Page 111 of One Shattered Crown
They glance at me first, walk to the back hallway to see Sylveria’s corpse, which I assume is still sprawled across the polished floor.
They return, and the Sam Elliott look-alike stretches to his feet and crosses over to speak with my men behind the desk. Detective Caldwell takes the seat across from me, the leather creaking under her weight. Detective Ashner stays standing, chin lifted, eyes cutting down.
“This is a terrible coincidence,” Caldwell says, her voice flat but sharp.
My gaze sweeps the lobby again, expecting Kaz to walk through a door. Any fucking door. Where is he? “Isn’t it, though?”
“Yes, but the good news”—Caldwell’s eyes flick upward toward the corners of the ceiling—“is this is Malice Media. I’m sure there’s CCTV everywhere.”
“It’s my understanding the cameras are out,” I answer.
Her stare drags back to me, slow as a blade sliding free of a sheath. “Are you kidding me?”
“Oh, if only I were.” I lean back, calm on the outside, heat simmering beneath. Why would anybody shoot Sylveria in the head and then tuck her into my damn closet? The timing stinks. “We have witnesses but no video. She fell out of the closet when the cleaning lady found her,” I say evenly, pointing to Gertrude. She’s sobbing into the chest of a uniform, voice rushing in Spanish, hands cutting frantic arcs through the air.
Caldwell studies me harder this time, suspicion bright in her dark eyes. “I didn’t think you were dumb enough to bury a body on your own property.” Her tone is low, almost a murmur, but sharp enough to slice.
“I’m not.”
“Maybe you are. Maybe you’re trying to look dumb.”
I force myself to remain relaxed. “Not my style.” My watch ticks faintly as I glance at it. Every second drags heavily against me. Whoever’s making a move is doing it hard. Right now.
Ashner pulls a stick of gum from his pocket and slowly unwraps it. “Do you have somewhere to be?”
“Always.” I lean back, shoulders loose. “Before you ask, I have no idea who shot Mrs. Rendale and dumped her in the lobby closet of my building.”
“That would make sense,” Caldwell says, “except the cameras are down.”
“Obviously,” Ashner mutters.
Caldwell shakes her head. “You’ve got one of the most intricate systems in the world. Are you telling me just anybody can shut it down?”
Around us, my men hold steady, but the police outnumber them. Too many twitchy fingers near too many triggers. One wrong move, and I’ll be nothing more than a red stain across the white marble. “No,” I admit. “It’s incredibly difficult to infiltrate my system.” Which leads to the real question—where’s Kaz? His absence gnaws at me, especially since my system has gone dark. Did somebody get to him? Take him?
Ashner and Caldwell keep pressing, their clipped words and irritating voices scraping at my patience. But none of it slices deep. My skin doesn’t burn, doesn’t split. Not today.
It’s Ella. It has to be. Something about her, her voice, her kindness, her energy, somehow has eased the pain always around me. I think she’s correct in that her energy and mine complement each other. Belong together.
“Where is Ella Rendale?” Ashner asks suddenly, his gaze sweeping the room.
I wondered when they’d get to her. “She went shopping.”
“She’s not—” Caldwell cuts herself off with a short snort. “You let her go shopping by herself?”
I meet her gaze without blinking, my jaw steady, shoulders squared. “I don’t have her on a leash and chain,” I say evenly, though the truth is closer than I’d admit. “She chose to go shopping. I can’t tell you where she is right now.”
“Why don’t you call her?” Ashner plops the gum in his mouth.
“I’d rather not. If I’m going to tell her that her stepmother is dead, I’ll do it in person.” My voice stays mellow but my jaw’s locked tight.
Caldwell runs her palms down her perfectly pressed navy slacks. Her nails gleam a brighter pink today, catching the light like lacquered glass. Interesting. She breathes out before speaking. “Here’s the deal, Mr. Beathach, you’re coming down to the station with us.”
The heavy glass doors shove open again. Fergus shoulders his way inside, green flannel damp with rain, Carhartt jeans stiff, brown boots scuffed from work. His dark hair is slicked back. “Sorry. Took me a while to get through that mess outside.” He shakes his head, water droplets flying. “Not only do you have police everywhere, the news vans are here. Somebody tipped them off, boss.”
“Great,” Caldwell and I mutter at the same time.
Fergus moves forward, his gaze sharp. “From my understanding, based on what our men said on the way in, the cameras went down this morning, and then the cleaning lady found the body. The police were already en route, and the press was parked outside before anyone even knew what was in the closet.” He checks his watch, gold catching the fluorescent glare. “Somebody set this up.”
