Two Paragon security officers stood at the gate with walkie-talkies. Quinn flashed his ID and they were waved through to the house. Edwyn Noble's black Lincoln was parked in the drive with a steel-blue Mercedes sedan beside it. Kovac pulled in behind the Lincoln, so close the cars were nearly kissing bumpers.
Quinn gave him a look. “Promise you'll behave yourself.”
Kovac played it innocent. He had been relegated to the role of driver and wasn't to leave the car. He wasn't to cross Peter Bondurant's field of vision. Quinn had kept Gil Vanlees's revelation to himself, as an added precaution. The last thing he needed was Kovac bulling his way into this.
“Take your time, GQ. I'll just be sitting here reading the paper.” He picked up a copy of the
Noble met Quinn at the door, frowning, looking past him to the Caprice. In the car, Kovac had his newspaper open. He held it in such a way as to give Edwyn Noble the finger.
“Don't worry,” Quinn said. “You managed to get the best cop on the case busted to chauffeur.”
“We understand Vanlees has been taken into custody,” the attorney said as they went into the house, ignoring Kovac as an unworthy topic.
“He was arrested on a DUI. The police will hold him as long as they can, but at the moment they don't have any evidence he's the Cremator.”
“But he had . . . something of Jillian's,” Noble said with the awkwardness of a prude.
“Which he says Jillian gave to him.”
“That's preposterous.”
“He tells a very interesting story. One that includes you and a payoff, by the way.”
Fear flashed cold in the lawyer's eyes. Just for an instant. “That's absurd. He's a liar.”
“He hasn't exactly cornered the market there,” Quinn said. “I want to speak with Peter. I have some questions for him regarding Jillian's state of mind that night and in general.”
The lawyer cast a nervous glance at the stairs. “Peter isn't seeing anyone this morning. He isn't feeling well.”
“He'll see me.” Quinn started up the stairs on his own, as if he knew where he was going. Noble hurried after him.
“I don't think you understand, Agent Quinn. This business has taken a terrible toll on his nerves.”
“Are you trying to tell me he's what? Drunk? Sedated? Catatonic?”
Noble's long face had a mulish look when Quinn glanced over his shoulder. “Lucas Brandt is with him.”
“That's even better. I'll kill two birds.”
He stepped aside at the top of the stairs and motioned for Noble to lead the way.
THE ANTECHAMBER OF Peter Bondurant's bedroom suite was the showcase of a decorator who likely knew more about the house than about Peter. It was a room fit for an eighteenth-century English lord, all mahogany and brocade with dark oil hunting scenes in gilt frames on the walls. The gold damask wing chairs looked as if no one had ever sat in them.
Noble knocked softly on the bedroom door and let himself in, leaving Quinn to wait. A moment later, Noble and Brandt came out together. Brandt had his game face on—even, carefully neutral. Probably the face he wore in the courtroom when he testified for whoever was paying him the most money that day.
“Agent Quinn,” he said in the hushed tones of a hospital ward. “I understand you have a suspect.”
“Possibly. I have a couple of questions for Peter.”
“Peter isn't himself this morning.”
Quinn lifted his brows. “Really? Who is he?”
Noble frowned at him. “I think Sergeant Kovac has been a bad influence on you. This is hardly the time to be glib.”
“Nor is it the time for you to play games with me, Mr. Noble,” Quinn said. He turned to Brandt. “I need to speak with him about Jillian. If you want to be in the room, that's fine by me. Even better if you want to offer your opinion as to her mental and emotional state.”
“We've been over that issue.”
Quinn ducked his head, using a sheepish look to cover the anger. “Fine, then don't say anything.”
He started toward the door as if he would just knock Brandt on his ass and walk over him.
“He's sedated,” Brandt said, standing his ground. “I'll answer what I can.”
Quinn studied him with narrowed eyes, then cut a glance to the lawyer.
“Just curious,” he said. “Are you protecting him for his own good, or for yours?”
Neither batted an eye.
Quinn shook his head. “It doesn't matter—not to me anyway. All I'm interested in is getting the whole truth.”
He told the story Vanlees had given him about the window-peeping incident.
Edwyn Noble rejected the tale with every part of him—intellectually, emotionally, physically—reiterating his opinion of Vanlees as a liar. He paced and clucked and shook his head, denying every bit of it except the idea that Vanlees had been looking in Jillian's window. Brandt, on the other hand, stood with his back to the bedroom door, eyes downcast, hands clasped in front of him, listening carefully.
“What I want to know, Dr. Brandt, is whether or not Jillian was capable of that kind of behavior.”
“And you would have told Peter this story and asked Peter this question? About his child?” Brandt said with affront.
“No. I would have asked Peter something else entirely.” He cut a look at Noble. “Like what he was doing at Jillian's apartment before dawn on Sunday that was worth paying off a witness.”
Noble drew his head back, offended, and started to open his mouth.
“Save it, Edwyn,” Quinn advised, turning back to Brandt.
“I told you before, Jillian had a lot of conflicted emotions and confusion regarding her sexuality because of her relationship with her stepfather.”
“So the answer is yes.”
Brandt held his silence. Quinn waited.
“She sometimes behaved inappropriately.”
“Promiscuously.”
“I wouldn't call it that, no. She would . . . provoke reactions. Deliberately.”
“Manipulative.”
“Yes.”
“Cruel?”
That one brought his head up. Brandt stared at him. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because if Jillian isn't dead, Dr. Brandt, then there's only one logical thing she can be: a suspect.”
33
CHAPTER
THE KID LOOKED like hell, Kate thought—pale as death, her eyes glassy and bloodshot, her hair greasy. But she was alive, and the relief Kate felt at that was enormous. She didn't have to bear the weight of Angie's death. The girl was alive, if not well.
“Angie, God, you scared the hell out of me!” Kate said. “How did you get in? The door was locked. How'd you even know where I live?”
The girl said nothing. Kate edged a little closer, trying to assess her condition. Bruises marred her face. Her full lower lip was split and crusted with blood.
“Hey, kiddo, where've you been?” she asked. “People were worried about you.”
“I saw your address on an envelope in your office,” the girl said, still staring, her voice a flat hoarse rasp.
