She wasn’t sure which of his many questions he wanted an answer to. She chose the easiest one, the least damaging one since Witt almost surely had the passenger manifest for Flight 452 from Boise. “He was on the shuttle in the long term lot. I followed him back to the terminal, and then I lost him.”
“He stated he’d returned to the airport the morning after her body was discovered to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. He parked in short term and took the shuttle to avoid being recorded on the long term cameras.”
“If he was worried about having left something behind, why not return earlier? If he killed her, that was awfully stupid.”
“If most murderers weren’t stupid, we’d probably never catch them.”
“I know. You already told me. But you still would have asked him that question.”
“He stated that he panicked when he read in the paper that her body had been found.”
“Yeah, right. His story is so full of holes, it’d sink faster than the Titanic.”
He chose not to comment on that, asking instead, “What did you two talk about last night while he was in your apartment for almost an hour and a half?”
She cringed at the thought of Witt outside her place last night while she— “I don’t remember.”
“He stated he told you his predicament, and you advised him to surrender to the authorities.”
“Then that must be what we talked about.”
He looked at her then, and there was something disturbing in his eyes. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn it was hurt. But he was a cop, and she couldn’t ascribe the feeling to someone in his position.
“Do you trust me, Max?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to lie. She didn’t have anywhere near the qualms about lying that Remy had. She sincerely believed that sometimes lies were necessary. What came out of her mouth, though, was completely unintentional. It was the truth. “No.”
She didn’t trust him, and she most certainly didn’t trust the way he made her feel. Hot and wet one minute, shamed and guilty the next. It was the shame and guilt that bothered her the most. She shouldn’t give a damn what Witt thought about her.
A car backed out of a driveway three houses down. Witt turned, stared as it headed toward them, then passed. When he looked back at her, his hands fisted at his sides. “You really know how to cut a man off at the knees, don’t you?”
“You’re not a man, you’re a cop.”
“Thanks. I feel a helluva lot better knowing that.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant it’s nothing personal.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s the problem.”
He reached out, drew a finger down her cheek, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake. She wanted to take the digit in her mouth and suck on it, suck him inside.
Abruptly, he rounded on his heel and started across the street to his car.
The flesh around her eyes tightened, as if she’d been crying and the salt of her tears had dried and cracked. “Aren’t you going to arrest me for obstructing justice or something?”
Halfway across, Witt turned. “The suspect stated you informed him he either had to turn himself in or you would do it for him. Without his testimony, I couldn’t make the charge stick.”
“But you want to, don’t you?”
“No, Max, that’s not what I want at all. That’s the whole fucking issue.” He yanked his door open, climbed in, started the engine, and drove away with a hard set to his jaw.
Anger Max could deal with, and jealousy was just a weapon of insecure men, but hurt made the perpetrator responsible.
She sure as hell hoped that hadn’t been hurt sparking Witt’s eyes; that was more than she could handle at the moment.
Shoving thoughts of Witt aside and armed with the name and address of Carla Drake’s mother, Max climbed in her car and hit the road in search of a killer. Carla had given the information herself, writing it all down right there in Wendy’s office. Max popped a CD in the player. Mick Jagger sang Sympathy for the Devil. Driving music. Hunting music. Her quarry? Bud Traynor’s minion. Nicholas Drake’s salvation.
She wouldn’t think about Witt, or about the fact that he’d been sitting outside in his car while Nick had been boning her on the stairs.
She certainly wouldn’t think about how, when she’d closed her eyes, Witt had been the one between her legs, or that when she came, Witt’s name hovered on her lips.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The house was a small, square bungalow in a neighborhood on the other side of the proverbial tracks. The place was neat, the lawn recently mowed and edged, the beds along the walk filled with late summer flowers, and the porch swing freshly painted. No vehicle was parked in front of the one-car garage, the curtains were closed, and the front light still glowed.
Carla’s parents lived in Foster City, close to the San Mateo Bridge. Jet engines roared overhead. Foster City was under SFO’s direct flight path, and only a few exits down the freeway.
Max pulled in across the street shortly before nine a.m. The place was far too quiet to be occupied by two small children. They should have been racing around the yard like wild Indians.