Page 28 of The Wedding Party

I’ve just established calm at the scene when Detective Seth Edwards arrives. He’s a tall man, with a belly and a shiny bald head and crinkles by his eyes that age him to at least forty. He’s also as cooperative and submissive as the chief. “I hear the sister lost her shit. That’s pretty rough.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes those who act out the most have the most to hide.”

“In other words, you think she’s the killer,” he assumes.

“I don’t assume anything about anyone ever. I want to hear the story the people and the evidence tell me.”

“What can I do?”

“I’m going to talk to the sister.” I give him my cellphone number. “Call me when the ME arrives if I’m not back by then. And do we have another detective coming?”

“Yeah. Danny York. Good guy. Transferred in from Denver. He’s a big-city guy with lots of experience. He’ll be here in a few.”

Lots of experience is good, I think. And with that knowledge, I leave him and the soon-to-arrive Detective York to the organization of the interviews, including the staff and dancers.

It’s time to let Natalie express herself to me, and not by beating someone’s head against the floor. She has been taken to her room under the threat of arrest, and I head there now. Turns out Natalie is not in a supposedly “haunted” room, but she is on my floor, in the room Oliver was standing outside when I met him.

Unlike Detective Edwards, I’ve learned a few things by growing up around law enforcement and living the job firsthand myself for a decade. If a person beats your head against the floor, they didn’t just suddenly become capable of such violence. They always had it in them. I’m not discounting how guilty Carrie looks, but I’m not assuming her guilt, either. Natalie has shown a propensity for violence, and violence directed at Carrie. Therefore, I conclude that maybe Natalie isn’t mad at Carrie for killing Oliver. Maybe she’s mad at her for not dying with him.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have allowed Natalie to go to her room without supervision, but the hotel’s locked down and manpower isn’t exactly plentiful. I knock on her door, and she answers immediately, tears streaking her cheeks. One thing I noticed during the attack is that she’s in a black velvet sweat suit, not her dress from the prior evening, but then it is morning. Unless she slept over in another room, as Lana presumably did with Josh, why would she be in her dress?

I lift my badge. “Agent Andi Castle. Can I come in?”

She cackles. “I might be crazy right now, but I’m not an idiot. I remember who you are. And I know who your father is.”

In other words, she’s researched me. In my experience, you only do that when you need ammunition. And you only need ammunition because you fear my badge. Which is interesting considering her brother is now dead.

“Eddie Castle,” she says. “Fired from the police department.”

“And hired at a hundred times the pay,” I reply, cringing as I repeat my father’s own words. “I learned the law from a man who never lets the bad guy get away. Which should be comforting right now.” She hasn’t moved to allow me to enter. “Can I come in?” I repeat.

Still, she hesitates, but with obvious reluctance, she backs up and disappears into the room. I follow, allowing the door to shut behind me. Natalie is standing at the window with her back to me. The bathroom is to my left and I step inside, scanning for signs of blood or a weapon, finding nothing but fancy bottles of skin cream. When I return to the main room, Natalie hasn’t moved. She’s still at that window. Her back is still my welcome.

Like my daddy before me, I’m not deterred.

I pull the chair out from the desk and face her before sitting down. I could be delicate with Natalie, but then she’d run over me. And I get the sense that’s exactly where she wants this to go. She’s going to be disappointed. Especially since she’s likely set to benefit financially from Oliver’s death. I start by putting her on the defensive. “I’m sure you’re aware that Carrie could press charges, at which time I’ll be forced to take you into custody.”

She whirls on me. “Do you think I care?” The tears gone but the mascara stain not. “I haven’t called my parents yet. That’s what I’m thinking about. They’re what I’m thinking about.”

“And the loss of your beloved brother, I’m sure.”

“I’m not even going to justify that remark with a reply. What do you need from me? You know who killed him. Arrest her. Question her. Charge her.”

“Why do you assume Carrie is the killer and not another victim?”

“How can you assume anything else?” she asks incredulously, arms flying in the air, bare, clean arms with no scratches or marks. “She’s covered in his blood,” she all but yells.

“Circumstantial,” I state.

Her tone lowers to contempt. “Please tell me that you’re not that stupid.”

I just stare at her and keep staring at her.

She glances upward and then at me, looking more obligated than remorseful as she adds, “I guess calling an FBI agent stupid is actually the definition of ‘stupid.’”

“Unless you’re rich and powerful and above the law, I suppose,” I reply, wondering if that’s the way her family operates.