Next to me on the couch, Laurel was bouncing her knee up and down. I put out a hand and stilled it.
“So does the same gun mean the same killer went after both my husband and Maddie Petrosian?” she asked. “Why? That doesn’t make any sense.”
I had to agree. How could a shooting yesterday morning be connected to a murder three years ago?
“That’s the obvious explanation,” Tracy replied. “But it’s early yet.”
“The newspaper called it an interrupted burglary. Is that really what happened?” I asked. “That grocery’s been closed for ages. Oh, is that the one she bought to redevelop?”
Tracy shot me a “you should know better” look. And I did. I’d been married to a cop. “Interrupted burglary” is code for when the police suspect attempted murder but don’t want to say so.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Laurel repeated. “Maddie’s a developer. Pat was a prosecutor who volunteered his spare time with a community group trying to protect the neighborhood against overzealous developers. They were on opposite sides. What could anyone hope to gain from shooting them both?” She looked from Tracy to Greer and back, but got no answer.
Finally, Eric asked, “So what’s next?”
“Crime scene evidence,” Tracy replied. “You wouldn’t believe the dust and junk in a vacant grocery. Canvass the neighborhood. Trace the gun. Ms. Petrosian’s shooting is a tragedy, and it is our immediate focus. But it’s also giving us new evidence on your husband’s case, Mrs. Halloran. We’ll be revisiting every lead. He was one of our own.”
When one of their own was attacked, every law enforcement officer kicked into high gear to solve the crime. Maybe now, they could.
“That’s where the FBI comes in,” Greer said. “We’re conducting a thorough investigation into a person of interest, and dedicating extensive resources into reevaluating other evidence in light of this recent incident. Working closely with the SPD, of course.”
“That means the project’s on hold for now, right?” I said. “Who still wanted it stopped? Who didn’t accept the newest proposal?”
“We’re looking into that,” Tracy said, “although it’s hard to see how that might circle back to Mr. Halloran.”
If Pat’s killing was not related to his work as a prosecutor, but stemmed from his volunteer work or his personal life, then it wasn’t a federal case. But until that was disproved, the FBI would take the lead. Not because they were pushy or grabby, but because that was the law.
And while Mike Tracy was grumpy and suffered fools not one whit, he would do whatever it took to solve this case.
“We’ll keep you posted, Mrs. Halloran,” Greer said, standing to leave. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
She rose, as did Mike Tracy. He buttoned his jacket and glanced at Kristen and me. “Don’t suppose I can keep you two away from your old friends, now can I?”
“Not a chance,” I said.
He grunted—he grunts a lot—and gestured to the Special Agent. “After you.” Then he turned back and plucked a cookie off the tray.
NATE closed the houseboat’s door behind the officers. I felt badly for him—he had no idea what was going on.
But then, neither did the rest of us.
Laurel sank back, eyes closed. She’s a striking woman, at five nine, a couple of inches taller than me, and at fifty-five, a dozen years older. We are hair opposites—mine is short, dark, and spiky, while hers is a cascade of gray-brown curls that falls well below her shoulders. But at the moment, I suspected my face mirrored the expression of sadness mingled with shock that hers bore.
“We should leave you alone.”
“No.” Her dark eyes flew open. “Oh. You missed dinner. And the music.”
“We’re fine,” I said reflexively, but she’d already jumped up. Besides being a chef, she’s mother to a teenage boy, though he was safely away at college. Hungry people spur her into action.
I picked up the framed photograph she’d clutched throughout our conversation with Tracy and Greer. Pat had been a nice-looking man with a friendly, open face. Not a head-turner, but a man you’d smile at on the street. His sandy-red hair was as curly as Laurel’s, and he had the hazel eyes, fair skin, and smattering of freckles that went with his Irish name.
I set the photo on the table, picked up the coffee tray, and followed Laurel into the kitchen. It’s tiny but efficient, with a built-in dining booth, and within minutes, I’d poured us all glasses of pinot noir, and Laurel had served up mixed greens dressed with a basil vinaigrette and bowls of pasta with olive oil and garlic, sprinkled with parsley so fresh it was practically still growing. Eric had found Diane Schuur on his playlist and his phone serenaded us from the windowsill.
Laurel slid in next to Kristen, a glass of wine in hand. “Maybe, finally, we’ll get answers.”
After a few bites, my blood sugar stabilized and I could begin to think again. I set my fork down.
“So was Maddie the target, or in the wrong place at the wrong time?” I mused.
“I just sent Tim a text,” Kristen said to me. “When do you want to go to the hospital tomorrow? Coma means ICU, so we might not be able to see her, but we can at least talk with him in person.”
“You’ll have to go without me,” I said. “I am swamped at the shop.”
“I need to call Gabe,” Laurel said. “Friday nights are game nights. I don’t even know if they won.” Gabe was a freshman at Notre Dame, on a soccer scholarship.
“Call him in the morning,” Kristen said. “Let him enjoy Friday night. Besides, you don’t know anything yet.”
“Pat always said”—Laurel’s voice broke, then recovered. “He always insisted that we would not keep secrets from our son. When Pat was fifteen, his father was badly injured on the job. His mother didn’t
