Free Disturbance by Jan Burke Page B

here. The police have probably already checked on cab companies.”
    “Haven’t they already done most of what we’re doing anyway?”
    “Maybe.”
    “So why are you staying interested?”
    “I’ve found myself with extra time on my hands lately.”
    He studied me for a moment, and I grew uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “Naw. That’s not it.”
    “Pardon?”
    “You’ve been straightforward with me up to just now. What’s going on?” He frowned. “Her car was parked near your house, the news said. When you found it. Right?”
    “Right.”
    “Not just a coincidence it was there, was it?”
    “Probably not.” I told him about the garden hose, which made his face drain of color.
    “Holy God Almighty,” he said. “You think he’s after you?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know of any connection I have to your wife, and I have no idea who the young woman left in the car trunk might be. And I sure as hell have no idea why he would target me, or even try to scare me.” For a moment I thought of talking to Dwayne about Nick Parrish, but he had probably already seen the news reports on the Moths and probably would say what everyone else kept saying to me: “Nick Parrish is in prison.”
    “Your husband is a homicide detective, right?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “So he works late at night, too? Like I do?”
    “Sometimes.”
    He put his face in his hands. “I think about the lousy shift differential, and I wonder, if I had worked day shift, would he have picked someone else?”
    “Don’t,” I said.
    He looked up.
    “Don’t play that game. Even a bodyguard can’t protect another person every hour of every day. Don’t do that to yourself.”
    “I can’t help it.”
    “Okay, fair enough. Should I come back another time?”
    “Sorry, no, I’ll be all right.”
    “Do you think you could do me a couple of favors?”
    I explained that I was fairly sure Marilyn or someone close to her had unwittingly given the killer information he would need for his plans—where she lived, if she had dogs, what Dwayne’s work hours were, and other details.
    “So I’d like to spend some time looking at what’s on her computer, if it’s still here.”
    “Yeah, the police just copied the hard drive. I know most of her passwords.”
    “I may need to ask a friend of mine who’s a better hacker than I am to take a look at it, but we can make a start.”
    I also asked to be given the numbers of his wife’s hairdresser, her pastor, her sister, her closest friends.
    “Men and women?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay, and you know what? I’ll write a note telling them that it’s okay for them to talk to you, and that you are helping me out and not working for the paper anymore.”
    The kindness of that offer nearly made up for the hollow feeling its wording gave me.
    “Anything else you want to look at?” he asked.
    “Let’s start with the sympathy cards,” I said, deciding my own bereavement was nothing next to his.
    So I went after the story.
    I spent time becoming acquainted with a dead woman. I came to know Marilyn Foster by talking to those who missed her. Some were afraid—the lightning strike of violent death had pierced the pretense most of us adopt to some degree, that our lives are safe. As far as they were concerned, talking about Marilyn’s murder just might be akin to holding up a metal rod on a stormy day. Better to hunker down until you could pretend again.
    Fortunately, most seemed to find comfort in talking to me. For them, the grief and anger and helplessness that came with her sudden loss were eased a bit by doing something—anything—to try to help apprehend her murderer.
    They trusted me.
    I was going to try to be worthy of it.
    It wasn’t the only way I kept busy, but pursuing that story got me going again. Rachel Giocopazzi, wife of Frank’s partner, Pete Baird, asked me to do a little temporary work at her private investigation firm. It wasn’t unlike work I did as a reporter,