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“At least no one else died.”
“Other than her sister and brother.”
“Jonas?” she said as the waitress left the bill and Thomas swept it up. For once Johnson didn’t argue. “The way I figure it, he was dead to her already. Might’ve been planning to kill her and Lacey, at least if one of his cellmates is to be believed.
“The con claimed Jonas McIntyre hadn’t found Jesus at all, and that he didn’t give two cents about all his legions of fans, that all Jonas really was after was his share of the McIntyre fortune, which would be larger without Kara claiming her share, and even more importantly, Jonas was out for revenge.
Unfortunately for Jonas, so was Walter Robinson, and Walter had beat Jonas to the punch when it came to killing Merritt Margrove.
“Jonas certainly got paid back.” she added. She was talking about the severed head, found in an old record player, slowly spinning, battery powered, compliments of the electrician Walter Robinson. “What goes around comes around.”
“Ooooh. Bad,” he said, but fought a smile.
“I know. Too far,” she said.
Thomas remembered the gore, the headless corpse and the money, thousands of dollars—twenty thousand in blood-splattered bills—next to the torso. Cash that had been stashed and stolen and was now evidence.Blood money.
It was still a mystery as to how Walter Robinson had met Jonas in the attic. Had the attack been planned, or was it just by chance, with Jonas ending up losing his life? They might never know.
He changed the subject. “What about Faiza Donner? Was she on Jonas’s list of people to get even with?”
“Who knows?” She gave a shrug. “The last I heard she and her boyfriend have hired Alex Rousseau to help them get their hands on the rest of the estate. “Roger Sweeney has some connections to the entertainment business through one of his old band mates.” Good old Roger took a flight to LA on the day Walter Robinson was killed and met with some TV personality who wants to do another movie on the case.”
“Great,” he said sarcastically. “I guess I’m not surprised. I got a call from a reporter who asked about it.
When she gave him a look, he said, “I got a call from a reporter who asked about it.” The reporter, of course, was Sheila Keegan, who was still hounding him, reminding him that he owed her. He smiled as they walked outside, where the wind blew his jacket open and icy snowflakes caught in his hair. Maybe finally he’d actually pay his debt.
After all, it was Christmas.
And they were both alone.
“What’re you doing for the holiday?” he asked his partner as he slid behind the wheel and she, adjusting her knitted hat, slid into the passenger seat.
“Ooh, it’s complicated. I get together with my ex and his family. For my son’s sake. You know, my boy’s got some issues.” He waited. “They’re emotional mainly and seem to be improving with medication and . . . and it helps when his dad and I get along, so we do. For Jamie’s sake.” She threw Thomas a glance. “What about you?”
“I’m working tonight.”
“And after?”
“We’ll see,” he said. “I’ll be okay.” But he didn’t mention Sheila Keegan as he drove Johnson back to the station to pick up her car.
That was his little secret.
And it was best to keep it that way.
