“What could you have done?”
She didn’t know. The road beside her was devoid of moving cars, of people and noise and life. Emptiness echoed inside her.
“Only I could have stopped it.”
“How?” she asked without voice.
“By leaving it alone, like you said, by walking out of that interview with him and never giving him a second thought.”
“But he would have gotten away with Cordelia’s murder.” And all the others he’d committed or manipulated since.
“Karma,” Cameron whispered.
If Cameron hadn’t pursued Bud, he wouldn’t have been the man she loved.
“I sealed my own fate.” Then a heartbeat later, “You have to seal yours.”
The cell phone chirped on the seat beside her. She couldn’t remember leaving it there nor turning it on. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe ghosts were capable of far more than she understood. Sutter would know about that; she had the gift.
Picking it up, she punched a button, murmured hello as a question.
A harsh release of breath she recognized as Witt, a crackle of airwaves between them, then his voice. “You’re alive.”
“Yes.”
“Traynor?”
“He’s dead.” Then she answered what he hadn’t asked. “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t have to use your gun.”
He waited for more, accompanied by the gentle buzz of cellular, the rumble of an engine, and the faint tinkle of music. He had the radio on. He was driving.
“You’re not with Ladybird.”
“Didn’t need me anymore.”
Ladybird hadn’t needed him in the first place. “Where are you going?”
“Got some business,” he said, his usual enigmatic self.
“How long will you be gone?” She imagined a week, a month, a year, and ached.
“Not long. A few hours. Meet me at home later.”
Home. His place. Relief clogged her throat. She didn’t ask what his business was, giving him the trust she’d asked from him earlier. “His name is Dennis Martin.” She expected Witt to know she spoke of Bootman. “He killed Bud. No one knows I was there but him.” The shot hadn’t brought the cops. “He’s not dead, Witt. I didn’t kill him either. He lives in the city, in the Tenderloin.” She gave him the address. Her vision, or whatever the hell it had been, told her that as well. She swallowed, eyeballs aching, nose stinging. “He’ll be in apartment 452.”
Silence, then, “Been there all along, hasn’t he?”
“Yes.” The connection, the meaning of the number.
Heaviness marred his voice. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no way you could have known.”
“I’ll take care of him.”
She didn’t ask how, moved on from that promise the way she had to move on with her life. She’d lived in the past far too long.
“Come home soon.” The rightness of the word, the enormity of it, rushed through her. “I’ll be there in time to see the lawyer tomorrow.” The cops wouldn’t know she’d been with Traynor, but there was Scarface and Tattoo and nothing to prove her innocence unless ... “Cameron’s gun is with Bud. It should be a match for the other two murders. If the cops know to try to match markings.”
“They will.” He’d make sure.
A car came up on her, slowed, a cop car with an eagle eye spotting her in the SUV. “I have to go. A cop’s looking me over.”
“Leave the phone on.”
She could gauge nothing by his tone or the words. “Sure.”
Bare air waves followed, no good-bye. She dumped the phone on the seat beside her and started the engine. The cop circled, followed her three blocks, then punched his siren and took off. She started to breathe again.
She needed to change, then get Sutter’s car back to her. No matter that it was two o’clock in the morning. Max wasn’t tired. She couldn’t sleep until she’d finished the things she had to do.
She couldn’t sleep until her body became convinced what her eyes had seen was true. Bud Traynor was dead. In her heart, she couldn’t believe it was over. Would he come back to haunt her as Cameron had done? God forbid.
Pulling onto her street, she smelled the blue Camero like a tiger scents prey. Riley Morgan, cup reporter and major pain in the ass, waited in his car. Turning around would draw attention to herself. Max chose a sedate speed for the early morning hour. With his car parked across the street from her apartment, he was facing away from her. With a glance, she noted his head against the neck rest and his closed eyes.
Some stakeout. He’d fallen asleep.
But asleep or not, she couldn’t risk a trip to her apartment.
Max headed for Sutter’s. She had a spare key to the Miata, and she could leave the Toyota’s set in the mailbox.
Lights blazed in Sutter’s front room. Her friend opened the door with none of the surprise that should have been on her face.
“You knew Cameron didn’t leave when he died.” Max hadn’t meant the words as an accusation, yet they sounded that way.