Mike’s forehead wrinkled. “Which one?”
“Beverly Wilson.”
The detective’s friendly demeanor dropped away. He glared at them. “Beverly’s case has nothing to do with these recent cases. Who told you about it?”
“That’s not important—”
“Yes, it is.” The tips of Mike’s ears turned deep red. “I’ve worked hard to put my mistakes behind me, and now you’ve dredged them back up again. What game are you playing?”
“This is no game, Mike.” Avery arched her brows. Game? Interesting choice of words. “When you heard about the circumstances surrounding Debra’s murder, why didn’t you mention Beverly Wilson’s assault? The two cases are similar enough, you should’ve said something.”
“Are you kidding? First of all, Beverly Wilson wasn’t murdered. And second, her attacker is dead. John Starin isn’t the one after you now. Not unless he’s a ghost from the grave.”
“How did my father figure out John Starin had attacked Beverly?”
Mike scoffed, tossing the remote on the coffee table. It landed with a clatter. “You think I know? I was in Arizona doing mandatory rehab for a drinking problem I didn’t have.”
“How long were you there?” she asked.
“What difference does it make? I’m not interested in revisiting ancient history.” His gaze narrowed and he puffed out his chest. “I’ll ask you again, what’s this really about?”
Weston shifted until he was standing slightly in front of Avery, drawing the detective’s attention back to him. “Where were you last Friday night between the hours of seven and midnight?”
Mike sucked in a sharp breath. He didn’t answer. The color from the tips of his ears spread into his cheeks and neck. “I’m a suspect?”
The question came out through gritted teeth, and Weston had the distinct impression Mike was barely holding it together. He gestured to an armchair. “Sit down, Mike.”
“This is my house. I’m not taking orders from you.”
“If you like, we can take this down to the station for everyone to see.” Weston kept his tone calm. “But I don’t think that’s in your interest. We aren’t trying to take you down, Mike. Our goal is to get to the truth. Now sit down.”
The detective threw himself into the chair. He seemed to struggle with his emotions, his fingers clenching and unclenching. The man had a temper.
“I didn’t have anything to do with the murders,” Mike said. “Kenneth and I had a falling out, yes. And I was angry about the way he handled the stolen patrol car, but it’s absurd to think I’d target Avery twenty years later because of it.”
Weston decided to continue down that path instead of challenging him about the chief of police position at Harrison University. The point was to get as much information as possible. He sat in the other armchair and faced Mike. “We have to eliminate you now that this information has come to light. That’s how investigations go, as you well know.”
Mike’s shoulders dropped. “It took me years to rebuild the trust of my department. How many people know about the stolen patrol car?”
“Myself, Avery, and one other ranger. That’s it. Things don’t need to go further, as long as you answer my questions. Where were you on Friday night between the hours of seven and midnight?”
“I was here.” Mike laughed, but there was no real mirth. It came out hard. “Alone. My wife divorced me years ago.”
Avery took a seat on the arm of the couch. From there, she could still listen in but wasn’t in Mike’s line of sight. Weston kept his gaze locked on the detective across from him. “What about on Saturday night?”
“I worked my shift. Got off in the evening at eight and came home. Went to sleep and returned to work for Sunday evening. And before you ask, no. No one can verify I was at home during the hours Marianne was abducted and killed.” Mike blew out another breath. “Again, I have no reason to hurt Avery. This is ridiculous.”
“Did you apply for the chief of police position at Harrison University?”
Mike’s jaw tightened and his leg started bouncing. “I did. So?”
“It couldn’t have been easy when Avery was hired for the job instead of you.” Weston kept his attention on the other man, watching each facial expression as it flickered across his face. “Especially considering the history you had with her dad. I mean, if Kenneth hadn’t turned you in all those years ago, if your time in rehab hadn’t gone on your permanent record, you’d be in her shoes.”
Mike froze, and a hardened mask dropped over his features. It was cold and unyielding, and a pinprick of fear stabbed at Weston. Had the enraged side of Mike, the out-of-control temper, been an act? Because the man Weston was looking at now was far different. This version of Mike could be responsible for two brutal, organized, and well-planned murders.
Mike stood. “We’re done here. Get out of my house. Both of you.”
Weston rose. “Don’t be hasty—”
“I said get out. You don’t have a shred of evidence linking me to these murders. If you want to interview me again, you can go through the sheriff and my lawyer.” He pointed to the front door. “You know the way.”
Avery’s complexion was pale, but she squared her shoulders and turned for the door. Weston followed. The cold air smacked his cheeks. He glanced back inside to see Mike crossing the living room. Just as the detective reached to close the door, a car’s headlights from the street swung into the living room. The beam flashed on a certificate hanging on the wall.
First place in the Texas State Chess Tournament.
Weston froze on the porch, that pinprick from earlier now a sharp jab. Mike shot him a hard smile before his gaze shifted to Avery. Something unreadable passed across his features.
Then he slammed the door in Weston’s face.
Fourteen
Weston leaned away from his computer and rubbed his eyes. Almost eleven. For hours, he’d been digging into everything he could find about Detective Mike Steel and Jack Starin. It was a
