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Reed shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Like hell, you don’t know. You were probably in on it. Maybe you and Sylvie had a little something going on the side. It wouldn’t have been the first time.”
“This is insane,” Reed said.
Yelkis’s hands were still held sky high, and he was on his knees on the asphalt as he glared up at Reed. “But it will never happen. Got it? Your little plan won’t work. The kids are mine and whatever my wife had in her retirement, her accounts, it all goes to me and my kids!”
“Jesus,” Reed whispered, then seeing that the camera for the news station was still rolling, turned on the reporter. “Enough, Ms. Mason. We’re done here.” He grabbed Nikki’s hand.
“What is he talking about? What about Sylvie’s kids?” she said, and he watched Priscilla marching to Yelkis’s truck, her brother limping slightly before running to catch up.
“I really have no idea. None.” His phone jangled. He checked the screen and answered. “This is Reed.”
“Yeah, Deputy Tina Rounds. I was called over to the scene of a possible suicide.” He listened to the officer, but his gaze was fastened on the scene unfolding. Obviously deciding that Yelkis posed no immediate danger, Delacroix slid her gun into the holster at her waist, then pocketed the cuffs while another officer tried to help Yelkis to his feet, just as the first drops of rain from another storm began to fall. Yelkis shook off the policeman’s hand, stood and straightened his jacket. Squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes at Reed. “I’m not done,” he warned, then followed his kids to his pickup. All the while Nikki was picking up the scattered papers, a legal document from the looks of the neatly typed pages.
His stomach dropped.
Was Yelkis actually telling the truth?
“You got that?” Rounds was saying, bringing him back to the phone call. “Possible suicide. Gunshot.”
“Where are you?”
She reeled off the address. “Male. In his thirties. Woman who called it in says the victim is Owen Duval.”
“What?” In the moment everything changed. Nikki, who had come up to stand next to him, her gaze skimming the documents, glanced up suddenly, meeting his gaze.
“I said it sure as hell looks like Duval offed himself.”
“You’re sure about his ID?”
“That’s right. Wallet is still on him and the woman who found him is Helen Davis, Duval’s landlord. Positive ID.” Reed’s heart sank. “I’m on my way.” He clicked off. “Son of a . . .” Why the hell would Owen Duval off himself now? Pressure? Guilt?
“What?” Nikki demanded. “Did she say suicide?”
“Possible. Look, I have to check this out.” He was already fishing in his pocket for his keys. “Take the Jeep and I’ll ride to the scene with Delacroix.”
Nikki argued, “I can go with you and—”
“No.” He was already motioning to Delacroix, holding up a finger, silently asking her to wait.
“I overheard the victim’s name,” Nikki admitted.
“Great. Then you know why I have to leave.”
“I could come and—”
“No! This is police business, Nikki. I thought we were clear on that.”
“Yes, but there’s something I want to tell you.” The way she said it gave him pause. “Something I did today.” She inched her chin up and he knew he wasn’t going to like whatever it was she was going to say. He glanced up and saw that the cameraman was still filming, Kimberly Mason at his side.
“Can it wait?” he said to his wife under his breath. Then at the reporter, “This is over. Now.”
“It’s news.” Kimberly Mason’s smile had all the sincerity of the Cheshire cat. “You understand.” She glanced at Nikki.
“I’ll come home directly,” he said to his wife.
She wanted to argue, he saw it in her eyes, but she said, “Okay. But it’s important.”
