“Good.” He opened the door for me and said, “Liz, I need a few minutes alone with Detective Pratt. Wait for me downstairs, will ya?”
As I exited, I tugged at his sleeve and led him into the hall with me. In a whisper, I said, “What about Kyle and the information I gave you on the symbol? Carla needs to—”
“Hear it from me. The less you say, the better,” he said. “I’ll meet you outside.”
I handed him the DVD of Billy’s movie then left without argument. Freedom was a short elevator ride away.
Instead of waiting in the lobby, I paced the small concrete plaza out front, letting fresh air soothe the remnants of my nerves. I dialed Nick, then remembered Isabella’s message and my heart clunked into my stomach. I hung up before the first ring.
Oliver blew out of the station door in a whirl—loosening his tie, taking off his suit coat, and pulling out his keys. He cocked his head for me to follow, and we walked at a brisk pace to the curb.
As soon as we settled into his car I said, “What do you think? How did we do?”
“Pratt’s got nothin’. I grade her a one and a half on her third-degree—hungry to make an arrest and she’s a loose cannon.” He checked over his shoulder then pulled into the heavy traffic on Vanowen. “When I brought up Schelz’s daughter, she brushed me off. Then I put her on Stanger’s trail with the information on the drugs and the symbol.”
“You didn’t tell her I—”
“Got the information? No. I let her assume McCormick did the investigation. I left you out of it.” He looked over at me. “And you should stay out of it.”
“What if Nick locates Margaret Smith in McHenry, or the woman who gave Schelz’s pamphlet to Weisel shows up at the liquor store again?”
“You call me and I’ll get McCormick to do the follow-up.”
“Then what’s next?” I said. “Will Carla leave me alone now? Do I get my box of books back?”
“Cool it on the books. You’ll get them back at the end of the investigation unless the killer smeared fingerprints all over the box. Now? We wait. Pratt may want to see you again. I think the pressure is off for this weekend. Go home. Have some fun. You did good. She gave up more information than she got.”
“Right—the photo,” I said. “When Carla showed me the frame, I didn’t stop to think about why it was broken. Jealousy? Envy? Spite? Why would the killer smash my wedding picture? I don’t get the connection.”
“Pratt thinks she made one—Laycee broke up your marriage.”
“My marriage faltered long before Laycee crawled into bed with Jarret. She was a catalyst but not the cause.”
Oliver dropped me off at my car with instructions to call if I heard from Carla again, and warning me to give up playing detective for the rest of the weekend. No problem—assuming Carla backed off for the moment.
I cranked up my air conditioner and turned the local rock station on loud in an effort to block negative thoughts of a confrontation with Nick. Nicky. Didn’t work. Despite the blaring music, I spent the drive home creating scenarios between Nick and Isabella. The ugly knot of traffic I fought through the Valley to Studio City gave me plenty of time to torture myself.
By the time I pulled up behind an old compact and Nick’s SUV parked at the curb in front of my house, I had set myself up for an invitation to their wedding. At least one thing was going right—Stan’s white truck sat parked in the driveway. I didn’t hear the squeal of a drill blasting through the closed windows on the second floor but the plumber was somewhere inside working.
I climbed my porch steps with trepidation, opened the door, and crossed the foyer to the living room. I stopped short. A plump, pie-faced, twentyish Latina in an oversized UCLA T-shirt nestled in the corner of my couch, talking on her cell phone.
She brushed an explosion of black frizzy hair off her face and broke into an open smile. “Liz?”
“Yes. And you are?” I glanced past her into the den. Nick sat at my desk with his back to us.
“I’ll call you back,” the girl said into the phone. She unwrapped her tight-clad legs, rolled off the sofa, and rose to greet me. In heels, she might clear five feet in height; in her flip-flops, the top of her head barely reached my chin. She tilted her head back to look up at me, her eyes sparkling. “I’m Isabella. I’m so happy I finally got to meet you. Nicky told me many, many wonderful things about you.”
Her little hand pumped mine with enthusiasm. A string of clichés rolled through my mind: “Love is blind,” “Love conquers all.” Maybe she was a genius. Or—
“You’re free. You escaped the wrath of Pratt.” Nick rushed from the den with his arms spread wide and rocked me in a warm embrace. “I thought about you all morning. Why didn’t you call as soon as you left the station?”
“I couldn’t wait to get home.” Not a lie, just subject to interpretation. I glanced past him into the den. Seriously, where did he hide the statuesque sex-bomb I drove myself into distraction over?