Susan Smith - Out at Night

“Just? Explains the holes in the wall.”

His gaze went to the wall.

“The guy before you had pictures.”

Pete picked up a crystal paperweight embedded with a gold FBI seal and put it down gently. “Vonda might be involved in Bartholomew’s murder.”

Outside, the silence was cut by the faint drone of a jet.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s what I need you to find out. Report to me. You won’t attend briefings. I want an outsider’s perspective. See if there’s anything I missed. I’ll make everything available. Whatever you need, ask. Here are contact numbers and directions to the murder site.”

He scribbled on a pad, tore it off as if it were a prescription, and passed it over to her.

“Should have been a doctor, Uncle Pete.”

“What?” His face was shot with worry and blank love.

“Got the handwriting down.” She stuck the paper in her bag. “I take it her alibi’s checked out for Wednesday night.”

“Her husband’s. Hers, not so much.” He opened his mouth as if there was more, closed it, and rocked back on his chair.

“You’re not telling me what those alibis are?” She kept her voice pleasant, but inside, she was fuming. It felt like a clumsy version of “I’m not telling until you guess,” a game Katie was brutally good at.

“It would be more helpful if you did your own investigation, came back with what you find.”

“If you think Vonda’s involved, how can you work this case?”

“Conflict of interest, you mean. Columbine settled that one for the agency.”

“Columbine.”

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