Horse of a Different Killer (2 page)

My ride to the Police Memorial Building had given me the one thing I'd needed. Time.

I'd learned at a young age to keep a firm grasp on my emotions.

The more control I had, the better equipped I was to handle the raw flood of feelings from an injured or frightened animal.

Sometimes, there's an overlap between the animal's emotions and my own. That's when things get tricky. But usually, given enough time, I can project an aura of calm even in the middle of the storm.

More recently, I'd been learning meditation techniques, which I put into practice to center my thoughts during the thirty-minute drive and brief waiting period in the interview room. Ironically, I seemed to be better at focusing my mind when under acute stress than under normal circumstances.

Consequently, when Detective Boyle entered the small room and sat across from me, I was able to remain composed when I asked, “Where's my sister?”

“She's speaking to another detective right now.”

“When can I see her?”

“Soon. But we need some information first.”

“You said my sister's been arrested for murder. Of who? When?”

“Before we can get to all that, there are a few things we need cleared up. Grace, I know you want to help us and we want to help your sister. Being honest is the best course.”

“Okay.” I nodded as if that was my intention. “But you should know this, Detective. Whatever you think Emma's done, you're wrong. My sister could never kill anyone.”

Even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. Technically, Emma was more than capable of killing someone. She had a black belt in aikido and had trained in other martial arts, even practiced some MMA and street-style fighting.

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 questioning 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.”