“Why, Detective, you’re almost jovial. I’d say you’ve certainly recovered from looking at Lilah Bloom’s body.”
“Bodies are my business.”
“God, that’s a great slogan. Use it on your business card.”
His only response was a chuckle, no doubt a rare sound for the detective. Darn, there was that disgusting little tingle again.
He seemed to have gotten over her little “psychic blast” concerning Lilah’s death; he didn’t so much as mention it. “How’d you explain to Remy that you wanted to attend the funeral of a woman you didn’t even know?”
“I told him it was simple respect, since I’d taken her job.”
“Lame.”
“His curiosity is what keeps him off balance around me.” She snapped her head to the right, looked at the detective. “Just like you.”
“Worked the balance beam in college. Didn’t fall once.”
“There’s always a first time, especially when you’re cocky.”
He smiled slightly, shook his head. “Why are you really here? I’ll keep asking until you give me an answer I believe.”
Ah, time again for the truth. It was the only thing that seemed to throw him off balance. She turned her head slightly and murmured out of the side of her mouth. “Sympathy. Enough of it, and Hal will either try to use me, be afraid of me, or trust me.”
“Or kill you.”
His eyes darkened, his voice held menace. She was glad he was on her side—he was, right?—but that look was a little too damn proprietary.
“You can’t scare me with that danger stuff. With you dogging my steps, the murderer couldn’t get close enough to pull it off.”
“You hope.” He was silent a moment.
She thought she was off the hook with all his questions. “All right, Detective. So you think he’s the one—”
“Haven’t set my sights on anyone in particular.”
“Not even after all those interrogations you’ve conducted?”
“Interviews.”
“Semantics. But it’s still pretty damn coincidental that Lilah accuses Hal, then gets an orangewood stick in her throat.”
“We’ve already established your prime suspect,” Witt insisted. “Who else could have done it? Got any ‘vibes’ about anyone in particular?”
Vibes. Hmm. So he hadn’t quite gotten over her Lilah dream and couldn’t resist the jab. Max surveyed the black-shrouded assemblage. Damn poor attendance. Wendy’s mourners numbered less than ten, including Witt and herself. A beanpole of a man—obviously a Gregory relative—stood to Hal’s right, the short, plump woman next to him most likely his wife. Add to that Remy, Theresa, and the father, it was pathetic. Wendy Gregory had died without friends. Max wondered if Lilah would have attended.
Witt waited for an answer. “Wendy hated Remy,” Max mused. “I’m not sure the feeling was mutual. Unless she crossed him.”
“How?”
“Who knows. Broke the copy machine, told a lie, messed up on one of his rules.”
“Anal, huh?”
She shuddered at the word, as if he could know what it made her think of. “The man’s not just anal. He is an asshole.”
At her side, she felt the detective chuckle again. She liked it when he did that. She wondered how it would feel if he did that while he was holding her close.
“Being an asshole doesn’t stand up in court,” he said. “Most of the time. Who else?”
“Theresa’s a viper. She enjoyed tearing Wendy up.” But sweet little Theresa didn’t have scratches either. Max did have them, on her throat, though, thank God, they were almost healed. Could Theresa have immobilized Lilah?
“Not much motive there. Would have been more fun to keep Wendy around than to kill her.”
“All right. What about Wendy’s father?”
“Bud Traynor.”
He looked like a Bud or a Bubba. Ex-football hero. Macho man. Whose side would he have chosen if he thought his daughter was having an affair? “He’d turn on her in a second.”
The certain knowledge frightened her. The man himself did, as well. He looked up—at her—without raising his head, just his eyes. Black, soulless eyes. He reminded her of her uncle. Max shivered. She imagined he knew her, everything about her.
Inside her, Wendy cowered like a whipped puppy beneath that gaze.
“I must be crazy,” she whispered. Hal must have told him who she was.
“Go on,” Witt urged.
“He’d lie for Hal if he thought Wendy wasn’t a proper wife. In his world, men stick together no matter what.”
“Would he have done it himself?”
She narrowed her eyes and breathed deeply as she pondered that. “He’s certainly capable of it.”
They were both silent, absorbing the idea.
Max tilted her head to look at Hal’s beanhead brother. “Who’s he?”
Witt confirmed what she already suspected.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek, then let it go. “Nah. He didn’t know her well. Wendy and Hal didn’t socialize much.”
“You’re scaring me.” He wagged a finger at her. “You know too much again.”
“I take it I’m right.”