nothing. She’d do that if she wasn’t getting enough attention. Or if I was getting too much. I told her to chill, and she told me to eff myself.”
His cheek muscles twitched. His hands clenched on the table, as if he were having a bad dream or an angry thought.
“You’re saying you fought,” Brady said.
“I ran after her,” said Kennedy, “but she drove off. The next thing I know, it’s morning and a friend is calling to say, ‘Turn on the TV.’”
Kennedy shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.
Brady said, “Which was it this time? She didn’t get enough attention? Or you got too much?”
“There was an extra girl. Friend of one of the other girls. She was showing a little too much skin. Kept flouncing around me. Touched me a few times.”
Kennedy named the girl and the girl’s friend, and then Brady asked, “Did you see or speak to Faye after she left your house?”
“No. I didn’t call her. I was still pissed that she went all diva in front of my guys. If only I’d stopped her. Taken her for a walk or a smoke or something. What the hell am I supposed to do with myself now? We were supposed to get married.”
Conklin asked Kennedy what time Faye left the party, and Kennedy said he didn’t know.
“It was late,” he said. “I’d had a few. Now I gotta live with the fact that we had a fight and I never saw her again. Christ. We were in love. We were really in love.”
Tears fell from Kennedy’s eyes. He used his forearm to dry his face. Fenn put a hand on his back, said, “Take it easy, Jeff.”
Brady said, “Mr. Kennedy, do you know of anyone who wanted to hurt your fiancee?”
“You cannot know what people think about people they see on TV,” said Kennedy. “People are crazy. They stalk celebrities. Sometimes they shoot them. But do I know any specific person who hated Faye enough to kill her? No. And now I have a couple of questions for you.”
I looked up from my notepad. Kennedy had his massive forearms on the table and was leaning in, looking menacing. “Where is Faye’s body? How could someone have stolen her out of the ME’s office? How are you going to find her killer if you don’t have her body?”
“Forensics is processing her car,” I said. “Do you own a gun, Mr. Kennedy?”
“Hell, no. Are you seriously asking me that?”
I said, “Does the name Tracey Pendleton mean anything to you?”
“Who?”
I repeated the security guard’s name. Kennedy grunted, “Never heard of him.” Then he shot up from his seat and, crying, stumbled out of the conference room.
Fenn was saying, “He’s understandably upset.”
Kennedy seemed appropriately devastated and clueless. But I wasn’t buying that his breakdown meant that he was innocent. He had graduated from Stanford with honors. He was 230 pounds of muscle and he’d had a fight with his girlfriend.
Kennedy was a smart jock with a cultivated violent streak.
That could be a lethal combination.
Chapter 41
I OPENED THE front door to our apartment at just about 8:00 p.m. I was desperate to hold our baby, have a bath, a glass of wine, and a bowl of pasta with red sauce. I wanted to get out of my clothes and hug my husband and sleep until morning, not necessarily all at the same time.
I called out, “Helloooo. Sergeant Mommy is home.”
Martha careened around the corner, jumped up against me, and would’ve knocked me down but for my baby weight keeping me anchored.
Girly laughter came from the living room.
What was this?
I followed Martha around the bend and saw that the Women’s Murder Club was loosely arrayed around the room. Claire danced Julie on her thighs and held her up for me to see. Couldn’t help but notice that the baby had a pink gift bow stuck to the top of her head.
“Heyyy,” Claire said. “Look who I’ve got.”
“Heyyy,” I said back. “Give her to me.”
I grinned at my baby and at the same time noted Claire’s slurred greeting and lazy laughter, the open bottles of wine and empty glasses on the coffee table. A party had started without me.
Joe was on his feet and coming toward me with open arms. He kissed me and asked, “What can I get you?”
I tipped my chin toward Claire, said, “I want what she’s having.”
Yuki’s laughter is one of the most adorable sounds I’ve ever heard. If laughter were a flower, Yuki’s laugh would have to be called merry bells.
Julie was laughing, too, as Claire flew her over to me. I said, “Hang on a sec.”
I removed my jacket and gun, then took Julie into my arms. And still she didn’t cry.
“Aren’t you the little party girl?” I said.
I sat down, kicked off my shoes, and smooched my pretty baby as Cindy brought over cheese and crackers and Joe put a glass of Merlot on the lamp table.
“So,” Cindy said, sitting so close to me on the sofa she was almost in my lap. “How was your first day back at work?”
My reporter girlfriend was interviewing
I said, “It was a long twelve hours.”
“We brought presents,” said Yuki.
Gifts were on the coffee table and Joe took Julie so that I could open the sixteen-flavor margarita kit from Yuki, a stack of Monster Proof pajamas from Cindy, and a pair of Giants tickets from Claire. Front-row seats!
My postpartum party was great, but after I slugged down my wine, I began to fade.
Claire clapped her hands and said, “Time to go, girlfriends. Lindsay, we’re making Morales an honorary member of the club, summer pass only. Come with us to Susie’s?”
“Me? Thanks, but I’m a dead mom walking.”
Everyone laughed and I hugged them good-bye at the door, shouting after them, “Claire, let Cindy drive.” I took Julie back from Joe, and what do you know? As soon as the girls were gone, Party Girl started to cry.
“Aww, sweetie.”
I sank into Joe’s armchair and patted Julie’s back as Joe cooked dinner and then put the baby to bed.
He kissed me, sweaty as I was, and he said, “Why don’t you hit the rain box?”
When I returned from my shower smelling like lavender, wearing blue pj’s, barefoot, and with my hair up in a ponytail, linguine marinara was on the table and Louie Armstrong was on the Bose.
“Tell me about your day,” said my wonderful Joe.
Chapter 42
AFTER THE MEETING at Fenn & Tarbox, Rich Conklin had stood on Battery Street with Brady and Lindsay, their collars up against a misty rain.
Brady had said what they’d all been thinking—that if Kennedy had motive and a gun, he could have gotten into the car with Faye Farmer, shot her, then walked home. He would never have been missed at his free-floating party.
