His hands slid from her back to cup her face, then he planted a quick kiss on the tip of her nose. “Didn’t really think you’d do it.”
“You mean you would have told me even if I didn’t?”
“Can’t stand a wasted drive.”
She pushed him far enough back so she could sock him in the arm. Damn, he was cute when he laughed like that. He grabbed at her hands, saying, “Uncle. Uncle.”
Something bad clicked inside her head at that turn of phrase, and suddenly she didn’t feel lighthearted. She felt heavy, smothered, dark, terrified, and knew whatever triggered those emotions was something she couldn’t bear to face. Besides, she had business to take care of. Lance La Russa. “What’d you find out?”
He held onto her hand, stroked her fingers. “Killed with his wife’s letter opener. Died in her downtown office. Had sex on his wife’s desk with some woman no one can seem to identify at this point. But you already knew all that, didn’t you?”
“Not about the letter opener.” In her mind’s eye, she saw everything toppling to the floor, swept aside to make room for sex. She didn’t bother to ask how Witt had gotten the information. He’d never tell her anyway. He liked keeping some of his cop secrets, even if all he’d done was call up a buddy in the San Francisco police department. “Did anyone see anything after ... the desk thing?”
“He closed the blinds after”—Witt smiled, pausing as she had done—“the desk thing. Mask he’d been wearing was lying on the floor beside him.”
“All right. So what about the wife? Seems like a particularly good motive for murder. She walks in, catches them as they’re cleaning up.”
“Has an alibi.”
“Aren’t you the one who always says alibis can be broken?”
“Benefit dinner at the St.FrancisHotel. Fifty witnesses.”
“But she could have slipped away.”
“She was the coordinator. Couldn’t have disappeared that long without her absence being noticed.”
Max pursed her lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t think she was guilty. What are you not telling me?”
“I’m telling you everything.” He made an X over his heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
She still eyed him suspiciously, dismissing the slight flutter his common little ditty gave. “Liar.”
His eyes widened in mock shock. “Never told a lie in my life.” He shrugged. “Now, omission,” then spread his hands, “that’s another thing altogether.”
“Tell me.”
Blue irises darkened, seriousness settled in. “The number of the office suite was 452.”
Her heart sank past her stomach and straight into her shoes. “452.” A psychic number, it had appeared somewhere in all four murders she’d been involved with. A flight number, an address, a locker, and now a suite, it appeared to be nothing more than an indicator, a pointer, telling her there was a connection between all the deaths.
“Didn’t really doubt you before, Max. But this psychic stuff is starting to get weird.” Witt was as much as saying he’d become a believer.
“Suite 452,” Max pondered. “If the wife did only charity work, why did she need an office?”
“It made her feel important,” he answered as if the cops had already asked the question. “La Russa had the other office in the suite. Investments.”
That said it all about him, certainly. Max needed more on the wife. “What benefit organization did she work with? Maybe I can volunteer, or get on their board.”
“So you can suck up to her and break her alibi? Don’t think so, sweetheart. She’ll probably cut way back on her involvement now that her husband’s been murdered.”
Okay, he was skeptical. That didn’t mean she couldn’t give the plan the old college try. With or without his help.
Obviously reading her expression, he wagged a finger. “Don’t even think about doing anything without telling me first.”
She tipped her head to one side. “Consider yourself told. I can always look the benefit up in the newspaper. And I do feel like doing a little community service.”
He shook his head and finally stepped away. “You’re gonna drive me crazy.” His gaze shuttered. “Don’t make me have to hurt someone to keep you safe.”
They both knew he was talking about Horace’s prophecy. It sent a chill through Max’s bones. The ghost of his late father Horace had once told Ladybird—who’d of course told her son—that someday Witt would be forced to kill someone to protect Max. He’d never shot anyone before, not in the line of duty, not off duty, never. The fact was perhaps even a source of pride with him, as much as solving every case he’d ever had. Max hated the idea that in the end, he’d have to kill for her.