She rolled her eyes. “Joe, I don’t want the case.”
“New stadium, family friendly, no real history of trouble. Break-ins, car theft, but nothing like this. Anything about the Cinderella case that was wonky?”
“No. The killer’s dead, taken out by FBI-SWAT. Clean kill. Weber wanted to write about the whack job’s psycho head.” And she was far too interested in the two civilian “consultants” whose names were supposed to be sealed. Damn, was Weber’s murder connected to her closed case?
“Was Weber working on anything else?”
“Don’t know.”
DeLucca looked at her again with his damn bedroom eyes.
“Fine. You win. You want to split this?”
“I’d rather work side by side.”
“Not going there.”
“Oh yes, you will.” He grinned.
“I’ll take victimology; you take the crime scene. Let me know when the autopsy’s done, and an ETA on trace evidence. If you need the FBI lab, let me know and I’ll expedite for you.”
“Dinner, tonight.”
“Not on your life.” Suzanne started walking away. A plane flew almost directly overhead and she didn’t hear DeLucca.
“Great!” he shouted after her. “See you then!”
She turned around. “I didn’t agree to anything.”
“Sure you did. Seven p.m., Roberta’s.”
“No.”
But she knew she’d be there. Worse, he knew she’d be there. It had been their favorite dinner spot when they were involved. She hadn’t been there in over a year, since they’d split.
But first things first. Time to find out what Rosemary Weber was really doing in the parking lot of Citi Field if she wasn’t going to the game. Joe DeLucca was right—this wasn’t a robbery. This was personal. The killer wanted Rosemary Weber dead. If Suzanne could figure out the why, it would lead them directly to the who.
CHAPTER TWO
Fifteen Years Ago
The night my sister died, our mother gave us the Game of Life.
Mom bought us guilt presents because, as Rachel said, she knew what she was doing was wrong. She thought if we just played quietly in the attic, we’d ignore what went on downstairs. But sound travels in old houses, and even if Mom said it was “just a party,” we knew better.
Dad had sort of finished off the attic two years ago, putting in insulation and a space heater and hooking up cable and Nintendo. It became my sanctuary, for me more than for my sister: I guess I just liked having my own private hideout. Mom bought a couple of beanbag chairs and two long, narrow throw rugs that fit the space when laid out side by side.
We were up there with our new game the night of the last party.
It took me nearly an hour to set everything up because all of the plastic pieces came attached to one frame and I had to break each one off. I didn’t ask Rachel to help because she was in a bad mood, pretending to read. I knew she wasn’t reading because she never turned a page in her book. The sound of the rain pounding on the pitched roof would have been scary if I was alone, but I wasn’t scared with my sister here.
“Ready,” I said. “There’s no purple car; do you want blue?” Purple was Rachel’s favorite color. Blue was mine.
“You can have blue.” Rachel sighed and put the unread book down. She picked up the red car.
I began to explain the rules, but Rachel cut me off. “I’ve played it before, at Jessie’s house.”
“Is that why you’re mad? Because Jessie said you couldn’t come over tonight?”
Rachel shrugged. “It’s not her fault.”
That was it. I had only just turned nine, but I knew my sister better than anyone, even our parents. “I wish Grams was here.”
“Yeah.”
Grams lived in Florida most of the year. Her arthritis was so bad, she could hardly walk when it was cold. Rachel and I always spent spring break with her, and we never wanted to come home. Grams came back to Newark in May and stayed for the summer. After Grandpa died two years ago, she stayed in the guest room and Mom and Dad didn’t have parties. They became almost normal parents.
We played quietly, but as the party got louder Rachel started getting mean. When she had to pay income tax, she leaned back and said, “I can’t concentrate.”
“It’s just the luck of the spinner,” I said. “But we can play something else. Mario Kart?”
She closed her eyes. “I hate them.”
My stomach hurt. She was talking about Mom and Dad. I didn’t like this Rachel. I just wanted