“Why did you look now?”
She thought of the hole she dug for herself with each admission. He was a cop. He knew about Cameron, about his three killers. He believed her to be a murderess. Then Max thought of Bud Traynor. Tattoo, Scarface, Bootman, dead or alive, no longer mattered. Only Bud did. She looked beyond the wolf, above his head, to the high windows of the Victorian behind him, to the taller trees. Then she turned back. “My husband told me to find him.”
For the first time, uncertainty showed in the man’s brown eyes.
“A vision,” she went on, letting her eyes dance across his wary features. “I have visions all the time. I find murderers, bring them to justice.” She took a deep breath, gave him a sweet, satisfied smile. “But you know that already. You’ve been following me. You know about Wendy, Tiffany, and Bethany. Lance and Angela.” She held out her arms, crossed at the wrists. “You better arrest me. Tattoo and Bootman are still out there,” she said, her implication being that they wouldn’t last for long.
“I’m not a cop.”
Huh? She cocked her head. “How did you put it all together?”
“I’m a reporter.”
“What’s your name?” She might recognize something he’d written.
He stepped back. “Riley. Riley Morgan.” He didn’t produce a card. She wondered if a good newspaperman would have.
“I’ve never read anything you’ve written.” She looked him up and down, smelling something wrong. That one step back he’d taken started a warning bell ringing inside her.
“I’m new at this. I don’t always get my name out there.”
She smiled, a nasty turn to her lips. “I think you’re just a coffee gopher for the real pros.”
A cub reporter at best, the farthest thing from a wolf. His inexperience flooded into his face. Then he gave her what was probably the truth. “I work the scanners. And when I went to fill in the background, I found your name. Over and over. Different jurisdictions.” Full stop, incomplete sentences as if explanation made him nervous.
Her mouth lifted in an involuntary smile, taking advantage of that uneasiness. “And you did a little checking.” Max took a step forward, inched him backward, then tapped his chest. She took the upper hand like candy from a baby. “How did you get that composite, kid?” she asked, giving the moniker a derisive twist.
His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned at the intended slight. Then he shrugged and tried to pass for defiant. He came off resembling a petulant boy. “I’ve got sources.”
She laughed without humor. “You mean you bribed someone.” She considered him a moment. “I suppose you have the others, too.” Tattoo and Bootman. At the time of Cameron’s murder, she’d given details to a sketch artist. The police had found no one matching their descriptions.
He stiffened his spine and squared his shoulders. “I have everything I need.” Ooh, a taste of cockiness there. Need for what, he wanted her to ask.
She let her mouth lift in one corner, then shot him down. “Not all.” He didn’t have Bud Traynor.
He was young—a man like Witt would have laughed if she’d called him kid—but this one had potential. He might have his uses. She wondered which side he’d end up on, hers or Bud’s. “Tell me what else you do have.”
“The piece de resistance.” He reached once more inside his jacket pocket. Max didn’t flinch. He held out another photo, this time without relinquishing control.
A full three inches shorter, Max towered over him despite his sudden return of confidence. “A watch,” she said, feeling a twinge.
“A gold Rolex watch. Shall I tell you the inscription?”
A crawling sensation started low in her belly. Her stature shrank from the three-inch advantage she’d held moments before, incapable of more than a whisper. “To Cameron. This is the last one. Love, Max.”
He cocked his head to one side. “And I suppose you know where it was found.”
Tiny hairs rose on her arms. “Where?”
“With the dead man.”
“But where?” The hiss of desperation dripped from the words.
“On his chest.” He paused a half second to weight his next words. “Like a message.”
Yes, a message. But the message was to her, not from her. “Time of death?”
“Maybe you should tell me.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Time of death.” Insistent, grating, teeth clenching, pulse pounding at her temple.
“Report of shots fired came in at three-ten a.m. The cops found the body at three-thirty.”
Bud had called her at three-twelve. Right after he’d killed Scarface. Who reported the shots, Max didn’t care. It wasn’t important. Bud would have made sure they didn’t see enough to exonerate her. She imagined Bud, cellular phone in hand as he’d walked out of that garage near Pier 39 and off into the night, a smile on his face.
He knew she didn’t have a witness who could conclusively testify as to what she was doing at the time Scarface was killed.
Chapter Twenty-Two