Waking the Witch

twenty-two

The officer took me through a narrow door beside the front desk that led into a makeshift cell. I dug in my heels, about to say I wasn’t going in there without being charged. Then I saw Bruyn was already inside, seated at a table. An interrogation room, apparently.

Still, I hesitated at the door. “I’ll come in here to talk to you, but you’re not locking that door without laying a charge.”

“Oh, I expect to lay a charge, Ms. Levine.”

Bullshit. The only way he was doing that is if I confessed. I sat. No one Miranda-ized me, which could mean Bruyn considered this just an interview. Otherwise, I’d be at the sheriff’s office, not here.

Still, if there’s one bit of legal advice Lucas drilled into my head growing up, it’s this: If held by the police, for any reason, lawyer up. Don’t say a word without him there.

I’d always rolled my eyes, wondering how stupid Lucas thought I was. I sure as hell wasn’t going to be one of those morons you see on crime shows who waives her rights straight into self-incrimination. You have the right to a lawyer, so get one, especially if he is also one of your best friends.

But I didn’t ask for my phone call. Didn’t mention my lawyer. Lucas was a thousand miles away. All my phone call would do was get him on the next plane home, and I’d be free before he got here.

If I was transferred to the sheriff’s department, I’d call. Otherwise, I’d deal with it ... and deal with the lectures when Lucas found out.

Bruyn asked for my side of the story. I gave it and when I was done, he just sat there.

“That’s it,” I said. “I found Michael. You found me. End of story.”

“You really expect me to believe that, Ms. Levine?”

“Considering it’s the truth, yes. And considering there’s nothing even remotely far-fetched about it, yes. You can call the restaurant where we had dinner. We overstayed our welcome, so they’re bound to remember us, and remember that we were obviously on a date and having a good time.”

“What does that have to do with anything? If you think that means you wouldn’t kill—”

“No, I think it means my story is perfectly plausible. We were getting along and trying to work together. He was following a lead I gave him on Cody. He found something. He texted me. I’m sure you’ve confirmed the message on my phone.”

“We will. One of my officers saw you arguing with Detective Kennedy in the street this afternoon.”

“We disagreed about a risk I was taking. We parted amicably, with plans for dinner. You can ask Kayla Thompson. She was there.”

“My officer caught you sneaking around Renny’s Garage, just hours before we found you with Detective Kennedy’s body.”

“No, he didn’t catch me sneaking around. He caught me repairing my bike. You can check with the garage and with the bike shop in Vancouver, where I picked up the tire this evening. With Michael.”

“You didn’t like him horning in on your job.”

“No, I believe he was the one complaining. And he got over it. Otherwise why would we be out on a dinner date?”

“It was a setup.”

“For what? Is that the motivation you’re seriously going with? I killed him because he was interfering with a job?”

“I have no idea what your motivation is. I don’t care.”

It was at that point that I shut up, because I realized he was just fishing for answers, hoping to get a confession he could hand over to the sheriff’s department.

When I stopped talking, he was stuck. So he backed up and took another run down the same path, making me repeat my story. When I was done, he hit the wall again. So he had me tell my story again. Killing time until he heard from the doctor or the sheriff’s department? Or praying I’d slip up and give him something?

Chief Bruyn wasn’t an idiot. Just incompetent, at least when it came to issuing more than a speeding ticket. The town expected him to be tough, yet he wasn’t a tough guy by nature. So he overcompensated. Find a private investigator crouched over a dead body? March her down to the station, interrogate her, and, hopefully, toss her in jail.

When he was about to make me go through my story a fourth time, I said, “Have you notified the Dallas Police Department?”

“Why would I—?” He stopped. A look of stark “oh, shit” terror, quickly hidden behind a scowl. “Detective Kennedy was off duty. I’ll notify them in due course.”

“A cop is never off duty.” As he glowered, I dropped my gaze, just a fraction, and forced myself to add, “Or that’s what I’ve heard.”

The meek approach worked. He stepped out and told his officer to call the Dallas PD. Then he lowered his voice and told the officer to say Detective Kennedy had died of a fall, and they hadn’t yet determined whether it was an accident or a homicide. Funny, he hadn’t mentioned the accidental possibility to me. Is that why I wasn’t with the sheriff’s department? They thought it was an accident?

The officer came back and said the Dallas PD wanted to be kept informed. They also wanted to know if Bruyn had notified Detective Kennedy’s next of kin.

“That would be his mother,” I said, when that familiar look of blind panic hit Bruyn’s face. “Not Claire’s mother. She was his half sister on his dad’s side.”

My composure cracked a bit then, thinking of Claire, dead, and now Michael, too. Their poor parents. Michael coming to solve his sister’s murder, then murdered himself and—

I took a deep breath. “Now, if you’re done with me, I’ll go back to my motel to rest.”

“Like hell you will.”

I fought to keep my voice steady. “You don’t have enough to hold me. Your officer can drive me back and can park outside my door, and you have my word that I won’t leave.”

Bruyn crossed his arms. “You’re not going anywhere. You killed a police detective.”

“No, she didn’t,” said a voice from the door.

Jesse strode in, the younger officer at his heels, protesting that he’d tried to stop him. Jesse planted himself in front of Bruyn.

“The doctor’s initial report found that Detective Kennedy seems to have died of a broken neck incurred in a fall. He was searching the warehouse, went to that second story, and fell backward off the edge.”

“Fell?” Bruyn said. “Or was pushed?”

“Fell. There’s only one way up. There’s also only one set of prints, which I pointed out to the sheriff’s department.”

“I saw two sets—”

“On the first few steps. Savannah’s prints, as I’m sure she’ll confirm. She went up three steps, turned, and came back down.” He glanced at me.

I nodded. “I heard a noise below. Turned out it was just a cat.”

“The sheriff’s department is holding the scene for their lab techs, but I’m sure when they arrive, they’ll confirm only one set of prints upstairs. Michael Kennedy’s. A tragic accident. But clearly an accident.”

The phone rang.

“That would be the sheriff’s department telling you to release Savannah,” Jesse said.

I heard enough to know that they confirmed Jesse’s story—one way up to the second floor and only one set of footprints. I still didn’t believe Michael had fallen. Couldn’t believe it. But I sure as hell wasn’t saying so.

When Bruyn got off the phone, he said, “You’re free to go. Just don’t leave town. We’ll be checking that second story, and if we find your prints up there ...”

“You won’t,” I said. “But I’m not leaving town anytime soon. I still have a case to solve.”

AS WE GOT into Jesse’s truck, I said, “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“No, really. Thank you. You didn’t need to do all that, and I appreciate it.”

He fussed with his seat belt, clearly uncomfortable with gratitude, then put on a grin and flashed it my way. “Now you owe me. You realize that, right? If I ever get locked up in a small town, you’ve gotta come from wherever you are, whatever the hour, and investigate on my behalf.”

“And the chances you’ll be able to call in that chit someday are pretty good, aren’t they?”

His grin widened. “Very good. Why else do you think I got you out of there?”

“Good call.” I cracked the window and inhaled the night air, hoping it would settle my stomach. Then I glanced at Jesse. “Speaking of calls, I need to make one when we get to the motel.”

“Lucas?”

“No, Adam. I need to keep him in the loop.”

He frowned. “Lucas has him supervising you on this?”

“Not really.”

“Good, because you clearly don’t need it.”

He was right. I didn’t. And Adam really didn’t need a 4 A.M. update. I just ... I’d just wanted to speak to him, I guess. It could wait, though.

THERE WAS NO chance of me sleeping, and Jesse seemed to realize that. He dropped me off at the motel and said he’d be back. I went in and sat on the bed. Just sat. Nothing else, unless you count thinking. Did a lot of that, as the world got too quiet again.

I thought of calling Adam. Bruyn had given me my phone back. I’m sure that wasn’t standard procedure, but I hadn’t been about to argue.

I won’t say how many times I picked up the phone, finger poised over Adam’s speed dial. I wanted to talk to him. More than that, I wanted to see him, and I knew that if I told him what had happened, he’d be on the road within the hour, no matter how much I argued.

He’d come, and I wanted that. God, how I wanted that. I wanted someone to hug me and tell me it was okay. Then I wanted to be distracted, to hear a story that would take my mind off Michael’s death. Then, when I was ready, I wanted to be cheered up. Sympathy, comfort, support, and laughter. It was a lot to ask of any one person. But Adam could do it. He always did.

Which is why, every time I picked up that phone, I put it back down. If I was going to be the mature investigator Jesse thought I was, then I had to get through this on my own.

Forty-five minutes later, Jesse came back with beer and snacks. I told him I was convinced Michael’s death had been murder after stumbling on a ritual in progress. The ritual going on that night might not have been a deadly one, but it had turned out that way.

Bruyn said Michael’s cell phone hadn’t been found with his body. While it was possible that he’d sent the message—Jesse said that the preliminary report on time of death didn’t rule that out—I was betting that the killer sent it right after killing him. Then, when I’d arrived, he—or she—had called Chief Bruyn to report a disturbance at the warehouse. That to me was the most damning piece of evidence. Someone had brought the cops there just in time to catch me with the body.

Jesse absently twisted his beer can, still looking doubtful. “As someone who got arrested twice courtesy of a citizen who reported seeing me break into a place, I gotta say that I’m not convinced it wasn’t coincidental. People notice, especially in a small town. But while I think Michael Kennedy’s death was an accident, I’ll consider the possibility that it wasn’t. That possibility, though, means that you’re in danger. We need to get this figured out ASAP. I’d like to stay and help. I know you didn’t want that, but—”

“No, you’re right. When Michael was here I was worried about the three of us tripping over each other, but now ...”

I trailed off and pulled my legs up, tucking them under me.

Jesse leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How’re you holding up? I know you liked the guy.”

“I did.” I took a deep breath. “Right now, though, I need to solve this case and catch his killer. So please don’t suggest I go home.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good. Okay, next—”

A hard knock at the door.

“Ms. Levine?” a deep voice called.

It was the sheriff’s department.