“Private burial, correct?” Diaz asked, tossing his jacket into the back seat as he got in.
“It’s tomorrow. And yes, it’s private.”
“Thank God.”
Charlotte watched the doors of the church as the last of the mourners emerged. Kira Vance stepped onto the sidewalk, accompanied by Brock Logan and several other attorneys. Two of their bodyguards trailed behind them, dressed in suits and trying—unsuccessfully—to blend into the crowd.
Brock had chosen a seat beside Kira at the service, and Charlotte had watched them in the pew together, hoping to get a read on their relationship. Despite Kira’s evasiveness, Charlotte was starting to trust her. Brock was another story. Maybe it was simply her bias against lawyers, but she still didn’t feel like he was being straight with her about a number of key issues.
“What did you think?” Charlotte asked as she skimmed the faces. She’d gotten to where she could read people in a heartbeat. Body language was everything, which was why she came to these things.
“Big turnout,” Diaz said. “He seemed to have a lot of friends and contacts for a one-man shop.”
“People say he was a nice guy. Even his two ex-wives came, which tells you something.” She glanced at Diaz. “Anyone strike you as off?”
“No.”
“What about the bail bondsman? Sanchez?”
“He seemed okay. Why?”
She shrugged. “He seemed a little slimy to me.”
“I didn’t notice. And hasn’t he been cooperative? He gave us those surveillance tapes from his office.”
“Yeah, and there was nothing useful on them.”
“Still, we haven’t had any pushback from him.”
Charlotte sighed. She scanned the crowd one last time before backing out of the space. She hated to admit it, but the funeral had been a bust in terms of leads.
“What’s the word on that vehicle list?” Diaz asked.
“Still working it. I’ve got Phan giving me some help.” At her request, Phan had culled through a list of black BMWs registered locally, checking for owners who had a criminal record. “He’s turned up a few leads, but so far nothing that really pops. What about the tape from Avalon Lofts?”
“I’m supposed to hear back from the building’s security company.” He pulled out his phone and checked. “Looks like I missed a call. Hang on.”
Diaz listened to the message as Charlotte edged her way through the crowded parking lot. A white Subaru cut her off, and she muttered a curse.
“Don’t do it,” Diaz said.
“What?”
“You can’t use your horn at a funeral.”
“What, is that written somewhere?”
He shook his head. “You’re going to give yourself an ulcer. Okay, I’ve got a message from the security firm. Guy says he emailed me the files I wanted, including the two-hour window leading up to the crime.”
Charlotte inched her way into the line of cars. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone scouted the scene ahead of time in a black BMW.”
“That’s not the kind of luck we’re having lately.”
“You’re right.” She glanced at him. “We need to interview Kira Vance again. I say we bring her in. Or better yet, show up at her house uninvited.”
“Why?”
“She talked to both victims minutes before they were murdered. Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”
“Yeah, but you just want to show up and hope she’ll talk to us?”
“Why not?”
“Might piss her off.”
“Exactly. She needs a push.”
Charlotte’s phone vibrated with a text. She grabbed it from the cupholder and checked the number. “Hey, get this. It’s her.”
“Who?”
“Kira.” Charlotte skimmed the text. “She wants to meet at her office in one hour. It’s over on McKinney Street.”
“What’s she want to meet about?”
“The case, I guess. I told you from the get-go she was holding out on us.”
Diaz combed his hand through his hair and smoothed his tie.
“You look fine.”
He ignored her and checked his watch. “Let’s stop first. I could use some lunch.”
“You just had a breakfast taco.”
“So?”
“Okay, but make it quick. This girl’s been dodging questions for days, and now she wants to talk. I want to catch her before she changes her mind.”
Kira was relieved to be out of that church. Since the very first hymn, she’d had a knot in her chest. She didn’t know whether it was the sight of Ollie’s casket—the simple pine box his daughter had said he wanted—or the droning minister or the cloying scent of lilies. Whatever it was, Kira spent the entire service battling a tight, suffocating feeling, like someone was squeezing her heart in a fist, and it wasn’t until she got out of there and stood in the sweltering parking lot that she could breathe again.
“Feel better now?”
She glanced at Jeremy beside her. He’d noticed her acting strangely and steered her to a drinking fountain as soon as the service let out.
“Fine.”
Being in his truck felt better. Now that she wasn’t near funeral flowers or Brock’s cologne, she could take a normal breath. Jeremy’s truck had a simple, earthy smell—probably because of all the mud and grass they’d tracked in last night. Or maybe it was the work boots he kept stashed in the back seat. Whatever it was, she liked it, just as she liked his steady presence beside her. Trent was steady, too, but it wasn’t the same.
She slid another glance at Jeremy. What was it about him? What was it about his long, silent looks that made her feel better? There was something in his eyes when he looked at her, a flicker of something that maybe only she saw. It had been there last night in his truck and again when they’d stood together in her dim kitchen. That look of his put a tingle inside her and made her feel warm all over.
Or maybe she was coming down with a damn fever. Just what she needed this week.
Jeremy looked at her again. “You sure you want to talk to the police right now?”
“I’d rather talk to them on my terms than go back to the station.”
Kira pulled her purse into her lap. She didn’t normally carry one, but her messenger bag didn’t fit with her black linen dress and heels. She found a compact and checked her face. People had been staring at her, and now she saw why. Her bruise was in its final stages of healing and was a hideous shade of green, and her attempts at makeup didn’t really conceal it. Kira dabbed on some powder, then gave up and dropped her purse to the floor.
Jeremy turned onto McKinney. He knew exactly where she worked without having to be told. Evidently, he’d committed her file to memory.
“Park right in front,” she instructed. “The meters are free on weekends.”
Jeremy pulled up to the building. It was a three-story walk-up on the far edge of downtown. The neighborhood was in transition, and she figured she had about six months left until she’d have to look for something cheaper.
She started to open her door, but Jeremy shot her a look.
Wait.
He didn’t have to say it anymore, and she sat patiently as he came around to her side. She stepped onto the sidewalk, wobbly in her heels, and he caught her arm, sending a jolt of heat through her.
“Thanks,” she said without eye contact.
She wouldn’t think about that kiss. Or those arms. Or the possessive way he’d slid his hand over her breast. Flashes of memory had slipped through during the funeral, and she hadn’t been able to block them. Jeremy had been stationed by the door at the back of the church, and she could practically feel his gaze on her throughout the service.