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ouse was empty.”
“So he was meeting someone else there? Who else knew?”
“She says nobody, although it wasn’t a big secret. Crime techs are going over it now, but I understand it’s dusty and undisturbed like no one’s actually entered in a while.”
“So they met outside? I’d say maybe Brian was living a secret life, but he had Zora with him last night.”
“We checked out their house this morning. Everything looks in place, except Zora’s car isn’t there.”
McCrae frowned. “Maybe with a friend? Or in the shop or getting detailed?”
They discussed it further but came up with no new conclusions.
They headed back inside as they were wrapping up. Quin switched subjects and asked him about his interviews with Tracy Gillup and Dean Sutton. McCrae told him about Tracy seeing someone she thought was watching Bailey and Penske, but he added that Carville had warned about Tracy not always being truthful. He then said he hadn’t learned anything more than what they’d already known from Sutton, purposely leaving out what the coach had said about Quin’s ex-wife. Until he interviewed Bailey’s mother himself, he wasn’t going to stir that pot.
Which was what he thought he might do right then, along with checking in with Delta and getting some in-depth information about Zora and Brian from their friends and family. He went to his office and took his gun out of the drawer, then headed out.
“Mr. McCrae!” he heard as he was opening the back door again.
He turned slowly around and saw Tim Hurston coming his way from reception. Thinning gray hair, neatly trimmed, suit pressed to a knife’s edge, pugnacious chin: the man had his hand out and a smile that looked predatory.
What was this?
McCrae shook his hand reluctantly. “Something you need?”
“I wanted to talk about the widow Stahd. Delta, her name is.”
McCrae didn’t respond. Just waited.
“Isn’t it time she was arrested?”
“Not enough evidence,” McCrae said evenly.
“Is that really the reason?” he said in a tone that suggested they both knew it wasn’t.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ve heard differently, and I’m going to suggest you pick her up and bring her in. If she’s a black widow, we need her off the street.”
“That’s for Quin to decide,” McCrae said. His spit had dried up. His mouth felt like dust.
“Well, no, as an appointed special investigator—”
“That was before Quin was made chief.”
“Your mayor has put me in charge of this case. If you don’t want to be a part of it, you can step down.”
McCrae wanted to argue further, but Mayor Kathy was someone who tended to be dazzled by big personalities like Hurston. She was a wild card, and it was entirely possible she may have given him some kind of special dispensation to override Quin. In any case, McCrae wasn’t the one to fight him.
Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Corinne step into the hallway behind Hurston and pretend she wasn’t interested in what was going on.
“I have things to do,” McCrae told the man.
“None as important as this.”
McCrae looked over at Corinne. You made a bad choice, he thought.
As if she’d heard him, she tossed back her head and marched away.
