Free You Know Who I Am (The Drusilla Thorne Mysteries Book 2) by Diane Patterson Page A

his demeanor suggested. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
    Very nice. The power plays were starting. Excellent. I put on one of my tight half-smiles and looked at Vilar. “It’s Thorne. Drusilla Thorne. I don’t use Abbott.” I gave his partner a swift glance. Gruen didn’t change expression; he shifted his weight, and I could tell he’d wrapped up this case in his mind.
    Vilar nodded sympathetically and made a note in his book. Along the lines of how I was obviously the murderer, perhaps. He wrote another line in gorgeous handwriting I couldn’t make heads or tails out of. As I’ve said, reading isn’t my strong suit. He looked up. “Ms. Thorne.” What a soothing, musical voice he had. “Can you tell us what happened?”
    Gruen stepped backward and started walking around the area under the stairs, which was a not very subtle way of circling me. I felt intimidated, which I was sure I was supposed to. Now that he was not a Possible Prom Date, I was not in danger of being overly helpful. Not that I ever am, to be honest.
    My father’s number-one rule echoed in my mind: Never volunteer information . Despite the fact that it came from my father, it was still good advice that has come in handy a number of times. “I don’t know what happened.” I spoke quietly, which made Detective Vilar lean in closer to me and Gruen stop pacing. “I think my husband’s been murdered.”
    Gruen looked me up and down in a way that made me think maybe breakfast was back on. He stopped when he got back to my eyes. “That’s a nice outfit. You have something planned for today?”
    I shook my head. “I like to dress well, Detective.”
    He nodded, his gaze still on me. He had beautiful hazel eyes. “Do you often carry latex gloves in the pocket of your nice outfits?”
    I believe the only reaction to have to that was: Fuck .
    The gloves were showing.
    “Don’t answer that.”
    The voice startled both me and the good detective, and we turned to see who’d joined our little tête-à-tête.
    The man standing there wore the most expensive suit I’d seen in quite a while. He wasn’t handsome—plain, with thinning blonde hair on top—but what he lacked in conventional attractiveness, he more than made up for with the most direct stare I’d seen in a while. He carried a dark leather briefcase and he looked as comfortable telling us what to do as, well, only a successful lawyer could be.
    A lawyer.
    My lawyer.
    Stevie’s supernatural powers could make a religious convert out of me.
    “Nathaniel Ross. Good to see you again, Detective Gruen.”
    Gruen gave him a malevolent look that made me damn glad he didn’t have me in an interrogation room.
    Ross took me by the elbow. “I need to talk to my client.”
    He started to pull me toward the street, where the lights and the cameras were, but I shook my head and pulled him toward the darker alley on the side of the house. I didn’t want to be seen.
    What can I say? Acting guilty is a habit with me, formed at a tender young age. When I was, after all, guilty at least eighty-five percent of the time.
    “You’re quite well-known, aren’t you?” I asked, smiling enough to seem flirtatious.
    He shrugged, as if to say Of course I am. “My being your lawyer is going to make the cops look that much harder at you.”
    I nodded. “So you’re expensive.” As if the shoes hadn’t told me that. “What on earth sort of payment did my sister offer you?”
    Ross raised an eyebrow at me. “Sister?”
    “My sister didn’t call you?”
    “I don’t think he’s your sister, no.”
    “He?” Fire of Hades, had Stevie managed to overcome her fear of leaving the house and of meeting strangers in order to ask Gary to help us? And he had said yes? “Does he have a name?”
    “I’ll just say I was surprised he doesn’t have a stronger Spanish accent.”
    And the answer became clear: “he” was Roberto. Roberto Montesinos, that is. A very wealthy man.