“Did you call Ellen the other day?” Kate asked.
“Yes. She left me a message. I returned the call.”
“Do you still have the tape?”
“No.”
“We’ll have to check phone records. Did you give her a present?” Kate sounded like a prosecutor.
“No. Ellen thought I gave her a cat, but I didn’t.”
“The DA’s a family friend. He gave me some information. Said her cat’s a calico. Just like Henry. Is that a coincidence?”
“Kate, I’m sorry about Ellen—devastated, in fact—but I’m not involved.”
“The cat’s tag indicated that Ellen named him Peter. It seems natural to assume that she named him after you. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“I hope you’re not lying . . . I can’t help myself. I still care . . . You’re not bullshitting me, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Good, because there’s a lot more. Dark head-hair. Same color as yours on her sheets and pillowcase. A coffee cup in the kitchen. Your prints. A microwave—again, your prints on the door. Semen on the sheets. It looks real bad.”
“I’ve never been in Ellen’s apartment. She insisted on staying at my place so her other boyfriends, including our boss—Craig Hinton—wouldn’t find out.”
“Then we need the DNA results on the semen found on the sheets. They’ll show it wasn’t you. The rest of the stuff could’ve been planted— you’ve pissed off enough people to make that plausible. But in the meantime, you’ve got to turn yourself in. The labs are running a preliminary DNA test known as PCR. They expect results in two or three days.”
“PCR? What’s that?”
“It stands for Polymerase Chain Reaction. Forensics extracts the semen and vaginal samples from the sheets, grows DNA in the lab, then compares those to a sample of your DNA. Not as statistically significant as RFLP, but it should be good enough to get you off. The DA tells me he already got a sample of your DNA from a sealed envelope in your apartment.”
“An envelope?” Peter asked.
“They got a search warrant. He didn’t tell me what else they found, only that he was able to obtain a saliva sample from some outgoing mail you left behind.”
“How’d you get all this information?” Peter asked, in awe of Kate’s thoroughness.
“I told the DA I thought I could get you to turn yourself in if I knew what we were facing. He believes me. My credibility’s on the line.”
“Kate, it may be your credibility, but it’s my life. I need time.”
He then reviewed in detail the day’s events with her. “I’ve got what looks to be a coupla million in cash lying on my bed. Stacks of thousands, hundreds, and twenties. All worn. I’m sure untraceable.”
“Your alibi is that you robbed Stenman—” Kate said, her voice near shock “—either killed or maimed Stenman’s Chief Investment Officer, set the building on fire, then escaped in an ambulance? This isn’t helpful, Peter.”
“Can’t you do something? At least stall until I can meet with Agent Dawson.”
“I’ll negotiate with the DA, tell him we’re coming in. I’ll try and give you until four tomorrow afternoon. After that, I’m screwed. Can you live with that?”
“Yes. One last thing, Kate.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“I still need to meet with your father. Can you arrange that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why? He loves you more than life itself.”
“I confronted him. His responses convinced me he’s done some bad things. Then he sort of threw me out. And Peter?”
“Yes?”
“He said someone was killed. I think he meant your mother’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“I’ve arrived at the same conclusion after talking with Detective Ellis.”
“If he helps you, Father intimated that he’s liable to end up in serious legal trouble, or worse.”
“I’m sorry, Kate, but I need to talk to him. Will you ask? If nothing else, I want to understand the past—the history of our families.”
“Our lives
“Thanks.”
“You aren’t leading me down a primrose path, are you, Peter?”
“You mean with Ellen?”
“Yeah. Ellen and everything else.”
“You have to believe me. I’m being straight with you. Stenman Partners isn’t the greatest alibi in the world, but no way my semen is on those sheets.”
“I believe you. I’ll work on Father and leave a message on Drew’s voice mail. You have a way to get hold of Dawson?”
“Drew’s got his number and is gonna phone him.”
“I’ll camp out in the District Attorney’s office,” Kate said. “By the time you’ve turned yourself in, they’ll have checked out your bizarre alibi. I should be able to get a reasonable bail.”
“Unless they want to nail me for what happened at Stenman’s,” Peter said.
“You said you were justified. Somebody’s going to have to do some heavy-duty explaining.”
“That’s true,” Peter said.
“You have any theories on how your moonstone made it to Ellen’s bedside table? Your prints on a cup and on her microwave?”
“Beats me,” Peter said, “unless Ellen, or maybe even Craig Hinton if he was jealous, had me robbed the day I moved out of my old place.”
“You think either of them engineered the theft?”
“Unlikely,” he said. “I’m grasping at straws.”
“I’ll follow up on Hinton, just in case. His relationship with Ellen and the fact that he disliked you makes him a natural suspect. You’ll meet me outside the courthouse, tomorrow at four?”
“Yeah. Four. How long before you get my release on bail?”
“Once we confirm things, a day, tops. You should plan to return Stenman’s money when you turn yourself in.”
“I took the money, hoping to trade it for answers. Under the circumstances, I’m happy to give it back.”
Once he re-cradled the phone, Peter flopped across his bed and clamped his eyes. He wished he were back at the old apartment, with its tiny bathtub, bathing with and making love to Kate Ayers. Instead, questions, one stacked on top of the other, weighed like a mountain.
Tomorrow . . . Peter looked at the bedside clock. The red digits flashed 1:04. “No, not tomorrow. It’s today already,” he told himself. “Will I find answers
Especially to the questions about Ellen Goodman—they had been intimate, and that meant something. But who would rape her? Torture her? “Same person who murdered my mother,” he said, almost inaudibly.
The victims were innocent. The game was perverted. And Peter Neil was just beginning to learn how to play.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I WON’T SEE HIM.”
