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Kit ended the call, then checked the time. Her father would still be up, and she needed them to keep her dog overnight. She’d taken her poodle Snickerdoodle to McKittrick House for Sunday dinner and left her there with Rita. Rita had been needier lately, which wasn’t a bad thing. It meant she was finally comfortable enough with them to allow her vulnerability to show.
Kit knew all about that.
She dialed her dad, number one on her favorites list. “Hey, Pop.”
“Kitty-Cat. How are you?”
“I’m good.” Out of habit she reached into her pocket for the good-luck charm she never left home without. It was a figurine of a bird sitting on the head of a cat, and Harlan had carved it six months before. It was perfect for her, of course. She was the cat and Wren was the bird. Nobody knew her as well as Harlan and Betsy McKittrick. “I need to get an early start tomorrow. Like four a.m. early. I need to get home and get some sleep. Can you keep Snick another night?”
“Of course. She’s already asleep on Rita’s bed. Drive safely.”
“I will. Pop, what happened with Jane and Janey?”
“They’re at New Horizons for now.”
“For now? They gonna run?”
“I don’t think so. We’re going to try to get foster custody.”
Kit wasn’t at all surprised, but relief still hit her hard. “Thank you, Pop.”
“Thank Sam. He suggested it, even though he knew Betsy and I were already thinking it. He said he’d make a formal recommendation with social services.”
Kit’s chest tightened with feelings she did not want to have for Sam Reeves. “Still, you’ll be the ones saving them.”
“It’s what we do, Kitty-Cat.”
“I know. Love you.”
He swallowed hard because she didn’t say it often. Not often enough, anyway. “I love you, too, Kit,” he said gruffly. “Call me when you’re back tomorrow so I know you’re safe.”
“I will. Night, Pop.” She ended the call and let out a contented sigh.
Palm Springs, California
Tuesday, November 8, 7:10 a.m.
“Wake up, Connor.” Kit reached over the department sedan’s console to shake Connor’s shoulder. “We’re here.”
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, stretching his neck until it popped. “Hate falling asleep in a car. Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“You looked like you needed the sleep,” Kit said.
“You were the one who went back to work last night,” he said. “I should have driven.”
“You can drive back because I’ll be crashing by then.”
Unable to sleep after her visit with Denise Crawford, Kit had returned to the office to do background checks on all the parties involved in the case. No one had raised any real red flags. Yet.
One name hadn’t raised any flags at all because it didn’t seem to exist—Gerald Wilson, Frankie Flynn’s only son, didn’t have a driver’s license or a social security card. She’d texted Baz for help when she’d stopped for coffee. Her former partner had promised to do some digging with Frankie’s old SDPD colleagues.
She’d had no trouble finding Kent Crawford’s three army buddies. Their background checks looked pretty clean, aside from lying for Kent to his wife.
Kit hoped she and Connor would find them at breakfast so that they could assess the reactions of the three men to Kent’s murder. And she definitely wanted to find out which one of them had given Kent a brand-new BMW.
She parked the car in front of the hotel, flashing her badge at the valet. “We won’t be long. Please don’t touch the car.”
The valet frowned. “Yes, ma’am. But we’re going to get busy in about an hour. I’ll need this space for the guests checking out.”
