He skimmed multiple texts from his mother, asking if he was all right. He should have already called her. He knew how she worried. He sent her a quick reply: Fine. Busy. Will call later. Love u. That would calm her for now. His mother had a heart condition and he hated to stress her. His father stressed her far enough, thank you very much.
Her return text popped up instantly, and he knew she’d been waiting, her phone in hand. Dad and I love you too.
That made him huff a bitter laugh. His father . . . Well, Jim Kimble would never worry. He was a cop’s cop. Big, burly, and bulletproof. Nothing bothered Jim Kimble. Especially not the job. Not like it bothered his ‘cowardly son.’ His father’s words.
Words that Adam had believed far too often and far too much, no matter how often or how much he told himself otherwise. He’d melted down. Shut down. Blocked out the details that might have brought a murderer to justice. Left the investigation to the other detectives on the team.
Some days he believed that he deserved the contempt in his father’s eyes.
‘What now?’ Deacon asked. ‘That laugh didn’t sound happy.’
‘Mom says “Dad and I love you.”’
Deacon snorted. ‘She keeps saying that to make herself feel better.’
It was true, and hearing Deacon say it made Adam feel better. Deacon had no love for Jim Kimble, either. Deacon, his sister Dani, and brother Greg had lived with Adam’s parents after their parents died. Jim had been an even lousier uncle than he’d been a father.
And he’d been a very lousy father.
But, for his mother, Adam would keep his mouth shut on the matter. As did his cousin. ‘I know, but as long as she stays out of the cardiac ICU, she can tell herself whatever she wants.’
Deacon rolled his eyes. ‘You’re a nicer person than I am.’
Which was not true at all. Adam simply had failed to stand up to his old man. Ever. It was far easier to avoid the problem. So it had been months since he and Jim had spoken. Problem solved.
A little tension seeped from his shoulders at Diesel Kennedy’s texts. With Doc Fallon. She’s okay. Her gramps is here. The old man is . . . interesting.
Adam frowned, wondering what that meant. Knowing Diesel, it could mean nearly anything. He looked up to find Deacon studying him carefully. ‘Do you know Meredith’s grandfather?’ Adam asked, relieved when Deacon chuckled.
‘Yeah. Guy’s a hoot. Why?’
‘Diesel says he’s there with her.’
Deacon relaxed a little too. ‘Good. Clarke’ll be good for her.’ He cocked his snow-white head. ‘She’s been sad lately.’
Adam wanted to groan. ‘Not you too. Please.’
‘Just stating the facts. Not assigning blame.’ Deacon studied him for a moment longer before shrugging. ‘I never met Mer’s grandmother, but I understand that she wore pearls and carried a derringer everywhere she went. Her grandfather is a biker dude. Big, hulking guy, got tats out the wazoo.’
That was surprising. Meredith always seemed so tidy. But fearless. So maybe not such a surprise after all. He kept that to himself, though. ‘No wonder Diesel is finding him interesting.’ Diesel was also hulking and covered in tattoos.
‘Clarke’s also a retired computer geek. Was one of the first video game designers back in the day when two guys could produce a game in their garage.’
Adam chuckled. ‘Then they’re a match made in heaven.’ Because Diesel was a computer geek too. A hacker extraordinaire. Adam envied his skills.
His phone buzzed with a new text. ‘Finally,’ he said. ‘Trip says the bomb squad just gave the all-clear for the scene. He’s on his way back here from the lab.’
‘Anything on the bomb?’ Deacon asked.
‘Don’t know. Let’s get this last interview done, then hopefully he’ll be here so we can find out. I also need to have a look before the ME takes the—’
He was interrupted by loud female voices in the hallway. Seconds later, Scarlett appeared in the doorway with a young woman whose clothing was covered in brown dirt and whose hands were cuffed behind her back.
Scarlett looked pissed off. ‘Detective Kimble, Special Agent Novak, this is Colleen Martel. She is the hostess of Buon Cibo. I found her either hiding or retrieving this from the heating duct in the bathroom,’ Scarlett said, holding up a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag was an envelope that appeared to be stuffed full of something.
‘It’s not mine!’ Colleen exclaimed.
‘Drugs?’ Adam asked.
‘Cash. Two hundred bucks.’ Scarlett worked her jaw back and forth. ‘She was half in the duct when I went into the bathroom to get her. Kicked me, trying to get away.’
‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ Colleen insisted through clenched teeth.
‘Other than kicking a detective,’ Adam said mildly.
‘And carrying a concealed weapon,’ Scarlett added. She took another clear evidence bag from her pocket. This one contained a sheathed stiletto knife, a can of pepper spray, and a cell phone. ‘She was going for the pepper spray when I pulled her out of the duct.’
‘Pepper spray is not illegal,’ Colleen declared, chin up. ‘Neither is the knife.’
‘You can own all the knives you want,’ Adam told her. ‘But stilettos are considered deadly weapons and concealed carry is not legal. Unless you have a permit?’
Colleen looked away.
‘Didn’t think so,’ Adam said. ‘Detective Bishop, will you see that she’s transported to the precinct? We’ll conduct Ms Martel’s interview there.’ Where they’d get her on tape.
‘Absolutely.’ Scarlett gripped the woman’s shoulder and maneuvered her toward the hotel lobby. ‘Come along, Miss Martel.’
Panicked, the woman tried to jerk out of Scarlett’s hold. ‘No. Not like this.’ She tugged against the restraints. ‘People will see me.’
The three of them glanced at each other before fixing gazes on the hostess. ‘Why does that bother you?’ Adam asked.
The woman closed her eyes. ‘Just because. Can you take me out the back?’
‘Not without a better reason than “just because,”’ Adam told her.
The woman’s chin jutted up. ‘I fear for my life.’
Scarlett looked unimpressed. ‘Who do you fear?’
The woman shook her head. ‘I plead the Fifth.’
Scarlett huffed out an irritated breath. ‘Will you accompany me, Agent Novak, just in case Miss Escape Artist is in legitimate danger?’
‘Of course,’ Deacon said. ‘You’ll meet us there, Detective Kimble?’
‘I’ll be a few minutes behind you.’ He needed to check out the crime scene first.
Seven
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Saturday 19 December, 7.20 P.M.
Adam walked into Buon Cibo and came face to face with the bar. He closed his eyes. Most days he could walk into a restaurant and ignore the bottles filled with . . .
He shuddered. Filled with everything he craved. His fingers twitched and he shoved his hands into his pockets. No booze. You just think you want it. You don’t need it.
Clenching his teeth, he turned for the dining room to find Quincy Taylor watching him so steadily, so knowingly, that Adam nearly looked away in shame. But he didn’t. Because he’d kept his hands in his pockets and had not reached for any of the bottles behind the bar. He’d take that as a small win.
Baby steps. Nearly a year of baby steps. But he was almost there. Almost to a year. And then . . . well, he’d planned to talk to Meredith then. But it looked like that conversation was going to happen sooner than he’d planned. Tonight. He’d tell her tonight.
Quincy had gone back to taking photographs of the overturned table closest to the shattered window. The dining room was a mess. Tables were overturned and flatware, dishes, food, and menus were strewn over the dining room floor, but the focal point was one white tablecloth, horribly askew and stained with blood.
‘That’s where Meredith and Mallory were sitting?’ Adam asked.
Quincy lowered the camera. ‘Yes.’ He looked down, nodding when he saw Adam’s shoes covered in booties. ‘You can come over here, but be careful. There’s a puddle of vomit on the floor just to the right of the table there.’ He lifted a brow. ‘Meredith was afraid she’d contaminated the scene. Said she tried to direct it away from the remains.’
Adam swallowed hard, not wanting to visualize her crouched on the floor, terrified and covered in human remains. ‘She’s . . . a responsible person.’