Heather Graham Pozzessere - Slow Burn

Her eyes narrowed. “I went home, David. I went away for a year, and I left everything to the cops and to you, his best friend, the hometown boy who could find out anything! I went away, but damn it, it seems like I’m the only one who really cares! I have to stay on this if we’re ever going to find Danny’s killer. The eulogy was just great, the cops who turned out were wonderful, the twenty-one-gun salute was grand! But that buried him, and he’s stayed buried. And the case has stayed buried with him. I want something done now. I want to know what you’ve got. He was a homicide cop. What was he on to? Why was he meeting you that morning?”

Reva cleared her throat from the doorway. “Coffee!” she said cheerfully.

David was glad for the interruption. It bought him a little time as his sister came into his office and set the tray on his desk. He was deterred from his thoughts by the tray, though. They kept mugs in the office. Good sturdy mugs. But there were china cups sitting on a silver tray, and the coffeepot was silver, as well, along with the creamer and sugar bowl.

He stared at Reva, who glanced at Spencer and shrugged. He smiled, shaking his head.

“Thanks, Reva,” Spencer said, restlessly standing again, approaching the tray.

“Spencer, please, relax!” David said.

“I can’t just sit still!” she exclaimed, reaching for the coffee server. She glanced at Reva. “I don’t mean to be difficult—yes, I do, except not about the coffee—but do you still have those great mugs around here anywhere?”

“I—” Reva said blankly, then stared at David again. “Yes, sure, of course.”

Reva went out. David leaned back in his chair, not knowing whether he wanted to grin or pick Spencer up bodily and remove her from the office altogether.

He leaned forward, fingers folded on his desk. “Spencer, if you believe that I cared about Danny, then you know that I’m doing what I can. Everyone in the world knows that cops will do anything they can to catch the killer of another cop—”

“Why was he meeting with you that morning?” Spencer interrupted determinedly.

“To go over the Vichy case.”

“I want to know about the Vichy case.”

Reva returned with the mugs. Spencer flashed her a smile of gratitude. “Thanks. I don’t know why, but coffee always tastes better in a mug.”

“A quick cup of coffee shouldn’t matter much,” David said.

“But it may not be quick,” Spencer warned.

How the hell was he going to be able to get rid of her?

He stood up. “I’ll pour the coffee.”

“None for me!” Reva said, casting David a quick glance and grinning. “My work is looking good at the moment.” She made another quick departure.

“Spencer, damn it, if you’re staying, sit down!” David said, his tone carrying the rough edge of aggravation. Spencer sat, and he poured coffee into two mugs. “Still black, one sugar?” he asked her.

“Yes, please.”

Still black, one sugar. Exactly the way she’d been drinking coffee since high school.

Some things just didn’t change. Like the way he had always felt about her.

He almost slammed her mug down in front of her before returning to the chair behind his desk. He opened a drawer and threw a mile-high pile of folders on top of his blotter. “This is what I’ve been doing all year, Spencer. There are over two hundred interviews in here, notes on people, places, stakeouts. Five of the files are completely closed—they concern homicides Danny was working on that have been solved and could in no way have anything to do with his death. The Vichy case remains open and may remain open forever.”

“Why?”

“You know Eugene Vichy.”

“I know him?”

“He belongs to your yacht club.”

Spencer frowned. He realized that she probably hadn’t been to the yacht club in a very long time.

“He’s fifty-something, white-haired, good-looking, always looks like he just walked off a movie set. His wife, the late Mrs. Vichy, was sixty-something, and not quite so good-looking but very rich. She expired from a knock on the head. The house had been ripped up, some diamonds were missing. Vichy claimed to have come in and found the place in disarray and to have been brokenhearted at the loss of his beloved Vickie.”

“Vickie? Vickie Vichy?” Spencer said.

“You know her?”

She shrugged. “The name sounds vaguely familiar—and absurd—but then, maybe Danny talked about the case. I don’t remember. But why do you think the case will remain unsolved?”

“Because Vichy passed a lie detector test and he still holds to his story.”

“Maybe he’s innocent.”

David shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not for a minute. And neither did Danny.”

Spencer sat forward, suddenly very intense. “So Danny was pressuring this man. And Vichy knew that Danny wouldn’t quit. And he’d already proven himself adept at murder—”

“Spencer, the cops have to have some kind of evidence to make an arrest.”

“Fine. Go on.”

“Go on?”

“Who else is in the suspect lineup?”

“Spencer, you should go home—”

“I’m not going home until you tell me exactly where you are in this investigation.”

“Spencer, I don’t have to tell you anything. I’m not working for you.”

“Then start working for me.”

“No.”

“David, financially I can compete with any other clients you have. I need—”

“Damn it, Spencer!” He’d been planning to remain calm. Understanding. They weren’t kids anymore; too much of life had already cracked them over the head. But there was something about Spencer. He wanted to either hold her or shake her. Shaking her was a whole lot safer. “I can’t be bought, Spencer. You know that.”

“You shouldn’t have to be bought!” she lashed back, trying to keep her anger in check. “He was your best friend. He—”

“Spencer, get out.”

“I won’t leave until you finish.”

“Spencer, I’ll pick you up and put you out!” he warned her.

Her eyes narrowed sharply. “I’ll leave on my own accord. I just want to know what else you’re doing, who else you’re watching.”

He groaned. “They threw you out of the police station, so you’ve come to torture me.”

“David—”

“Yes, Vichy might have been tired of Danny’s determination to prove him guilty,” he snapped coldly, staring out the huge plate-glass window to the garden beyond. A slatted wood fence surrounded the garden, making it private and quiet. A mass of deep purple bougainvillea grew clinging along the fence. Wood chips filled in the space around deep green ferns and impatiens. It was a pleasant and peaceful view, but he felt anything but pleasant or peaceful now. “There are only two other people Danny was investigating who might have had the motive and method to kill him. The first is Ricky Garcia, who—”

Spencer gasped, interrupting him. “I’ve seen the name. In fact, I definitely remember Danny talking about him. He’s a crime boss, the head of a Cuban Mafia-type ring. He controls drug rings and prostitution, gambling—”

“Exactly. He’s as slippery as an eel, as well. He can snap his fingers and find a dozen hit men.”

“Then it must be him,” Spencer whispered, her eyes steady on his. “And there must be a way to trap him.”

“If there is, Spencer, the police—or I—will find it. And there’s no guarantee that Danny actually had anything on him, or that he had anything against Danny. In fact, he liked Danny.”

“He liked Danny?”

“It’s more common than you think for criminals to like the cops who are after them,” he said with a shrug.

“But—”

“Then there’s Trey Delia. You must know that name, as well.”