‘More like four million,’ Jamie said grimly. ‘And no, she’s not at the office. Frederick had already told everyone on the payroll to stay home today. Anne can access all the search websites we use from wherever she is. She uses a proxy program, so nothing she does can be traced to her. But she’s . . . nervous about her job. Understandably.’
That didn’t surprise Gwyn. The firm’s receptionist was young and rather timid. Her boss being accused of murder wasn’t something she’d process easily.
Thorne tensed. ‘Did you tell her that she shouldn’t be? That I didn’t do it?’
‘Of course I did,’ Jamie chided gently. ‘She doesn’t know you as well as we do.’
Thorne snorted. ‘She’s worked for me for a year.’
‘And I’ve known you for nineteen.’ Jamie sighed. ‘Locating addresses will keep her busy. Give her less time to worry. It’s a win-win.’
‘I’m surprised she didn’t have them all in her head already,’ Gwyn said dryly. The young woman was organized to a fault. She’d overhauled the firm’s filing system in her first week and knew where everything was located. She also remembered everyone’s birthday, at both the firm and Sheidalin, making sure Thorne sent at least a card to everyone.
‘Anne’s good, but not quite that good. I heard back from Lucy.’ Thorne studied his phone. ‘She texted about Kirby Gilson.’
‘The ME tech that was killed,’ Gwyn murmured. She’d had a terrible feeling about what they’d learn when they dug deeper into the man’s background. ‘What did she find out?’
‘That Eileen Gilson, Kirby’s widow, lives in Chevy Chase, in the really ritzy part. Her son, who did not die of leukemia – thank goodness – now goes to a private university. Mrs Gilson doesn’t have an income-generating job. She participates in a lot of charities.’
‘But she’s living well if she’s got a place in Chevy Chase,’ Phil said quietly. ‘So we add her to the list?’
Gwyn nodded. ‘Absolutely. I mean, I can understand selling out to pay for your child’s health care, but it sounds like she’s continued to receive benefits from someone. I wonder if we can get into her bank records.’
‘JD can – if we give him the information,’ Jamie said. He parked the van in front of an apartment complex. ‘For now, let’s talk to this EMT. Brent Kiley has been a medic for twenty-five years. That’s all we know about him at this point. I’m still waiting on the address for the other EMT, his partner back then. If Anne hasn’t found it by the time we’re done here, we’ll move on to Richard’s posse. Darian Hinman, VP of his daddy’s business, is first on the list.’
‘Who’s going in?’ Thorne asked. ‘It looks like the places are small. We don’t want to overwhelm the guy with all four of us.’
Phil was eyeing the lobby of the building balefully. ‘I see stairs, but no elevator. What floor does this guy live on?’
‘Third,’ Jamie muttered. ‘Shit.’
‘If it’s a walkup, Thorne and I will take it,’ Gwyn said quickly. She didn’t want Phil taxing himself on stairs, but she wouldn’t say it out loud since they weren’t supposed to know about his heart condition. ‘You two stay here and figure out where we’re going next.’
Thorne shot her a grateful look. Thank you, he mouthed.
‘You need witnesses, Thorne,’ Jamie said through clenched teeth. ‘Remember? Unimpeachable alibis?’
‘Gwyn can be my witness. I won’t cause any trouble, Jamie. I promise.’
He waited until they were in the lobby to bend down and whisper in Gwyn’s ear. ‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure how to keep Phil from overdoing it.’
She patted his arm. ‘I know. We’ll keep him covered, okay?’
His arm tensed under her palm and his eyes skittered away. ‘Okay. Let’s go see if Brent Kiley is home. We may have to try him at the firehouse if he’s not here.’
Brent Kiley was home. He opened his door looking rumpled and bleary-eyed, as if he’d just tumbled out of bed. His sweatpants had grass stains on the knees and his T-shirt was on inside-out. His graying hair stuck up in all directions. Clearly they’d dragged him out of bed.
‘I’m not interested,’ he snapped, and started to slam his door.
‘We’re not selling anything,’ Gwyn said, leaning forward enough to put her palm on the wood. ‘I promise. We just want to ask you a question.’
Kiley’s eyes had dropped to her bosom, and a familiar fear shivered down her spine. Her blouse was conservative. She showed no cleavage whatsoever, but that never seemed to matter. She resisted the urge to step back, to flee. Barely.
But only because Thorne was standing behind her. His very presence made her feel safe.
‘Mr Kiley,’ she said sharply, channeling her old self.
His gaze lifted to meet hers, his expression growing dark. ‘If this is about the Bettuzi case, I can’t talk about it.’
Gwyn blinked once, startled for a second. Recovering, she shook her head. ‘It’s not. This is about a call you responded to nineteen years ago.’
Brent Kiley had been staring at Gwyn, but now he seemed to realize that Thorne was there. His bleary eyes widened and he took a step back. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, a thread of panic in his voice.
‘Not to hurt you,’ Thorne replied calmly. ‘Do you . . . do you know me?’
Brent shook his head, but his eyes told a different story. ‘I saw you on the news, is all. You killed some woman. Why are you even out, walking the streets?’
‘Because he’s not guilty,’ Gwyn snapped. ‘Look, we need to ask you a question and we’d appreciate a straight answer. Can we come in? This may not be a topic you want your neighbors to overhear.’ With her head she gestured left, where a door had opened a sliver. ‘And that one is listening to every word we say.’
Brent scowled, holding up his phone. ‘Fine, but I’m dialing 911 if you make a move I don’t like.’
That he so readily agreed was a blinking neon sign that he knew something – hopefully something he wanted to tell them. No sane person would allow into his apartment a man Thorne’s size who’d also been accused of vicious murder.
The inside of the apartment was typical man-cave, Gwyn thought. Empty pizza boxes were piled high on a dinette table and the trash overflowed with beer cans and paper plates. It gave her new appreciation for the neatnik Thorne was. She’d never seen his place messy, except for the previous morning. It had been her first clue that something was wrong.
Brent went into the kitchen and called, ‘You want a beer?’
‘No, thanks,’ Gwyn replied. ‘Too many carbs.’
He emerged with a can and popped the top. ‘Huh. I figured you’d tell me that it wasn’t even noon.’
Gwyn shrugged. ‘I run a nightclub. It’s five o’clock somewhere.’
‘True. My schedule at the firehouse fucks with my brain. I never know what the hell time it is.’ He gestured to a sofa that was quite nice. And clean. ‘You want to sit?’
‘Sure,’ Gwyn said.
‘I’ll stand,’ Thorne rumbled.
‘Yeah,’ Brent muttered as he flopped into a ratty recliner. ‘You do that. So, what’s your fuckin’ question?’
‘Richard Linden,’ Gwyn said levelly, aware of Thorne standing right next to the edge of the sofa, within grabbing distance if she needed him. ‘You responded to the scene of his murder.’
‘Yeah,’ he said shortly. ‘I remember. Kid was carved up like a deer.’ He glanced over at Thorne. ‘You were arrested for that.’
‘And tried, and cleared,’ Thorne said, menace edging into his tone.
‘Yeah, I remember that too. What do you want to know?’
‘Yesterday’s victim was Patricia Linden Segal, Richard’s sister.’
Brent froze, the beer can only an inch from his lips. Slowly he lowered it and put it on a side table. ‘What?’
‘Yeah.’ Gwyn tilted her head. ‘I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.’
‘I did a shift yesterday. I caught the murder on the news before I started. When I finished my shift, I came home and fell into bed. You woke me up.’
‘Sorry,’ Gwyn murmured. ‘I work nights too. I hate to be woken up.’
He waved his hand. ‘Whatever. What’s your question?’
Gwyn focused on his face, watching for any flicker of guilt. ‘Did you see any foreign object in Richard Linden’s body when you transported him to the ER that day?’
‘Yes,’ he answered readily, making Gwyn blink again. Beside her, Thorne stiffened.