You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,133
half-sister, Cissy, she gets a nice chunk of change, but you, my friend, are the big winner in the Family Fortune Sweepstakes!”
James asked, “What does the inheritance have to do with Charity Spritz and her murder?”
“Well, that’s just the thing, isn’t it? Remember I said there was this pretty messed-up and comingled gene pool where all sorts of Cahills and Amhursts were involved with each other, with kids conceived out of marriage, those who were once called ‘illegitimate,’ though that’s not PC today. You had a whacked-out half-cousin or something, a woman who did some major damage a few years back, right? Like your mother’s half-sister’s secret daughter or something.”
“Something like that.”
“Created a lot of scandal.”
“At the least.” The woman had terrorized Cissy, nearly driven her insane. Cissy had barely survived.
“Right.” Crocker nodded, agreeing with himself. “A real nutjob. Well, guess what?”
James’s stomach knotted. He didn’t know what was coming, but he sensed it was bad. Real bad. “I couldn’t.”
“I haven’t got all of the details yet,” Rowdy admitted, “but it looks like she had a kid before she started all of the mayhem for your family. A daughter, I think, though I don’t have all the details. And she gave the kid up for adoption through—drum roll, please”—he waited expectantly and looked a little deflated when James didn’t respond—“through Cahill House, of course, that place in San Francisco your own family started for pregnant teens.”
James’s bad feeling was getting worse by the second. “So what exactly are you getting at?”
“It’s pretty damned clear, isn’t it? I think Charity Spritz found out about that baby and knows where he or she is. She talked with a nurse who had worked at Cahill House during those years, but so far, I haven’t found out what was divulged.”
“Do you know the nurse’s name?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“Shouldn’t we tell the cops?”
“What?” His head whipped around. “No. I don’t trust ’em, and you shouldn’t either. Remember why you called me in the first place: You’re still their number-one suspect. They don’t need any help. They have the technology and manpower to figure this out. If you want me on your side, then the cops are out. You decide.” He checked his watch, then finished his beer. “Gotta run. I just wanted to talk to you face-to-face.”
“You think my phone’s being bugged?” James asked.
“Just being careful. By the way, I swept this place since the cops searched it. Looks clean.”
“Not every cop is dirty.”
“Yeah, I know, but you just don’t know which ones are clean. So . . . let’s just keep all this on the down low.” Rowdy snapped his laptop closed and pushed back his chair. “I’ll let you know what else I find. Shouldn’t take too long. And then we’ll settle up.” He stuffed his equipment into the battered case and headed for the front door. “And, James,” he said, as he stepped onto the porch, “be careful, okay? The reporter’s dead. Probably because of you. And a woman’s missing, again, probably because she was close to you, so watch your ass, okay? And while you’re at it? Why don’t you try hiding your spare key someplace where a three-year-old can’t find it?”
CHAPTER 40
Darkness had fallen by the time the search crew was finished going over Sinclaire’s cabin, and the cold was getting to them. Rivers rubbed his gloved hands together to conjure up warmth, while Mendoza stomped her feet in the snow.
Upon spying Megan Travers’s car in the garage, Mendoza had called for backup and gotten a search warrant. Rivers had phoned Harold Sinclaire, and Sinclaire, shocked, had agreed to meet them at the property and had given them the code to a lockbox near the front door with a hidden key. With the owner’s permission on top of the search warrant, Rivers and Mendoza had searched through the house and grounds. The car in the garage had turned out to be Megan Travers’s, and her phone, laptop, and purse were inside.
But the woman hadn’t been in the car, nor the trunk, nor the house. No body of Megan Travers. Or anyone else. Yet someone had driven the car to the cabin, and the keys to the car, and presumably her apartment, had been left in the Toyota’s ignition. They were still puzzling it all out when, along with another couple of deputies, the tow truck had arrived, the driver managing to back the huge rig with its flashing amber lights over the narrow bridge and between the