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"Huh."
He held my gaze. I probably should have dropped it, acted deferential, but it took everything I had just to hold it, calmly, not challenging.
"Let's cut the bullshit, Miss Levine. Maybe you talked Mrs. Kennedy into hiring you, but I know who called you first. It was Paula, wasn't it?"
"Paula?"
His face darkened. "You really think I'm an idiot, don't you? Small-town cop doesn't know his elbow from his asshole. Paula Thompson called you because she doesn't think I give a shit about what happened to her druggie daughter. She can't afford to hire a PI, though, so she gets you to hit up Claire Kennedy's rich parents. Am I right?"
I looked him in the eye. "No."
He glowered at me and held my gaze. Did Lucas and Paige have to go through this crap every time they spoke to local law enforcement? I was tempted to walk out and dare him to do anything about it. I was even more tempted to practice my new persuasion spell. Memory loss in the recipient was the most common side effect. I could live with that, but there was also the possibility of a three-day power outage for the caster. I'd have to be in serious shit to risk that.
"Look," I said. "Paula Thompson has nothing to do with me being here, but I can tell that you don't believe me. So let's cut to the chase. You think Paula hired me to embarrass you, correct?"
"Correct."
"To do that, presumably I'd need to solve the case and make an ass out of you."
His face darkened again, as if he was two seconds from telling me to watch my mouth.
"What if I told you I don't care who claims the arrest?" I said. "In fact, you're welcome to it."
"Exactly how stupid--"
You already asked that. And, trust me, you don't want an answer. "The collar doesn't do me any good. All I need is a recommendation from you to my employer, telling them I was instrumental in solving the case."
He chewed that over, eyes narrowing in speculation now. Either I was naive or I was desperate to prove myself on this job. Neither actually--a collar meant media attention, which we avoided, but he didn't know that. Naive or desperate, I could be useful on a case that had obviously stalled.
"I'm not here to take the case away from you," I said after a minute of silence. "My client wants me to help you find who did it."
"Oh, I know who did it. I'm just compiling the evidence."
"Then maybe I can help with that. Like I said, there are things I can do, places I can go. No matter how good a cop you are, you're still bound by cop rules. Those girls deserve the best and most complete investigation they can get."
He considered that. Or at least he pretended to. Truth was, he didn't give a shit about the victims; I could see that in his eyes. But he did care about his job.
"All right," he said. "But if you interfere in my investigation in any way ..."
He blustered for a few more minutes as I struggled to pay attention.
Finally he ran out of steam and I assured him I'd be a good little PI. "But to do a proper job, I'll need full access to the files," I said. "Crime-scene photos. Lab findings. Coroner's report. Witness interviews. A copy of everything. I'd hate to waste time going over ground you've already covered."
"I'll give you the lab findings and the coroner's report. You come back to me with proof that you can handle more and I'll give you more."
In other words, he'd dole out tidbits as I fed him my findings. That was fine. This place looked easy enough to break into. I'd get the files myself. So I agreed, and he ran off a copy of the lab and coroner's findings and, as a bonus, threw in the name of the killer.
"Cody Radu. Ginny Thompson's boyfriend."
"But you don't have enough evidence yet to charge him."
Bruyn snorted. "No one in this town needs a scrap of evidence to tell us Cody's guilty." He cocked his head, then glanced to the window. "And speaking of that son of a bitch, I hear him now."
He walked to the front door and opened it just as a rusty pickup squealed past, muffler dragging and belching blue smoke, earning a glare from a guy getting out of his silver SUV across the road.
The pickup driver was a weasel-faced guy with hair that hadn't been washed since Christmas. He slowed to give me a skeevy once-over, mouthing something I was sure wasn't hello. Then he shot Bruyn the finger, gunned the engine, and roared off.
"Nice guy," I said.
