The Final Kill. Meg O'Brien

they had come down on Abby and the Prayer House that way.

      “My hospitality—and my facilities—” he said, his brown eyes fixed on the agent with an unmistakable warning, “won’t last long if you don’t tell me what you’re really here for and what the hell you want.”

      “I thought I’d made that clear,” Lessing replied. “We’re here because of the murder at the Highlands Inn. And, of course, we’d like your cooperation.”

      “That still doesn’t tell me a damned thing,” Ben said. “To begin with, you’ve admitted that the murder at the Highlands was far from routine. I already knew that. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here. As I understand it, the victim was a journalist for a Washington, D.C., newspaper. A Woodward-and-Bernstein type, probably digging into some sort of government secrets. My guess is he got too close to the truth about someone or something, and got his throat cut before he could write a book about it. As I hear it, that’s not exactly something new.”

      Lessing sighed and glanced at Kris Kelley. “There are a few people here other than Chief Schaeffer who haven’t been filled in yet. Would you like to do the honors? I really don’t think we can wait any longer for the sheriff.”

      Kris nodded and stood, smoothing her skirt. Ben knew she couldn’t have slept much all night, any more than anyone else. Yet she looked crisp and fresh in a beige suit she’d somehow managed to change into. He couldn’t help noticing it was almost the same color as her collar-length hair. He supposed she was nice looking, especially with that great tan. Abby’s dark hair and creamy complexion were just the opposite—

      He shook himself mentally. What the hell am I doing?

      “As some of you know,” Kris said, “the woman we’re looking for is Alicia Gerard, the wife of multimillionaire H. Palmer Gerard. So far, we’ve discovered that the victim was attempting to blackmail Ms. Gerard, and that she was seen having an angry conversation last night with him at the Pacific’s Edge restaurant in the Highlands Inn. A short time later, she was observed knocking on the door of the victim’s room, a room he’d reserved for three nights. Last night was his second night there.”

      She cleared her throat and took a sip of water, then began again. “At ten-twenty or so last night, the hotel maid walked into the room and found Alicia Gerard and her fourteen-year-old daughter, Jancy, standing over the victim. He was lying in a whirlpool tub and his throat had been slashed. In fact, he was nearly beheaded. It was a brutal crime.”

      She paused and swallowed hard, as if the scene she’d witnessed the night before was too dreadful to return to, even in her mind. “The minute Alicia and her daughter saw the maid they ran, but the maid later identified them from photos we found in the victim’s room—”

      “Hang on,” Ben said. “Since when do maids deliver clean towels at ten-thirty at night?”

      “Way ahead of you,” Lessing said. “The victim called and asked for them. Said housekeeping hadn’t cleaned the bathroom that morning. Kris?”

      The agent began again. “The photos were of Alicia Gerard and her daughter, Jancy—candid shots taken on the street, at a mall, one of Jancy outside her school. Obviously taken by someone who’d been observing them over a period of time. The husband, H. P. Gerard, wasn’t in them.”

      “Hold on,” Ben said. “H. P. Gerard’s wife is who you were looking for at the Prayer House? So this reporter guy is viciously murdered at the Highlands Inn, presumably by the wife and/or child of one of the biggest movers and shakers in this country, and all of a sudden a lightbulb goes on and you say, ‘Oh, that’s where the killers are! At a convent out in Carmel Valley.’” He laughed shortly. “Yeah, that makes a whole hell of a lot of sense.”

      Agent Kelley answered him in a scathing tone. “It does if your girlfriend is one of Alicia Gerard’s oldest friends—and if your girlfriend takes in women and children on the run.”

      “Which you wouldn’t even have known if I hadn’t—”

      “Confirmed it for us,” she said firmly. “We knew about Abby Northrup’s work long before you decided to enlighten us, Chief Schaeffer. We hardly had to rely on you to inform us—”

      “Like hell,” Ben said, interrupting angrily.

      “Easy,” Lessing said quietly. “Let’s keep personalities out of this.”

      “This is not about personalities,” Kris said sharply. “It’s about not having an outsider at our meetings.”

      “Chief Schaeffer is hardly an outsider,” Lessing reminded her, “any more than you are. And so far he’s been cooperating fully.”

      “Fully? You may think so, but—”

      “I cooperated because you told me that Abby and the Prayer House were in danger,” Ben said, interrupting again. “There wasn’t even time to find out who you were after.”

      It was the fear that Abby might be hurt that had made him screw up, dammit. What a fool he was, confirming their suspicions about Abby’s work with Paseo when he’d made a promise a year ago never to tell a soul. And now, because he’d thought it was his duty to do so—and that the suspect might be a danger to Abby and the Prayer House—he’d blabbed to the damned FBI.

      Abby would never forgive him.

      “I’ve had enough,” he said, standing. “You’re welcome to stay here until you’re done, but I’ve got work to do.”

      “Chief—” Lessing raised a delaying hand.

      “No. From everything you’ve said so far, this is nothing but a plain and simple homicide. If that’s the case, I sure don’t need you to help solve it. In fact, it looks to me like you’re wasting taxpayers’ money with all this hoopla, but hey, don’t let me stop you.”

      He stormed out, slamming the door. Papers on the table scattered from the breeze it created.

      Lessing looked at Kris Kelley. “We’ve got to tell him,” he said heavily. “Everything.”

      “Oh, hell,” she sighed. “I’ll go get him.”