Now You See It (3 page)

“He hadn’t changed the address on his driver’s license.”

It wasn’t a question, and Gemma didn’t respond.

“Planning to move?” Abernathy asked.

“When the house sells. It’s been on the market for almost a month. The real estate agent is Kari Werner. You can verify the date with her.”

“We will.”

Olsen took a less adversarial tone. “Ms. Cavanagh, it would be helpful if you’d let us take the clothes you wore over the weekend.”

“I’ll get them,” Gemma said before her brother could protest.

Mike glared at her.

“It’s okay, Mike,” she said just above a whisper. “I haven’t even unpacked them yet. And the whole backpack was with me at your place when whoever broke in.”

“Please.” Olsen nodded to Teng.

As the Kirkland P.D. officer moved to accompany her, Gemma took a deep breath and started up the steps to her bedroom. The smooth wooden banister felt comforting beneath her hand as she climbed, solid and cool.
God
. “The backpack is on the floor in the master bath,” she said. “All the clothes are in there.”

“Shoes?” Teng asked.

“In the closet—the white canvas sneakers.”

“We’ll need the jewelry too,” she said.

Gemma twisted off her wedding ring, a three-carat square cut diamond between intertwined platinum rows of channel-set stones. Her skin was white and pruney where the wide band had covered it for five years.

She rubbed the fingers of her right hand over the spot. “I didn’t know where else to keep it, until everything was final,” she said. She could just hear Ned’s attorney howling if anything happened to that diamond before the settlement was worked out. Besides, she’d never
filed
anything while she was actually wearing it, but no way was she going to try and explain that.

“I’ll give you a receipt for everything today,” Teng said, watching her. “You’ll get the ring back when the investigation is finished.”

Gemma wanted to say,
Keep it. I should have thrown the thing away when I kicked the bastard out
. She was pretty sure something showed in her expression, but she only said “Thank you.”

“Did you wear a watch or jewelry over the weekend?”

Gemma flashed on the pretty moonstone dangles Mike and Mary Kate had given her as a birthday present years ago. “I added a pair of drops to these.” She removed the gold hoops from her ears and handed them to Teng. “They’re on the nightstand.”

Gemma felt as if her world was spinning wildly out of orbit, but when she came back into the living room, the men were all still in the same places. Brady sat still as a house cat, looking almost domesticated. Everyone else behaved as if he were invisible. Mike seemed at ease. Gemma wondered if she was the only one who wasn’t fooled by his casual act. She took a seat beside him and tried to wipe her clammy hands on her pants as unobtrusively as she could manage.

“Did your husband have any enemies?” That was Abernathy, again.

“Ned?” She lifted a corner of her mouth. “He’s an attorney. Of course he does. His law partner will know more about that than I do. We don’t discuss his work, much.”

“Do you know whether he had received any threats lately? Was he worried about anything, as far as you know?”

“No. Not that he ever mentioned.” Gemma glanced at Mike and took a shaky breath. The dizziness had ebbed, but her head felt wooden and heavy. Her midsection had gone hollow, as if someone had stolen her stomach and left a basket of butterflies in its place. She knew she wasn’t thinking clearly or quickly, but right now, it was probably a blessing.

Mike asked, “Is Ms. Cavanagh a suspect?”

“Not at this time. We’re just trying to cover all the bases.” Olsen focused on Gemma. “We’ll want to set up a formal interview, ask you some questions, try to get a picture of your relationship with the deceased.”

“Ms. Cavanagh can be available tomorrow at your convenience,” Mike rose to his full six foot three. “I think we’re done, here. If you have any other questions for Ms. Cavanagh, please remember she is represented by counsel and direct your questions to me.”

The minute she shut the door behind the police, Mike turned to her. “What did you say to them, Gemma?” he asked, his voice low and intense. “They’ve got a cruiser parked across the street, keeping an eye on you.”

She flicked her eyes to the window, but shrubs blocked her view. “I didn’t have to say a word. They took one look at the boxes and went cop-faced.”

“Shit.”

“It didn’t help that I got all flustered when they said he’d been murdered. And then Brady was here...” She glanced over at him. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”

Brady just tightened his chin and shook his head, dismissing the hassle.

Mike put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m all right.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I might even believe you.”

“A little wobbly, I guess. I keep thinking he’s going to call, like last time, and say, ‘I bet you believed every word.’”

Mike glowered and exchanged a furious look with Brady. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Mike, am I really a suspect?”

“Offhand, I’d say they’re trying to sort out all the information for threads to follow. You know the drill.”

She nodded.

“The packing boxes didn’t help, though,” he said.

“I was meaning to get all that stuff done this morning, but Lubbock State called—their proposal is in its last stages, and I just got swept up.”

“Ned hadn’t changed his driver’s license, yet. It didn’t sound as if they know about his apartment,” Mike said.

“They didn’t even seem to know we were separated. Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

“I don’t think so. You look pretty shaky. Let me take you home with me. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I’m fine.” Then tears came. “Dammit.”

Mike’s expression tightened. “Look, I know you’re going to go all tough on me, Ms. Independence, but I’m serious, here. You really shouldn’t stay by yourself tonight. And you shouldn’t drive right now, either. I’m taking you home. Please. Besides, Mary Kate will beat me up bad if I don’t.”

Gemma snorted and smeared tears across her cheek with flattened fingers. Mike loved to proclaim his five-foot-two-inch wife had made him a battered husband.

“Okay? At least until we figure some of this out,” he said.

She bit her lip and nodded. She didn’t think she could have squeezed a word through her throat just then.

“Here, Brady.” Mike tossed his keys. “I’ll drive Gemma’s car. Meet you back at my house.”

Brady gave him a nod that was barely more than a blink. “Mike, someone did get in last night and messed with the computer. Between three and four a.m. It’s probably a good thing no one was here. Whoever it was accessed a lot of files on Ned’s side. I got it cleaned up, got the passwords changed, for now.” He turned toward Gemma with a tight, enigmatic smile. “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances. I hope my being here didn’t make things worse.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Thanks for your help earlier. I’m sorry you got pulled into this whole mess.”

“I’ll let myself out.”

* * *

Outside, Brady stood in the driveway beside Mike’s car, flipping the keys back and forth. This was a perfect opportunity to get some more answers. He started around to
touch
the driver’s side door of Gemma’s car. He’d learned over the years a dozen ways to make it look casual—like an accidental brush. At the last minute, he remembered how much energy he’d already used.

Besides, it didn’t have anything to do with him. He’d sworn off redheads years ago. If he worked at it some, he could probably remember why.

As he got into Mike’s car and
touched
the wheel, Mike’s personality sprang out at him. Steady, practical, good-humored. He got fractals of deep love for Mary Kate and little Timothy, a strong flavor of confusion and worry about Gemma. He could have dug for more details if he hadn’t run his abilities down so low. Probably just as well. It was none of his business, but if they were having trouble, he was sorry for it. Mike was one of the good guys, and one of the very few people in his life he could call ‘brother.’

He took a cleansing breath and started the car. This was why he tried never to borrow other people’s shit—especially cars. Traffic was distraction enough. With any luck, he’d get some sense back before he hit the freeway.

* * *

“Sorry about that, Gemma,” Mike said when Brady had gone. “The timing sucked.”

She leaned against Mike’s strong chest. Now the two of them were alone, she could let her guard down. “I’ve really missed you.”

“I know, Brat.”

Ned had separated her from her family—one more thing to hold him accountable for. “I can’t believe Ned’s really dead.” She sniffed. “I despised the son of a bitch, you know? So why do I feel so bad about this? I should be doing handsprings. It’s going to save me a lot of grief and a ton of money—”

He pushed her sharply out to arm’s length, and his green eyes grew fierce. “Don’t say that. Not to anybody, understand? Not even to Mary Kate, or me. It’s going to occur to the cops soon, if it hasn’t already.”

“Okay.” Her voice sounded small to her, no match for the terrified thudding of her heart. “I’m starting to feel scared.”

“Well, I’m here now.” He wiped her cheek with one finger. “Just think before you open that smart mouth, okay?” he added with a grin.

She caught a startled breath and started to shake again. Three to four a.m., Brady had said. “Mike, they didn’t ask me, the cops didn’t ask me where I was last night—which means Ned was already dead, right? So who was here? Who was in the house? If it wasn’t Ned...”

Mike gave her another quick hug, and released her, but kept a warm, reassuring hand on her arm. “We’ll find out. Okay, grab some stuff, load up the pooch, and let’s get out of here. Traffic’s heavy enough we should be easy for the cruiser to follow.”

Chapter Three

With the rush-hour traffic, it took most of an hour to get from Kirkland to Mike and Mary Kate’s house in Green Lake. Gemma sat huddled on the seat, staring out at the passing cars without seeing them. Mike was silent and grim. Only Nikki seemed to enjoy the ride, lifting her nose into the space of open window and panting against the glass.

Gemma felt tears start again when Mary Kate opened the kitchen door and met her with a hard hug. Mary Kate took a step back and gave Gemma a sympathetic look. “What can we do for you, Gemma? Whatever you need.”

“Thanks, M-K. I think I’d really just like to hide for a while.”

“Well, we can do that, too. Come on out back and watch Timothy run through the sprinklers,” she said after another quick one-armed hug for Gemma and a kiss for Mike as he came through the door with Gemma’s bag.

Mary Kate stood back to let the excited dog dance through the kitchen ahead of them. “I got subs for dinner. You’ll feel better with something in your stomach.” She turned to her husband. “Mike, Brady is out back having some big discussion with Tim.” Mary Kate smiled and rolled her eyes. “But he said he needs to talk to you before he leaves.”

“Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes, will you?” Mike turned to Gemma. “Sorry for the holdup, Gemma. Are you okay?”

“Sure. I should call Ned’s mother, anyway, and Doug needs to know what’s happened.” Not tasks she was looking forward to.

“These things are never easy. Just take it one nightmare at a time,” he added as he stepped out the back door.

Gemma took a chair at the kitchen table. “I’ll be out in a few. With any luck, this won’t take long—there’s not much to tell them.”

She reached out to stroke the tabletop. “Irish Farmhouse” was űber-trendy these days, but this was the real thing. No one in the family knew how old it was—it had just always been there. Thick, hand-shaped oak, smoothed by generations of hands and beeswax, solid and heavy with clean, comforting lines. Her mother had inherited the parents’ house in Donegal when Gemma was eight. She still remembered how happy Ma had been the day the furniture was delivered. It had been such a contrast to the sorrow that had clung to her since she’d come back from Grandda’s funeral.

The table and ladder-back chairs, a breakfront and china cabinet, a bookcase. Tangible reminders of heritage and continuity.

Gemma took out her phone and looked up Doug Wheeler’s private line. Now that Doug was running for office, he was next to impossible to reach. But she’d take every bit of delay she could before calling Ned’s mother.

Of course, this time Doug picked up on the first ring. “Gemma. What a pleasant surprise.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. This was going to be even harder than she’d thought. “Doug, I don’t know how to tell you this—”

“What’s wrong, Gemma? Is it about Ned?”

Why would he ask that?
she wondered, then remembered Ned hadn’t shown up for work. “Yes. Yes, it is.” Her throat tightened and she drew in a deep breath.

Before she could speak again, Doug said, “Where is he? You know he hasn’t been here all day. Didn’t even call, and he’s not answering his phone—”

“Ned’s dead.” She hadn’t meant for it to slip out so bluntly. She was going to have to get a grip, or she’d never make it through this.

Silence.

“The police came to the house. Ned’s been killed.”

“How? What happened?”

“I don’t know. They said he was murdered. They won’t tell me anything else.”

“Murdered? Ned was
murdered
? By whom? My God, Gemma. This is a disaster.”

She could picture him running a hand through his blond hair.

“My God,” he said again. “Murdered? They’re sure?”

“That’s all I know. I just wanted to tell you. I’ve—” she swallowed “—I’ve got to tell his mother.”

“Oh, God. Julia will have a stroke.”

“Do you blame her?”

“No. Not at all. Of course not. But I don’t envy you. Gemma, is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all.”

“No, Doug, but thanks.”

“Do you have anyone to stay with you?”

“I’m at my brother’s. Thanks for asking.”

“Gemma—” he paused. “Take care. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She’d never heard Doug sound so shaken. Ned had always called him “Mister Composure,” and not as a compliment. There had been very little composure in that raw, unbelieving voice just now. Gemma’s heart went out to him. He’d always been kind to her.

The next call would be harder. Ned was an only child.

* * *

Justin Falco had nearly perfected the art of listening to conversations at the front desk without seeming to be aware of anything beyond the walls of his cubicle. Sometimes he liked to think he had superpowers or something. Something special that lifted him out of the herd—but in a good way. Not like his zits and the awkwardness he hated because it marked him as a major geek.

He’d learned that if he pretended he was invisible as he moved from area to area within the law offices, most of the time, it was like he really
was
invisible. People didn’t even notice him. They didn’t notice the janitors, either, and that
so
ticked him off. The people who worked here all thought they were something special—big-shot lawyers and their ass-licking paralegals. It amazed him how people with so much education could be so stupid about simple things such as electronic networks.

“Justin! My computer isn’t working!”
How many times a week did someone yell that at him all panicky and pissed-off?

He’d learned not to ask the obvious questions: “What’s wrong with it?” invariably got him some variation of “How should I know? That’s your job.”

The other basics, like, “Is it plugged in?” and “Is it turned on?” just as often as not earned him a reprimand for attitude. It was easier to go look for himself. Safer. And it drew a lot less attention. It was much better to pretend he was invisible.

Over the summer, all these politically correct folks had decided to work four ten-hour days each week, to reduce energy use and keep the planet green. Justin snorted. That might sound good in print, but what it really meant was that he was stuck in this frakkin’ cubicle an hour earlier and an hour later every frakkin’ day, and on call all the other days.

Yeah. Well, he had to admit there were compensations. One of the cool things about being invisible was how much he overheard. People just forgot he was there as they babbled shit to each other. Sex shit, boyfriend shit, girlfriend shit, money shit. And people didn’t realize he got to see all the amazing things they put on-line. You’d think lawyers would know better than to write incriminating notes on a company computer. Or make a file and expect that labeling it
Private
would actually keep people out of it. Dumb. They thought they were so-o-o clever, but he knew the truth. He knew a lot of truths.

Like his bosses! Frakk! Ned Carrow had letters on his computer so hot, they could have fried the hard drive.

A year or so ago, Justin had started up a little business, his very own dot.com. He’d been thinking about it for a while, all the stuff on Carrow’s hard drive. Mostly Carrow’s. A few others. But it was so easy. Just copy that shit off and publish it on the web, and then sell subscriptions. Not blackmail, or anything sleazy like that. He changed the names, mostly the places, added in some vampires and an alien or two and a little gratuitous violence. At first, he’d been afraid Ned Carrow would find out, somehow, but nothing was ever said. If Carrow did know, he either didn’t care, or didn’t want to admit it was his stuff—not that Justin could blame him for that.

But man! How the money rolled in. People ate that shit up, and PayPal was his new best friend. At the rate his customer base was growing, he’d be able to quit this frakkin’ j-o-b in just a few months.

His second biggest fear, after being found out, was that Ned Carrow would find Jesus or something and stop writing the source material.

Justin snapped his head up as Doug—that would be J. Douglas Wheeler IV to the proletariat, Justin sneered—came out of his office as if his handmade, tasseled loafers were on fire. Man, the dude looked like crap—face all white like he’d just yakked on his desk or something, so pale his chin and cheekbones stood out like they’d been professionally highlighted. Great look for a Goth party. How had he done that? Something must be up. Probably something way above an IT tech’s pay grade to make His Frakkin’ Excellency look so panicky. Maybe there was a way to find out.

* * *

Gemma stepped back into the yard and took a moment to soak in the everyday sounds and scents of Mike’s Greenlake neighborhood on a summer evening. The world went on around her—laughter and the soft sounds of conversation from the neighboring back yards, the smell of grilling meat. Mike and Mary-Kate were talking quietly near the picnic table and Brady squatted on his heels by the patio table in a solemn discussion with her four year-old nephew, his dark head bent next to Timothy’s spiky red hair. Brady looked up as Gemma came nearer, and that same electric
zing
ruffled the fine hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck. He’d opened his collar and draped his suit coat over the back of a patio chair, and the muscles in his back moved against his fashionably voluminous shirt. The guy was ripped. Not like a body builder, nothing extreme. But taut, strong, ready. Her mouth went dry and then way too moist as a tight, hot center kindled somewhere near her solar plexus and spread heat outward.

Maybe it was just shock—that must be it. She didn’t respond to strange men this way. Even Ned had never pushed all her buttons the way Brady did, and she didn’t even know the guy. Oh, man, she could be in so much trouble.

Mike lifted his eyes from the stapled clump of single-spaced papers he’d been immersed in. He looked at his son, cleared his throat, and turned to Brady. “Let’s go inside.” Then to Gemma and Mary Kate, “We won’t be long. You be okay?”

Gemma nodded as Brady rose in one smooth motion. Okay, so he was agile, too. Still, she was glad to see them go. Even as thoroughly trashed as she felt, he was way too distracting. For now she wanted to do nothing, think of nothing but the play of the oscillating sprinkler against the green lawn and dark wood of the fence, or watch as Nikki began to zoom wide circles around the little boy who now stood splayed-legged in grubby, sagging-wet cargo shorts, daring the dog to come closer.

“Did you reach Ned’s mom—what’s her name? Joyce?” Mary Kate asked.

“Julia. Sort of. She was pretty drunk. It must be, what? Eight o’clock in Texas now? When I told her Ned was dead she screamed and then threw the phone down. Begonia hung it up.”

“Who’s Begonia? Is that the maid you told us about?”

“Maid, companion, something.” She was grateful to Mary Kate for giving her a space of time to sort out her feelings—not treating her like a victim. There would be time for that. “You know me too well, M-K.”

“Yeah, well—”

The pause was awkward. Gemma understood they were still working at getting their rhythm back after almost four years of enforced separation, but it fried her circuits when she remembered what an idiot she’d been to let Ned-the-lying-cheating-rat-bastard keep her away from her family. “I’ve missed you guys.”

“We’ve missed you, too, Gemma.”

She’d missed Mike and Mary Kate more than she had been willing to admit to herself.
How could I have let Ned do that to me?
she wondered for the twentieth time that afternoon—or was it the two hundredth?

Timothy shrieked in glee, and Mary Kate started to stand up, fixing him with her Mother’s Eye.

“Don’t, M-K. Let him have fun. This is just what I need right now. Let’s just pretend we’re having a nice family barbecue, just for a little while.” She gazed back out at Timmy. “I still can’t get over how much Tim looks like Mike. He’s a carbon copy.”

Mary Kate grimaced. “I know. I must be in the mix somewhere, but you couldn’t tell by looking. Timothy, come say hello to Auntie Gemma.”

The dog bounced her front legs coyly to one side, ducked her head, and charged, grazing Timothy just above the Speed Racer Band-Aid on his knee and knocking him onto his seat.

“Fake out!” he yelled, laughing as they closed and grappled. “Ow! Nikki, cut it out!” he protested when she held him down with one paw and licked his face. “Hello, Auntie Gemma,” he called between giggles.

“It’s okay, M-K,” Gemma said. “It’s nice to watch them play.”

“He can’t get away with that. He’s been on a roll since this morning. Come on, Tim,” his mother added, raising her voice.

“I’m Timofee!” he asserted, scrambling to his feet and striding toward them across the lawn in as close an imitation of Mike’s walk as his four-year-old legs could manage. “Not Tim. There’s another Tim in my school. I’m Timofee. Hi, Auntie Gemma.”

“Hey, dude. So, what’s best about school these days?” Gemma asked, grown-up to grown-up.

“I have two girlfriends,” he said, holding up three fingers, then folding one under. “Jess’ca and Wizzabah. I like Wizzabah best, ’cause her hair’s red like mine. But she pinches. I’m going to yell my best yell,” he said, and ran back out onto the grass shouting “YAAAAH” as he braced himself for another onslaught.

Gemma looked up at the sound of the screen door opening and closing with a small
bang
as Mike and Brady came out of the house carrying trays loaded with a pitcher of margaritas, soft drinks, chips and salsa.

Mary Kate said, “Brady, you might as well stay for dinner. I’ve got enough for an army. And for dessert,” she went on with a straight look at Gemma, “
you
get one of Mike’s migraine pills. Guaranteed eight hours of total oblivion.”

“I’d rather have margaritas.” She looked with longing at the tray of salt-rimmed glasses and the condensation on the pitcher of pale green slush.

“Spoken like a true daughter of the Old Sod,” Mike said in a heavy Donegal lilt.

Brady laughed. “Which old sod was that?”

That drew a smile from Gemma, and Mary Kate sputtered.

“Old sod!” Timothy shrieked. He began to run around in great circles yelling “Old Sod, Old Sod” over and over, punctuated by louder and louder shouts.