‘Good. Now can we get on to the fun stuff?’
‘Absolutamente.’ He rolled onto his side to look down at her. She was so very pretty. ‘That means “absolutely”,’ he said teasingly.
She chuckled. ‘That one I figured out on my own.’
Kathryn didn’t have Margo’s capacity for numbers or languages. Margo had inherited her mother’s proficiency with languages and was fluent in six of them, while Kathryn often had trouble even with English, her Spanish deplorable. But Kathryn was a strategic thinker with a killer body, and he was happy to have her in his bed for the foreseeable future.
He never would have wanted Margo anyway. From the time she’d been old enough to crawl, she’d been Colin’s. The thought made him sigh.
‘Aw, don’t be sad,’ Kathryn murmured.
‘It’s . . . I miss him.’
‘I know.’ Kathryn pushed him to his back and straddled him. ‘But I can take your mind off all that for a little while.’
That would be welcome. ‘Then by all means, please proceed.’
Eight
Chevy Chase, Maryland,
Monday 13 June, 9.25 A.M.
It was remarkably the same, Thorne thought as Jamie navigated the streets leading through Chevy Chase. The houses had always been grand and well kept. The cars had always been luxury models. The signage in the yards had always warned trespassers to keep away.
Grand houses gave way to smaller homes in more middle-class neighborhoods, until they stopped in front of a bungalow painted a cheerful yellow with a garden full of roses. Jamie put his van in park. They’d brought his vehicle because it was easiest for him to enter and exit with his chair.
It wasn’t the most maneuverable of automobiles, but Jamie had mad driving skills, which was good because they’d had to lose no fewer than five news vans and four cars. Some of those cars probably held reporters. At least one had been the cop tasked with their surveillance. Thorne felt safer without the constant police presence, especially since they were hoping Prew would give them real information. He might be loath to meet with them if he thought the cops would find out. The man had a pension to hold onto, after all.
‘Detective Prew is expecting us,’ Jamie said into the quiet of the car, because no one had said a single word since they’d left that morning.
Thorne had been lured from his room by the smell of coffee, to find Jamie and Phil at the kitchen table with Gwyn, already dressed. They were all elbow-deep in paperwork. Jamie had brought up the box with the file from his trial and they’d located one of the EMTs and the ME who’d done Richard’s autopsy.
Thorne could only blink blearily at them. He’d fallen asleep only an hour before. He’d tried to sleep all night, he truly had, but he’d only lain in bed looking at the ceiling and alternating between thoughts of the woman who’d died in his bed and the very live woman asleep on the sofa. Everything within him had wanted to go to Gwyn, to lose himself in her scent, in the soft feel of her skin. But he hadn’t.
He’d made his case. The ball was in her court.
But this morning she was clearly as messed up as he was. He only had to look at her to realize she hadn’t slept at all either. She had dark circles under her eyes, well hidden by her makeup but still visible to anyone who knew her. And Thorne had watched her face for twelve long years. He knew every curve and line intimately.
She was dressed conservatively and that annoyed him. Gwyn didn’t dress conservatively. Gwyn was out there, flashy. Herself. But he knew she’d be trying to make a good impression today, so he said nothing. Although it annoyed him even more that she thought she had to be someone else to make that good impression. That she’d thought it the night before as she’d packed her bag with the clothes she only wore to funerals and to court.
There was absolutely nothing wrong with who she was. He’d tried to figure out how to tell her that, but no words had come, so he’d let it go.
Now the four of them were in front of Prew’s house, and Thorne found he was nervous. Not a feeling he cared for at all. ‘Who’s on point with Prew?’ he asked when they’d exited the van.
‘I am,’ Phil said. ‘At least at the beginning. I’m thinking Jamie should take over if Prew is comfortable talking to all of us.’
Thorne stopped mid-step. ‘What do you mean, “if”? Doesn’t he know we’re about to descend on him?’
‘No,’ Phil said, ‘he’s only expecting me, but he knows it’s about you, so I think he’ll be okay with the four of us. Come on, Thorne. We don’t want to be late.’
Thorne followed with a scowl until he caught Gwyn scowling back at him. ‘What?’
‘Behave, Thorne,’ she hissed. ‘Phil is nervous enough.’
‘So am I,’ he hissed back.
‘But you’re supposed to be the pro at this. How many times have you walked into a detective’s office to ask questions?’
‘This isn’t his office. It’s his home. And I’ve never been asking about myself!’
‘Then pretend it’s not about you. Pretend it’s about me. That I’m being set up for murder. Then you find that fire of yours, because I want this over. I want you to be able to live without either murder hanging over your head for the rest of your life.’
He stared at her, then realized she was right. He shook himself, irritated that he’d allowed a homicide detective to rattle him. It was just . . . ‘This whole thing makes me feel seventeen again,’ he confessed.
Her smile was patient. ‘I know it does. Just remember who you are. Thomas Thorne, who eats prosecutors for breakfast and spits out their bones.’
He swallowed a laugh. ‘I think you should keep that visual to yourself. I am being framed for homicide, after all.’
‘True,’ she allowed.
‘Thank you.’ He’d needed to laugh. He’d needed her to steady him.
Her expression was sober as she nodded. ‘You’re welcome.’
They were greeted at the front door by a gray-haired African-American man around Jamie’s age, and the years seemed to fall away. Thorne remembered this guy, remembered his eyes, which had been so hard to read. He’d never seen Prew in anything other than a suit and tie, but today he’d dressed casually in a polo shirt and khaki pants. A set of golf clubs leaned against the foyer wall. It appeared that the man was enjoying his retirement. He looked a little surprised to see a group instead of just Phil, but he rolled with it.
‘Please sit down,’ he said, once he’d led them to the living room.
‘Thank you for seeing us on short notice,’ Phil said. ‘Christopher Prew, this is Jamie Maslow, Gwyn Weaver and Thomas Thorne.’
Prew nodded at each of them, but when he came to Thorne, he gave him a long look. ‘I’ve watched your career over the years. I’ve been impressed, even though I think defense attorneys are one step down from IRS agents.’
Thorne found himself smiling. ‘Thank you.’
Prew grinned. ‘You’re welcome. I apologize that I don’t have refreshments to offer. My wife is out and . . . well, I didn’t realize there would be four of you. You’d have to fight over the two Danishes I bought this morning.’
‘Our apologies for not warning you. We weren’t sure that Thorne would be up to the trip,’ Gwyn said. ‘He was in the hospital yesterday.’
Prew frowned at that. ‘I heard. You’ve got yourself some trouble, Mr Thorne. Although I remember you as Mr White.’
‘I changed my name back to that of my birth father after the trial. My stepfather was a cruel man, as I’m sure you recall. I didn’t want to bear his name.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ Prew agreed. ‘White was a piece of work for sure. A bully and a thug. So. What can I do for you all this morning?’
‘We’re here to talk to you about Thorne’s case nineteen years ago,’ Jamie said. ‘The murder yesterday was set up to appear similar to that of Richard Linden.’
Prew’s brows went up. ‘Shit.’
Gwyn leaned forward, meeting the detective’s eyes. ‘Somebody wants to hurt Thorne. We need to know how they got the information about the Linden case.’