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“I hope so.” Because they had no other leads.
She blinked hard, fatigue suddenly bearing down on her, and a gallon of coffee wouldn’t be enough to pep her up. She needed to sleep before they backed up Goddard and his team. “I’m going to—”
She was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. “It’s Ryland.” She hit accept and put it on speaker. “Hey, what do you know?”
“The lipstick from the cup you brought me matches the lipstick the ME pulled from Kent Crawford’s…” Ryland hesitated. “Uh, his body.”
She was too tired to laugh at the man’s inability to say “penis.” “Confirmation, then. Roxanne Beaton was in Kent Crawford’s hotel room shortly before he died. Even if he didn’t steal the coins, she killed him.”
“Probably didn’t want to share her loot,” Ryland speculated.
“You’re probably right. Thank you.” Ending the call, she pulled the scrunchie from her hair and massaged her scalp. “I didn’t sleep much last night. I’m going to crash in the break room for an hour.”
“Do that. I’ll bring Navarro and Goddard up to speed.”
“Thanks, Connor.” She started for the bullpen’s double doors, then looked over her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, even if you refuse to make me coffee.”
He laughed. “Go to sleep. Sam will have my hide if anything happens to you.”
Kit walked away, looking at the floor. Her hair, let loose of the scrunchie, fell forward to hide her cheeks that she absolutely knew were burning.
Because Sam did care about her. And she still wasn’t sure what she planned to do about it.
La Mesa, San Diego, California
Thursday, November 10, 4:30 p.m.
Georgia sat in the passenger seat of Sam’s RAV4, staring up at Frankie’s old partner’s house. “Henry Whitfield still lives alone. Good for him.”
Sam glanced at the bag containing the In-N-Out burger, animal style. “I don’t think he drives anymore, if it’s any consolation. If he did, he’d go get his own burger.”
“I don’t know if this is a good idea, Sam. What if he’s hateful toward Frankie?”
“I don’t think he will be. He admired Frankie as a cop, and that’s what you want to know about, right?”
She nodded once. “Right. Let’s do this.”
Sam got Siggy out of the cargo hold and, leash in hand, went around to Georgia’s side of the car and offered his arm.
“Thank you, Sam.”
“I’m a good boy,” he said dryly. “Everybody says so.”
Georgia chuckled as they made their way up to Henry Whitfield’s front door. The house’s paint was a little chipped, the bushes in the front a little overgrown, but other than that, the place was in good shape.
“You’re thinking about all the fixes you can do to his house, aren’t you?” Georgia asked.
“Busted.”
“I should write your mother a thank-you note. She raised you right.” She stopped at Henry’s doormat, then choked on a laugh. “ ‘Go away,’ ” she read. “I might like this guy if he’s nice to Frankie’s memory.”
Sam knocked on the door, listening for a response. He heard the shuffle of footsteps before the door opened, revealing Henry Whitfield, age eighty-four. Sam had looked him up.
The old man was a decorated cop and had been Frankie Flynn’s SDPD partner for years before Frankie had been promoted to lieutenant of the homicide department. Together, the two had closed a record number of cases.
“Detective Whitfield,” Sam said. “I’m Sam Reeves and this is my friend, Georgia Shearer.”
“Just Henry,” Whitfield said. He lowered his hand to let Siggy sniff it. “And who is this?”
