“Easy now,” he said. “You called us, remember?”
Us. Was it possible that even the 911 operator moonlighted for the Costellos? Or had she unwittingly forwarded the call to one of Anthony’s blackmail victims? Or to Sean himself?
“Yeah,” I said, once he took his hand from my mouth. “It was a false alarm. So sorry to waste your time.”
He lifted me to my feet but didn’t cuff me. He didn’t Mirandize me, either. There was nothing at all coplike about his behavior, which made me halfway certain I was headed for a pair of concrete boots.
I tried sweet-talking him as he led me back to the Jeep.
“Listen,” I said, “I don’t snitch. I won’t tell anyone anything about anything. I don’t know anything. Anthony kept me in the dark. Whatever secrets the two of you had died with him. I promise you, Sean. All I want now is to get as far from this tropical shithole as possible. There’s money in it if you help me. You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?” he asked.
I didn’t say anything. He waited a beat, then burst out laughing.
“You think I’m here to…what? Whack you? You’ve got it all wrong, Anna. I’m here to help. Like you said, Anthony kept you in the dark. You’re new to this kind of thing. I figure you might need a little coaching.”
I leaned across the table until Detective Haagen and I were sitting eyeball to eyeball.
“And that’s what he did,” I told her. “He coached me. All the way to the station. He told me all about you. Sorry, but he isn’t a fan. He said if I wanted to stay out of prison I should dodge your questions, claim I found the body and panicked. Nothing more to it. Meanwhile, he’d get Vincent off my back, hand him the real killer.”
“Detective Sean Walsh said all of that?”
“Yes. But then if I believed him, I wouldn’t be sharing it with you right now, would I?”
I watched her think it over. For a cop, her poker face was downright lousy. I could see she wanted to believe me. She wanted to believe I was giving her testimony that would end her ex-partner’s career. At the same time, she was afraid of being duped by a mob widow who might very well be lying through her teeth to save her own hide. In the end, she stalled.
“I’ll have to talk to the DA,” she said.
“Fine,” I told her. “Meanwhile, can I go? I’ve told you everything I know. Everything from the moment I found Anthony to right now. I’m tired as hell, and I need about three showers.”
She looked confused.
“But where would you go?” she asked. “Back to the Jackalope? Wouldn’t a cell be the safest place for you? If what you say about Sean is true, we might be able to work something out.”
I gave her a trademark Costello sneer.
“You mean witness protection?” I said. “Detective, you’ve been inside my home. Hell, at this point you probably know it better than I do. You really think a bungalow in Tempe is gonna cut it?”
Now she looked worried, and I knew damn well what she was worried about: dead women tell no tales, and they sure as hell don’t show up to testify in court.
“Don’t sweat it,” I told her. “I’m the three Rs: resourceful, resilient, and rich. I won’t make any more mistakes.”
She shrugged.
“I can’t hold you. But I do need you to keep close.”
“Fine by me,” I said, standing.
Of course, legally speaking, I could have shut down that interview any time the mood struck me. Haagen was right to be cautious. I hadn’t lied to her, but the truth I’d shared was purely by design.
Chapter 18Detective Sean Walsh
LUCKY FOR me, the lovebirds paused in Símon’s doorway for a long, loud kiss. It gave me just enough time to duck out onto the balcony.
If Símon had lived on the second floor, I might have jumped. At most I’d have sprained an ankle or tweaked a knee. Nothing a frozen steak couldn’t fix. But that third flight would land me in the hospital. There’d be a report. Heidi would hear about it. She’d figure out soon enough that Símon and Serena were siblings, and then she’d come hard after my badge. I couldn’t risk that. My only option was to hunker down and wait it out.
I watched Símon and his date through a small gap in the curtains covering the French doors. They’d decided to take their nightcap at home. Símon, it seemed, wanted to showcase his stainless steel martini mixer. Either he was a little drunk already or he didn’t spend much time in his kitchen. It took a lot of opening and closing of cabinets before he had the gin and the vermouth and the olives lined up on the counter.
Meanwhile, my mind was running scenarios, none of them very pleasant.
My biggest fear was that Símon and his lady friend would choose to sip their cocktails under the stars. In that case, the best I could do would be to hide my face and shoulder my way past them. Símon had pounds on me, but I had sobriety and surprise on my side. I slipped out of my blazer, prepared to hold it like a cape in front of my head.
But the evening didn’t take that particular turn. These were working people with early start times. They could only fit so much into an evening. Once Símon found a pair of tiny plastic swords for the olives, they carried their martinis straight to the bedroom. I quit holding my breath, let out what felt like enough air for four people. Then I waited some more just in case Símon came back in search of snacks.
That was when I saw it, lying there on the small wrought iron table. A bright blue workbook called English on Your Lunch Break. I remembered when Sarah bought it.
