My sister was, quite frankly, a badass. But murder?
No.
“If that’s the case,” Detective Boyle said with reassuring friendliness, “we’ll figure it out. First, we have some questions, okay?”
I nodded. I knew this was all an act. She was playing the good cop, but her warm tone and pixie looks didn’t fool me. I’d seen the look she’d given Kai. There was a bad cop, hard and cold as frozen granite behind the disarming smile. I was going to be ready for her.
“You live with your sister, correct?”
I thought about Kai’s warning and decided telling her my living arrangements couldn’t be that incriminating. I might even be able to stall.
“My old landlady booted us after she bought a new pair of glasses and got a good look at Moss.”
“Who?”
“My dog, Moss. He’s big and scary-looking, so we ended up at my sister’s place on the beach.”
“We?”
“Moss and I. It’s only temporary, though. I’ve actually been house hunting. Have you ever done that? It’s kind of stressful.”
Detective Boyle made a noncommittal sound, then moved on to her next question. “Did you see your sister this morning?”
I shrugged. “I see Emma just about every morning. She makes me coffee, which is really nice because she doesn’t even drink coffee. Emma likes green tea. Do you?”
“Not really.”
“Me either. Tastes like dirt, if you ask me.”
She nodded amiably, though I could see she was not pleased by my rambling answers.
“Speaking of which, I’m a little thirsty,” I said. “Could I trouble you for some water?”
“Sure.”
She rose, stepped to the door, poked her head out, and then returned. I’d hoped for a longer reprieve from the questioning but the water request had taken all of five seconds and she plowed on as soon as her rump hit the chair.
“So, you saw your sister this morning. What time was that?”
“Gosh, I don’t really remember.” I looked up at the ceiling, pretending to think about it, and noticed an inverted dome, which I knew shielded a camera. I wondered who was on the other end watching. Kai? Probably not. My only other real contact in the JSO was Detective Jake Nocera. A gruff, tough, homicide detective, Jake was a Yankee transplant and one of my few friends. Would that exclude him from the case as well?
I got my answer a moment later when the door opened and Jake ambled in holding a paper cup in one beefy hand. Not looking at me, he set the cup on the table, turned, and walked out the door. Something about that made my heart sink.
I picked up the cup and took a sip.
“Thanks,” I said to Detective Boyle.
“Sure. Can you remember what time you saw your sister this morning?”
I shook my head. “Like I said, I love my coffee. I can’t really think straight until I have at least one cup.”
“Do you remember when you left or if she left before you?”
“I got an emergency call to go deal with a situation off 95. But you know that—you guys came and picked me up there.”
“You know Detective Nocera, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Kai had told me not to answer questions about Emma; he hadn’t said anything about Jake—or himself, for that matter. So I figured I was in the clear.
“He’s told me he doesn’t know your sister very well.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Which is why he’s still on this case.” She waited a beat, then added, “He vouched for you. I think you should know that.” She let the silence stretch out between us as she studied me.
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.
“So.” She leaned in, eyes locking on mine. “Why are you playing with me?”
“Playing with you?”
“You’re not answering my questions.”
I started to weave an elaborate line of BS but thought better of it, deciding a partial truth was the best bet.
“Look, Detective, this situation is . . .” I paused, searching for the right word. “It’s surreal. Quite honestly, it’s freaking me out. When I get upset or nervous I either babble like an idiot or clam up completely. As I believe the second option is not what you’re hoping for, I’ve been doing my best to answer your questions.”
I was lying, but only about the last part.
“You’re doing your best?”
I nodded. I was doing my best—to misdirect, deflect, and stall. Though I still wasn’t sure why. Kai’s warning had fallen pretty short in the clarity department.
“But it’s hard,” I said. “I’m worried about my sister and I’m afraid I’ll say something that will give you the wrong idea.”
“Like what?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing I can tell you that will help because, I promise you,” I said, looking her dead in the eye, “my sister would never kill anyone.”
“Even her ex-husband?”
“Her—” I stopped as the words sank in. Drawing in a slow breath, I tried to will the color to remain in my face. “Tony Ortega is dead?”
“He is. And your sister was caught standing over his body—minutes after his death.”
She waited for a response. I exercised my right to remain silent. I was pretty sure anything I had to say about Ortega could be used against me. Especially since the first thing that popped into my head was, He probably deserved it.
Boyle amped up her stare, honing it to a hard point. I could almost feel it pressing into me. I’d been right about the cold, granite cop under the pixie dust.
Luckily, as a woman who faced apex predators on a regular basis, I was not easily intimidated. People can try to posture and pretend, but very few can beat me in a stare-down.
The look in her eyes made one thing clear: She would no longer be playing nice.
Worked for me. I had always been more of a runs-with-scissors than a plays-well-with-others kind of a girl.
“You knew Anthony Ortega.”
I nodded.
She glared at me for a long moment, waiting for me to elaborate.
“He was married to my sister, of course I knew him.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
I shook my head with a shrug. “I’m not sure.”
“Guess.”
I thought about it. I knew I’d seen him a few weeks before he and Emma divorced, right before he’d put her in the hospital. “I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Not at all?”
“No. Not at all.”
“But he has contacted you.”
I shook my head, though I knew where she was going with her question. “He won the bid for my services at a silent auction last weekend, but I’ve had no contact with him.”
She angled her head to study me.
“You say your services. You mean as an”—she opened the file in front of her for the first time—“animal behaviorist?”
“It’s the only thing I do.”
“Aren’t you also a veterinarian?”
“I keep my license current, but I don’t have a practice.”
“Why’s that?”
“Sometimes it helps to be able to treat or quarantine an animal in the field.”
“Right. You helped with the Richardson murder a few months ago.”
“I did.”
“The dog—a Doberman, wasn’t it? Had to be put down after you’d given the okay for it to be adopted.”
“Yes.” Actually, the Doberman in question was alive and well and living with a certain surly detective I knew. I’d fudged on the papers, and Jake had gotten a great dog who was only vicious when murderers were attacking people he cared about.
Detective Boyle was trying to goad me by q
uestioning my skills, but she was barking up the wrong tree, so to speak. People had been questioning my skills for years, and I was not easily goaded.
“Quite a mistake,” she added.
“Everyone makes them.”
“Detective Nocera tells me you’re very good at your job, despite your mistakes. But I’m having a hard time understanding why Anthony Ortega would need to hire an animal behaviorist.”
“Hmm . . .” I tried to sound thoughtful but was pretty sure my restraint was starting to slip and let some sarcasm through. Kai had advised me to stall and redirect, but I was reaching my limit. “Typically, people need me to help with animal behavior.”
“Even people who don’t own an animal?”
I should have been surprised but I wasn’t. Tony Ortega had never been what I’d call pet-friendly.
“No. That would be unusual.”
“I agree.”
I flashed her a smile. “Just when I thought we weren’t going to see eye to eye.” Yep, definitely letting loose with the sarcasm.
She ignored my comment. “You must have some idea what he wanted.”
I shook my head. Actually, I’d suspected Ortega had wanted to weasel back into Emma’s life and was using me to do it. Learning he didn’t own a pet seemed to confirm that theory.
“Sorry, Detective. I have no clue.”
“Because you and your sister have no contact with him, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why not?”
Part of me wanted to tell her what a raging asshole Ortega was. A total narcissist and someone I wouldn’t want to hang around with even if he hadn’t beaten my sister so badly she’d been almost unrecognizable when I’d seen her lying in the hospital bed.
The image of that moment filled my mind. Emma’s beautiful face so swollen and bruised it looked like a horrible, bloated mask.
The truth was, I was glad Ortega was dead. But I kept that to myself and said, “We didn’t have anything to talk about.”
“So, all the times he called you in the last few days . . .” She paused to consult her notes. “Thirteen times according to your phone records—you never spoke to him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You were avoiding him?”
“We didn’t get along.”
“Why’s that?”
I had a feeling she knew the answer. But I wasn’t about to take the bait. Telling her Ortega was abusive to my sister until she escaped their marriage sounded too much like a motive for murder.
I shrugged, looked her in the eyes, and said, “Ever just meet somebody who rubs you the wrong way? You just can’t help it. You don’t like them, right off the bat?”
She kept her gaze steady on mine and smiled ever so slightly. “You know, every once in a while, I sure do.”
“Well then, we seem to have reached an understanding.” I stood, gave her a departing nod, and walked out into the corridor.
Marching over to the double doors leading into the homicide unit, I pulled one open and spotted Jake already striding toward me. He’d probably been watching my interview with Boyle on one of the wall-mounted monitors.
Though I thought he knew me well enough to predict what I wanted, I stopped and, with a very calm voice, said, “I’d like to see my sister. Please.”
Jake’s jowly face was made more dour by the stern, downward tilt of his mouth. He glowered at me, then glowered a little harder, finally ticking his chin up in a quick nod.
“Come on,” he growled, leading me through the room to a solid wood door exactly like the one I’d left. “I’ll tell Boyle we’ll learn more if we let you two talk.”
“Because you’ll be listening?”
He gave me a what-do-you-think? look before unlocking the door and swinging it open.
Emma sat at the table on the far side of the tiny, gray room. Not a hair out of place, not a smudge in her lightly applied makeup, she looked like she always did—polished and elegant. At least she would have if she hadn’t been sporting an ill-fitting muddy green shirt with the word INMATE printed over the left pocket. The corner of her lips quirked up into a wry half smile when she saw my face.
“I know.” She cast a disparaging glance at the shirt. “This is not my color.”
Her flippant comment made me want to sigh with a mixture of relief and exasperation. I wasn’t sure what I would’ve done if I’d walked in to find her crying and terrified.
Blithe, irreverent Emma I can handle. Scared, helpless Emma is not something I processed well.
A flash of memory hit me again: my sister’s bruised and battered face, tears leaking from the corners of her swollen eyes as she recounted what Ortega had done to her.
And, again, I was glad the man was dead.
“You’re worried about your clothes?” I asked, lowering into the plastic chair across from her.
“Not really. Though they did take my favorite pair of Gucci boots . . . which I sincerely hope to get back unscathed.” She directed the last comment to the camera bubble over our heads.
“Emma—”
“I’m kidding. They’re my second-favorite pair of Gucci boots.” She grinned.
Only Emma.
“Where’s Wes?” I asked, referring to our friend and attorney Wes Roberts.
“On his way and ready to spit nails.”
“Good.” Wes lived in Savannah now but still practiced in Florida. He was a great lawyer. I felt a wave of optimism wash over my worry. The sensation lasted about half a second.
“Listen,” she said, her face growing serious, “there’s something I need you to do for me.”
I had a feeling I knew what she was going to ask.
“Don’t worry. I’ll call Mom and Dad,” I told her with as much stoic nonchalance as I could muster.
She shook her head. “It’s not that. You wouldn’t get through to them, remember?”
Relief hit me hard enough to force a grateful breath from my lungs. I slumped back in the chair. “Right. They’re in Big Bend.”
Our parents had called when they’d reached the national park the day before to say they’d be out of cell range for a few days. They’d been traveling the country in their RV, having a ball. I didn’t want to be the one to ruin it. Nor did I want to unleash our mother on the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office.
Mom’s an ex-teacher. She has that “teacher’s voice” thing, and she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
“By the time they’re back to civilization this will all be handled,” Emma said. “But that’s not what I need to talk to you about.”
“Okay.”
“You have to promise that you’ll do it.”
“Of course.”
“Even though Wes is on his way, I’m going to be stuck her a while, so I need you to take care of a party tonight.”
“Beg pardon?”
“It won’t be a big deal.”
“But—” Nothing about handling social situations was easy for me. My sister, on the other hand, was an events coordinator and a very good one.
That didn’t change the obvious, which I felt obligated to point out.
Straightening, I leaned forward and said, “Em, don’t you think you should be more worried about being arrested for murder than a party?”
“Murder? Is that what they told you?”
“Yes. They said a witness saw you at the crime scene lurking over Tony’s dead body.”
“Lurking, was I?” She shook her head slowly, eyes bright with amusement. Before I could ask her to let me in on the joke, she said, “You know the cops are under no obligation to tell you the truth, right?”
I blinked at her while that sank in. “Wait. So all this stuff about Tony being dead and you being there—”
“All true,” she said. “I did go to speak to Tony. When I we
nt in, I found him in the office very much dead.”
“Em, why would you go to his house?” I had a sinking feeling I knew. “This is about the auction, isn’t it?”
“I went to return his money and explain that he was not to contact you again. Which, in hindsight, was stupid.”
“Yes it was. You should have let Wes deal with Tony.” Wes had handled my sister’s divorce and made it clear Ortega was never to have contact with our family again.
“Like I said, hindsight.” She lifted a shoulder.
I leaned forward. “You went inside?”
“The door was open, and by open I mean standing open.” She spread her arms in a combo, this-wide and what-was-I-supposed-to-do? gesture.
My lips parted as I gaped at my sister.
“What? It was my house, once.”
I shut my mouth, then opened it again but Emma cut me off before I could speak.
“Don’t,” she said.
“What?”
“Say whatever it is you’re thinking about saying.”
She hit me with a pointed look and I wasn’t sure if my sister was warning me to keep my trap shut because she didn’t want to hear any flak or as a reminder that we were being observed.
Probably both. She would get an earful from Wes when he got here and the bigger deal I made about her interacting with Ortega, the more weight the police would give it.
I could think of a dozen questions to ask her, but ended up going with one the cops knew the answer to.
“So, what are you in here for if not murder?”
“They charged me with trespassing.”
“Trespassing?”
“Yep. Even though the door was open and I knew the owner, going inside was trespassing. At least that’s what they tell me.”
“Bogus.”
“Probably. Wes will sort it out, but not in time for the party tonight.”
“Em—”
“Listen. Everything you need is on my laptop in my briefcase at home.”
“But I—”
“It’s important, Grace. I have a friend, well, you know Kevin.”
“Aikido Kevin?” I asked, thinking of the tall guy who sometimes joined us in my sister’s private dojo for class.
Emma nodded. “His brother, Tyler, was just diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. He’s an artist, and though the cancer is treatable, his insurance doesn’t cover it.”
Horse of a Different Killer Page 2
