After Cord hung up, he yanked on his clothes. “I knew about the car, obviously. I hadn’t forgotten it, but the rent charge was paid up for several months, so for a few weeks, I just left it alone. There seemed far more important things to look into than that.”
“It seems increasingly obvious that whoever wants information still hasn’t found it,” Sophie said.
“Exactly.” He bent down, kissed her on the brow-and without thinking, gave Caviar a stroke between his ears. “Soph-”
“Don’t. I understand. The car thing is more important at this instant. We can talk later.”
But when he left, moments later, Caviar climbed up on her lap, as if sensing she needed something warm and secure to hold. The cat snuggled under her neck and let out a thunderously reassuring purr. She snuggled right back, but it wasn’t the cat on her mind as she scooped him up and aimed for the kitchen.
It was just Friday. A major workday ahead. She was finishing up the final interview with her Danish war survivor, after which she’d need to pour on the coals to do the intensive translating work.
But even as she started the day at a full gallop, her heart was on Cord. She really did understand why he hadn’t readily shared certain things with her. A murder and murderer were at stake, for heaven’s sake.
But Sophie was at risk, too, and she knew it. Not from a murderer. But from the man she knew damn well she’d fallen in love with.
Chapter 9
Cord battled traffic to get to the garage, fielded a cell call from the faculty office-a student was ill, was going to miss an exam, needed a resolution-and then another call from the rest home. His dad had fallen, nothing serious, nothing broken-but could Cord stop by that day? So. It was going to one of those nonstop days when he couldn’t catch a breath.
Back when he worked overseas in some mighty perilous, touchy situations, life had seemed far simpler.
Two policemen were still at the garage, fussing with Jon’s car. Cord didn’t recognize either of them. The car, typical of Jon, was an overpriced foreign model with a fancy paint job. It didn’t look quite so pretty with the trunk jimmied open by a crowbar, its wires dangling like wet noodles from the security system. Leather seats had been slashed. The lock on the glove box was ripped open, all its debris spread over the seats and console.
Ferrell was hanging at a distance, looking as if he’d taken root against a cement pillar with his steaming cup of joe. Cord talked to the cops first, but they didn’t reveal more than what he could already see. The garage had lights, cameras and a live security guard 24/7. Someone had still managed to get in, break down the car’s security system and pretty much take the car apart, stem to stern. Even though Cord didn’t care for the ostentatious car, he had to wince at the damage. After a good look-too good a look-he lumbered over to Ferrell.
“I didn’t expect to see you here. I also didn’t think the car was even of interest. I thought the police examined it after Jon’s death.”
“They did, and found nothing suspicious. But obviously the person who broke in was desperate enough to hope there might be.” Ferrell stubbed out a cigarette and motioned Cord to move out of the wind, where he could light up another. “We need a little talk time.”
“It sounds like you’re buying my breakfast.”
Ferrell shot him a long-suffering look, but Cord didn’t care. He’d left Sophie specifically when he needed time with her, missed his first class, had his whole life disrupted-again-by problems that were none of his choosing.
The corner bistro where they settled didn’t mollify his impatience, but the place did serve blueberry bagels and had damn good coffee.
Ferrell wanted to horse trade. After all this time, he finally gave up the name of his client. “Senator Bickmarr. Wife, Tiffany. They didn’t have a marriage made in heaven, even before he got elected, but they put it back together for the sake of ambition, and they’re both plenty ambitious. Whether you knew it or not, she was one of the honeys your brother videotaped. She wasn’t having as good a time in Washington as she’d hoped. Senator’s known for having a temper, also for thinking he’s got a play at the White House in a few years.”
Cord went for a second bagel. “So you think he killed my brother?”
“No. I thought she did. Bickmarr hired me to protect himself, his wife, their future. He seemed to believe his wife did this. The cops weren’t onto her, because they didn’t recognize her from the CDs, but there was her proven affair with your brother. There’s her fear of exposure, and his blackmailing her. There was a lot of evidence suggesting she’d do anything to bury the evidence.”
“But obviously, you don’t think she’s the killer, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Correct. Where the police stand on the whole investigation, I can’t speak to. I don’t totally know. But I know where my people were. They’re alibied. I’m certain. And because I had to be certain, I checked out the other initials and names and ‘hint’ words you gave us. The only one I can’t get any clue about is ‘Penny.’”
“I met a Penelope Martin,” Cord mused.
“If it’s her, that’d be peachy keen.” Ferrell, for the third time, lit up a cigarette. “But I need to know. The more I look into this, the more I find that your brother was a grade-A bastard. The number of women he was playing, he should have had stock in Viagra. I don’t care, you understand. What I care about is my people. First job was making sure neither was guilty of a crime. Second job is making sure their names stay out of the limelight when the murderer’s finally found.”
Cord finally realized what Ferrell wanted from him. Ferrell had given up the senator’s name in hope that Cord would keep silent about the senator and his wife down the road. Hell, his brother was the guiltiest party, so Cord wasn’t about to throw ink stains on anyone else. “I have no reason to be a problem for your senator, or his wife. If they’re not guilty of murder, anything I find related to them can go in a bonfire as far as I’m concerned.”
“I figured you were a straight shooter. So I just need you to know what I’m looking for. What I’m trying to protect. What’s at stake for other people-” Out of nowhere, Ferrell muttered a swear word.
Cord glanced up, to see George Bassett coming toward them. The detective pulled up a chair, plunked it down with an impatient look at Ferrell. “This meeting wasn’t supposed to start without me. And there’s a limit to how much involvement you’re entitled to in police business, Ferrell.”
Cord suspected that was true, by the law-but not necessarily true in the reality of Washington politics and power. Whatever, Bassett posted his elbows on the table and gave him the next earful.
“It’s my stage now. You listen to
“Yeah. It’s a woman. We told you, from the autopsy, that your brother was hit twice, once with a blunt object hard and sharp enough to push him down the stairs. Forensics came through with more than that. From the angle and strength of the blow, they’re certain it was a right-handed woman. Above average in height, but not particularly strong. The height’s not possible to determine completely, because there’s no way to be certain where the two were standing on the stairs.” Bassett revealed a few more details, but Cord interjected as soon as he had the chance.
“It’s not Sophie.”
Bassett hunched closer. “The only woman with prints in his apartment is Campbell. She was all over the place, in the kitchen, on his mailbox, in the bathroom.”
“You told me that before. But she also naturally explained all that. She was around all the time to bring in the mail when he was gone.”
“And that’s part of the picture. All those home videos-almost none of them were set in your brother’s place. He didn’t piss in his backyard very often, looks like. But that’s the thing, because again it leaves Ms. Campbell as the only one we can pin down as being inside his apartment on that specific day.”
Cord quit drinking coffee, quit eating, went still as a statue. “He wasn’t blackmailing her, wasn’t sleeping with her. I think you’re dead right that this is coming to a head, that the blackmail victims are likely getting just as desperate as the murderer. Which is all the more reason why you need to quit wasting time looking at Sophie. She’s
