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“I want to know who stabbed Tanner.”
“Well, so do I. Though I don’t think you’re going to find that out in Bailey’s journal. Her missing journal, as I recall. Is it still missing? Maybe we should ask Tanner when he wakes up,” said Ellie.
She said “Mmm,” in a way that sounded as if she was worried that wasn’t going to happen. “Have you talked to McCrae?”
Ellie ground her teeth. Amanda, whom she hardly ever spoke with, was grilling her, not the other way around. “I left him a message.”
“But you’re not covering the stabbing?”
“I’m going to go to the hospital to see Tanner as soon as I can,” she declared determinedly. She would do her own investigation. Fuck the whole damn station, too.
“I’ll go with you. I’ll call Zora.”
“Zora?”
“She and Brian have connections.”
More than you?
“If we can’t get in to see him, I’ll bet she can,” Amanda added.
Ellie considered. They couldn’t tell her she wasn’t on this story. They couldn’t stop her. They could fire her, but Alton would stand up for her . . . wouldn’t he?
You just said Coco owns him. Will he really be there for you?
But if you just stand by, they’ll probably fire you anyway.
“Let’s try to get in to see him tomorrow,” Ellie said.
“Okay,” was the satisfied answer, and Ellie fleetingly wondered if Amanda was playing her somehow.
* * *
McCrae drove to Delta’s in a controlled rush. He’d heard the fear in her voice. He could well imagine that she was beginning to be harassed, and it certainly didn’t help that Tanner’s father was leading the vanguard against her.
When he got to her home, he saw the news van and several people standing outside. They all looked at him as he turned into her driveway. One news van so far. There could be more.
He pulled up on the side of the house, driving on the pad alongside her garage until the nose of his Explorer was far enough past the garage’s rear wall to leave him a clear view of her back door. As he climbed from the driver’s seat, Delta suddenly appeared outside on the porch. She had the strap of her purse slung over her shoulder and wore a white, fuzzy jacket, more form than function, teamed with a pair of black slacks and flats. Mirrored sunglasses perched on her nose. As she hurried down the porch steps, she had the haunted look of a celebrity trying to evade the paparazzi.
He was around the car and opening the door for her. She slid into the seat as a man and a woman appeared behind them closer to the front of the garage.
McCrae was by the driver’s door. “Police,” he said, showing his badge.
They stopped short but didn’t leave.
“I’m going to back out of here, and you need to move yourself from the property.”
“Is Ms. Stahd under arrest?”
“No,” he said shortly.
“Are you taking her in for questioning?”
McCrae climbed into his vehicle, put it in reverse, and slowly backed up. The reporters reluctantly walked backward into the street, but they looked as if they might just stay, regardless of his order. He wondered if he kept moving if he would actually hit one of them. Barely bump them and then they could scream foul. Sue the department for millions.
But they seemed to get it that he wasn’t going to let them intimidate him, and they kept slowly moving out of the way. Their cameraman directed his lens on Delta through the passenger window, though, and she ducked her chin toward McCrae.
“Can you get me in to see my husband?” she asked quietly as they pulled away.
