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“Why didn’t you call nine-one-one? Your cousin had been injured and was missing, you’d been attacked. But you called your wife instead of the police.”
“I didn’t even think of it, not then. She works with the police—my Charlotte. She works with you. I probably should have called nine-one-one, as you say, but I wanted you. Something had happened to my cousin.”
“I’m a murder cop, Professor Mira. Did you believe your cousin had been murdered?”
“No. No, I never thought . . . I still can’t quite . . . But it’s the cop that counts the most, isn’t it? And you’re the best I know. I knew you’d find out what happened to Edward.”
“You contacted your wife,” she said again, pushing a little, “and requested a police officer you have a . . . friendly relationship with.”
“Yes, that’s true.” He measured out milk, poured it into the chocolate. And crushed some sort of bean in a little marble bowl with a little marble dowel. “But then, my wife is a renowned and respected criminal profiler, and you are a renowned and respected police lieutenant. I’d have been foolish to settle for less with such talent available.”
He added the crushed bean, sugar, and stirred methodically.
He’d given good answers, she thought. Very good, simple, logical answers. But she wasn’t done.
“Did you fight with your cousin, Professor Mira?”
“Oh, yes.” He said it so easily, without even a hint of guile. “Over the years we fought—argued, that is—numerous times. Our worldviews had shifted away from each other’s, on different o
rbits you might say, and we had little in common. Not like when we were boys.”
“You argued about the disposition of the property on Spring, which was left to both of you equally.”
“We did.” No hesitation, and no animosity. “We’d promised our grandfather to keep it in the family, and Edward believed that promise had an expiration date. I didn’t.”
“Did you argue yesterday, at the house?”
“No. We didn’t even get a chance to speak. I said his name, but then someone struck me. I never got to speak to him, or him to me. I believe we would have argued if . . .”
Though he continued to stir, he looked down at his pot as if he’d forgotten why it was there.
“Upon his death, what happens to his share of the disputed property?”
“I’m sorry? Oh, yes. Unless he changed his will—I can’t be sure—it would go in equal parts to his two children.”
He took the bowl out of the freezer, along with something she was pretty sure was some sort of whisk. Into the bowl he poured . . . milk, cream—something out of a small container—added some sugar. He stuck the whisk on some little hand tool.
It hummed busily in the bowl.
“What’s your relationship with the children?”
“They’re fine young people. We get along very well. We need to go see them. I hope they’re with their mother now, but we’ll go see them. They’ve lost their father, and will need family around them.”
“Will they be more inclined to keep the property in the family, Professor Mira?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
She saw he’d made whipped cream. People actually whipped cream to make whipped cream? Who knew?
He set the bowl aside, used another tool to make shavings from the remaining chocolate bar. “Eve—that is, Lieutenant Dallas, Edward, no matter how determined he was, couldn’t sell our grandfather’s house. There was nothing he could do to make me break my promise. I believe we would have remained at odds, but then, as I said, we haven’t been close since my early college days. We were together at Yale, though he was a year ahead of me. If he’d lived, we weren’t likely to ever be close again, but I would never wish him harm. And he would never have bullied me into selling.”
“Sometimes people strike back at bullies.”
“Yes, they do. I counseled my children to do just that. And I’ve done just that myself with Edward for more than forty years.”
He turned, took mugs from a cupboard. “Some mistake a mild disposition for weakness. Do you?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
