Free Secrets to the Grave by Tami Hoag

rocking, looking off to the side as he rubbed his hands. “So much blood. So much blood.”
    Mendez wondered which scene he was replaying in his head: the murder of his mother or of Marissa Fordham. What had been the manner of his mother’s death? Had he used a knife? Could he have had some kind of mental break or flashback and gone after Marissa Fordham, somehow relating her to his mother, or maybe confusing the two women?
    “Did you touch Marissa’s body?”
    “No, no, no.” Zahn wagged his head. “I couldn’t. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t.”
    If that was true, that explained why he hadn’t realized the little girl was still alive. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t tried to find a pulse. He couldn’t bring himself to touch the blood.
    Rudy Nasser stirred at last, his brain racing to catch up to the moment and rescue his mentor.
    “This is starting to sound a lot like an interrogation,” he said. “Zander, I think you shouldn’t say any more until you talk to an attorney.”
    “Why would he need an attorney?” Vince asked. “We don’t consider Zander a suspect.”
    Nasser stood up, ready to give them the bum’s rush out the front gate. “Let’s keep it that way.”
    Leone didn’t move. He was sitting a little sideways on his green vinyl chair, leaning against one arm on the chair back. He was a big man and took up a big space, and didn’t look like anyone was going to move him until he was good and ready.
    “Is that what you want, Zander?” he asked. “Do you want us to leave? Or do you want to help us find who killed Marissa?”
    “He doesn’t know who killed the woman,” Nasser said, getting his back up. “Why aren’t you out talking to people who had a reason to kill her? Why aren’t you out talking to her boyfriends?”
    “You know who they are?” Mendez asked, poising pen against paper.
    Nasser backtracked, looking away. “Well ... I ...”
    “You don’t know,” Mendez said, his patience slipping away. “You’re just shooting your mouth off.”
    “She didn’t buy that place with the proceeds of her art,” Nasser came back. “Someone was footing the bills.”
    “But you don’t know who.”
    Nasser didn’t answer.
    “Mr. Nasser,” Vince said calmly. “If you have something useful to contribute here, then you should say so. If all you want is to cast aspersions on a woman who can’t defend herself in order to distract us, then you should shut up.”
    “She wasn’t like that,” Zahn said, rocking himself harder. “She wasn’t like that.”
    Nasser closed his eyes. “Zander, for God’s sake. She had a child. Who was the father? Where is he?”
    “You don’t know. You don’t know her. You don’t know anything.”
    “You know she wasn’t a saint.”
    Zahn came to his feet suddenly and shoved Nasser backward with all his might, shouting, “YOU DON’T KNOW HER!”
    Taken by surprise, Nasser staggered backward, tripped himself, and sat down hard on the crushed stone.
    Zahn shook his hands as if they were wet, horrified that he had touched another living being.
    “Oh my God. Oh my God,” he muttered. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. I have to go now. I have to go. It’s time to go.”
    He turned and ran back to the house as he had run away from Marissa Fordham’s house that morning, with his arms straight down at his sides.
    Mendez and Vince both got up from their chairs. Mendez glanced from the professor to his protégé struggling to his feet, and back at Leone. “If I had a kid at that college, I’d be asking for my money back.”

12
    Kathryn Worth might have been a queen in a past life. She had that kind of bearing: straight, proud, regal, with a mane of golden hair swept back from her face. Disapproval was a statement made with an ice-blue stare down her patrician nose—a look that could make grown men cringe and cower.
    In this life Kathryn Worth’s title was Assistant District Attorney. At forty-two, she had worked hard to achieve a position of