Duty and the Beast

by Chelsea Field

  Connor and I returned to the hallway to meet Hunt, though with the mood he was in, I was reluctant to put myself in his path.

  A hapless detective didn’t have the same intel. “Hey, is one of these interrogation rooms going to be free soon?”

  Hunt’s neck turned a splotchy red. “Give me a few more minutes.”

  The detective put his observation skills to good use and hurried away.

  Hunt swore. “I’m sure as shit not letting Cox go back to his cell, so we’ll have to get rid of Wood.”

  Mendez exited the other interrogation room and joined us. “He knows what he’s talking about,” she reported. “I’m going to see if I can find a microcomputer now.”

  “Do you have any more questions for him?”

  “No. If his theory’s correct and I find the hacking device, our team can take it from there.”

  “Great,” Hunt said in a tone that implied otherwise. He strode into where Damon was sitting. “You’re free to go, Mr. Wood. I’ll walk you out.”

  I guess he didn’t want Damon left unsupervised in the police station after learning about those hacking-purposed microcomputer thingies.

  Connor and I tagged along behind them. There didn’t seem to be much point in all three of us waiting for Stanley’s requested attorney, and they were heading for the exit. That meant we were close enough to overhear Damon’s last words to Hunt.

  “By the way, you should take my advice on those recorders more seriously. SD cards can be corrupted with a powerful and rapid enough shift in the magnetic field, hypothetically speaking.” He delivered a final cocky grin, then stepped out the station doors.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Hunt muttered.

  Connor came up beside him and crossed his arms. “I suspect that means your memory card isn’t going to work when you try to download that interview later.”

  Hunt’s mustache bristled dangerously. “Then I’ll add tampering with evidence and destroying police property to the bastard’s charges. You better hope you’re right that he’ll do more good than harm walking free.”

  Oh boy. Hunt had reached a new level of annoyance now. If he hadn’t been standing between me and the exit, I would’ve fled after Damon.

  Connor must have been thinking along the same lines. “In the interests of doing good, there doesn’t seem to be much point in Izzy and I waiting around while you grill Cox. We’ll touch base later.”

  We left Hunt fuming in the doorway.

  Connor and I crossed the police parking lot and climbed into his SUV. The LAPD would dig into Tony Callahan—the man Damon Wood had named as a possible suspect—as well as Damon himself. Hopefully, their history and recent activities would paint a picture that helped us piece this whole thing together.

  But Damon wasn’t stupid and must know his coming forward under the circumstances would cast him under suspicion, so I wasn’t optimistic we’d find anything incriminating about him. Besides, if he could so easily obtain confidential police files, he could probably delete any criminal history from the system and perhaps put in false records for Tony Callahan too. It was eye-opening and pretty scary to wrap my head around. What so-called facts could be trusted in a case like this?

  But that was a problem we’d face farther down the track. We needed a solid suspect first.

  Connor was looking at me expectantly. “Are you still wanting to take lead when Hunt’s not nearby?”

  Did I? The case seemed a whole lot more complicated than it did yesterday. But my reasoning hadn’t changed. “Yep, just give me a minute to figure out the next step.”

  I said the words confidently as if I knew what I was doing. Then experienced a moment of panic when my brain gave me nothing to corroborate my assertion. What were the key points of what we’d learned today, and what were their implications? I was hyperaware of Connor waiting for instructions, the engine idling. I blocked it out.

  If Damon’s information was correct and Cox hadn’t just left that part of his confession out by chance rather than design, then what? What did it mean? Most likely, that Cox was either a patsy paid to confess to a crime he didn’t commit as Damon claimed, or he had an accomplice he was protecting.

  I didn’t know where to start on the patsy thing, and only one accomplice sprang to mind.

  “Let’s pay Patty Wilkinson another visit,” I said.

  On the drive there, I fleshed out my theory.

  “What if Patty Wilkinson found out that Isaac was going to somehow ensure Rick won both trials? It would destroy everything she’d worked for. None of the victims would get their money, and her public awareness campaign would be discredited, ruined beyond resuscitation. But if the scammer was killed?” I drummed my fingers on the armrest while I thought it through. “Most of the press around his murder would mention the class action lawsuit, even more so if he’s murdered by one of his alleged victims. And by taking out Isaac too, they might avoid losing the trial altogether.”

  Connor nodded. “It’s a solid hypothesis. Where does Cox fit into this? What’s their relationship?”

  “He’d have to be an accomplice. Patty doesn’t have the tech skills to pull off the murder, but she is charismatic and persuasive. She knew Cox was depressed, desperate. Maybe she convinced him it was necessary. That his sacrifice would be worthwhile and she’d remain on the outside as a spokesperson to work the media the right way. Plus she had far more money left than he did. Who knows? She could’ve promised to take care of his wife as part of their bargain.”

  “Good. Let’s see how she reacts to the news that Cox might not have done it alone and learn what she has to say for herself.”

  We parked outside Patty Wilkinson’s house. The tangerine paint and the sweet fragrance of the flowering jasmine that climbed the latticework seemed less charming today.

  She made overly strong tea again and sat us down in the same formal dining room.

  “I had no idea Stanley would do something like this if that’s why you’re here. If I’d known, I would’ve tried to talk him out of it, force him to join in with more of our support sessions.”

  I pretended to take a sip of tea from my dainty teacup and stayed quiet to see what else she’d volunteer.

  “I feel like I failed him, you know? Let him down by not realizing how desperate he was. I mean, I knew he kept to himself more than the others, but I thought that was just his personality rather than a cry for help. Not everyone wants to be pushed into joining a community. Especially after what happened with his wife, being rejected that way. He didn’t want to be told it wasn’t his fault, not yet. Wasn’t ready for it. But if I’d known…”

  She trailed off. Her eyes glassy. It was a hell of an act if that’s what it was.

  I waited a little longer before prompting, “Tell us more about Stanley and his interactions with the group.”

  “Why are you asking? The paper said he confessed, didn’t he?”

  Oh yes, she was sharp. It made it all the more scary she’d been conned out of her money. I’d looked up some of the statistics she’d rattled off after the first interview, and it was all true. These types of scams were far more widespread and sophisticated than the general public knew, and most of the victims weren’t people clueless about technology and whose mental faculties had been worn down by age. They were smart, savvy retirees in prime mental health.

  I laid my first card on the table and watched carefully for her reaction. “We have a source who’s claiming Mr. Cox confessed to the crime to protect someone else.”

  Her eyes widened, her head went back, and she took a quick intake of breath. Shock. But was it shock at the idea he might not have done it? Or shock we’d found that out?

  “Really? Who?”

  “That’s one of the reasons we’re here. We’re trying to find out.”

  “What did Stanley say about it?”

  Another shrewd question. Should I lead her on to think he might betray her, or admit he wasn’t talking?

  “I’m afrai
d I can’t disclose any further details. Can you please tell us about Stanley and his time within your group?”

  “Gracious. I don’t know. As I said, Stanley kept himself at a distance. He wasn’t rude or anything—I mean he was quite helpful, actually. Despite being a private man, he made the sacrifice of sharing his story with a journalist to raise the profile of our case and spread awareness. I asked him to since he’d worked with computers most of his life, and that would make it clear to everyone that smart, tech-savvy people can be suckered in just as easily as the rest of us. And his computer skills came in handy for our little group too.”

  She took a mouthful of her tea and set the cup on its saucer while she gathered her thoughts.

  “A bunch of us had used Skype before, for talking to kids and grandkids interstate and that sort of stuff, but Stanley helped us set it up for our support sessions. Made it so we could do a big conference call across the country. He was very patient with me, and from what I heard everyone else too, when he was talking them through it, like our own personal tech support. But even after going to all that effort, he didn’t join in the sessions often. He said it was hard for him to get computer access, but I invited him to come over and share mine, and he didn’t take me up on it. I thought he just needed some space.”

  “Was there anyone he took a liking to? Anyone he might want to protect?”

  Patty rubbed the back of her hand absentmindedly as she thought over my question. Or pretended to.

  “Honestly, not that I can think of. I mean, I think beneath the anger he loved his wife and I could imagine he might do it for her, but there’s no way she’d be behind the murder. She’s pinned the blame firmly on Stanley, and she’s not in California anyway.”

  I agreed. From everything I knew, the wife was a long shot.

  “What about for money?” I asked.

  The unconscious hand rubbing froze. “Money? As in confess to murder for a payout? Wow.” Her hands fell apart. “I hate to admit it, but I think that’s possible. I mean, he’s old enough that he couldn’t be hoping to enjoy a windfall himself after being convicted of a double homicide… But maybe to set things up for his wife… Oh, wow…”

  Time to lay my other card on the table. “There’s one other thing, Mrs. Wilkinson. Stanley claims that he killed Isaac Anand—the second victim—because Isaac was going to rig the lawsuits to ensure Richard won. Had you heard anything like that?”

  I could see the exact moment it occurred to her that this piece of information gave her a solid motive where she had none before.

  “No, no I hadn’t heard anything like that.” She met my gaze squarely. “I can see you’re not sure whether to believe me, but it’s the truth. Besides, I can’t imagine how that would be possible. I’m sure our attorney Mr. Dimond would’ve told you we didn’t have a lot of strong evidence, so there’s nothing critical to make disappear, and I can’t see how they could hope to throw off an entire jury. Or two entire juries. There are all sorts of measures put in place to prevent that sort of thing.”

  I nodded but didn’t move to agree or reassure her. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Wilkinson.”

  We left Patty and her teacups, not knowing much more than when we arrived. She was likable, and she’d made some good points. Especially that it was difficult to imagine how Isaac could’ve rigged the criminal trial or the class action case to ensure Rick got off.

  But Rick had struck me as overly confident about it when he was alive. At the time, I’d assumed it was arrogance since it was one character trait he’d had in abundance.

  Then again, Patty being so likable and persuasive was exactly why she might’ve managed to convince Cox to mastermind the murder and then take the fall for it.

  How could we determine which scenario was true? I supposed we could talk to a bunch of the other lawsuit plaintiffs and get their views on both Patty and Stanley. But that seemed like it could take an awful lot of time for very little return. Especially when Patty was only one of our suspects. Stanley’s wife might be worth interviewing at some point as well to find out if Stanley had sent her any money, but that was a shot in the dark too.

  Given it was almost six o’ clock, Connor and I agreed it could wait until tomorrow. By then we’d have more information on Damon Wood and the man he’d named, Tony Callahan, and could choose the most promising lead. The case wasn’t urgent—it didn’t seem likely the killer would strike again anytime soon. And if I hurried, I could still make it to my prearranged catch-up with Levi.

  Connor returned me to my apartment building but did not escape unscathed.

  Before I’d even gotten out of the car, Etta was trotting down the stairs and waving. She arrived at the curb moments later, a little breathless. “Connor, I was hoping you’d drop by. I have a favor to ask.”

  I paused. No way was I going to miss this conversation.

  “I’m not sure whether you knew this, but my niece is arriving tonight—she’s coming over from London to star in a new TV series. I’m certain I would have mentioned her to you.”

  No, she most certainly hadn’t. I’d never heard Etta mention any of her family except for her dearly departed husband and mother.

  Etta went on without giving Connor a chance to respond. “Anyway, she’s going to be a private investigator in this TV series, and she’s super excited, as you can imagine. But she’s a studious girl, so she wants to make sure she portrays the job right.”

  Uh-oh.

  “So I told her I knew someone who was a professional PI, and I’d ask to see if you wouldn’t mind her tagging along—just for a couple of days. I know you’re busy.” Etta’s spiel came to a stop, and she caught Connor with a hopeful smile.

  I struggled to avoid smiling myself. Connor was never going to agree to this.

  His face betrayed none of his feelings on the matter. “I’m sure Mom would love to show your niece the ropes. Why not have her do it? She might be offended you didn’t ask.”

  Etta shook her head. “I asked Mae first, but she said she came down here for a holiday and she’s shown enough wannabe PIs the ropes over the years. Told me it’s high time you took a turn.”

  What? That didn’t sound like Mae. What were these two up to?

  “I see.” This time Connor looked pained. “Well, I suppose I’d be okay with it, but I’m collaborating with the LAPD on the current case, so I had better run it by Hunt first.”

  Now I was even more confused. Since when did Connor ask Hunt for permission? Was he turning over a new cooperative leaf?

  Mr. Cooperative slipped his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll call him now.”

  As he dialed the number and put the call on speaker, I finally realized what he was up to. Hunt would never say yes to a civilian tagging along on a case, and Connor knew it. The sly fox was passing the buck.

  Hunt’s gruff voice answered for all of us to hear. “Solved the case yet?”

  I’d forgotten about the bad mood we’d left him in. If there’d been a chance in a blue moon before, it was now a complete impossibility.

  “No,” Connor said. “But I was wondering whether it would be okay to let an up-and-coming actress tag along with me for the next few days? She wants to learn how PIs work.”

  I held my breath and waited for the penny to drop.

  “You do what you want, Stiles. I’m not your father.”

  Connor didn’t quite manage to hide his shock.

  Neither did I. Not that anyone was watching.

  Then, with a sinking feeling, I remembered that special batch of cookies Etta had requested. To sweeten Hunt up for something, she’d said.

  Maybe I wouldn’t mention that to Connor.

  11

  I rushed upstairs to feed Meow and change into something more casual for my matchmaking visit with Levi. The apartment was quiet, and the smell of bacon and broccoli cookies as well as dehydrated meat hung in the air. Probably because the dehydrator was still running and the cookies still spread over the kitchen counter wh
ere I’d placed them to cool. Lucky Meow wasn’t a fan of broccoli. The dishes were on the counter too. The only differences from when I’d left were that Etta had taken Hunt’s cookies, and Oliver was gone—he was working a late shift tonight. I hoped he was feeling less mopey.

  Meow trotted to greet me, tail high. I picked her up and carried her around while I retrieved the treats from the dehydrator and wire racks, then placed them in takeout containers I’d purchased from the shop earlier today for this purpose. It took me twice as long with one arm occupied holding her warm weight against my chest, but her purring made it worth it.

  Unfortunately, that was the upper limit of my skills. “I’m afraid I’m not talented enough to operate the can opener one-handed,” I apologized as I put her down.

  She forgave me when she spotted the magical utensil that made her dinner appear. I fished a tin from the cupboard and opened it without reading the label. A move I regretted when the all-too-familiar scent wafted up to me. Ugh! Minced cod. It was the variety I’d been forced to taste months ago, and I still couldn’t feed it to her without the ghost of the flavor coating my tongue and tickling my gag reflex. Trying not to breathe, I spooned it into her dish and retreated to my bedroom. There I discarded my black work pants for jeans, my shirt for a sweater, and my low slingback heels for trainers.

  A minute later, I was heading out the door, a couple of takeout containers tucked in my bag, promising Meow I’d be home for a cuddle when her breath smelled less like minced cod.

  Levi’s house was an inviting white A-frame, set on a large block in Van Nuys in the San Fernando Valley. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the sturdy stone chimney in preparation for the encroaching evening cold.

  Not that it was really that cold, but Angelenos were delicate that way. It would be getting down to forty-eight degrees, and I think I’d heard a weather reporter refer to it as “freezing.”

  Forty-eight degrees was just about swimming weather in other parts of the world.