“I should, right?”
I took a breath. Said it as casually as I could. “If you think it would help, I can go with you.”
His face brightened. “Okay, see, that wouldn’t look anywhere near as creepy.”
It was a special type of thrill, that feeling of everything coming together the way I wanted it to—a missing person about to be found, a criminal about to be brought to justice, all those questions roiling in my mind finally on the verge of being answered. It happened rarely during cases, but when itdid, like right now, it was exhilarating. How could I give this feeling up for the man I loved?Maybe I won’t have to. Maybe he’ll wait.
Maurice was looking at me expectantly. I smiled and clapped his shoulder. “Come on, big guy,” I said. “Let’s hit the beach.”
Forty-Two
Maurice drove a cherry-red MINI Cooper, which was surprising. I guess I’d figured he’d have more of a macho ride, which was probably sexist of me. But practically speaking, I found it hard to believe this tiny car could contain his imposing frame. It couldn’t have been comfortable for him. He had the driver’s seat pushed back all the way, and even then he seemed bent at an odd angle. I wanted to ask if the car came with a chiropractor, but I didn’t want to insult him.
As I got in the passenger seat, Maurice turned the radio on—a Willie Nelson station on Sirius. “This is my empty-nester car,” he said, Willie’s sweet voice enveloping us. He grabbed a bottle of water from a basket he had hanging from the door and took a big swig. “I bought it after my youngest movedout—she’s in nursing school. I always wanted a MINI, so I figured what the hell.”
“It’s a great car,” I said.
“I don’t care if it’s too small for me—it’s got zip,” he said. “Meanwhile, my wife is five-foot-nothing and she drives a Kia Carnival. It just goes to show…something, I guess.”
“People don’t always conform to one’s expectations?”
“Sure, that works,” he said. “Anyway, this MINI gets great mileage, so we can stop once on the way there and then we won’t have to stop again the whole way home.”
“Excellent,” I said.
He offered me a bottle of water. I took it and leaned back, feeling the warmth of the seat heater and inhaling that new-car smell. There was a lot less traffic now, and before we knew it, we were out of town, the car humming along Route 114, Willie working his magic. I sipped my water, thinking about Sky in that motel room with Dylan. I wondered if she was holding him captive or if he was there willingly, whether he was blissfully unaware of the police investigation or devouring every news report. Did he miss his mother as much as she missed him? I wondered that, too, and then Maurice asked me a question I couldn’t quite hear over the music.
Turning toward him, I asked him to repeat what he said. He switched the volume down and asked the question again. “Why do you think Dylan didn’t do the shootings?”
“Because he didn’t have the motive.”
Maurice shrugged. “That jerk does a hell of a lot of things without a motive.”
“Yeah, good point,” I said, turning my body back to face the front. “But is he smart enough to pull off both shootings—or even one of them—without getting caught?”
“Could be luck,” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s hard for me to go with that narrative when somebody with brains and motive is sitting right there in front of us.”
“Who?”
I turned and looked at him, thinking about what my dad had said. Messy personal life, but a good cop.The thought must have crossed his mind already. “Sky,” I said.
His face went still. “Come on,” he said. “You’re joking, right?”
Guess it didn’t.“I’m dead serious, Maurice.”
“Come on,” he said again.
I told him about the powder found in Trevor Weiss’s jacket—the highly addictive alkaloid I believed Sky had sneaked into Gonzo’s new formula—then I told him about everything I believed she did to keep word of that formula from getting out, from the deep-faked audio messages, to killing Trevor and getting someone to shoot her, to her crying on cue when talking about her shooting, effectively removing her from suspicion. The whole time I offered up this theory, Maurice’s features didn’t move. He glared at the window like some humorless despot—to the point that I no longer felt like elaborating. “Anyway,” I said. “I could be wrong.”
“You are wrong.” He said it through his teeth.
Yikes,I thought.
We were getting near the ocean now, and there was a stormbrewing, swirls of wet snowflakes in the air, a strong wind whipping the scrubby trees. At the side of the road there was a gas station, and Maurice pulled up. “Gotta fill ’er up,” he said.
“Hey, Maurice?”
