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Praise for the novels of
CARLA NEGGERS
“Neggers’s characteristically brisk pacing and colorful characterizations sweep the reader toward a dramatic and ultimately satisfying denouement.”
— Publishers Weekly on The Cabin
“Tension-filled story line that grips the audience from start to finish.”
— Midwest Book Review on The Waterfall
“Carla Neggers is one of the most distinctive, talented writers of our genre.”
—Debbie Macomber
“Neggers delivers a colorful, well-spun story that shines with sincere emotion.”
— Publishers Weekly on The Carriage House
“A well-defined, well-told story combines with well-written characters to make this an exciting read. Readers will enjoy it from beginning to end.”
— Romantic Times on The Waterfall
“Gathers steam as its tantalizing mysteries explode into a thrilling climax.”
— Publishers Weekly on Kiss the Moon
Also by CARLA NEGGERS
THE RAPIDS
NIGHT’S LANDING
COLD RIDGE
THE HARBOR
THE CABIN
THE CARRIAGE HOUSE
THE WATERFALL
ON FIRE
KISS THE MOON
CLAIM THE CROWN
Watch for CARLA NEGGERS’S
next novel of romantic suspense
DARK SKY
Stonebrook Cottage
Carla Neggers
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Christine Wenger (again!), Fran Garfunkel and her lawyer friends, my lawyer friends and Zita Christian, for their expertise and willingness to dig for answers…and to all my friends in Connecticut—Zita, Leslie O’Grady, Liz Aleshire, Linda Harmon, Bea Sheftel, Mel and Dorothy and CTRWA gang, for reminding me that the beauty of your state isn’t just the lay of its land, but also its people.
Closer to home, many thanks to Paul and Andrea for helping me keep in shape—okay, get in shape!
Amy, Dianne, Tania, Jennifer, Meg—what a year it’s been! Thanks for everything!
Sam and Kara’s story was great fun to do. I love hearing from readers. I hope you’ll visit me at www.carlaneggers.com or write to me at P.O. Box 826, Quechee, VT 05059.
Take care,
Carla Neggers
This one’s for you, Joe
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Prologue
B ig Mike Parisi was the first-term governor of Connecticut and a dead man. He knew it even before he hit the water.
He couldn’t swim, an embarrassment not a half-dozen people knew.
His big, tough body belly-flopped into the water of his elegant pool and dropped hard and deep, hitting the blue-painted bottom that so beautifully reflected the summer sky. He managed to push up off the bottom and out of the water and yell for help.
“I can’t swim!”
No help would come. His voice barely rose above the gurgling fountain halfway down the classic, kidney-shaped pool. His own damn fault. He’d refused to let his state trooper bodyguards out back with him. If I get stung by a bee, I’ll yell bloody murder. You’ll hear me. What the hell else could happen?
Someone could try to kill him.
He’d rented a house for the summer in Bluefield, a picturesque town in northwest Connecticut. Stockwell country. People assumed he wanted to be close to his lieutenant governor, Allyson Lourdes Stockwell, so they could strategize. The truth was, he was worried about her. Allyson had problems. Big problems.
Hadn’t occurred to Big Mike to worry about himself.
“Help!”
As he splashed and kicked, he saw the bluebird that he’d been trying to save. It was barely alive, soaked in the chlorinated water, slowly being sucked toward the pool filter.
They were both doomed, him and the bluebird. It was a juvenile, its feathers still speckled. It looked as if it had a broken leg. It couldn’t have been in the water long.
Clever. His death would look like an accident. Michael Joseph Parisi drowned this afternoon in his swimming pool apparently while trying to rescue an injured bluebird…
Christ. He’d look like an idiot.
Some murdering son of a bitch had dumped the bird in the deep end, knowing he’d bend over and try to scoop it up. Bluebirds were his hobby, his passion since his wife died six years ago. They’d had no children. His desire to help restore the Eastern bluebird population in Connecticut and his personal interest in bluebirds weren’t a secret.
Not like not knowing how to swim. That was a secret. Hell, everyone knew how to swim.
His mother had regularly dumped his ass in the lake as a kid, trying to get him to learn. It didn’t work. She’d had to get his brother to fish him out.
Was the bastard who’d planted the bluebird watching him flail and yell?
It’d look like a goddamn accident.
Rage consumed him, forced him up out of the water, yelling, swearing, pushing for the edge of the pool. It was so damn close. Why couldn’t he reach it? What the hell was he doing wrong? He could hear his mother yelling at him. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Michael, you’re such a wienie. Swim, for the love of God.
These days a mother like Marianne Parisi would be arrested for child abuse or put on pills or something. Total nutcase, his mother was, though she meant well. She died of a stroke when Mike was twenty-four, still thinking her second son would never amount to shit.
The pool water filled his nose and mouth, burned his eyes. He coughed, choking, taking in even more water. He couldn’t breathe.
There’d be a lot of crocodile tears at his funeral.
Allyson would do fine as governor…
Who the hell was he kidding? Allyson had her head in the sand. He’d tried to help her, and he knew that was why he was drowning now.
Murdered.
They’d have to cut him open. They’d find out he hadn’t hit his head or had a heart attack or a stroke. He’d drowned. The autopsy wouldn’t pick up where he’d been poked in the ass. It’d felt like a stick or a pole or something. The pool was fenced in, but the deep end backed up to the woods. His murderer could have hid there and waited for Mike to come outside, then tossed in the bluebird when he had his back turned.
Easier to shoot him, but that wouldn’t have looked like an accident.
He stopped yelling. He stopped flailing.
The faces of the living and the dead jumbled together in his head, and he couldn’t distinguish which was which, couldn’t tell which he was. Thoughts and memories, sounds came at him in a whirl. He could see bluebirds all around him, dozens of them, iridescent in the sunlight.
Ah, Mike, you had it good….
But all of that was done now.
He prayed the way he’d learned in catechism class so long ago.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…
His mother came into the bright light now, shaking her head, not with disgust this time, but with love and bemusement, as if she hadn’t expected him so soon. His wife was there, too, smiling as she had on their wedding day thirty years ago.
They held out their hands, and Big Mike laughed and walked toward his wife and his mother, and the bluebirds, into the light.
One
A ustin was in the grip of its fifteenth consecutive day of ninety-plus-degree weather, a quality of Texas summers Kara Galway had almost forgotten about during her years up north. Even with air-conditioning, she was aware of the blistering temperatures and blamed the heat for her faint nausea. The heat and the seafood tacos she’d had for lunch.
Not Sam Temple. He was another possibility for her queasy stomach, but not one she wanted to consider.
She’d been putting in long hours since Big Mike’s death two weeks ago, but memories of their long friendship would sneak up on her no matter how deep she buried herself in her legal work. Kara had met him through her friend Allyson Lourdes Stockwell, now the governor of Connecticut. She and Kara had gone to law school together, before Allyson’s husband died of cancer and left her with two toddlers to raise on her own.
Henry and Lillian Stockwell were twelve and eleven now. After Big Mike’s funeral, they’d flown back to Texas with Kara, and she’d dropped them off at a kids’ dude ranch southwest of Austin, a long-planned adventure that Allyson had decided not to cancel, despite the trauma of Mike Parisi’s death. Henry and Lillian had loved him, too. Everyone had.
The kids wrote to Kara, who was their godmother, from the ranch, complaining about the food, the heat, the bugs, the snakes. They never mentioned Big Mike.
Kara tried not to think about him, or his funeral. How he’d died. The Connecticut state police and the state’s chief attorney’s office were conducting a joint investigation. But none of that was her concern. All she should concentrate on were Henry and Lillian, who would be spending a few days with her after their dude ranch experience, then flying back to Connecticut to enjoy the last of summer and get ready for school.
Seeing them would be a welcome distraction.
George Carter stopped in the open doorway to her office and peered at her. “You sick?”
Kara focused on her boss. “I think I had bad seafood tacos at lunch.”
He winced. “There’s no such thing as a good seafood taco.”
At sixty-two, George Carter was a man of strong opinions, a prominent and respected attorney in Austin, a founding partner of Carter, Smith and Rodriguez, African-American, straightforward, brilliant, father of three, grandfather of two. He was also one of Kara’s biggest doubters. He made no secret of it. He said he liked her fine and didn’t hold her Yale education or her years as an attorney in Connecticut against her. He’d never even asked her about her Texas Ranger brother. His doubts weren’t personal. George was a buttoned-down lawyer who fought hard and played by the rules, and Kara was an out-of-the-box thinker, someone who came at problems sideways by nature, training and experience. She liked to get a fix on the complexities of a problem, understand every angle, every approach, before committing herself to a strategy. In other words, the two of them were polar opposites.
He’d agreed to hire her the previous fall on a one-year contract because, he said, he thought she brought skills and a way of thinking to the firm that it needed. At the end of the year, if the fit between her and Carter, Smith and Rodriguez worked, she’d become a full partner. If not, she’d be looking for work.
“Damn, it’s freezing in here.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “I’m getting goose bumps. What’s the air-conditioning on?”
“Sixty-eight. I’m still acclimating to August in Texas.”
“You’re wasting energy and running up the electric bill.”
He was six feet tall, his hair just beginning to turn gray, an impressive figure in court with his deceptively understated suits and manner—but Kara didn’t believe for a second he was cold. He had on a coat and tie. She just had on slacks and a simple top, and she wasn’t cold.
She felt her stomach roll over. Maybe she’d developed an allergy to seafood.
She thought again of Sam Temple. She was accustomed to men who preferred to love her from afar. Romantics. Nothing about Sam Temple was from afar—it was up close and personal, immediate. And crazy, inexplicable, totally unforgettable. She pushed him out of her mind because thinking about him was insanity. Having a Texas Ranger for a brother was one thing—sleeping with one was another. George would hold that against her.
He shook his head. “A born-and-bred Texan like you, fussing about the heat.”
“When I first went up to New England, I was always complaining about the cold. I thought I’d never get used to it, but I did. It’s like that now with the heat.”
“There’s no end in sight to this heat wave, you know.”
She’d seen the long-range forecast on the news that morning. It was August in south-central Texas. What did she expect? She pushed back her chair slightly from her desk. Her office was small, with standard furnishings. She hadn’t bothered adding pictures and her own artwork, the lack of personal touches giving it a temporary feel, as if she was stuck between the kid she’d been here and the woman she’d become up north.
She smiled at George. “You didn’t come here to listen to me complain about the heat.”
“No, I didn’t. Kara—” He sighed, obviously not thrilled with what he had to say. “You’ve had a rough couple of weeks. I can see they’re taking their toll on you.”
She knew what he was talking about. “Mike Parisi was a good friend.”
His warm, dark eyes settled on her. “Nothing more?”
“No.”
But Big Mike had wanted more. He admitted as much after she’d decided to move back to Texas. He was half in love with her, he’d said, and had been since his wife had died, but didn’t want to ruin their friendship by saying anything. Now that she was leaving, he wanted her to know. When she met a man in Texas, he’d told her, don’t hold back. Go for it. Life was too short, his own missed opportunities too numerous, too bitter, to contemplate.
Would it have made any difference if he’d told her sooner?
No, she thought. She’d never been in love with Big Mike. Nor had he been in love with her—not really. He knew it that day in Connecticut and so did she.
Kara smiled, picturing him in his cluttered office, a fat cigar stuck in his mouth. “He liked to tell me bad Texas jokes,” she told George Carter. “He thinks—he thought we were all hard-asses down here.”
“The new governor, Allyson Stockwell, is a friend of yours, as well?”
Kara nodded. Allyson’s husband, Lawrence Stockwell, had died ten years ago, now Big Mike. Two strong, powerful men in her life. Lawrence’s half brother, Hatch Corrigan, didn’t have that kind of magnetism or influence, but he was all Allyson had left.
Allyson had insisted for months Hatch was another one who loved Kara from afar. Kara, who never noticed such things, refused to believe it until Hatch decided to tell her at Big Mike’s funeral. We were both in love with you, Kara. Stupid as hell, huh?
No wonder she had a sick stomach.
“Worried about her?” George asked.
“I don’t know. Allyson’s only thirty-seven—she let Big Mike talk her into running as his lieutenant governor. But she’s devoted to public service…”
Kara trailed off, remembering her friend’s panicked voice the night of Big Mike’s death, not long after she was sworn in as governor. I’m not ready, Kara. I’m just not. She’d called on her cell phone to give Kara the terrible news. Kara had just arrived at the Dunning Gallery in Austin for the opening of the Gordon Temple exhibit. Temple was a prominent Cherokee artist, raised in Oklahoma, a former teacher in Texas who was now based in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Getting him for their gallery was a coup for Kevin and Eva Dunning, whose daughter Susanna was married to Kara’s brother Jack.
That Gordon Temple and Sam Temple, a Texas Ranger, shared the same last name was, Sam said, just one of those things. Kara didn’t believe it.
Every second of that surreal evening was etched in her mind.
“Big Mike was a larger-than-life kind of guy,” she went on, aware of George’s scrutiny. “He won’t be an easy act to follow, but people shouldn’t underestimate Allyson. Once she gets over the shock of his death, she’ll do fine.”
Kara blamed her own shock for her subsequent behavior that night at the gallery. She’d turned off her cell phone after Allyson’s call and slipped it into her handbag so she wouldn’t have to hear more, know more, and when she swept up a glass of champagne off a passing tray, Sam Temple was there. He was not unfamiliar to her. They’d met a few times at her brother’s house in San Antonio—she was not as oblivious to Sergeant Temple’s black-eyed charm as Lieutenant Jack Galway no doubt would have hoped.
But she never thought she was crazy enough to go to bed with him. He was so dark and sexy and irresistible, and when he suggested they sneak out for coffee, she’d seized the moment.
They ended up at her house a few blocks away. He stayed all night and all the next morning, and never once did Kara mention Big Mike’s death.
She’d had no contact with Sam since. She left that afternoon for Mike Parisi’s funeral in Connecticut. She talked to the state detectives about his death and how she’d come to know he couldn’t swim, that she’d never told anyone his secret. Although not specifically assigned to the case, Zoe West, Bluefield’s sole detective, asked Kara about Big Mike’s interest in bluebirds and exactly who knew he couldn’t swim. When she questioned Kara on her whereabouts the night of Mike’s death, Kara ended up giving her Sam’s name and number. It had seemed like the thing to do at the time. She thought Zoe West would be satisfied once Kara offered up a Texas Ranger to corroborate her story.
“It was an accidental drowning,” she said half to herself. “Big Mike’s death.”
“You really called him that?” George’s voice was unexpectedly soft, and he tapped the far edge of her desk, not looking at her. “Take tomorrow off,” he said abruptly.
Kara was instantly suspicious. “Why? It’s been two weeks. I can do my job.”
George headed for the door. “You’ve been putting in ridiculous hours, even for an attorney. You’re going to crack.” He glanced back at her, none of his usual doubts about her apparent now. “Trust me on this, Kara. I know from experience. Take a day or two off, all right?”
“I’ll look over my workload and see what I can do.”
He didn’t push—at least not yet. After he left, Kara took out the compact mirror she kept in her tote bag and checked her reflection. Pale, definitely on the green side. No wonder George was concerned about her. She looked awful.
It had to be the seafood tacos. A touch of food poisoning—she’d be fine tomorrow.
Morning sickness…
She snapped the mirror shut and shoved it back in her tote bag, but she noticed the white opaque bag she’d stuck in there after an impulsive side trip to the pharmacy at lunch. She’d bought two different home pregnancy test kits. Pure drama. She wasn’t pregnant. It had only been two weeks since her craziness with Sam. Surely she wouldn’t have morning sickness this early.
She’d throw the pregnancy test kits in a garbage can on her way home tonight. Get rid of the evidence of her hysteria. She was thirty-four years old and had never had a pregnancy scare.
Of course, there were commonsense, biological reasons for that, one being that she’d have had to have sex once in a while. She didn’t have blazing, short-lived affairs like her weekend with Sam—she didn’t have affairs, period.
Big Mike had often teased her about her love life, or lack thereof. “Kara, a tough-minded attorney like you—what’s the matter, are you deliberately practicing abstinence? Or do you just not like Yankee men? Jesus, go home. Take yourself a Texas lover. I know you’re not afraid of men.”
If she should have been afraid of anyone, it was dark, handsome, black-eyed Sam Temple. There wasn’t a woman in Texas who didn’t feel sparks flying when he was around. Her brother had told her as much, to the point that Kara had felt compelled to assure him she had no intention of falling for any Texas Ranger, never mind Sam.
“Good,” Jack had said. “Don’t.”
At least Sam didn’t know she had limited experience, sex and romance the one area in her life that always made her want to run.
For damn good reason, it turned out. She hadn’t run two weeks ago, and she’d ended up in bed with Sam Temple.
Better she should have run.
Sam Temple was driving back to San Antonio after nearly two grueling weeks working on the Mexican border when he checked his voice mail and discovered that a detective from Bluefield, Connecticut, was trying to reach him. “Call me back as soon as possible,” she said, then left her name and number.
He pulled into a filling station and dialed Zoe West on his cell phone. He’d heard about the death of the governor of Connecticut not long after he’d left Kara Galway’s house—and bed—in Austin. Not one thing about it sat well with him, starting with why she hadn’t mentioned the governor’s death to him before they’d slept together. She’d known. It was in the papers. The first call Allyson Lourdes Stockwell made after learning of Parisi’s death was to her law school classmate and friend, Kara Galway, in Austin, Texas.
Sam had checked the times and decided Allyson Stockwell must have called just before Kara had grabbed her glass of champagne at the Dunning Gallery.
At least that explained why she’d slept with him. She’d been distraught. Out of her head with shock and grief at the news and looking to put it out of her mind.
Sam had no such excuse. He’d made love to a woman—his friend’s sister—without even realizing she was damn near a virgin. He remembered his shock at her tightness when he entered her. He’d seen her wince and bite down on her lower lip. He’d asked if she was okay, and she told him oh, yes, fine, don’t stop, as if she regularly met men for coffee and took them back to her house for sex.
He knew she was lying, but he hadn’t stopped.
No excuses.
Even with the air-conditioning blasting, he could feel the August heat, see it rising off the pavement. A half-dozen eighteen-wheelers idled in the parking lot. He’d had less than eight hours’ sleep in three days. He needed a long shower, a dark room and cool sheets.
He didn’t need Kara Galway. She was a complication. A mistake. Making love to her had been damn stupid, even if he couldn’t bring himself to regret it—not for one second, no matter how hard he tried.
Zoe West answered on the first ring. “West.”
“Detective West, it’s Sam Temple. I’m returning your call.”
“Oh, right—thanks. Just a couple questions. Kara Galway said you were with her at a gallery opening in Austin when she heard about Governor Parisi’s death. I’m just following up.”
“You’ve talked to her?”
“Briefly.”
Sam frowned. “Why are you following up?”
“Routine.”
He doubted it. There was nothing routine about the death of a governor or Zoe West’s call. “Isn’t this a state investigation?”
“Big Mike died in my town. I’m assisting.”
In other words, she was sticking her nose in the investigation, whether the state cops wanted it there or not. Sam said nothing. He had his white Stetson on the seat beside him, his tie loosened, his badge still pinned to his shirt pocket. Two weeks on a serial murder investigation in an impoverished area in near-hundred-degree heat, and here he was on the phone talking about a rich man who’d drowned trying to save a damn bird.
“When did Ms. Galway arrive at the gallery?” Zoe West asked. “Did you see her?”
“She was already there when I arrived around seven o’clock.”
“That’s eight in the east. We figure Parisi drowned sometime around seven.”
Sam could see Kara now in her little black dress, her dark hair pulled back with a turquoise comb that he’d tugged out later, threading his fingers into her thick waves of hair even as he warned himself to leave while he still could.
“Aren’t you from San Antonio?” Zoe West asked.
“Detective West, I’m not seeing the point here.”
She made a clicking sound, as if she was thinking. “San Antonio’s about ninety miles from Austin, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”
“Are you being sarcastic, Sergeant Temple?”
“No, ma’am.”
“People only call me ma’am when they’re being sarcastic.”
He almost smiled. “All right, Detective West. I won’t call you ma’am.”
“It’s a southern thing, right? The ma’am?”
Sam realized she was serious. “I like to think of it as a manners thing.”
“Oh. Well, yeah, I guess. Okay, back to this gallery. It’s in Austin, which is about ninety miles from San Antonio. It has reduced hours during the summer while the owners—Kevin and Eva Dunning—are at their summer place on Lake Champlain, but they came back special because this was the only time they could get Gordon Temple. Right so far?”
“Right so far,” Sam said, careful to avoid any hint of sarcasm. He’d let Detective West ask her questions. Why not? He might learn something about Kara and why she’d acted the way she had that night.
“The Dunnings are the in-laws of another Texas Ranger, a lieutenant, Jack Galway. He’s Kara Galway’s brother. Your superior, right?” West paused, adding, matter-of-fact, “This was all pretty easy to find out on the Internet. I read a couple articles about that business in the Adirondacks last winter. You got shot, didn’t you, Sergeant?”
Sam didn’t answer right away. Zoe West had done her homework. In February, he’d gone up north to help Jack sort out a murder investigation that had ended up involving Jack’s wife and twin teenage daughters. They’d done snow, ice and bitter cold, and Sam swore he’d never complain about the heat again. And, yes, he was shot.
Kara had slid her fingertips over the scar on his upper thigh.
Damn.
“It was just a flesh wound,” he told the Connecticut detective.
“The Galways are doing okay now?”
“Yes.”
“Gordon Temple’s a famous Native American painter—Cherokee, lives in New Mexico. You any relation?”
“That’s irrelevant, Detective.” But he’d spotted Gordon Temple that night and remembered the black hair streaked with gray, the dark eyes and muscular build that were a lot like Sam’s own.
Zoe West paused a beat. “So you were there, what, for the art?”
Now who was being sarcastic? Sam watched an overweight man with tattoos on his upper arms carry a bag of food to a big rig. He tried to picture the Bluefield detective in her small-town Connecticut police station.
“Okay, so why you were in Austin is beside the point,” she said. “Governor Stockwell called Ms. Galway shortly after seven your time. Did you see her take the call?”
“Yes. We left together about ten minutes later.” Sam had never talked to Gordon Temple, never complimented him on his paintings or said, “Oh, by the way, I’m your son.” He shifted, losing patience. “Detective West, you’re on a fishing expedition. I have things I need to do.”
She made another couple of clicking sounds. “All right, here’s the deal. Kara Galway is one of a very few who knew Governor Parisi couldn’t swim. She told you that, right?”
Sam didn’t answer.
“Oh. I guess it didn’t come up over coffee, huh? If someone wanted him dead and tossed the bluebird into the pool deliberately, hoping he’d fall or seeing to it he did—well, they’d have to know he couldn’t swim.”
“Stupid way to kill someone.”
“It worked. He’s dead. And it looks like an accident.”
“Maybe it was an accident.”
“Too many accidents around here for my taste,” Zoe West said.
Sam sat up straighter, hearing something in the Bluefield detective’s voice he recognized, maybe just because he was in the same line of work. “There’s been another accident?”
“You didn’t hear? Allyson Stockwell and her two children had a close call during a Fourth of July bonfire at her mother-in-law’s place here in town. A gas can exploded. Someone left it too close to the fire. No one’s owned up yet, of course.”
“Injuries?”
“Not from the explosion itself. A local guy—Pete Jericho—shoved Mrs. Stockwell and the kids out of the way just in time. He had some minor cuts and bruises. Scared the hell out of everyone.”
“Governor Parisi was there?” Sam asked.
“He was. What if someone tried and failed to arrange a fatal accident for him that night, then tried again and succeeded a few weeks later?”
“Is that your theory, Detective?”
“Just the sort of question to keep a law enforcement officer up nights, don’t you think, Sergeant?”
“What about the state investigators?”
“They say they don’t want to speculate. Hey,” she said suddenly, “I’m supposed to ask the questions.”
Sam wasn’t fooled. Zoe West wanted him to have this information or she wouldn’t have given it to him. She might not have wide experience as a small-town detective, but she obviously wasn’t stupid.
“I guess it’s easier to call the explosion a backyard accident,” she went on. “Same with Big Mike and his injured bluebird. I mean, I know he was a nut about bluebirds and everything, but wouldn’t you think he’d be careful scooping one out of the drink when he knew he couldn’t swim? I would.”
“He could have lost his balance.”
“Could have.” She took in a breath. “Thanks for your help, Sergeant Temple. Keep my number handy if you think of anything else.”
Sam promised he would, and she hung up.
He sank back against his seat and shut his eyes a moment, the fatigue crawling at him. He was ten minutes from Jack’s house. He could stop in and have a cold beer and not mention Zoe West’s call, then head home and sleep.
But that wouldn’t be smart. Jack was protective of his entire family, his little sister no exception. Bad enough Sam had slept with her—now he’d just hung up with a Connecticut detective checking out Kara’s story from that night. Best to keep some distance between himself and Lieutenant Galway, at least, Sam thought, until he’d sorted out just how pissed he was at her.
Kara knew Mike Parisi couldn’t swim. His big secret. She was at the Dunning Gallery when he was falling into his swimming pool and therefore couldn’t have been in Connecticut killing him.
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