was murdered?” she asked, just to be sure that she hadn’t misheard something. The reality of those words tasted strangely sour in her mouth. She’d always assumed she’d be indifferent to the man’s death. But hearing the news, she felt an odd sting of sadness.
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Sanchez said in a perfunctory way. “His housekeeper told us you were his next of kin.”
She nodded. “What should I do now? Do I need to identify him? Maybe there’s a mistake.” She grabbed on to that thin thread of hope. She wasn’t ready for her father to be dead just yet.
“We identified him through his fingerprints,” Knightly said.
“Oh.” Elizabeth swallowed back tears. Why was she crying? Her father had been a thorn in her side for years now. She hadn’t even spoken to him in months.
“Can anyone verify when you arrived home?” Sanchez asked. Back to business.
She hoped not. “I doubt it. I live in a big building—people come and go a lot.” She paused, then realized where the questions were leading. “You think I had something to do with my father’s murder?”
“These questions are just routine,” Knightly quickly said. “We always check on the whereabouts of family members of any murder victim.”
Any grief Elizabeth might have felt was quickly pushed aside in favor of fear. This was not routine. Anyone close to her or her father—including Mrs. Ames, the housekeeper—knew he and Elizabeth were estranged. She had even taken her mother’s maiden name so that people wouldn’t associate her with him. And now she was a suspect.
And if she gave them Hudson’s name? The one man more likely than she to be the killer. Dear Lord. That was going to look very, very bad.
She shrugged helplessly. Had she used her cell phone that night? No. Her phone had been out of juice, and she’d used Hudson’s landline to call a cab.
“When you went home,” Sanchez asked, “did you make any phone calls, check your email?”
She shook her head. “Sorry. I went to bed with a book.”
“It’s all right,” Knightly said soothingly. “I’m sure there’ll be no problem. Again, we’re sorry for your loss.”
Sanchez didn’t look so sure. She snapped her notebook closed. “I guess that’s all for now. Don’t leave town.”
Elizabeth sighed quietly in relief. Maybe this would all blow over. They’d find who did this, and they wouldn’t scrutinize her any further.
Sanchez stood, but Knightly remained seated, looking troubled. “Ms. Downey, do you know anyone who would want to hurt your father?”
“Detective, my father was a high-powered attorney who made his money by taking advantage of people in vulnerable situations. I imagine many of the people he dealt with hated him. I suggest you look there for a suspect.”
“We’ll do that. Again, sorry for your loss.”
Elizabeth didn’t take another full breath until the detectives were gone. Of all the lousy times for Franklin Mandalay to get himself murdered, why had he done it on the night the two prime suspects had been together?
CHAPTER FOUR
DETECTIVE CARLA SANCHEZ said nothing to her partner until they were back in their silver LTD.
“You went awful easy on her,” Carla said as she slid her key into the ignition and started the engine. She turned the AC on full blast and angled one of the vents on her face. Hot day for October. She wished she’d taken off her jacket, like Knightly had.
“I don’t think she did it,” Knightly said. “Her reaction seemed pretty genuine. Those were real tears.”
“Some people can cry on cue. Especially beautiful women who manipulate people to get their way. Especially if they think they’re going to jail.”
Knightly seemed to mull this over. He opened his notebook and glanced at his notes. “She does have a helluva motive.”
“Yeah, like about seventeen million of them.”
“Do we know for sure she inherits?”
“She’s his only child. Only close relative.”
“Who cut herself off from him and hasn’t accepted a dime from him in seven years. That doesn’t sound like someone motivated by money.”
“You’re letting your gonads sway you. Just because she’s pretty and bats her eyelashes at you doesn’t mean she can’t pull the trigger on a gun.”
Knightly nodded. “Point taken. It’s too early to rule out anyone. But we do have other suspects.”
“You mean Hudson.”
“I know he was your partner, but we have to talk to him.”
“I know.” Carla and Hudson had been partners for a couple of years, and she knew him pretty well. He was smart, and he closed a lot of cases, but he was way too casual about rules like dress codes and properly filling out paperwork. And he was constantly on the prowl for women.
Okay, prowl wasn’t the right word. He was just...aware. He flirted with every female he encountered and made conquests where he could.
Carla was one of those conquests.
After their one night together, he’d been ready to move on. She’d acted as though it was no big deal, but he’d hurt her feelings more than she would ever admit.
Yeah, she knew him pretty well, and though she pretended reluctance, she actually relished the thought of seeing him wiggle helplessly like a worm on a fishhook.
“I hate to even consider a fellow cop,” Knightly said, “but we have to. Two weeks before Mandalay’s death, Vale beat him up. The incident became very public and Mandalay was pressing charges. They go away with him dead.”
“I won’t argue with you.”
Carla well remembered when she’d first met Hudson Vale. She’d been still in uniform. He’d been a green recruit. She’d thought he was the most charming man she’d ever met, not to mention sexy. Drinks after work had led to a crazy backseat encounter. But after that, he hadn’t looked at her twice. She’d watched as he’d moved on to conquest after conquest—that blonde skank from Dispatch, then a stacked redheaded lawyer, then others.
Carla had no longer interested him.
She’d learned to work with him, even considered him a friend. But she hadn’t forgotten.
“We might as well go question him now,” Knightly said.
“Not if you’re going soft on him. I don’t want anyone accusing us of taking it easy on him just because he’s one of us.” She tried not to smile.
“Not soft, but I hope he has an alibi.” Knightly opened his window. “Damn, Sanchez, you got it like a meat locker in here. You know that air-conditioning dries out my contacts, right?”
“Not too many people have an alibi for the middle of the night. I mean, most people go home and go to sleep, and who can verify that?”
“Huh. When was the last time you think Hudson Vale spent a Saturday night alone? Sleeping?”
“Good point,” Carla conceded. “Guess we’ll find out.”
“Exactly,” Knightly agreed.
* * *
HUDSON WASN’T USED to having so much leisure time. His first two weeks on suspension, he’d painted his house, sealed his deck, washed his car twice and made repairs to the dock.
Yesterday, Sunday, he’d been in a blue funk. Between thinking about the burglar he’d almost shot, and the abrupt disappearance