“Don’t know.” Sophia had to step out of the way when a couple in matching peacoats swept in through the doors and headed into the bar. “I never heard that she did, but I didn’t pay attention.”
But Donna was shaking her head and recapping the lip gloss. “Me, neither. I was always just concerned that she show up on time . . . Oh, I have to run.” Donna scurried back to the desk, where an elderly man was approaching from the elevator.
“Wow,” Sophia said, her thoughts on Willow. Dead? Suicide? It didn’t make sense. She cinched the belt of her coat around her, then pulled her knit cap from her pocket and tucked her hair into it before heading outside, where the night was sharp and cold, a bit of snow falling. It was odd to think Willow had offed herself, but Sophia couldn’t let herself get too wrapped up in it. After all, she’d barely known the weirdo.
What did bother her was that James had stood her up to check on Willow. And he’d been with Rebecca.
That would have to end, she thought, as she slid into the frigid interior of Julia’s car and crammed her key into the ignition. And end now.
* * *
Sliding the Glock, encased in a plastic bag, across the table in the interview room, Rivers asked James, “Is this your gun?” He and Mendoza were seated on one side, Cahill on the other, a manila folder unopened between them. Every second of the conversation was being recorded by cameras and microphones. Rebecca Travers had angled to be in the room as well, but Rivers hadn’t allowed it, of course. Protocol. Also, he wanted to interview Cahill alone to study the man’s expressions, to observe the slightest of his reactions.
Currently, Rebecca was in the waiting area with a deputy.
Rivers wanted to talk to her, too, but first things first. Right now, James Cahill was up to bat.
A tic had developed near Cahill’s right eye as he eyed the weapon. “Can I pick it up?”
Rivers nodded. “Just leave it in the bag.” The pistol had been tested for prints already and had been fired into a water tank to see if the bullet fired in the lab had matching striations to the one that would be extracted from Willow Valente’s skull. Just to be certain the gun wasn’t a plant.
Cahill studied the pistol. “Yeah. I think so. I mean, it looks like mine. And mine’s registered, so you should already have that figured out. I gave you all that information when I told you it had been stolen.”
Mendoza nodded. “We checked the registration.”
“Then why are you asking me?” he asked.
“Confirmation.” Mendoza’s gaze held his.
“Where did you find it?”
“Next to Willow Valente’s head. In the bed with her.”
“Jesus. Are you fuc—kidding me?” Cahill couldn’t take his gaze off of the gun. “What was it doing there?”
Rivers leaned back in his chair. “I was hoping you could tell us,” he said as Cahill slowly shook his head from side to side.
“I have no idea. The last time I saw it—I told you—the Glock was in the dining room, which is really my office, in a drawer on the sideboard. That’s where I keep it, and it’s never loaded. You know this already. I filed a damned report. It wasn’t in the house when you guys searched it. Obviously, it was stolen. By the killer or his accomplice! For God’s sake, I had nothing to do with it!”
“And you put the gun in the drawer in your dining room when?” Mendoza asked.
“God, I don’t know,” he snapped, then took control of his temper again. “Look, I don’t remember. Hell, I still don’t remember some of the things that happened a couple of weeks ago. But . . . maybe when I moved in. I never use the thing and don’t recall taking it out of the drawer. I’ve had it for years, bought it from a dealer in Seattle, but . . . I just don’t need it.” He slid the plastic-encased Glock back to Rivers as if he never wanted to see the pistol again.
He seemed sincere, but Rivers didn’t trust him.
“So what was your relationship to Willow Valente?”
“Nothing. I mean, she was an employee, obviously. On the payroll.”
“And that was it?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Uh, she helped Sophia clean my house after you guys trashed it doing your thing, but I didn’t ask her to. I knew her well enough to say ‘hi,’ but that was about it.”
“When was that?”
Cahill glanced at the calendar on his watch and gave the date, then said, “Sophia insisted, and Willow helped her. I’d been camping out at the inn after I got out of the hospital . . . so . . .” His voice faded.
Rivers took out the pictures of Willow in James’s bed from the manila folder on the table. He’d copied the images from the digital images that had been sent to Zena Wallace and printed them out once he’d arrived at the office. “How do you explain these?” He slid the pictures out of a folder and sent them James’s way.
“What are these?” James took a quick glance at the nude shots and scooted his chair back, distancing himself from the photos. “Why the hell are you showing me these?” He gestured quickly at the pictures. “Because she has the gun?”
“Look a little closer,” Mendoza suggested.
“Why?” Swallowing hard, Cahill inched his chair closer again. “I mean, she’s naked, and she’s got the gun and . . .” His already pale face lost all color, and his mouth fell open a bit. “Holy shit.” He looked up at Rivers. “She was in my bed?” he said, and he seemed dumbfounded. “In my bed with the gun and . . .” He held up both hands, palms out. “I don’t know what this means, but wow . . . oh, wow. I don’t get this. The only time, only time she’d been in
