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I can’t stop myself. “The father did it.”
Burke glances at the house, then back at me. “You get roughed up last night?” He’s staring at my chin.
“Took a spill. Listen, here’s how—”
“Were you on a case?”
What? “No—yes, sorta, but—listen to me—”
“Without me?”
I give him a look. “I was helping Danny Mulligan with a stakeout. You had a gig. Whatever.”
Burke frowns, and his jaw tightens. “Yeah, whatever. What are we doing here?”
Thank you. “The Lexus.”
“And?”
“In Lulu’s parking lot. Teresa remembers seeing it, early, before Gretta’s shift.”
“Yeah?”
“I think it belongs to Gretta’s father.”
Burke draws in a breath. “He didn’t mention seeing her—”
“C’mon. The mom knew where she was. She’d been giving Gretta money for weeks through her softball coach.”
“When did you—I haven’t even written my report of the interview yet.”
Shoot. That’s right. We didn’t find that out until after we’d questioned Robert. Or rather, Robert’s wife, Angie. She let that little piece of information slip out after he left the house to attend softball practice for this weekend’s tournament.
So, what am I going to do? “Karen told us. Remember? Yesterday?”
Burke narrows his eyes as I hustle on. “My thinking is that Dad found out where she was and tracked down her location from Mom, then went to find her. Maybe he wanted to ask her to come home.” And then it occurs to me. “What if he knew she was pregnant? And they got in an argument—”
“And she got out of the car, and started to run? But where did the strangling come in?”
“I don’t know. Eve said the bruises were old.” And now, our conversation rings back to me. What if the guy in the car was the father of her child? Maybe she told him she didn’t want an abortion, and they got in a fight.
No. Please no. Because if Jeff Holmes is the father of his daughter’s child—I can’t even think it.
I turn and stalk up to the house. Burke runs after me. “Rem—what’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just want to ask him where he was the morning of his daughter’s murder.”
“You don’t look like you’re in a just asking mood.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, but I shrug him off.
“Rem—”
I round on him, hold up my hands. “Chill. I have full containment.”
But when we ring the door and it opens, I’m not so sure. Jeff Holmes is wearing golfing clothes—a yellow shirt with a green Burl Oaks Golf Club logo on the breast, a pair of white pants, and is clearly headed out for a nice day on the course.
While his wife grieves their dead daughter?
I nearly push him into the house while Burke explains that we have more questions.
