Crash Into Me - L.A. Fiore Page 0,21

might be why they feel guilty.”

“Yeah, maybe, but it seemed almost difficult for Tony to admit that Katrina was capable of taking her own life.”

“You picked up on that, too? We weren’t getting the whole story. We need to find the fiancé,” Zac said, climbing into the car.

I joined him and reached for the seatbelt. “He seems to have vanished.”

Zac started up the car. “So he’s either on the run because he had something to do with her death, or he’s dead, too.” It was like Pandora’s box. Zac put the car in gear. “Let’s go see the senator.”

The show of wealth that we passed on the way to the senator’s was insane, particularly knowing, only miles away, there was poverty and people struggling. The stark contrast was unsettling. The senator’s house was a massive one-story rancher that sprawled over acres. Horses grazed in the distance. Palm trees lined his drive, a fountain in the center of the circular driveway. Large stone urns flanked the ornate gold door, overflowing with colorful flowers.

We knocked, and in seconds, a woman, wearing a black dress and white apron, opened the door. “You must be Detectives Ashton and Donahue. Please this way.”

She walked us through the foyer of black and white marble tiles, a black concert grand piano tucked in the corner of it, and through a living room with windows along the back wall, bringing the sunlight into the space done in all white, to a door that led to an office of oak paneled walls and floors with book cases all around the perimeter. A massive desk sat in the center of the room and behind that desk was the senator, Laurence Breen.

And to think he was a public servant thirty-one years ago.

“He stood and smiled, gesturing to the leather chairs across from him. “Please sit. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks,” Zac answered for us both.

“That will be all, Maddie.”

The door closed quietly.

Breen leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “You want to know about Katrina Dent.”

“Yes.”

“I still see it,” he said, his focus turning to the window. “It’s been so long, but I still see her in that bath tub. There were no signs of a struggle. There was no forced entry. The medical examiner said the wound angles supported self-inflicted. She had a history of mental illness. It was textbook.”

Zac leaned up in his chair because he sensed the but, too. “But?”

Breen looked back at us, the expression in his eyes that of a cop. “It was almost too textbook.”

Shit.

“So you think it’s possible she was murdered?” Zac sought confirmation.

“Yes, but it was a high profile case and everything pointed to suicide.”

“And the fiancé, did you look at him for the murder?” I asked.

“Unofficially, yeah, but he had an alibi for the time of death.”

“Any idea where he is now?” I asked.

“No. That was another flag, one that was brushed under the rug. He disappeared shortly after Katrina’s death. Cleaned out his bank accounts and disappeared. If you were to look into him now, you’d likely find nothing, no activity of any kind.”

“Taking off so soon after her death makes him look guilty,” Zac said.

“Or he was scared,” Breen added.

“You think Katrina wasn’t the target?” I said incredulously.

“I’m just throwing out theories because that’s all it is after all this time, but her case was ruled a suicide, so why the hell would he run?”

“But if she was a warning…” I said, following Breen’s logic. “What did Benjamin do for a living?”

“Outside of running Katrina’s career, nothing stood out.”

“So what was he involved in that made him a target?” I asked.

“That was what tripped me up, too. Can I ask why you’re looking into this after all this time?”

“A case we’re working on is linked somehow to Katrina Dent.”

We both saw the curiosity burning in his eyes, the cop intuition kicking in. “I wasn’t sorry to leave death behind. It’s a hard job to do day in and day out, but I’m not going to lie. I am curious how your case links to a thirty-one-year-old one.”

Zac held his stare and confessed, “So are we.”

Unlike the others we’d seen that day, the coroner who handled Katrina’s case, Jackson Kilburn, didn’t live in the hills. His modest apartment was in the city, not far from the Chinese Theater. We were settled in his small living room, drinking iced tea. The man was old, had to be pushing ninety. His hair was all white, but he still had a