“Do you have any theories on what may have happened to him?” This from Liv.
“I believe a vigilante has taken him somewhere and murdered him. I don’t think we’ll ever hear from Carl Fanning again unless his body is found.”
Funny, he doesn’t sound too torn up about it at all. I inquire, “Are you speaking from firsthand knowledge about some aspect in his disappearance that we don’t know about or are you simply theorizing?”
“She asked for a theory.” He turns his hands up, his face smug. “I gave her what she asked for.”
When Liv doesn’t take her turn, I move on to another avenue. “Does Fanning have any friends or relatives we don’t know about who might be hiding him?”
“He has no family and certainly no friends.”
Liv doesn’t say a word about her father. I decide to follow her cue. Maybe she’s changed her mind.
She stands. I do the same. “Well, thank you, Mr. Cagle. I hope you’ll call us if you think of anything that might help us find your client.”
The attorney pushes up from his elegant chair and gives me a nod. “I certainly will. I am just as interested in finding my client as you.”
I keep the chuckle to myself. Yeah, right.
We’re almost to the door when Liv turns around. “Mr. Cagle, did you hire on Mr. Fanning’s behalf a private psychiatrist to help him with transitioning back into society?”
The lawyer’s flinch is almost imperceptible, but I spot it. Good move, Liv!
“He mentioned wanting one,” Cagle says, “but I think he found one on his own.”
She tilts her head. “I’m sure you remember the therapist’s name.”
Cagle shakes his head. “Actually, I don’t.” He reaches for a file on his desk, a cue that he’s done answering questions. “I’ll call if I think of anything else.”
I follow Liv across the lobby. We stall at the door. The rain has stopped, but half a dozen news vans are waiting outside right next to my Tahoe.
Son of a bitch. Cagle wasn’t ordering lunch. He was ordering publicity.
Eighteen
Detective Olivia Newhouse
“Detective Duncan!” a reporter shouts.
“Detective Duncan,” another fires, “is it true you’re treating Fanning’s case as a potential homicide?”
“Detective Duncan, just one comment, please!” the first one entreaties.
Both women rush forward, blocking our path to Walt’s Tahoe.
I freeze. Tell myself to go around them, but somehow I can’t. I feel exactly like a deer caught in the headlights.
“No comment.” Walt grabs me by the arm and starts ushering me toward the passenger side as if I’m a victim or a witness and not a cop.
I abruptly pull away from him and storm through the line of vultures on my own. I will not allow being pregnant or confused or upset or whatever the hell else is wrong with me to rule my existence.
Walt ignores the shouts and opens the driver’s side door. The reporters and their camera people crowd up to his door.
“You should give them something,” I say, my heart pumping faster and faster. “We both know they will make it up if you don’t. Or worse, take this deadbeat lawyer’s word for why we were here.”
“I hate this part,” he grumbles as he lowers his window. “Lowery,” he calls out to one of the reporters he knows fairly well. The brunetterushes forward, elbows past the blond. “Like the chief said at the press conference earlier this week, we are treating this case like any other where foul play is potentially involved. We have nothing new to share. But we are hoping to have this case resolved very soon.”
He powers up the window, blocking out more urgent questions.
