Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,57

made it as far as the hall when Jane peeked from the front.

“Finn? That True News reporter is here to see you. Hope Adams?”

He waved for Jane to send her back.

“Hope Adams?” a detective said behind him, looking up from his work. “I talked to her a couple of years ago. I was investigating a kidnapping. She was investigating it, too . . . as a possible alien abduction.”

A wave of laughter from the room.

“Hey,” someone called. “What’s she want with you, Finn? A feature?”

More laughter. Finn shut the door to the detectives’ room as Jane rounded the corner, followed by a couple. Finn introduced himself, then quickly got them into an interview room.

FINN DIDN’T GET PAST the preliminary questions before realizing he didn’t need to worry. Adams was no ruthless reporter. Maybe it was just the circumstances—her concern for her friend overriding her journalistic instincts—but Finn couldn’t imagine ruthless was ever a term applied to Hope Adams.

Living in L.A., Finn had learned not to be dazzled by a pretty girl. Adams had an easy, offhand beauty that asked you—politely, he suspected—to pay it no heed. So he didn’t. He tried, too, not to let her size make an impression. She was small and fine-boned, with an air of fragility. There wasn’t any fragility in her manner, though. She was steady and articulate, answering every question concisely and completely. Cooperative without tripping over herself to prove it. In short, the perfect witness.

The boyfriend—Karl Marsten—was another matter. His good looks came with the polished sheen and casual arrogance Finn was more accustomed to in L.A. Without so much as a word, he made it clear that he considered this interview a waste of his afternoon. Finn could deal with that. It was the hard edge underlying the casual arrogance that got under his skin.

Again, it was all in the body language. Marsten took the chair directly across from Finn. While Adams talked, Marsten leaned slightly forward, like a lawyer getting between the detective and his client, his cold stare telling Finn he’d damned well better watch his step or this interview was over.

When he’d first taken that chair and fixed Finn with that stare, Finn had inwardly groaned. He’d seen this before. The guy who “protected his woman” by not letting her get a word in edgewise. But Marsten simply stood guard, never interrupting. Even when Finn fished outside the boundaries, he only got a warning look from Marsten, as if he knew Adams could handle it. And she did, deftly avoiding anything that smacked of speculation.

While they were talking, Damon slipped in. He said nothing, just stood off to the side, listening. Adams finished relaying her account of the night Portia Kane died, then came the big question: “When’s the last time you spoke to Robyn?”

Adams’s gaze shifted to Marsten, and Finn knew that night at Bane hadn’t been her last contact with Robyn Peltier. The lies were about to begin.

“An hour and a half ago.”

Finn blinked and repeated the question, sure he’d misheard.

She checked her watch. “Ninety-five minutes. I’d looked at the time just before I got her message, because I was wondering how long the maid had been cleaning our room.” She paused. “I suppose that’s what you meant—when’s the last time we had contact. I didn’t speak to her, though. She just left a message where we’d been staying, saying she was on her way here.”

“Here?”

“To the police station. To turn . . .” Adams let the sentence trail off, her eyes meeting his. “She is here, right? That’s why you called. We were at Bane together, so she gave you our names to back up her story . . .” Seeing his expression, her hands tightened on the chair arm. She twisted to Marsten, but he was already leaning toward her, his fingers on her forearm, murmuring under his breath. When he turned on Finn, his voice wasn’t nearly as gentle.

“Robyn was turning herself in. If she’s not at this station, I’d suggest you start making calls.”

Finn looked at Damon, who uncrossed his arms and straightened, worry darkening his eyes.

Finn excused himself and stepped out.

HE RETURNED TEN MINUTES LATER to a quiet room. Too quiet, as if they’d heard him coming and stopped talking. He glanced at Damon, but he was lost in his thoughts.

“Ms. Peltier hasn’t turned herself in to any precinct or any officer,” Finn said as he sat. “That may have been her intention, but when it came to doing it . .