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And then Mason asked my question aloud, word for word.
“So if Paul killed Eva, who the hell tried to kill Paul?”
“That’s a damn good question.” She paced away, turned, paced back. “What if someone besides us knew Paul was the killer? What if this was vengeance?”
I could see it.
Mason could too, because he was nodding. “The anniversary, the publicity from the podcast, it might’ve pushed them over the edge.”
“It would have been someone who loved her,” I said, and I thought of Earl Mackey, the club manager, who maybe had a photo of him and Eva under his desk.
“That doesn’t narrow it down much.” The detective turned to face the burnt-out cabin. “Everybody loved her. Even the fucker that killed her.” She stood that way for a moment, then sighed and turned our way. “I suppose that’s where we start. With everyone who cared for Eva. Account for their whereabouts.”
“Including Mackey,” I said.
“And the owners,” Mason added. “Who probably only lusted, but still."
“I sent my guys to the bad boys’ hotel the minute I heard about this,” Jen Scott said. “I’d have gone myself, but I was halfway here. The bad boys were snug in their suites, though."
“You were halfway here?” Mason asked.
Yeah, my ears had perked at that part, too.
“To notify Paul about Eva. I didn’t have the heart to do it by phone.” I bent my eyebrows at her, and she said, “Okay, I wanted to see his reaction.”
I nodded. That tracked. “Did someone check on Mackey?” I asked.
“Home alone. No witnesses. But my guy was at his door at three a.m.” She made her voice louder. “This fire started when, two?”
“Call came in at 2:07,” one of the firefighters said. Maybe the chief. He was a round man with bushy white eyebrows.
“Mackey was in his jammies, looked like he’d been sleeping,” Jen Scott said.
Mason rubbed his chin. He did that when he was putting jigsaw puzzles together, too. “There’s no way he could’ve set the fire at two and been back in his bed at three. Ditto the bad boys.”
Jen said, “And before you ask, here.” She ripped a sheet of paper from a pocket sized notepad like it was 1990, and handed it to me, since I was closest. Three names I already knew; Andrew Chay, Barron White, Raphael Jones. But the sheet included their hotel, room numbers, home addresses, and cellphone numbers.
“Thanks.” I might’ve sounded surprised she was handing me evidence. I wasn’t even a cop. I was with a cop who had no official business here.
“It’s nothing you couldn’t get yourselves. I figured this would save you some time,” she said. “Assuming you’re still looking into this.”
Her phone rang and she picked it up, listened, said thanks, and looked at us again. “Quaid’s awake. Doctors are determining whether he’s up to an interview now. You want in?”
“You bet your ass we do,” Mason said. Then he glanced at Jeremy, who’d been unusually quiet. “Go on ahead,” he told her. “We’ll be along shortly.”
“Sure.” Jen headed out, but we hung back to talk to Jeremy, who looked rough. Soot on his arms, blood on his clothes, his hair was a mess.
“I’ll come with you to the hospital,” Jeremy said. “They’ll let me clean up in the ER.”
“They will?” I asked.
Mason nodded. “Cops and ER staff have an unspoken agreement,” Mason said. “We have each other’s backs.”
“And then I’m catching up with Misty,” Jeremy said.
“Listen, Jeremy, I don’t know what happened here,” Mason began. “But… be careful with your badge, okay? It’s important. Sacred, maybe.”
“Uncle Mason, I?—”
