Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,62

door.

There had to be a logical explanation for what had happened. She hadn’t imagined Adele—the cabbie had seen her, too.

Obviously Adele had been following Robyn to get that photo. She’d killed Portia for her phone. Then she’d discovered Portia had sent the picture to Robyn . . . and Robyn took another photo of her near the murder scene. So she’d followed Robyn to Judd’s house. As for how she’d found Robyn today, obviously it had something to do with that young man who’d hurt Karl. A partner, maybe Judd’s killer.

As for how he’d found Robyn, she wasn’t dwelling on that, no more than she’d dwelled on how Karl found her the day before. It happened.

Adele and her partner must have seen Robyn get into the cab and Adele followed her. After the incident at the first police station, Adele figured out that Robyn was trying to turn herself in. Once she’d realized which precinct Robyn was heading to, she’d gotten there first to stop Robyn from surrendering while she still had that cell phone.

Problem was, Robyn didn’t have the phone. Otherwise, she’d have tossed it to Adele, gotten to the police safely and told her story. Somehow she doubted telling Adele she’d lost the phone would solve the problem.

As for why Adele was willing to kill for a photo, Damon would say that motive wasn’t important. The important thing now was to get the hell away from her.

YOU’RE PRETTY DAMNED PLEASED with yourself, aren’t you, Bobby?

Robyn hadn’t heard Damon’s voice since she’d seen Adele at the first police station. Now she’d finally relaxed enough to imagine what he would have said.

She was pleased with herself. She’d called for a cab, requesting pickup a block over. She’d ordered the taxi to a cluster of hotels where she used to visit Portia for lunch. When it had dropped her off at one, she’d gone inside and taken the walkway to a second hotel. Out the lobby doors, into a new cab and off again.

Now she was walking toward music and the hum of voices. Some sort of street concert, she presumed. Where there’s a concert, there are police. If Adele wasn’t going to let her get to a police station, she’d find another way to turn herself in.

But, as people always said, there was never a cop around when you needed one. The concert turned out to be a small street festival on a road lined with shops boasting free hearing tests, Alaskan cruises and the lowest pharmacy dispensing fees in town. The music she’d heard? A live polka band. A seniors’ fair, with a shocking lack of police presence.

Seemed she’d need to hail another cab. It was a good thing she was turning herself in because, at this rate, she’d run out of cash. L.A. cabs were not cheap.

Her chances of getting one on this street were nil. It was blocked off for the festival. So she set out in search of the nearest busy road or pay phone, and walked two blocks, finding neither. Then, as she glanced down a quiet side street, she laughed. There was an LAPD bike patrol officer stopped in front of a parked car as he drank from a water bottle. Another bike was propped against the mailbox behind him. Twenty feet away a second officer was walking into a restaurant.

Apparently she’d just needed to stop looking for a cop and they’d be everywhere.

She took a deep breath, then strode toward the drinking cop, his helmet swaying on the bike handles. He was in his thirties, light haired, with ears that would favor a longer haircut.

“Officer?”

He capped his bottle.

Robyn waited until she was close enough to speak without shouting, and said, “I’m Robyn Peltier.”

His thick lips pursed. He pulled off his sunglasses, but his eyes remained as blank as the dark lenses. Great. Even with an introduction she couldn’t get recognized.

“Detective Findlay is looking for me,” she said as she stopped in front of him. “He wants to talk to me about Portia Kane’s murder.”

With that name, recognition hit. He glanced past her, as if looking for his partner, one hand sneaking toward his gun belt.

“Can you take me to Detective Findlay? Or call a car?” A weak smile. “I guess that bike isn’t built for two. I know this isn’t the best way to turn myself in but . . . it’s a long story.”

His hand moved away from the gun, taking his radio instead. He lifted it to his lips, then motioned