“Are you sure you want me to extrapolate from that.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, at least one conclusion is a little disturbing. Maybe you’re the killer.”
His head turned around so fast, his sunglasses wobbled on his nose. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Let’s look at things from the beginning. The true “first” victim was the one with those markings who was found in the quarry. She’s blond, she’s young, and she’s got her throat slit. Victim number two is a prostitute who colors her hair, blows it out straight, and has her throat slit. Third one? Color. Blowout. The same method of death. And here you are, in the middle of all this, showing up with a photograph of number two with markings superimposed on the abdomen—just like numbers one and three. Now, this second dead girl is a prostitute—perfect place to start if you want to be a copycat in real life. You hire her, kill her, except you get interrupted before you can put the marks were they need to go. You take the pictures, Photoshop them, and show me because you need someone to see your work—someone other than your good self.”
He snapped the book shut and took off the glasses. His eyes were dead serious. “Not at all what happened.”
“Then how do you explain what you gave me?”
“Someone tampered with her. I’m telling you.”
“No offense, but bullshit. Scars don’t disappear from skin.”
The instant the words came out of her mouth, she thought of Matthias—and then reminded herself that there was no magic in the world. There was, however, plenty of makeup. She’d used it on her own bruises. So had he.
Monty jutted forward on his hips. “I’m not feeding you any more information. I had something you might like to know, but you can go to hell—and give up your day job. I can make it so no one talks to you about so much as the f**king weather.”
Mels closed her eyes and bit her tongue.
The truth was, she didn’t actually think Monty killed anyone. Egomaniacs were not necessarily murderers—and she’d rolled out that soliloquy because she was tired of being jerked around.
After a moment, she said, “I’m sorry. You’re right….” Ego stroke, ego stroke, apology…girl eyes. “I didn’t mean to go overboard and offend you.”
“You need to learn how things are done,” Monty grumbled.
“Clearly.” Oh, teach me, big boy—blech. “So…what else do you have for me?”
He didn’t answer her in a hurry, and she had to invest some more smooth-over effort. Eventually, however, he came back around.
“Someone brought in a bullet casing that matches the ones found in the Marriott basement.”
Mels lifted her brows. “Really.”
“Yup. It’s a confidential source, apparently—but CSI established that it was indeed from the gun used in that murder. And here’s the bizarre thing. The owner’s name that was given over? A dead man by the name of Jim Heron.”
Okay, she could not believe the guy was feeding her her own damned story.
Monty leaned in. “The question is, how does the gun of a dead guy end up shooting someone in a hotel a good week or more after he died?”
“Someone took the weapon,” she said flatly. “And used it.”
Monty shrugged. “They’re sending officers over to Heron’s last known address right now to find out more. And I don’t need to tell you that any link to that disappeared body at the Marriott is significant.”
“True….” Hell, at least she knew she’d made a difference. And she’d had to bring Jim Heron in on it when she’d talked to de la Cruz: In spite of the fact that the guy had saved her life—twice—the bottom line was that a criminal was a criminal, and obstruction of justice was not just a felony; it was, in her view, a moral outrage.
“Maybe I’ll let you know what comes of it,” Monty said. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether or not I’m still pissed off at you.”
As he sauntered away, she cursed and wanted to kick the stack of books next to her. Way to handle a source: by accusing him of murder.
Note to self—save the insults for after she got the information.
Although really, what had he given her?
Bracing her elbow in front of a three-volume set on Allied flight paths, she leaned into her hand and cursed—
“Don’t turn around.”
50
As he stood behind Mels, Matthias knew he’d better talk fast. She wasn’t going to want to breathe the same air he did, and she was exactly the kind of woman who would walk away—or worse.
“I know you don’t want to see me—”
“Or talk to you,” she gritted out.
“But I have something to give you—”
“Don’t want it.” Moreover, given by her stiff shoulders, she was probably considering throwing a punch. “I don’t want anything from you.”
Leaning in, he put the SanDisk on the shelf at her eye level and slid the thing into the range of her peripheral vision.
Keeping his fingertip on the black bullet, he said, “You believe that I shot at that man. So believe what’s in this.” He tapped the plastic casing. “It’s the whole story.”
“An autobiography of lies? I don’t read fiction.”
“Not fiction.” He tapped the thing again. “It’s the whole truth—everything I did, everything I hid.”
Her head slowly turned toward the bookcases, and he drank in her profile: The sight of her cut right through him, slicing him to the bone, and he wanted to touch her, pull her back against him, put his face in her hair and smell her.
Instead, he moved the flashdrive even closer. “It’s all in here. And I’m giving it to you.”
“Why.”
“Because after you go through it, after you verify the information—and I know you will—you’ll have to believe what I’m saying to you now. When it came to you, and being with you, I always told the truth—that was real, the only real I’ve ever had. I’m leaving now, and I had to tell you this before I go—”
“Goddamn you, I don’t want your confession, and I will never believe you about anything—”
“Take this. Open it up. The file directory is easy to navigate.” He stepped back. “One caveat—do not review the files on a networked computer with access to the Internet. Go laptop—with no Web. It’s safest that way.”