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“Yeah.”
“That Baz was wrong or that you felt a personal connection?”
Damn, but the man knew her too well. She loved him for it, even as it irritated her. “The second one. Baz is wrong a lot.”
Harlan chuckled. “Impudent.”
“Always. But really, Baz is rarely wrong. I was more upset at myself.”
“Why did you feel a personal connection?”
“I don’t know. I heard his voice and saw his face and I just thought that he wasn’t a killer. Which is not smart.”
“You are human. You’re allowed to have a logical break every now and then.”
“No, I’m not. People could die if I believe a killer is innocent.”
“Oh, Kitty-Cat,” he sighed. “You take too much on your shoulders.”
“I can’t make mistakes, Pop.”
“You didn’t, though, in this case. You said you were right and Baz was wrong.” He studied her. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“It’s the killer,” she confessed quietly. “My gut says something is wrong, but the department ran with the man we found dead and told the media that they’d closed the case.”
“You don’t think he did it?”
“Well, he definitely did something.” She thought about the handcuffs and pink spray paint. The department had agreed that those details should continue to be need-to-know, or they’d have copycats coming out of the woodwork. “I think he was a killer, but I don’t know if he killed himself.”
“Did you tell your boss this?”
“I did, but the ME ruled he’d really hanged himself, and in the end the brass decided that the man’s suicide note was an adequate confession.” Mostly because they didn’t want to be accused of hiding key information from the public. “But I’d already told the ME that I was having doubts. I asked her to do a full drug screen, to look for sedatives, especially ones with short half-lives.” Sedatives that would disappear if one waited too long to check. “Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “I probably am overthinking it.”
“You?” Harlan said playfully. “Overthinking? Say it isn’t so.”
“Hush, old man. Can we talk about something else? I need to get out of my own head.”
“Of course.” He pointed at Snickerdoodle, who was lying on her back getting tummy rubs from the newest foster kid, Rita. “You may have trouble getting your dog back.”
Kit smiled at the sight of the girl playing with her dog. Margarita Mendoza was only thirteen and so distrustful. She reminded Kit a lot of herself at the same age. But a dog broke down barriers and Snick was one of the best at giving love to the kids who needed it the most. “How is she settling in?”
“About as well as you did.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“On her behalf or yours?”
“Both, I guess. I wasn’t an easy kid.”
“No, but you were always worth it.”
Kit’s throat closed. “Don’t make me cry, Pop.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, amused. “She was sitting with us last night, watching the press conference. She seemed very impressed with you.”
