I wanted a lawyer with me. Too much was on the line.
But I didn’t want to seem like I had anything to hide.
I had to swallow twice before I could answer. “Thanks. Can you send them up, please?”
14
MY HEART WAS pounding as I hurried to my purse and silenced the burner phone, tucking it into a zippered pocket. I turned around, looking for anything that might be out of place, anything I should hide. There were the flowers in my bedroom and the card.
Unless the detectives had a warrant, though, they could only take note of what was in plain sight.
I ran to shut my door, then went ahead and shut Cary’s, too. I was breathing hard when the doorbell rang. I had to force myself to slow down and walk calmly to the living room. When I reached the front door, I took a deep, calming breath before opening it.
“Hello, detectives.”
Graves, a rail-thin woman with a severe face and foxlike blue eyes, was in the lead. Her partner, Michna, was the quieter of the two, an older man with receding gray hair and a paunch. They had a rhythm between the two of them—Graves was the heavy who kept the subjects occupied and off-balance. Michna was obviously good at fading into the background while his cop’s eyes cataloged everything and missed nothing. Their success rate had to be pretty high.
“Can we come in, Miss Tramell?” Graves asked in a tone that made the question a demand. She’d tied her curly brown hair back and wore a jacket to cover her holstered gun. There was a satchel in her hand.
“Sure.” I pulled the door open wider. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”
“Water would be great,” Michna said.
I led them to the kitchen and pulled bottled water out of the fridge. The detectives waited at the breakfast bar—Graves with her eyes pinned to me while Michna scoped out his surroundings.
“You just get home from work?” he asked.
I figured they knew the answer, but replied anyway. “A few minutes ago. Would you like to sit in the living room?”
“Here’s good,” Graves said in her no-nonsense way, putting the worn leather satchel on the counter. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. And show you some photos.”
I stilled. Could I bear to see any of the photos Nathan had taken of me? For a wild moment, I thought they might be pictures taken at the death scene or even autopsy shots. But I knew that was highly unlikely. “What’s this about?”
“Some new information has come to light that could be related to Nathan Barker’s death,” Michna said. “We’re pursuing all leads, and you may be able to help.”
I took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m happy to try, of course. But I don’t see how I can.”
“Are you familiar with Andrei Yedemsky?” Graves asked.
I frowned at her. “No. Who’s that?”
She dug in her bag and pulled out a sheaf of eight-by-ten photos, setting them down in front of me. “This man. Have you seen him before?”
Reaching out with shaking fingers, I pulled the top photo toward me. It was of a man in a trench coat, talking to another man about to climb into the back of a waiting town car. He was attractive, with extremely blond hair and tanned skin. “No. He’s not someone you’d forget meeting, either.” I looked up at her. “Should I know him?”
“He had pictures of you in his home. Candid shots of you on the street, coming and going. Barker had the same photos.”
“I don’t understand. How did he get them?”
“Presumably from Barker,” Michna said.
“Is that what this Yedemsky guy said? Why would Nathan give him pictures of me?”
“Yedemsky didn’t say anything,” Graves said. “He’s dead. Murdered.”
I felt a headache coming on. “I don’t understand. I don’t know anything about this man, and I have no idea why he’d know anything about me.”
“Andrei Yedemsky is a known member of the Russian mob,” Michna explained. “In addition to smuggling alcohol and assault weapons, they’ve also been suspected of trafficking women. It’s possible Barker was making arrangements to sell or trade you for that purpose.”