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“Bite me.”
Monck scowled. I could have scowled back, wasn’t in the mood. Hell, the guy had just complimented me.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Good question.”
“As I said. Maybe we’re going at this all wrong.” Maybeyou’regoing at this all wrong.
Monck spread his feet and chest-crossed his arms.
“Let’s assume for now Willis didn’t kill Musgrove,” I said. “Then who did? Throw out some ideas.”
“Willis hired a hitman to do her while he was away?”
“Would Willis benefit from the death of his ex?”
“I’ll look into that, too.”
“Is he capable of that type of premeditated violence?”
“Who knows? I’ve always thought he’s the ‘get wasted and give the old lady a beat down’ type.”
“Another theory?”
Monck thought. “Well, suppose it was the same sicko who’s been murdering tourists.”
“Musgrove doesn’t fit the serial’s victim profile.” I was playing devil’s advocate. “Galloway, Palke, and Bonner were all young males.”
“Maybe she was getting too close, the perp got spooked, and popped her.”
“Maybe.”
Monck was getting into it. “Maybe it was a rando B and E gone bad. Like the one at your condo.”
“Ifthat was a random B and E. Perhaps Musgrove and I were both targeted.”
“By the serial?”
“It’s possible.”
“Why?”
“Same reason,” I said, shrugging. “We made him nervous.”
“Why now?”
Sudden flashback. “Musgrove received a text while we were having dinner Friday night. Her demeanor suggested that the info was surprising, but she wouldn’t elaborate.”
“What kind of info?”
“That’s a question for a cop.”
“So,” said Monck, uncrossing his arms and hip-jamming both hands. “Who is this psycho prick?”
“I thought you were liking Uri Stribbe.”
“I am.”
