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Someone pounded on the door. Two crisp raps Jane immediately recognized. Gasping, she popped to her feet.
Conrad didn’t wait for permission to enter. He stalked inside, paused in the foyer and frowned. When the scent of dry ceded and refined spice hit, she shivered. That he’d rolled up his sleeves, displaying tattooed forearms and a Rolex, only amplified her reaction.
His posture was stiff as a board as he scanned… His eyes stopped on Jane and narrowed. “This interview is over.”
“Actually, it’s only getting started.” Hightower jerked to her feet. “I doubt you’ve forgotten this is my investigation, Special Agent Ryan.”
“I’ve just been informed Miss Ladling has asked for a lawyer. Twice. You know the rules as well as I do, yes?” His tone was as hard as his knock and as rough as his palms. He shifted his grim energy to Jane. “Have your lawyer call Hightower ASAP.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong.” Well, not more than a few things.
Hightower pursed her lips, but kept her attention on Jane, who got busy adjusting the brim of her hat. “You can help me prove your innocence with a copy of your security feed.”
“I’m happy to send you what’s available,” Beau answered on her behalf. He, too, stood. “As soon as you show me a warrant.”
The agent worked her jaw before she nodded and dug out her card. “Here’s my contact information. I suggest you use it. Soon.”
Jane gulped. Okay. That had escalated quickly.
Jane took Conrad’s advice and hired a lawyer that very day. The only one she could afford—Anthony “Tony” Miller. The guy wasn’t her biggest fan. Not too long ago, she’d accused him of cold-blooded murder, putting him in GBH’s headlights, helping solidify his divorce to Emma Miller, another suspect.
She eased into a plush leather chair, placed her purse atop her thighs, adjusted her hat—yes, she still wore it—and scanned the office. A match to Tony himself. The two existed in total disarray. Papers were scattered here and there. Notebooks, files, and pens stacked on each side of his desk. Coffee stains on the computer keyboard.
He gulped three fingers of scotch and laughed. “Let me get this straight.” He was an attractive enough guy with gray-streaked hair and an unkempt beard. But strain etched his mouth, his very presence seeming to suck energy from the room. His wrinkled shirt lacked a middle button. “You scheduled this meeting because you were dumb enough to handle a dead body, which the cops might or might not know, and you expect me to keep you out of jail either way.” Ice cubes clinked as he slammed the glass to his desk. “Why would I ever do that?”
“Because I’m a paying customer. Which means you need me as much as I need you. I’ve heard the rumors. You are losing clients left and right.” Truth was truth. And since she had to oh, so often take it, she had earned the privilege to dish it. “I figure your rates must be at level desperate now.”
He stiffened. “You did not call me desperate.”
His tone was so low and menacing, Jane might have feared for her life if she’d been alone. Well, probably not ‘feared.’ She could deliver a mean left hook when warranted. Just ask Tony’s soon to be ex-wife. But there was no need for even the slightest twinge of worry now. Beau sat at her side, a tower of strength and menace. No one dared threaten her when he guarded her. And guard her, he did.
After Conrad had advised her to hire a lawyer, Beau had sprung into action. He’d helped Jane and Fiona print and study each of the crime scene photos. They needed to know what had caused Conrad to react so strongly, so the launch of their investigation and the creation of their new club—Team Truth—had begun.
They’d learned a lot of valuable information. Namely, Ana had suspected everyone in town of every kind of crime imaginable. Affairs. Thefts. Illicit favors. Secret societies. Secret babies. Switched at birth babies. Hidden treasures. Family wars. Speed dating scandals. Jane remained mind boggled by it all. She hadn’t fit any puzzles pieces together, so she didn’t know who’d done what. But she would. Soon. Someone might have killed Ana to keep their secrets secret.
The photos of Ana’s notepad. The list of nicknames, most linked to a line of numbers. Dates, maybe. Probably. Jane noted the stars next to “Dr. Sexy Evil” “Art Amour” and “The Robber.” On the last page, the would-be journalist had written and circled the words Speed dating. My big break?
Uh, why was Tony glaring at her, silent?
Oh, right. He’d asked a question. “No, I most certainly did not call you desperate,” Jane said and sighed, jumping back into the conversation. “I called your rates desperate. There’s a difference.”
He swiped his tongue over his teeth, and she heaved another sigh, hating the need to be here. What had the agents found on her property? What had turned her into a prime person of interest when there was a wealth of others to go around? Why had Hightower asked about the jimsonweed? And how did someone hacking into the cemetery’s security feed figure into things—because it must?
