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So much to unpack. Motive galore. “I still don’t understand why you think I can help.”
Both the dejection and irritation faded, replaced by pure, undiluted fear. “I have an appointment to speak with Special Agent Ryan this afternoon. He called me two days ago and said I could drive to his office to answer his questions, or he could come and get me, whichever I preferred. Why be so harsh with me unless he thinks I’m the murderer?”
“He’s harsh with everyone.” That, she could claim without reservation. Except to me. Sometimes.
“Yes, but most people probably have alibis for the night of the murder. I was home, and I was alone.” A bead of sweat dripped from his temple. “Maybe if you put in a good word for me and tell Special Agent Ryan you believe me? That you know I would never harm another living soul?”
A desperate man stood before her, and she sympathized. He only wanted to clear his name. She’d experienced the same rush of emotions when she became a suspect. Did she think he could kill Dr. Hotchkins? No. But also yes. She firmly believed everyone was capable of everything every day at every time.
“You don’t have to worry, Dr. Garcia. The killer will be found, and the remaining will be exonerated. You only have to tell the truth.”
“The truth?” he cried. “Don’t be a fool, Jane. Innocent people go to prison all the time.”
Was he innocent? Conrad hadn’t mentioned the doctor during their meeting yesterday. An inadvertent omission or a purposeful one? Or did he not suspect Dr. Garcia of the crime, despite the shouting match?
“You aren’t the only one with a reason to get rid of him, Dr. Garcia. Think of the many husbands he betrayed. The women he lied to. Be sure to tell Special Agent Ryan about them. Every detail.” As he brightened, she asked, “How did you discover Dr. Hotchkins’s, um, brothel?”
“I overheard the nurses discussing it. Emma was sobbing.” He clutched his brow, as if the memory hurt his head. Or the pain from his nose was radiating. Maybe both. “She’d walked in on Marcus and a patient. He’d forgotten to lock the door, and they were…busy.”
Emma again. And she’d just found out Dr. Hots had slept with another woman. A reason to rage. Guiltier by the minute.
A crack of thunder boomed. Both Dr. Garcia and Jane jumped.
He tossed a glance over his shoulder, as if he expected Conrad to leap into the alcove with a gun. “I better go.” Amid another crack of thunder, he darted off, disappearing from view.
Jane hurried to her car, the dark sky opening up at the halfway point. By the time she leaped inside her sedan, her clothes were soaked and her teeth chattering. Her adrenaline crashed, the ignorable ache in her hand graduating into a noticeable throb. Motions clumsy, she started the car and cranked up the heat.
For several minutes, she debated the wisdom and foolishness of texting Conrad about what had just happened. In the end, she decided to take the advice she’d given Dr. Garcia and be honest.
She opened her first text thread with Conrad’s number. Or rather, Agent Spice, as he was currently listed in her contact book. Ignoring the pain in her fingers, she typed, Ran into Dr. Garcia (not my fault!) We chatted. He says he’s innocent. I also bumped into Abigail Waynes-Kirkland at Gold Fever! She thinks there’s gold buried in my cemetery. She heard it from Tiffany, who read Dr. Hotchkins’s notes about it. Thoughts???????????
A moment of pause, her finger hovering over the Send button. Should she? Shouldn’t she? Too late. She pressed send.
Only seconds passed before the world’s most exciting little bubbles appeared. Conrad was typing a response. And it must be a good one, because the bubbles stretched on and on and on.
Agent Spice: Thanks.
Thanks? Thanks! Ugh. How disappointingly official. And did he have to ignore her question altogether? Wait. New typing bubbles appeared, and she sat up straighter, bumping her sore knuckles into the steering wheel. She winced but didn’t loosen her grip. What would he say this time?
Agent Spice: Are you being safe? Legit gold or not, the mere suspicion puts you in danger.
Aw. Her almost boyfriend—er, date—was concerned about her.
Jane: Super safe!
Proof: She might have broken Dr. Garcia’s nose. With her fist. Self-defense? Yeah, she was practically a master. Oh, wait. She might need to mention the hurt nose. Conrad wasn’t a half-bad detective, and he might notice the doctor’s face at their meeting.
Jane typed and deleted. And typed. And retyped. Before she could hit send, her phone rang. She yelped, dropping the cell into her lap and scrambling to answer as Conrad’s name flashed over the screen. “I assure you—” she began.
“You’re typing too slow. Just tell me what’s going on.”
Now she had to verbalize everything? So cruel. “Um, so, quick detail, no big deal, because there’s no way it’s a crime since I did the right thing, given the circumstances and information at hand, so don’t even think about arresting me, but I kind of punched Dr. Garcia in the face before we chatted.”
