Page 86 of The Wedding Party

“Now,” I say. “Or I swear I’ll just arrest her. This is not a court-ordered hospital stay. Now, if you want to have her committed—”

“Fine. I’ll work it out with the medical staff at Rosewood.”

After that call, I’m eager to prepare for the meeting. I head to the office, and after spending a few hours with Hazel, who’s a five-foot, one-hundred-pound firecracker with a giant mouth, I’m swearing in Russian and Chinese. I practice, intending to test them out on my father. Of course, with my luck, he’ll have a lady friend who speaks at least one of the two languages and he’ll know what I’m saying.

Unfortunately, even with Aiden and Marcus helping, what the research comes down to is we’re in limbo, waiting on forensic evidence. It’s late, and I pick at a slice of our delivery pizza that just arrived.

“We don’t even have the murder weapon,” I say, snatching a piece of pineapple and popping it in my mouth.

“That’s what I don’t get,” Marcus interjects. “Where is it? If Carrie killed him, she had to put it somewhere, and she was naked. It’s not like she ran outside, hid it, and then ripped her clothes off, cut herself with the knife she already hid, and went to the attic.”

And that’s exactly what I assume Ms. Littleton will say to the jury.

We spend the next half hour eating and talking about the nonexistent knife. Aiden even checks in with the Estes Park team since York himself is checked out and unhelpful. Out of sight, out of mind. He’s just riding the wave to retirement.

“I’m back to interviews,” I say, when every angle seems exhausted. “And more interviews. I’ve done them.”

“Do them again,” Aiden says. “I got the forensics report on the weapon. It’s a hunting knife. Find out who the hunter is in the group. Or who knows someone who’s a hunter. Who has access to that type of weapon? Or go at it another way. Just go back at it. You know how this works. Keep working.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. I just have to keep looking for new angles. “I’m not getting anything out of Carrie’s posse,” I say. “Believe me, I’ve tried. They all think she’s the best thing since chocolate. I need to hit the men again.”

“I can go talk to the cigar club they hang out at,” Marcus offers. “I love me a good cigar.”

“I’m in,” Aiden offers. “I love me a good whisky and cigar.”

The last thing I need is them drinking and smoking when they should be listening. “I’ve got it,” I say, standing up and grabbing my bag. “Text me the address, Hazel.”

She gives me a two-finger salute, her dark curls bouncing around her head as she dismisses me and reaches for yet more pizza. She’s on slice four. If I had to describe her to a stranger, I’d call her a pretty, itty-bitty garbage disposal, with brains and a dirty mouth. I like that I always know what I’m going to get with her. She is who she seems to be: genuine.

Someone close to Oliver Phoenix is not who they seem to be.

Maybe Carrie did this. Maybe she didn’t. But I’m no longer sure Carrie and Oliver were the only people in that room that night.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Surprise is my friend and eight o’clock is the magic hour, the hour when, per Trevor and Josh, Oliver’s posse favors the cigar club. I arrive at eight thirty, giving the group time to relax and settle in before I slide into the picture.

I enter the members-only club to find a cozy little place filled with leather chairs, high-end carpeting, and expensive chandeliers, then flash my badge at the front. The woodsy scent of tobacco permeates the room.

I expect trouble I don’t find. Turns out my badge works for a membership card. Every establishment is not so kind. This one happily allows my entry and even takes my coat. I find Josh, Trevor, and Brody sitting in leather chairs by the fireplace, sipping whisky and puffing on big chunks of tobacco.

I sit down in the one empty chair directly across from Brody, who lifts his glass in my direction, motioning up and down my body. “Black pants must be the agent uniform. Must get boring. Not that you’re boring.”

“Of course not,” I say. “I know you’d never tell me I’m boring. You’re too much of a gentleman.”

“Exactly. Now we’re getting to know each other. You’ve called me more than twice.”

“Whisky, Agent Castle?” Trevor offers.

“I’m not good at drinking and catching killers,” I say. “I’m sure you can all understand that.”

“Any good news?” he asks hopefully.

I sidestep a real answer with “We’re just piecing it all together.”

Josh casts me a glare. “Why haven’t you arrested her? She was covered in his blood.”

His words are angry and heavily slurred, which tells me he’s drinking his pain away. That’s never a good answer, but sometimes it’s a necessary interlude. “Investigative work sometimes takes more time than we’d like, but it’s better than a not-guilty plea.”