You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,132

a century, probably longer, but the connection is that Sinclaire is involved with Jennifer Korpi.”

“What?”

“Small world, I guess.”

“But Jennifer . . . I mean, she would never be involved in anything like this,” James said. “Doesn’t make any sense. You’re sure about this.”

Crocker gave him a long look. “You know who you’re talking to?”

“Okay. Right.”

“And didn’t you say that her brother, Gus Jardine, he’s going to sue you for an industrial accident?”

“Right.” James snorted. “The thing is, several people who worked near him think he did it on purpose. How crazy is that?”

“Maybe not so crazy.”

“So he’s after money? Going to sue me?”

Crocker cracked his neck. “Maybe it’s more than that. Take a look at this.” Again his fingers flew over his keyboard, and within seconds, a picture of a mangled hand came into view, torn tissue, exposed bone, and ligaments visible in the flesh.

“Holy crap, is this Gus’s hand? How the hell did you get that?”

Crocker didn’t answer, just shot him a reminding glare, then pointed to the screen. “See here, on the palm, on the inside of the first knuckles. It’s been cleaned up, so you can see the tear in the flesh, but if you look closely, here under the ring and middle fingers, there is another set of bruises.”

“From the saw.”

Crocker shook his head slowly. “Look at the marks, several deep but small impressions, almost semicircular.”

James just stared, his mind racing, his muscles tensing. “You’re saying this is a bite mark.”

“A human bite mark,” Crocker corrected.

James was following Crocker’s theory. “You think Jardine intentionally screwed up his hand to cover up the fact that his hand was bitten?”

Suddenly, Crocker scraped back his chair, rounded on James, and grabbed him from behind, his right hand covering James’s mouth.

James reacted, every muscle tensed as he was about to throw Rowdy off of him. “Hey!” he cried, but his voice was muffled, nearly silenced. Ralph jumped up, growling, hackles raised, ready to leap at Crocker as he released James.

“Get it?” he asked, breathing hard.

James did. The “attack” was just a demonstration. And he was following Crocker’s train of thought. “You think Gus Jardine killed Charity Spritz?”

“I think it’s a strong possibility.” He slid into his chair again. “I already did some checking, and he could have done it on the night she was killed and gotten back here in time to look good.” He changed the image on the screen, and this time it was a person leaving a van in a parking lot. “At the San Francisco airport. Does that dude”—he indicated the man in black hurrying from the van—“does he look like Jardine?”

“Maybe,” James allowed. “Maybe not.”

“I’m working on that.”

“Good.” James stared at the screen as Rowdy replayed the short film over and over. The guy had the same build as Gus Jardine, but his face was obscured, his clothes dark and without anything distinguishing. “But why would Gus Jardine kill Charity Spritz?”

“Because she knew something, or was going to find out something.”

“About him. Or his sister?”

“That’s the million-dollar question. Or one of them. Why do you think Charity Spritz was in Northern California?”

“Probably checking into my family. She said as much.”

“To you?”

“Well, she came over here, wanting an interview, and brought up the fact that my family was based there, so I would assume that’s a reason she went there.”

Crocker took a big swallow from his bottle, but kept looking at his computer screen. “You’re right. And I think she hit pay dirt. You probably know that your family has more than its share of nutcases.”

James tensed but couldn’t deny it.

“The Cahill and Amhurst family tree has a lot of branches and roots and is a real clusterfuck when it comes to the gene pool.”

He knew that much. His full name was James Amhurst Cahill; his mother was an Amhurst, a child born to one of his grandfather’s mistresses. She ended up marrying his stepfather, Nick, a Cahill.

“And you, my friend,” Rowdy said in awe, “you’re one of the few heirs to the Amhurst fortune. It’s not the Cahills who will make you rich, though they’ll do their part, but the Amhursts . . .” He let out a long, low whistle, and Ralph, from beneath the table, lifted his head, ears pricked.

“I have sisters. And a relative in San Francisco with a couple of kids. They’ll inherit.”

“Will they?”

James tensed.

“Your grandfather’s will. He left the lion’s share of a huge estate to you. Almost all of it. In trust. Your sisters? Not so much. And that