“Were you alone?”
“I just said I don’t know.” He grimaced as he ran a hand over the tuft of brown hair on his head that wasn’t swathed in a bandage. “Why don’t we just cut the bull? I’ve seen the news and know that Megan Travers is missing, that the rumor is that she and I got into some kind of fight at my place, but I don’t remember it.”
“None of it?” Mendoza asked.
A beat . . . and Rivers got the impression Cahill was going to lie, or at least stretch the truth a bit.
“I don’t recall anything about that night. At least, nothing concrete.”
“Do you remember being with Megan?” Mendoza asked.
He shook his head.
“She was at your house that night.”
“Everyone says so, and yeah, it’s obvious something happened, and I ended up here busted up, but . . .” He met Rivers’s gaze, his eyes slightly defiant. “I just don’t remember.”
Mendoza was clearly skeptical.
“What’s the last thing you do remember?” Rivers asked.
He looked down, appeared to concentrate. An act? To hide his actions? Or a confused man searching the reaches of his memory? “I know that I worked in the shop that day; there’s a home we’re building for a couple in . . . in Oregon. Welches, Oregon. It’s gonna be a ski cabin. Anyway, they wanted it for the holidays, and there was a holdup; the tile she picked out is on back order.” He drew a long breath, wincing. “I called the tile company, and it was too late to reach anyone as they’re on the East Coast, so I hung up, left the office—the office in the main building, where we assemble the houses—then drove to the inn, where I picked up some chili and cornbread to go and headed to the house. After that . . .” He shook his head slowly. “I went out with Ralph, my dog, to look at the horses. I fed Ralph, heated up some chili, and ate it while watching the news.”
“Time?”
“Around six-thirty or seven, maybe. It was the national news, but I always tape it. And then . . .” His eyebrows slammed together, and staring at the floor, he muttered, “Damn it,” under his breath. “And then I don’t know.”
Rivers asked, “Was anyone with you?”
“No. At least not that I can recall.” From the corner of his eye, Rivers saw a nurse slip into the room.
“Did anyone come by?” Mendoza asked. “While you were watching TV?”
“I don’t think . . . oh, hell, I just don’t know, but I feel pretty certain that no one was there when I got home. Just the dog.”
Mendoza asked, “Did you see Megan Travers that day?”
“No . . . well . . . maybe.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin, just under the scratch marks on his cheek. “Was that the day she came to the office?” He thought. “I don’t know.”
“Would anyone else have seen her?”
“Yeah. Well, I think so.” Cahill let out an angry, frustrated huff and glanced out the window. “I really don’t know.” He turned back to Mendoza. “And I don’t want to guess.”
Unfazed, she asked, “When was the last time you do remember seeing Megan Travers?”
“I don’t know! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” He scowled. If he was putting on an act, it was a good one. Rivers almost bought it. But not quite. “Look, Detectives,” Cahill finally said, “I barely remember Megan, and as for the last time I saw her”—he shrugged—“I just . . . I just don’t have any idea. I—I just have a feeling. . . that . . . that I didn’t know her all that well.”
“But you do remember her?” Rivers persisted.
He nodded slowly. “It’s all kind of jumbled and disjointed. I remember what she looks like, and that we . . . were involved.”
“Sexually,” Mendoza said. It wasn’t really a question.
Cahill paused. “I assume so.” But something flickered in his eyes. Yeah, he was lying.
“You don’t recall that?” she asked, skeptically.
Glaring at her, Cahill asked, “Do I need an attorney?”
Rivers said, “No one’s saying that you should contact a lawyer.”
“I don’t think you would.” Cahill’s lips tightened. “You know what? I’m not talking to you anymore. Not without representation.”
“This isn’t an episode of Law & Order,” Mendoza pointed out.
“Doesn’t matter. And by the way, do you have my phone? And my computers?”
“We do.”
“Fu—” Cahill started to say, but changed his mind. “I want them back.”
“As soon as we’re done with them.”
“I want them now!” he bit out, temper flaring. “ASAP! I don’t know what legal authority you have, but I want my things!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Rivers said, knowing that the computer techs were searching through Cahill’s phone records and computer files and would be doing so for a while. But it was interesting to see how quickly James Cahill could lose his cool.
“In the meantime, I’m contacting my attorney.”
Rivers nodded curtly.
“Are we done here?” A vein in Cahill’s temple was throbbing, and one of his hands had fisted.
“Yes, that’s enough,” the nurse answered for them. “Now, please. Let him be.”
Rivers wanted to keep baiting Cahill, just keep nudging him with questions, really delve into this supposed amnesia, but judging from the determined set of Cahill’s jaw, it was doubtful he would answer any further questions.
Mendoza, though, wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. “Just a few more questions.”
“No,” Cahill and the nurse responded in unison. Cahill added, “We’re done.”
“If you change your mind,” Rivers suggested.
“I know where to find you.”
“Good,” Mendoza clipped out, barely hiding the fact that she was irritated.
With the nurse giving them the evil eye, he and Mendoza walked out of the room, but not before Rivers heard Cahill say to Nurse Rictor, “Look, I’m leaving. Now. With or
