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  Chelsea learned why that afternoon. She and David were on their way to a cookout when they realized they had forgotten a cooler for drinks. They were in the kitchen, putting ice in the cooler and giggling like the crazy teenagers in love that they were, when David’s mother walked in.

  “Who’s the strumpet?” she demanded an introduction.

  “Mom—”

  With mocked embarrassment, Violet covered her mouth with her hand. “Excuse me.” That was when Chelsea realized David’s mother, the wife of Spencer’s chief of police, was intoxicated.

  “Mom,” David said, “this is Chelsea. She’s Riley’s sister. You’ve met Riley.”

  Pleased to meet the mother of the man she loved, Chelsea extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. O’Callaghan.”

  Ignoring the girl’s hand, Violet took her time looking Chelsea up and down. Her gaze stopped on Chelsea’s miniskirt and long legs. “I see you’re a leg man. I’m surprised—your father’s into boobs.”

  Chelsea’s mouth dropped open.

  The cooler was only partially full, but David slammed the lid shut. “We have to go. We’re going to be late.” He picked up the cooler. “The cookout is going to run late, so don’t wait up, Mom.”

  “I stopped waiting up for you and your father years ago,” Violet said.

  Chelsea wanted to get out of that house as much as he did. “Let’s go, David.” Then, instinctively, she gave him a peck on the lips.

  The show of affection prompted an explosion from Violet O’Callaghan like none that Chelsea had seen in her young life. “How dare you!”

  With no idea what she had done, Chelsea was startled. She felt her heart jump, and it felt like it was in her throat.

  David appeared equally surprised by the outburst.

  “Who do you think you are, coming into my home and nuzzling my man!” When Violet advanced on them, David reached out his arm to guide Chelsea behind him. “Have you no shame! It’s bad enough that you think you can just take whatever you want, whenever you want—”

  Fear made Chelsea stop paying attention to what the woman was raging about. All she wanted was to get out of that house. David stayed between her and his mother, and then, clutching the cooler like a shield, he and Chelsea backed out of the house and ran for the car.

  Almost two decades later, Chelsea still vividly remembered the image of Violet O’Callaghan cursing at the two of them from the front door while they made their escape. Among the accusations that Chelsea heard that day was one of betrayal.

  Bogie reintroduced the two women. “Violet, do you remember Chelsea Adams?”

  “Adams?” Violet asked. “I … don’t …”

  Chelsea recognized the penetrating glare in Violet’s eyes as she looked her up and down. Her eyes fell on Molly, who stepped forward to place herself between her master and the withered old woman. Clinging tighter to Molly’s leash, Chelsea edged over to hide behind Bogie.

  A slow grin worked its way to Violet’s wrinkled lips. “I know who you are.”

  Bogie sighed with pleasure. “She must be having a good day today,” he whispered over his shoulder at Chelsea.

  “You thought I wouldn’t recognize you.” Violet uttered a string of curses. “You did this!” She beat the arms of her wheelchair. “You! You think that since I’m not a Spencer—since I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon on Spencer Point—that I’m simpleminded and don’t know what your plan is!” she cackled.

  Bogie stood up and turned around. “Maybe you’d better go, Chelsea.”

  Molly was more than anxious. Whining, she pawed at Chelsea, whose eyes were locked on the beady blue eyes of the old woman in the chair, David’s mother—the woman who had borne the man she loved.

  “Drive me crazy and have me locked up—aye? Well you may have his heart, but I have his soul! He’s never going to leave me, because he owes me!” She pounded her bony chest with one of her claws. “Me! He owes me, and I’ll never release him from that debt!”

  “Go, Chelsea!” Bogie was pushing her out of the lounge.

  The old woman was advancing in her wheelchair. “Till death do us part! That’s what he said, and I’m holding him to it—no matter how much he yearns for you! He’s mine! Body and soul! I’m not giving Pat up—ever!”

  Nurses were rushing from every direction. One was carrying a syringe.

  “Do you hear me, Robin Spencer?” Violet cackled. “Patrick O’Callaghan is mine, until death do us part—body and soul! I’m holding him to it!”

  The rest of the old woman’s curses roared in Chelsea’s ears. Up on her hind legs, Molly was pawing at her. She recognized the German shepherd’s cries.

  “Chelsea, you need to lie down,” she heard through the roar in her ears. “You’re going to have a seizure.” Bogie’s face was spinning before her eyes. “Where’s your medicine?” She felt her handbag ripped out of her grasp right before everything went black.

  Chapter Twelve

  Even though Mac wanted to go back to the News Corp Building, Ed Willingham insisted he go to the police station to find out the status of their investigation into Yvonne’s murder. There was nothing the lawyer hated more than surprises. If he had to personally climb the ladder up to the police commissioner’s office to uncover what evidence the detectives had and the name of their suspects, Ed Willingham was willing to do it.

  Fearing for Dallas’ safety, Mac suggested that David, who apparently was in the clear as a suspect, escort her to ZNC’s studio with the excuse that he had a right to go through Yvonne’s office since he was her husband. He could possibly identify any suspects not on their list.

  To Mac’s surprise, when he made his suggestion in the lobby of the hotel, David’s face turned pale. His eyes darted over to where Dallas was speaking to her brother on her cell phone. “I’m sure Hopkins is going to want to talk to me again. I should go with you.”

  “If the police want to talk to you, I’ll call you to come down to the station,” Ed said. “But since you’re not a suspect—”

  “They think I arranged for Mac to kill her,” David said.

  “Someone attacked Dallas last night,” Mac said. “It could be the same person.” Noting that David’s eyes were flicking in her direction, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” David paused before whispering, “I can’t understand half of what she says.”

  Mac chuckled. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  When David reached for Gnarly’s leash, Mac yanked it out of his reach. “He’s coming with me.”

  “To the police station?” David asked. “You’ve been sticking to Gnarly like glue lately. I don’t even know why you brought him to New York.”

  “David’s got a point,” Ed said. “Why did you bring Gnarly?”

  Holding the German shepherd close to him, Mac said, “I’ve grown quite fond of Gnarly.”

  Dropping her phone into her oversized bag, Dallas turned to rejoin them. “Well, I’m ready to go, puddin’. Let’s blow this pop stand.” After tightening the belt to her black trench coat, she slipped her hand through David’s arm. “Phil talked to Lieutenant Hopkins this mornin’. He says Hopkins told him that they have a suspect for Mom’s murder.”

  “Who?” Mac asked.

  “The mob. That’s all Hopkins would tell him.”

  “Why would the mob want to kill your mother?” Ed’s expression was doubtful. “I know for a fact that they had a high regard for her.”

  Dallas smiled. “Phil said the same thing—only he didn’t use such polite language.”

  “I don’t trust Hopkins,” Mac said.

  “Neither do I,” she said. “He’s as crooked as a barrel of fish hooks. He’s more interested in gettin’ his pretty face on TV than in findin’ Mom’s killer, which makes for a very dangerous confli
ct of interest if you ask me.”

  “Especially since all of our suspects work in television,” Mac said. “Any one of our suspects could help Lieutenant Hopkins with his ambitions to be famous.”

  “Which makes it harder to prove,” Ed said. “There’s no money trail to follow from Hopkins to the killer.”

  “But maybe there’s another type of trail,” Mac said. “Sergeant Roberts, the original lead detective in Audra’s disappearance, was killed yesterday. While we’re at the police station, let’s see if we can find out if he got any calls from his old partner, Hopkins, shortly before his murder.”

  “But we don’t have any proof that Lieutenant Wayne Hopkins is dirty, except that he’s a jerk,” David pointed out. “I’ve known lots of jerks in my time, but that didn’t necessarily mean they were crooked.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Mac said. “But then I’ve never met a dirty cop who wasn’t a jerk.”

  Mac was so focused on getting Gnarly out onto the street and into the taxicab that he didn’t notice until they were in the backseat with the German shepherd draped across Ed’s lap, that Dallas was leading David down the street with her hand in his. When the cab drove past them, Mac turned around in his seat to watch the two of them, hand in hand, hurrying along with the morning pedestrians on their way to work.

  His eyes narrowed to slits. What’s that about?

  “Show me when we get to the alley where you were attacked,” David said.

  “It’s a couple of blocks from the News Corp Building,” she said.

  “What time was it?”

  “I got to the buildin’ a little after seven o’clock,” she recalled. “I decided to give up tryin’ to get in ’round twenty to eight and started walkin’ to the Four Seasons. Had to be ’bout quarter to when I passed that alley.”

  “Yvonne collapsed around five minutes to seven,” David said. “The whole building was locked down immediately. No one, except emergency crews, could get in or out. Mac and I weren’t able to leave until right before eleven. I think they allowed people on the other floors to go a little after nine.”

  “Maybe the killer got out before the buildin’ was locked down.” She stopped at an alley running between two restaurants. The entrance was roped off with yellow crime-scene tape.

  “From the thirty-sixth floor?” David followed her line of sight into the alleyway. Two members of a New York crime-scene crew was scouring the dirty pavement for evidence, while two uniformed police officers were standing guard to keep spectators out.

  It was only when David tried to step over to speak to one of the uniformed officers that he realized he was clutching Dallas’ hand in his. Startled, he turned back to her and looked down at their hands. Their fingers were entwined.

  How long—when? He dropped her hand as if it were on fire. Confusion crossing her face, she cocked her head at him.

  David turned back to the uniformed officers. “Excuse me,” he said while taking his police chief’s badge out of his pocket to show them. “I heard an off-duty police officer was killed here last night.”

  “Yes—” the younger officer said.

  The older officer interrupted him. “We’re not able to comment on an open murder investigation. What interest would an out-of-town police chief have in one of our cases, anyway?”

  “A news journalist was killed just two blocks from here,” David explained.

  “Yvonne Harding,” the younger officer said with a nod of his head. “I’m a fan. She had legs—”

  “Her assistant was attacked not long after her murder,” David said, “in this area. We’re trying to determine if it was the same perp. Maybe your police officer ran into him. All I want to know is the approximate time he was killed.”

  The two officers regarded each other before the older one shrugged his shoulders. “Off the record?”

  “Off the record will work,” David replied.

  “Tate was not only off duty,” the older officer said, “but he was also on suspension. You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “What for?” David asked.

  He answered him in a low voice. “Female suspects complained that he was too touchy with them. Word is that a prostitute managed to get something on tape, and he was suspended without pay pending a hearing.”

  “Maybe one of his victims got revenge,” the younger officer said.

  “Did the on-scene ME have an approximate TOD?” David asked.

  “The scuttlebutt says it was between eleven and midnight,” the older officer said. “But I doubt if he had anything to do with the Harding murder. Tate made a lot of enemies, and a lot of people are saying he was dirty. How could a dirty cop and pervert be connected with an uptown journalist like Yvonne Harding?”

  “Good question,” David said before thanking them for their help and ushering Dallas back out toward the street with his arm around her waist.

  “That TOD is at least three hours after I got dragged back into the same alley,” Dallas said. “Proves that I didn’t kill him and that, most likely, it’s not the same guy.”

  “Maybe,” David said. “Maybe not.”

  “What’s that dog doing here?” Lieutenant Wayne Hopkins asked when he looked up from his pristine desk among the maze of cubicles that made up the squad room and found Gnarly sitting in front of him, his dark eyes focused directly at him.

  “Looks like he’s staring at you,” Mac replied. “Thought maybe you’d have some additional questions or information for me about Yvonne Harding’s murder, so my lawyer and I decided to be proactive and stop by.”

  “And you had to bring the dog with you?” the detective replied. “How’d you get him in the building anyway?”

  “He’s a trained military and law-enforcement officer.” Mac neglected to mention that Gnarly was the only army K-9 that had been dishonorably discharged from the US Army. His case file was sealed, and to date, no one had been able to get it opened to find out why he was kicked out.

  Lieutenant Hopkins looked down to where Gnarly was crawling on his belly to snag a breath mint that had bounced under a chair. His eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Right.”

  Moving around the desk to refocus the detective’s attention off of Gnarly, who was in the midst of standing up and knocking over the chair after capturing the mint, Ed Willingham said, “My client came down here voluntarily to offer any assistance he can and to find out who killed Yvonne Harding, a good friend of his and the wife of his best friend.”

  “You should have called first,” Lieutenant Hopkins told them with a chuckle. “Would have saved you and your attorney a trip. We got this case all wrapped up a few hours ago, and you, Faraday, are in the clear. So you can take your pooch and go home.”

  Gnarly’s head snapped up from where he was sniffing the floor for more goodies, and he cast a glare at Hopkins. Clearly, he did not like being referred to as a “pooch.”

  Mac glanced around the noisy detective squad room. In his tailored suit and tie, Lieutenant Wayne Hopkins appeared out of place among the dozens of other detectives in their off-the-rack attire.

  In spite of the grin that had come to Ed Willingham’s lips when he heard the news, Mac was suspicious of how quickly Lieutenant Hopkins had switched suspects and closed the case.

  “You got the shooter?” Mac asked.

  “Yeah, we got him,” Hopkins said. “He’s in the morgue. Carl Rubenstein.”

  “But you said last night that he had no gunshot residue on his hands or clothes,” Mac reminded him.

  “Because he was wearing gloves,” Hopkins said. “We found his gloves in the stairwell where he’d tossed them.”

  “Where in the stairwell?” Mac asked. “I was maybe a minute behind Rubenstein and ran all the way down the stairwell from the thirty-sixth to the ground floor. There were no gloves.”

  “Guess you’re not as observant as you thought, Farada
y.”

  “Even if you found gloves with gunshot residue on them, how about Rubenstein’s clothes?” Mac asked. “Last night you said forensic found nothing on his clothes to indicate that he had fired a gun. He may have had time to toss the gloves, but he certainly didn’t have time to change his clothes.”

  Behind his eyeglasses, Lieutenant Hopkin’s eyes narrowed into a glare.

  “Mac,” Ed Willingham whispered in a warning tone.

  “And the gun?” Mac asked. “The gun was found all the way down on the ground floor—thirty-six stories down.”

  “He threw the gun over the bannister, and that was where the gun landed,” Hopkins said with a sigh of exasperation. “Ballistics proved that the bullets that killed both Yvonne Harding and Carl Rubenstein came from the three-eighty caliber handgun we recovered in the stairwell.”

  “Who fired the shot that killed Rubenstein?” Mac asked. “Don’t tell me he fell on it, and it went off. I saw the body. It was not a contact wound.”

  “Mac, stop while we’re ahead,” Willingham said in a low voice.

  “Not that this is your case, Faraday,” Hopkins said with a glare. “But I’ll tell you what our crime-scene people uncovered. Rubenstein killed himself by accident. As soon as he entered the stairwell, knowing that you and the dog were behind him, he tore off the gloves he was wearing when he shot Harding and tossed them on the landing at the thirty-sixth floor. Then he started making his way down the stairs, flight by flight. When your dog started gaining on him, he realized he needed to get rid of the gun so he wouldn’t get caught with the murder weapon on him, so he tossed it. But the gun didn’t go straight down through the stairwell. It hit the railing on one of the flights, causing it to go off, and the bullet ricocheted and hit Rubenstein in the chest, killing him. Ain’t it ironic?”