Speak No Evil

Deep down Nick knew Steve had changed the subject to avoid talking about himself. Going on the attack was a standard ploy to keep the attention off him, but Steve’s question startled Nick and he couldn’t help but think about what he’d gained, and what he’d lost, after the Butcher investigation.

He pushed those thoughts aside. “Steve, you lied to me and you lied to the police. How can I trust you?”

“Maybe you never trusted me.”

“Don’t twist this around, Steve.”

“I can’t believe this,” Steve said, avoiding the conversation once again.

Nick had just about had it with his brother. “Just tell me you didn’t kill Angie.”

Steve jerked his head back, staring wide-eyed at Nick. “You sound like you think I did it.”

“I don’t think you killed her, but I want you to look me in the eye and tell me the truth for once. Did you have anything to do with Angie’s death?” Nick didn’t believe his brother was guilty, especially after Dr. Kincaid’s analysis, but Steve had goaded him, and Nick had reacted.

He also wanted to hear it from Steve’s mouth, without excuses, without lies.

Steve started pacing. “You think…you think I could do something so cruel? That I would rape a woman?”

“You lied to the police about what time you were at the Sand Shack on Friday night.”

“I forgot.” Again, he was lying.

“Dammit, Steve!” He took two steps across the room and spun his brother to face him. He held him by the shoulders, forced him to look in his eyes. “How can I help you if you keep lying to me?”

“Whose side are you on?” Steve asked through clenched teeth.

“I want to be on yours. But do you know how bad it looks to the police if you lie to them?”

“It’s not important.”

“Hell yes it is!” Nick released Steve. “I think you should get a lawyer and talk to the police. Tell them everything-everything-about your relationship with Angie, why you broke up, when you knew about her journal, how much time you spent there, what you know about deleted comments…”

“Deleted comments?”

“Yes. Everything. If you cooperate, maybe we can catch her killer.”

“Cooperate! I’ve been cooperating from day one.”

“You’ve been lying through your teeth so that you look like the hero you used to be, not the man you are today.”

Nick wanted to take the words back. The shock, the hurt, on Steve’s face hit Nick in the gut.

They stared at each other in silence. “I’ll talk to them. Tomorrow morning. Set it up.” Steve turned and walked toward his bedroom. Looking over his shoulder he said, “You might want to find another place to stay. My couch isn’t very comfortable.”

He slammed his bedroom door.

That certainly hadn’t gone as Nick planned.

As he packed up his laptop, Nick realized Steve didn’t think of himself as a thirty-eight-year-old man. He held close to the image that he was a young, twenty-one-year-old war hero who fit in at college. And in some ways he did, because he certainly acted like an irresponsible, immature kid. Dating college-aged girls was Steve’s way of holding on to the illusion that he was young. Since he’d given up his own college years to the military, this was Steve’s way of changing the past.

But fifteen years was a long time to grow up.

How could Nick help Steve see that he was living a lie? Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe it would take a severe jolt to his ego to make him realize that he didn’t fit with the college crowd, that he needed to grow up, get a job, do something other than go to school for the rest of his life.

Nick just didn’t know how he could help.

As he walked out the door, Nick felt a deep chill penetrate his bones, and not from the late-afternoon breeze.

Steve had never answered his question about whether or not he’d killed Angie.

FIFTEEN

WILL DROPPED THE PHONE in the cradle and turned to Carina. “Masterson just got back to town. His neighbor called.”

“Let’s go.” Carina shoved her notes in the drawer and jumped up.

They were heading out the door when Nick Thomas walked in, looking a little worse for wear. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

He didn’t answer her question. “I set up the meeting. Steve will give a formal statement tomorrow morning and answer any questions.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way back downtown,” said Carina. “You could have called.”

“I didn’t have a choice. My brother kicked me out of his apartment. Know a decent hotel in the area?”

There was more to it than that, but Nick was a man of few words and Carina didn’t press.

Will spoke up. “Why don’t you ride with us? Masterson just got home. I’d sure like to know what he’s been doing since Friday night.”

“I appreciate it.”

The afternoon commute had just started and it took them thirty minutes to get out to the San Diego coastal community of La Jolla. Masterson lived in a small, poorly maintained house near the campus, about a mile from Steve, though he wasn’t a student.

“Easier to sell drugs if you’re close to the buyers,” Will mumbled.

Carina filled Nick in on Masterson’s criminal history as they approached his door. “He seemed to have skipped town with a girl Sunday night. Considering he’s Angie’s last-known boyfriend, his behavior raises serious questions.”

Carina fidgeted as Masterson took his sweet time answering the door. Will acted his usual casual self, though looks were deceptive: his hand was only inches from his gun. And Nick looked all cop, standing tall, face blank, a Stetson on his head. Must be part of the uniform in Montana.

She’d never realized a cop in a hat could look so sexy. She needed to get out of the city more.

Carina shook the errant thought from her mind and focused on the door.

Will rapped again. “Doug Masterson, Detectives Hooper and Kincaid with the San Diego Police Department.”

Finally, they heard a chain sliding open and Doug Masterson stood in the doorway, shirtless and in jeans, reeking of cigarette smoke. He was tall and lanky, with long blond hair and a deep dimple in his chin. He smiled when he saw Carina, sizing her up from head to toe, lingering too long at her breasts.

Jerk.

She flashed her badge. “Detective Kincaid with SDPD. Can we come in?”

She took his barely perceptible nod as a yes and walked through the door. Will and Nick followed.

The apartment was borderline filthy with overflowing ashtrays and dirty clothes tossed around. The fifty-inch flat-screen television took up half of one wall along with a deluxe stereo system that, if turned full-blast, Carina was certain she’d be able to hear down at the station.

The first thought that came to mind was that Masterson couldn’t be Angie’s murderer if Dillon’s analysis of a “tidy, immaculate” killer was accurate.

“Hello, officers of the law,” Masterson said condescendingly. “To what do I owe this pleasure? May I get you coffee? Doughnuts?”

“Cabron,” Carina mumbled, then asked, “When was the last time you saw Angela Vance?”

He blinked, the question obviously startling him. Or he was a good liar. “Angie? Why?”

“She’s dead,” Carina said flatly.