pike National Forest?’ said Ingrid.
‘I’m sorry to tell you that we found Laura about sixty miles south of here,’ said Ren.
Relief flooded Ingrid Prince’s face. ‘No, that’s not Laura. Laura’s in Chicago. She just didn’t make it back. She must have missed her flight. My husband was just concerned that—’
‘Mrs Prince, I’m afraid we have been able to identify her body,’ said Ren. ‘She was the victim of a shooting. Her car was found—’
‘No,’ said Ingrid. ‘She wasn’t driving! She was flying, then she was getting a cab, then … a shooting? No. I don’t understand … No.’ She started crying hysterically. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, please. Please don’t tell me this happened to Laura. Please. Her baby. Her baby. She was pregnant. The baby. Did … did they save the baby?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren. ‘I’m afraid that was not possible.’
Ingrid
