“Lot of muffins.”
“What can I say? People die, we bring food. It’s a Southern thing.”
“I know.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re from Florida.”
She spooned sugar into her coffee, acting casual, but he could tell she’d mentioned that on purpose. She wanted him to know she’d been checking out his background. It was part of the chess game they had going.
She sipped her coffee. “You mind giving me a ride over?”
“No.”
“Or you could follow me, but this might be easier.”
“I’ll take you,” he said, glad not to have to argue about her car.
He surveyed her kitchen again. On the windowsill was a pitcher filled with water, and the goldfish from yesterday was swimming around. Her breakfast table was covered with paperwork and soft-drink cans, and it looked like she’d been up late working. Jeremy’s gaze caught on a pair of photographs pinned to the fridge with Snoopy magnets. One was a rosy-cheeked boy in a red wagon—maybe her nephew, he guessed. The other picture showed Kira on a deck with a group of people, half of them guys. He still didn’t know whether she had a boyfriend, and he wished he didn’t care.
Kira grabbed a file folder from the pile and slid it into her messenger bag.
“Okay, ready.” She looked him over. “You really don’t want one? I had a failed batch, so I’ve got lots of extras.”
Fuck it, he was hungry. “Sure, thanks.”
She plucked a fat golden-brown muffin from a plate and handed it to him, then stacked the Tupperware boxes and balanced her coffee cup on top.
He grabbed the cup off the stack. “Let’s go.”
Kira engaged her alarm and locked the door as Jeremy scanned the area around her house. He’d parked behind her Toyota in the center of the driveway.
“I understand your neighbor’s out of town.” He opened the door for her and tried not to stare at her ass as she leaned into the truck and stacked the muffin containers in back.
“She’s on vacation with her boyfriend.” Kira slid into the passenger seat, and he handed her the coffee. “I filled her in about everything over the phone.”
Jeremy went around and hitched himself behind the wheel. “Everything?”
“You know, the new alarm system, the surveillance. I don’t want her to get spooked when she comes home and you guys are lurking around here.”
“Good call. Where are we going?”
Instead of telling him, she reached over and tapped an address into his navigation system.
“Only twelve minutes away,” she informed him. “She lives just across the freeway.”
They got moving, and Jeremy glanced at her beside him. Her hair was in loose waves this morning. The bruise on her face had turned greenish-brown, and she’d tried to cover it with makeup.
She glanced at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Trent said you were up most of the night.”
“How would he know?”
“He had eyes on your house.”
She sipped her coffee, then put the cup in the holder. “I was doing research until three.”
“On what?”
“The trial Ollie was investigating.”
“Find anything?”
“A lot. The defendant has a sheet.”
“What’s his name?”
“Andre Markov,” she said. “And no, he’s not the shooter, in case you were wondering. I tracked down his mug shot.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Her voice was adamant. “His face is all wrong, and he’s too small. The man at Brock’s house was tall.”
“What about connections to Ollie or Brock? Or Gavin Quinn?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t find anything. It was an aggravated-assault case, pretty straightforward. Defendant was accused of pulling a knife during a brawl outside a bar. He was acquitted. I can’t figure out what it has to do with anything or why Ollie was so intent on getting the transcript the day he was killed.”
“But you haven’t actually read the transcript yet, right?”
“Only summaries. I should have an official copy by today.”
She sighed, and he could sense her frustration. She seemed tired, too, and he figured it was her third straight night without much sleep.
“How’d you get hold of this guy’s rap sheet?” he asked.
“Sources.” She gave him a sly look. “I made you a copy, if you’re interested.”
“I’m interested.”
“See, I knew that about you. You guys don’t just show up and look scary. You’re actually investigating this thing, aren’t you?”
“That’s correct.”
“How come? I mean, I’d expect you to leave it to the police. It’s not really part of your job description.”
“If it’s a threat to my client, it’s part of my job description.” He glanced at her. “How come you don’t leave it to the police?”
She looked surprised by the question. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“I guess . . . because I know how overworked and underfunded they are. And I know they make mistakes.”
“Ditto.”
“There’s also the time factor. The detectives are all over this right now. How could they not be? A murder in the heart of River Oaks is a headline grabber. But give it a few weeks, and some other crime will come along and demand their attention.”
She looked out the window, and he wondered if he’d made her uncomfortable talking about threats to her safety. Or maybe it was the prospect of visiting Ollie’s family that made her uncomfortable.
He broke off a piece of muffin and popped it into his mouth. Brown sugar melted on his tongue.
“Damn.” He glanced at her. “How are these the ‘failed’ ones?”
“I made the strudel too heavy, and it sank to the bottom.”
He shook his head.
“What?”
“You’ve never lived on MREs for a month. These are awesome.”
“It’s my grandmother’s recipe. Basically the only thing I cook.”
They reached the neighborhood, and Jeremy turned onto the street. Several cars were parked in the driveway and in front of the address.
“I hate wakes and funerals,” Kira muttered.
“I thought the funeral was Saturday.”
“Yeah, and this is worse. They’re going to be looking at photos and picking out Scripture.”
Jeremy rolled to a stop at the curb. The expression on Kira’s face made him feel a pang of sympathy for her. There were few things he dreaded more than talking to a grieving family. He’d done it way more than he cared to as a Marine, and he’d seen plenty of men shy away from the task or flat-out avoid it.
She rubbed her palms on her jeans.
“You okay?”
She glanced at him. “Yeah.”
“We can come back later, if you want.”
“No, I need to do this.” She looked out the window at the house. “I held her dad’s hand right before he died. I need to talk to her.”
“I’ll walk you to the door. You want me to come in with you or wait outside?”
“Wait outside,” she said. “You look like a bodyguard. No offense, but it might be kind of distressing for the family.” She reached back and grabbed the muffin boxes. “All right, wish me luck.”
A cowbell announced their arrival as Charlotte stepped into the store, followed by Diaz. She took off her sunglasses and read the sign: POST PLACE. FAMILY OWNED FOR MORE THAN A DECADE!
A twentyish kid perched on a stool behind the cash register. He wore a green Post Place golf shirt and had his hair in a bun. He stayed hunched over his phone, oblivious to the cowbell, probably because of his earbuds.