“Ms. Gillian, it’s Detective O’Connor.” No fake smile in his voice this time. Instead I heard a timbre of confidence that didn’t leave me feeling happy-go-lucky.
“Good morning, Detective.” I continued through the living room and out to the porch, closing the front door behind me. “A bit early for a social call, which leads me to believe you have a more official agenda in mind?”
“You might say that, ma’am,” he replied, cool and calm. I had no trouble picturing him in his office, kicked back in his chair with his feet up on his desk. “Ms. Gillian, if you’d be kind enough to spare me a few minutes, I’d like to tell you a little story.”
Shit. I settled in one of the rocking chairs but didn’t rock. “Be my guest.”
“It’s the story of a woman who got in over her head,” he began. “It might have started when she was working a case. After all, investigations and undercover assignments can get pretty tricky, and lines get crossed. But however it came about, she made a big mistake and stood by while a man was shot twice in the head.”
“Go on,” I said in lieu of any number of smartass remarks that came to mind.
“The problem is that even though this woman isn’t a bad person, now she’s looking at being charged as a principal to murder.” He paused. “She used to be a police officer, which means she knows it doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger. Any principal to the crime gets the same sentence as the shooter.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that.” Anyone who aided and abetted in the commission of a crime was considered a principal. In other words, a guy who robbed a bank at gunpoint would be charged with armed robbery—as would the getaway driver and the third party who planned it, even if neither participated in the actual holdup.
But how did he think he could charge me as a principal? Even if they’d found my fingerprints and DNA at the scene, that was circumstantial evidence, at best.
O’Connor was clearly warming to his story. “The woman thought no one knew she was there when this terrible thing happened. And the detective thought he had no chance of ever finding the real shooter and solving this crime because, after all, she had no reason to risk herself by giving testimony. Or so she thought. But then . . .” He trailed off.
I was tempted to let the silence hang until he gave up and went on, but I decided being mean was pointless. “But then?”
“But then a witness appeared,” he said, triumph dripping from his voice. “A dutiful citizen who came forward and placed the woman at that scene.”
“There were a lot of people at that scene, from what I hear,” I said, pulse hammering. “Do all of them get charged as principals?”
He rewarded me with a dry chuckle. “Well, you see, this witness saw her leave with the shooter. And that changes everything.”
The driver of the getaway car. I tightened my hand on the phone to keep from shaking. With great effort, I forced myself to let go of arguments about the technicalities that separated Principal from Accessory After the Fact from Uninvolved. None of that mattered. But there was one point I couldn’t hold back. “Pretty darn lucky for you that a witness decided to step forward after a couple of weeks of silence.”
“Nothing to do with luck. Injuries sustained in the fire prevented the witness from giving a statement before now,” he said, all trace of lightness gone from his voice. “But despite that, this person came forward and did the right thing. I want the shooter, Ms. Gillian. You also need to do the right thing, or you’re going to find yourself wearing an orange jumpsuit. And ex-cops and prison don’t always go well together.”
The dread within my chest shifted, expanded. “Thank you for that advice, Detective,” I said. “Enjoy your weekend.” I hung up without waiting for a reply then set the chair slowly rocking. I remained there until my pulse slowed and my palms stopped sweating, then pygahed and rocked some more.
After at least ten minutes of doing and thinking as little as possible, I got up and returned inside. Pellini sat at the table, while Bryce busied himself at the stove.
“Was about to come get you,” Pellini said. “Coffee’s ready, and Bryce is making bacon and eggs.”
I plastered a smile onto my face and pitched in to help Bryce. “Coffee and breakfast with friends. What more could a girl ask for?”
Chapter 15
For being an enforced guest, Pellini wasn’t a bad housemate at all. I had no idea if he was sucking up or naturally neat and helpful, but as soon as we finished eating he pitched right in with cleanup without batting an eyelash. Bryce got a pass on dishwashing since he’d cooked, and he marched out to do battle with the Malibu engine. Pellini impressed me even more by knowing how to load the dishwasher—wedging light items against heavier things so we didn’t end up with cups full of dirty water.