Now You See It (22 page)

“Dee-tective Abernathy,” came a snide voice.

Abernathy grinned. “Yo. What’s up, Theo?”

“Your head better be. Everybody’s favorite goatfuck just got
weirder. Are you ready for this?”

* * *

“Let me be sure I’m getting this,” Olsen said to his
partner. “Somebody broke into the brother’s office. Shot his paralegal. Shot
him. She’s dead, he’s critical. Set fire to the place—so, that’s in
pattern.”

“Except he came ready to kill, this time.”

“Yeah. Teach me to take a day off.” Olsen took a slurp of
coffee, grimaced and set the mug back onto his desk. “Then building security
gets a call from a woman reporting a fire in Cavanagh’s office, and that
Cavanagh’s hurt.”

“Yep.”

“She immediately calls 911 with the same information. Sounds
freaked out, doesn’t leave a name. Fire, SPD, EMTs, rent-a-cops all spend the
next couple of hours trying not to get in each other’s way. How did she
know—right?”

“Right. Call came from the International District. Burn phone,
but they traced the towers. No way she could have gotten from place to place
within those times. Either she knew what was going to happen, or the doer called
her.” Abernathy pressed his hand against his diaphragm, fighting a belch. “I
don’t see it.”

“You’re just a sucker for big green eyes,” Olsen grumbled as he
pulled a folder from a stack of paperwork. “Well, we were heading that way
anyway to interview the peeper. What’s his name?”

“Falco.”

“What else have we got?”

“Well, didn’t Wheeler say he was at home when Ms. Cavanagh
called him about her husband?”

“Yeah. Wait a minute.” Olsen dug for his notebook.

“When are you going to go digital?” Abernathy said, looking
sideways at the small, spiral-bound notepad Olsen always carried.

“When they make one that I can do this,” Olsen answered, as he
flipped it open and thumbed through the pages. “Yeah. Monday night.”

“I got an email from Lyons just now with the details. They
interviewed this guy Falco on a separate case, who says Wheeler knew before
that, when he was still at the office. And I quote, Falco: ‘Mr. Wheeler said
Mrs. Carrow had just called and Mr. Carrow had been killed.’ The kid had no
reason to lie.”

“Okay, but why would Wheeler lie about something so
unimportant?”

“Because people lie. Stupid, though. If we call him on it,
he’ll just look all vanilla and say, ‘Oh, that’s right. I forgot.’ As if he
could have forgotten when he got that kind of news. We can never prove it, one
way or the other—and it doesn’t really matter. It’s off, but it’s not even a
thread. Carrow had already been dead for two days.”

“What else have we got?”

“Nada.”

“So we should probably talk to the partner again while we’re
down there.”

“Up,” Abernathy said. “It’s
up
to
Seattle. Seattle is north of here, and north is
up
.
Bunch of yokels—man, I knew this was gonna be a day and a half. What?”

Olsen had gone rigid in his seat. “You’re not gonna believe
this.” He sailed a folder onto the table. It was generic government green, but
the edges were wrapped in red-striped tape, and it was marked “Restricted, Eyes
Only.”

Abernathy opened it and began to read. “McGrath? You
kidding?”

Olsen was already flipping back in his notes. “Nope.

“Braden John McGrath. Well, well.” Abernathy handed the file
back with a triumphant little smile. “Told you so.”

Olsen read briefly from the first page, glanced back at the
cover. “What the fuck?” He sighed. “Saddle up. I’ll get our travel
authorized.”

* * *

Brady stood in the Tiger Stance, halfway across Doug
Wheeler’s oppressively modern office, looking deceptively relaxed but actually
balanced and ready.

“I would say thanks for coming, McGrath, but I don’t like you
that much,” Doug said. He was sitting behind a large pedestal desk that looked
like solid granite, carved and shaped to be at once sleek and imposing. At his
back was a wall of glass with a spectacular view of the waterfront and Puget
Sound. Early sunlight glowed off the white of a ferry on its way to Bainbridge
Island.

Brady didn’t bother answering. Wheeler’s peremptory summons had
left him little choice.

Doug rose from his chair, but kept the desk between them. “I
want to talk to you about Gemma.”

Brady waited.

“I know why you’ve attached yourself to her.” Doug paused, as
if waiting for Brady to respond. Then he went on. “With Ned dead, she’s a very
wealthy woman. Don’t you have anything to say?”

“You said you have critical information.”

“I have. I’m prepared to offer you a substantial sum of money
to stay away from her. Permanently. Very—” he said and paused, lifting a check
off the black desktop with a melodramatic flourish “—substantial, indeed.” When
Brady didn’t move closer, he placed the check on the edge of his desk, facing
outward.

Brady didn’t even look down at it. “No deal.”

“Did you even look at the amount?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Brady took a clearing breath. It would have been so
sweet to simply rip this asshole’s head off. He settled for a hard stare, but
blinked in surprise. Doug’s eyes looked unfocused. Maybe the guy was just tired,
but if he hadn’t known better, he’d think Wheeler was stoned.

Doug’s smile grew nasty. “Then maybe you’ll respond to another
kind of self-interest. I know all about you, McGrath. I know who you are, what
you’ve done. I know you got half your Team killed in Afghanistan. You went
rogue, did a little drug smuggling, and when they caught you and kicked you out
of the Navy, you got in a little deeper. I do know about you. Surprised?”

Stunned, more like,
Brady thought,
and hoped it didn’t show. Where was Doug getting his information? Brady had been
sure none of that would ever surface.

“You even killed a couple of people who got in your way.” Doug
narrowed his eyes. “I want you to leave Gemma alone. Does she know what a piece
of filth you are? Somehow, I doubt it. But she will, unless you agree right
here, right now, to stay away from her. And I’ll bet the police would love to
hear about your exploits.”

“You done?” Brady could feel the hot rage behind his eyes. It
had to be coming off him in waves, but Doug didn’t seem to notice.

“You’re the one who’s finished, McGrath. I’m making a campaign
announcement this afternoon at three p.m. You have until it’s over.”

“Kiss my ass.”

* * *

The hospital elevator opened to disgorge Mary Kate and
Brady, talking to each other at a hundred miles an hour.

Gemma smiled. At least something seemed back to normal. Mary
Kate saw her and smiled back. It was tense, but genuine, and Gemma felt her eyes
fill as she stood to hug her sister-in-law.

Mary Kate spoke first. “I know you both said not to come, but I
had to. I can’t be that far away when he’s hurt.”

Gemma hugged her again. “They’re taking blood and things right
now,” she said, “but it should only be a few minutes. Do you want me to stay
with Timmy?”

“I left him with Mom and Dad.”

“That was probably a good idea. Mike’s vital signs are
improving. He woke up for a few minutes this morning, but he won’t relax and let
himself heal, so they keep drugging him back to sleep now they know for sure his
concussion was just a little bump. He’s going to be all right, M-K.”

“Gemma, the cops are right behind us,” Brady said.

“Okay. M-K, I’d better introduce you to the officer and the
nursing staff so they don’t waste any time getting you in to see him when
they’re done.”

The very large, very black uniformed officer who’d been sitting
stolidly in a chair by the door to Mike’s room suddenly came alert and spoke
into the radio patch on his shoulder. “Sir,” he called to Brady, rising from his
chair.

“I’m outta here,” Brady said, giving Gemma a quick kiss. “Call
me.”

She turned to Mary Kate for a second, and when she turned back,
he was gone.

“Are you okay, Gemma?” Mary Kate asked.

“Yeah. I am now.” She saw the three detectives emerge from the
elevator. “I can handle this. You stay with Mike.”

* * *

“How did it go?” Brady asked when Gemma finally got back
to the apartment. He handed her a mug of tea and a bowl of pistachios.

“Okay. They had questions I didn’t know how to answer.”

“Like, ‘How did you know your brother’s office was on
fire?’”

“Yeah. Like that. I told them it was a family thing, and we’d
been doing it since we were kids when one or the other of us was in a bad spot.
I don’t know if they believed me, but I can’t help that. How do you explain what
you do?”

“I don’t. It’s usually easy enough to find something I can use
as an explanation, once I know what to look for.”

“I’m really glad Mary Kate and Mike are back together.”

“Told you. All it took was a little murder and mayhem.” He
pretended to flinch as she glared at him. “Hey. They’d have worked it out pretty
soon, anyway.”

“They really love each other.”

Brady buried his lips in her hair and took a deep breath, as if
he were drawing her scent into his very being, imprinting her on his soul. “I
love you, Gemma. I know this isn’t the most romantic time, but I wanted to be
sure you know.”

“Why?” She looked into his eyes, searching. “You sound as if
there’s more to that sentence. Like, ‘in case of something-or-other’.”

“Shit’s coming, Gemma. And I need you to remember I love you,
whatever happens.”

She reached for him. “I love you, Brady. I never thought I
could feel like this again—”

He cut her off with a hard kiss. “Olsen and Abernathy and some
Seattle detective are on their way over.”

“Lyons?”

“Yeah, that was it. You know him?”

“He was in the interview with Mike and me.”

“Groovy.”

* * *

“Just what is your interest in this, McGrath?”

Abernathy sounded tired. That could be good or bad, Brady
decided, since Olsen and the Seattle detective seemed to be letting him take
point. “I do a lot of work for Mike Cavanagh.”

“Does that include banging the sister?”

So, it was going to be that kind of interview. Brady reached
deep inside himself for his best impassive professional expression. “Mike hired
me to investigate some tampering with her computer.”

“When was this?”

“As I told you before. The day the two of you first came to the
house.”

“Had the computer been tampered with?”

“Yes. And it had been done while she was at the Cavanaghs’ the
night before. Someone got in through the home security, into Ned Carrow’s
computer files.”

“Past the dog.”

“Dog wasn’t there. It was with her at her brother’s.”

“And it didn’t occur to you that it just might have been the
lady herself, staging all this?”

“It occurred to me. Didn’t check out.”

“I’d like to hear about that.”

“Instinct, mostly, to start with.” No way was he going to
launch into a discussion of his
touch
with these
guys. Or anyone else. “Mike Cavanagh confirmed her alibi for the whole weekend.
So did the guy who ran the retreat, a Colin Denny. Teaches at the University, no
reason to lie about who was where. So she’s covered for the murder and the
break-in. So’s the brother, by the way.”

“Let me tell you what my instinct tells me,” Abernathy said.
“She kills her estranged husband, comes home, starts packing up the house.
Stages a computer thing, calls for help—I’m assuming she called her
brother?”

Brady didn’t answer.

“You come running. We show up. He comes running. Two days later
the house is vandalized.”

Brady looked up at him with dark amusement. “Sorta breaks down
there. When Sam Dawkins was killed, we were both at her brother’s in Green Lake.
And the fire at her place in Wallingford started on the lower floor. She was
asleep upstairs.”

“Where were you?”

“Downstairs, on the couch. I barely made it up the staircase
ahead of the fire.”

“Where were you last night?”

“My place. From about two yesterday afternoon on.”

“Didn’t go out?”

“No. Not until we left for the hospital.”

“Yeah. I’ll get to that. Anyone see you?”

“Mike was there from about five to seven or so. Guy from the
noodle shop delivered food about seven-thirty. Ms. Cavanagh was there the whole
time.”

“What time did she leave?”

“We left together about two a.m.”

“For the hospital.”

“Yes.”

“How did Gemma Cavanagh get the information about her brother
being shot?”

Brady took a deep breath. Over the years he’d worked out dozens
of plausible answers to this kind of question, but he’d never dreamed it would
involve someone else.
When in doubt,
he thought,
go with the truth. Or as much of it as they can
handle
. “She woke up, frantic, saying Mike had been shot and we had
to go. Dragged me out of bed.”

“She woke up? You’re sure of that?”

Brady forced down a flash of Gemma curled in his arms. “I’m
sure.” He was glad he knew what Gemma had already told them. “Gemma and Mike
Cavanagh have had a special kind of connection all their lives. You both saw it
work the day you came to inform and condole.”

“That could have been coincidence.”

“It wasn’t. And it’s not that unusual for people who are close
to have strong intuition about each other being in trouble or in danger. Theirs
is a little stronger than most, but I’ve seen it before. We all have.”

“What else have you seen?” Abernathy asked with an edge to his
voice.

“If I told you...” he let that trail off with a half-smile.

“You’d have to kill us,” Olsen finished for him. “Yeah, we
know.”