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Kit thought about the way that Driscoll was dressed. “Did you see him go out Friday night?”
The teenager flinched, but before Kit could probe the reaction, Gemma spoke. “We did. He left in his car, even though his license was suspended after he tried to run over my husband.” The older woman’s cheeks heated. “We debated calling the police about it, but we didn’t want any more trouble from that man. My husband is just now able to work again. We couldn’t afford another attack—from a mental, physical, or financial standpoint. And it wasn’t like the law was going to do anything to Driscoll. He got probation for breaking David’s jaw. They’d just smack his hands if we reported he was driving, and he’d be free to hurt us.”
Unfortunately, the woman had a valid concern. Kit tried to soothe. “It wasn’t your job to report his infractions. Do you remember what time he left?”
“About eight o’clock,” Gemma said. “Why?”
“We’re trying to establish his movements right before he died,” Baz said. “Did you see him return?”
Gemma shook her head, but her daughter became even twitchier.
“Maureen?” Kit asked softly. “Did you see him return?”
Gemma turned to her daughter. “It’s okay, Maureen. If you know, tell them.”
Maureen swallowed. “I did. My bedroom window faces the street and I saw the headlights. It was about eleven, maybe? He put his car in the garage.”
“Did he leave again after that?” Baz asked.
“No,” she said, a little too quickly. “Mom, can I go now? I don’t like talking about him. He was awful.”
“Of course, honey.”
“Thank you,” Kit said, giving the girl a smile as she scurried up the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” Gemma said with a weary sigh. “She saw David getting beaten and... well, therapy has helped, but she still wakes up with nightmares.”
“We get that,” Baz assured her. “Thank you for your time.”
Kit and Baz gave her their business cards in case the family remembered anything else and took their leave. Kit chanced a look over her shoulder as they walked to the street. Sure enough, a pair of eyes peered out between the curtains in an upstairs window.
“Don’t look up,” Kit murmured.
“She’s watching us?” Baz asked, just as quietly.
“From her bedroom window.”
“She knows something.”
“She sure does. And it scares her.” Kit pointed to the house two doors down. “The lights are on, so they’re home. Let’s chat with a few more neighbors and go. We can come back to talk to Maureen again tomorrow.”
“That’s fine. As long as we talk to Dr.Reeves again today.”
Kit wanted to say no, that they should leave the man alone. But her reluctance to bother the man wasn’t helping them fill in the blanks left by Driscoll’s death—however it transpired. “Let’s ask him to meet us in a neutral place instead of going to his apartment. Being seen with us so close to the presser might lead his neighbors to put two and two together and guess he was our confidential informant.”
Baz’s gaze rested on her face for a long moment before he nodded. “That’s fair.”
Fair. That was all she wanted to be. That was what Dr.Reeves deserved.
San Diego, California
Monday, April 11, 8:15 p.m.
Sam watched the two detectives approaching with growing unease. It felt like a troupe of Irish folk dancers was performing in his stomach. He repositioned himself behind the wheel of his RAV4, scared shitless because he had no idea why McKittrick and Constantine had asked to see him again.
They’d asked to meet him in a “neutral place” of his choosing so that they didn’t clue his neighbors in to the fact that he was their CI.
Which he appreciated. He figured it was McKittrick’s idea versus her partner’s. She seemed the type to think about things like that. It didn’t really matter, though. Maybe this was standard operating procedure for confidential informants.
