You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,127

details from the San Francisco Police Department as the investigation is ongoing.”

“She was rumored to be working on a story about Megan Travers,” another reporter, a woman in a yellow coat, said. “Is Charity Spritz’s homicide connected to Megan Travers’s disappearance?”

“As I said, the investigation is ongoing.”

More questions were thrown out: Why was Spritz in San Francisco? Who was a suspect in her death? How did she die? Was there any person of interest? Would the Sheriff ’s Department here work with the force in California?

All the while, Rebecca seemed to shrink back from the barrage of questions, outstretched microphones, and clicks of photographs. O’Grady handled it all, responding over and over again that the investigation was ongoing, there was nothing to report, and when there was, the public would be informed. She thanked them all and stepped away from the podium, a signal that the conference was over. As the reporters dispersed, Rebecca, her dark eyes grave, her jaw set, headed toward Rivers and Mendoza.

“This is true? Charity Spritz is dead? Murdered?” she demanded, obviously stunned.

Rivers nodded.

“But . . . but . . . She was just at my mother’s house the other night. Mom called and complained, said she was being harassed by her! She—Mom—she had the security guard come and escort Charity out of the gated community. She was really upset.”

That was news. From the corner of his eye, he noted that Mendoza was already taking notes on her phone, and the green-capped reporter was drawing near.

“Let’s go inside,” Rivers suggested, shepherding them up the remaining steps and holding open the door.

As they walked inside, the warmth of the building enfolding them, Mendoza said, “We need to talk to your mother.”

“You need to talk to me!” Rebecca charged and stopped in the main lobby, where glass windows separated them from officers who were working at the front desk. “You knew about it, and you didn’t tell me,” she charged, her shock having given way to anger.

Rivers said, “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Like hell! You can’t expect me to believe it’s just coincidence that the reporter who has been calling me day and night and showed up at my mom’s house because she was investigating Megan’s disappearance is dead. Murdered.Is that what you want me to think?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Neither do I. Charity was all over Megan’s disappearance. Now she’s dead? Murdered? There has to be a link.”

“We’re working on it, but haven’t discovered a connection yet,” Rivers said.

“Well, find out.” Her eyes sparked, and she sent Mendoza a scathing glance. “Can’t you do something?”

“We’re working—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re ‘working on it, the investigation is ongoing. ’ I heard. Well, do something more, will you?” Lips tight, she spun back to face Rivers. “This smells, Detective, and let me tell you, it smells rotten.”

With that, she turned on her heel and was out the door.

* * *

From his chair at his desk, James asked, “You heard anything about Gus?”

Bobby stood and stretched, his back popping loudly. “A little.”

They’d had a short meeting about delivery of the houses under construction. The consensus had been that not one of the three could be delivered before Christmas due to (a) delays in the delivery of everything from cabinets to special-ordered plumbing fixtures and lights and (b) the changing work schedules as the holiday approached.

“Bruce called him this morning. Surgery went okay, I guess,” Bobby said as he squared his Mariners cap on his head. “They were able to stitch him up, and the nerve damage seemed minimal, at least that’s what Porter got out of it, but it’s hard to tell. Gus was probably still doped up on painkillers when they talked, and it’ll take time to see what kind of range of motion Gus has with his fingers.”

“How long will he be in the hospital?”

Bobby shrugged. “Bruce didn’t say. Don’t know if Gus knows for sure.” He eyed James. “You know he’s a loose cannon.”

“Jardine?” He rolled the plans for the container house and snapped a rubber band around them. “Yeah.”

Bobby looked about to say more, then held his tongue as he reached for the door.

“What?”

“Well . . . this is just hearsay, y’know, but one of the guys in the shop—Lloyd—he was workin’ near Gus, and he thinks . . . God, this is crazy . . . but he thinks it looked like Gus shoved his hand right into the saw.”

“What?”

“I know, I told you it was crazy. Who would do such a thing?” He scrabbled in