Mallory Kane - The Paediatrician's Personal Protector

“Don’t you have something to do this morning, Delancey?”

Reilly shook his head. “This week the SWAT team is practicing and recertifying weapons skills. I finished yesterday.” He gave Buford a bright smile. “You said I could sit in on the interview.”

“The interview last night. Nobody said anything about this morning,” Buford said.

“Well, do you have a problem with me sitting in?”

The deputy muttered something under his breath and went into the room. Reilly entered behind him. Buford indicated a chair for Christy to sit in, then sat directly across from her, with the tape recorder in the middle of the table.

Reilly moved a chair to a neutral spot at the end of the table, neither on Christy’s side nor Buford’s.

Buford turned on the tape recorder and went through the required preliminary information—date, name, location and so on. He quickly and casually ran through the questions he’d asked Christy the night before.

Then he leaned forward and picked up a folder that was lying near his right hand. “Ms. Moser—Dr. Moser that is—our crime scene investigator team went over to the Oak Grove Inn this morning and checked out Cottage Three. They didn’t find any trace evidence specific to your case.”

Christy stiffened. “What do you mean? Are you saying I made up the attack?”

“Now, now, Miss. I’m not doubting you were attacked. That was obvious. But as good a housekeeper as Miss Ella is, there was a lot of hair and dust and stuff on the floor of that cottage. CSI told me they didn’t find anything that could be definitely linked to last night.”

Christy tried to fold her hands in front of her but the cast interfered. The fingers and thumb of her left hand played with the edge of the cast. Her gaze flickered to Reilly and away.

“What about the pickup that followed me into the parking lot?”

“Well,” Buford reached into his pocket for a small notepad. “That belongs to a Chester Ragsdale. He lives over in Covington. Him and his wife had a spat over the weekend, so he’s been staying there in Cottage One the past few days. He said he’s gonna try to go home today.” Buford took a breath. “My partner talked to him and to the couple from Mississippi who were in Cottage Two. None of them saw or heard anything.”

Reilly saw and felt Christy’s frustration.

“So you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do to find the man who attacked me?”

“I’d like you to think back on last night. I know you’re awfully upset about your daddy. I don’t suppose anyone can blame you for that. And I’m sorry to hear that he’s in the hospital. But I do have to ask these questions. When the person knocked you down, tell me again what he said.”

She eyed him narrowly. “He said, ‘Go back where you came from or you’re as dead as your sister.’“

Buford tapped his pencil on the desktop and watched it. “And you’re sure about that?”

“Yes.” The word was coated in frost.

“Why do you think somebody would go to all that trouble to warn you to get out of town?”

“Officer Watts,” Christy said in measured tones. “Five years ago, my sister was shot while I was on the phone with her. I heard her scream. I heard the—shots.” She took a breath and sent a quick glance toward Reilly. “The only times I’ve been back in Chef Voleur since her funeral were once for a seminar three years ago, and then two weeks ago. I flew down here to check on my father after I was notified about his first MI, while he was in jail.”

“MI?”

“Myocardial infarction—heart attack.”

Watts nodded.

Christy brushed her hair back, a typical sign of discomfort or deceit. Reilly didn’t think she was being deceitful.

“I flew back to Boston the same day.” She stopped and looked at Watts.

He looked at the eraser tip on his pencil, then back up at her. He raised his eyebrows. “You flew in when your father was put in the hospital. What about when he was arrested?”

She shook her head. “I was busy—on call. I couldn’t leave my patients.”

The detective nodded and wrote something on his notepad.

“Don’t you see?” she asked. “The man who attacked me is the man who killed my sister—” Christy’s voice gave out. She swallowed and spread her hands. “He knew I’d be here for the sentencing.”

Her words hung in the air. She looked at Buford, then at Reilly, then back at Buford. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Isn’t it obvious? The man who killed my sister knows she was on the phone with me. He obviously is worried that I heard something and can identify him.”

Reilly didn’t say a word. Buford sat still, his eyes on Christy, as if he were weighing her words. Then he sat up straight. “All right. I think that’s all for now, Ms. Moser.” He reached for the tape recorder.

“What?” Christy stared at him. “That’s all? Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

Buford punched the off button on the recorder, ejected the tape and stuck it into his shirt pocket. Then he pushed his chair back. Its legs screeched along the floor. He stood with a grunt.

“Why, no, ma’am. I’m not saying that at all. I am at a loss to explain how this man who you think killed your sister found you, watched you and followed you, when you’d only been in town for around twenty-four hours.”

Christy didn’t stand. “You’re at a loss? I don’t see how it could be any clearer, Officer. My father’s arrest and arraignment were in all the papers. If my father is right about my sister’s death, and I believe he is, then the man who killed her is the married man she was seeing.” She stopped long enough to take a breath.

“He knew she had a sister. Even if he didn’t know who she was talking to on the phone, her phone is missing. Isn’t it logical to infer that he took her phone and saw my number? Naturally, he would expect me to show up at the courthouse. It would be simple for him to spot me there and follow me. Wouldn’t it?” She addressed that question to Reilly before turning her icy gaze back to Buford Watts.

“I have to agree, Buford,” Reilly said. “It’s a theory.”

Buford nodded his head. “It coulda happened that way. I just can’t make a case for it.”

Reilly thought of something. “What about her clothes?” he asked.

Buford had picked up his pencil and was studying the end of it. He frowned at Reilly.

“Her clothes. The skirt, jacket and blouse. Did CSI test her clothes?” Reilly asked him.

The older officer picked up the manila folder and paged through the sheets. “I don’t reckon they did.”

“Nobody thought about testing her clothes?”

Buford sent Reilly a narrow gaze. “You were there, and being so all-fired helpful. Why didn’t you think of it? Hell, you coulda hired somebody to do it for you.”

Reilly didn’t bother answering him. The resentment had been bound to surface sooner or later. He and Ryker both caught a lot of flak because of their infamous, wealthy grandparents. It was no secret that the Delancey grandkids weren’t hurting for money, or that a lot of that money had been made in Louisiana politics, off the backs of citizens.

“I put the skirt and stockings in the trash,” Christy interjected. “In the bathroom.”

“Buford, call them now. Before Ella Bardin puts out the trash. Get the skirt and stockings. Her blouse and jacket too.”

Buford nodded irritably and left the room.

Reilly looked at Christy and gave her a rueful shrug.

She sniffed. “Why do you think I left Louisiana?” she said archly.

“It’s not the place,” he said. “It’s the people. There are good people and bad people everywhere.”

When she winced, he realized that his words had hit too close to home.