“Elizabeth,” Gloria said, “these are detectives with the Montgomery County Sheriff’s Department. They’d like a word with you.”
What? “Oh, no, did something happen to one of my clients?”
The two cops regarded her gravely. One of them was a fortyish man, tall, thin and pale with a shaved head. The other was a humorless-looking Hispanic woman, who could have been twenty-five or forty-five, with her hair pulled back in a severe knot.
“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” the man said.
“Sure.” She led them to her office, which was hardly more than a glorified closet, furnished with a battered wooden desk, an ancient metal file cabinet and two mismatched armchairs. She thought about offering them refreshments. She kept a cooler with water and soft drinks behind her desk and a stash of peanut-butter crackers in a bottom drawer. Often her clients arrived hungry.
But these two cops didn’t look as if they wanted to eat or drink. She sat down behind her desk, and each of them took a chair.
“What can I help you with?” she asked, her stomach tying itself into knots.
They both looked uneasy. “I’m Detective Sanchez,” the woman said, “and this is Detective Knightly.”
“Ms. Downey,” Knightly said, smoothly taking over, “can you tell us where you were Saturday night?”
This did not sound good. It was how the cops began every interview with someone suspected of a crime, at least if she could believe what she saw on TV.
“I was at a friend’s wedding,” she said.
“Until about what time?”
“I’m not sure. Seven? Eight?”
“And then where did you go?”
I went home with a man I just met and had mind-blowing sex. She was so not saying that. “I went home.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.” Lying to cops was getting to be a habit with her.
The two cops exchanged a glance. The woman, Sanchez, took notes.
“C’mon, why are you asking me this?” Elizabeth prodded. “What’s going on?”
“It’s about your father,” Sanchez said. “We found him...well, there’s no easy way to say this. We found him in Lake Conroe.”
“Oh. Oh, Jesus.” Every drop of blood drained from Elizabeth’s head, and she was glad she was already sitting down. “Dead? He was dead?”
“Yes,” Sanchez confirmed. “The M.E. puts his time of death sometime between the hours of 11:00 p.m. Saturday night and 5:00 a.m.”
“My father was murdered?” she asked, just to be sure that she hadn’t misheard something. The reality of those words tasted strangely sour in her mouth. She’d always assumed she’d be indifferent to the man’s death. But hearing the news, she felt an odd sting of sadness.
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Sanchez said in a perfunctory way. “His housekeeper told us you were his next of kin.”
She nodded. “What should I do now? Do I need to identify him? Maybe there’s a mistake.” She grabbed on to that thin thread of hope. She wasn’t ready for her father to be dead just yet.
“We identified him through his fingerprints,” Knightly said.
“Oh.” Elizabeth swallowed back tears. Why was she crying? Her father had been a thorn in her side for years now. She hadn’t even spoken to him in months.
“Can anyone verify when you arrived home?” Sanchez asked. Back to business.
She hoped not. “I doubt it. I live in a big building—people come and go a lot.” She paused, then realized where the questions were leading. “You think I had something to do with my father’s murder?”
“These questions are just routine,” Knightly quickly said. “We always check on the whereabouts of family members of any murder victim.”
Any grief Elizabeth might have felt was quickly pushed aside in favor of fear. This was not routine. Anyone close to her or her father—including Mrs. Ames, the housekeeper—knew he and Elizabeth were estranged. She had even taken her mother’s maiden name so that people wouldn’t associate her with him. And now she was a suspect.
And if she gave them Hudson’s name? The one man more likely than she to be the killer. Dear Lord. That was going to look very, very bad.
She shrugged helplessly. Had she used her cell phone that night? No. Her phone had been out of juice, and she’d used Hudson’s landline to call a cab.
“When you went home,” Sanchez asked, “did you make any phone calls, check your email?”
She shook her head. “Sorry. I went to bed with a book.”
“It’s all right,” Knightly said soothingly. “I’m sure there’ll be no problem. Again, we’re sorry for your loss.”
Sanchez didn’t look so sure. She snapped her notebook closed. “I guess that’s all for now. Don’t leave town.”
Elizabeth sighed quietly in relief. Maybe this would all blow over. They’d find who did this, and they wouldn’t scrutinize her any further.
Sanchez stood, but Knightly remained seated, looking troubled. “Ms. Downey, do you know anyone who would want to hurt your father?”
“Detective, my father was a high-powered attorney who made his money by taking advantage of people in vulnerable situations. I imagine many of the people he dealt with hated him. I suggest you look there for a suspect.”
“We’ll do that. Again, sorry for your loss.”
Elizabeth didn’t take another full breath until the detectives were gone. Of all the lousy times for Franklin Mandalay to get himself murdered, why had he done it on the night the two prime suspects had been together?
CHAPTER FOUR
DETECTIVE CARLA SANCHEZ said nothing to her partner until they were back in their silver LTD.
“You went awful easy on her,” Carla said as she slid her key into the ignition and started the engine. She turned the AC on full blast and angled one of the vents on her face. Hot day for October. She wished she’d taken off her jacket, like Knightly had.
“I don’t think she did it,” Knightly said. “Her reaction seemed pretty genuine. Those were real tears.”
“Some people can cry on cue. Especially beautiful women who manipulate people to get their way. Especially if they think they’re going to jail.”
Knightly seemed to mull this over. He opened his notebook and glanced at his notes. “She does have a helluva motive.”
“Yeah,
