Page 78 of Accidental Murder
Before Megan could ask where he’d gotten his tan, a blond man in a Hawaiian shirt over baggy jeans shambled in from a room at the far end of the warehouse. He introduced himself asLeonard Hoffman and slumped into a sling-back chair. Had he been crying? At the end of his life, Megan’s father had wept non-stop. She hadn’t been able to do a thing to alleviate his pain and confusion, which had frustrated her no end.
“Do you own a hunting knife, Mr. Hoffman?” Captain Wald asked.
In the car, Megan had suggested splitting up the partners and questioning them separately, but the captain had insisted upon holding a group meeting.
“Well?” The captain shoved his hands in his pockets. “Do you?”
Hoffman responded in the negative.
“Do you have an alibi for six to nine this morning?”
“I’ve been working on a project,” Hoffman said. “We have deadlines and approvals pending.”
Baker waved his hand. “Look, do we need to have our lawyer present?”
“Only if you’re guilty.” Captain Wald’s mouth turned up in a cruel smile.
Megan glared at him. No wonder he hadn’t been in a relationship since breaking up with Kayla Macintyre. His mean streak was insufferable.
“We’re not guilty.” Hoffman splayed his arms.
“Then you won’t mind being fingerprinted,” the captain said. “The murder weapon had prints on it.”
That was an outright lie. They didn’t have the weapon. But Megan kept mum because Baker’s eyes flickered.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
With hopes high,Kayla entered Weaver Investment Corporation, a recently renovated art deco structure in an area near Market Street, and took the elevator to the third floor.
She entered Bioethics Coalition’s office and was overpowered by the scent of lemons. Someone had been cleaning. A sign on the desk confirmed the company’s adherence to the doctrine of minimalism:If you don’t need a plant, don’t buy one. The room held a desk, chair, computer, printer, file cabinet, lamp, and clock. A red-and-white needlepoint hanging on the wall imparted Bioethics Coalition’s motto:Might is not always right. Science is not always for the good of all. And not everyone has noble intentions.There was no other art.
On a previous visit, Sara’s boss, Mrs. Hillman, explained the spartan look to Kayla. Bioethicists did not meet and greet clients in their offices. They went to the source of trouble. Why spend money unless they had to?
No one occupied the reception desk. Kayla couldn’t hear activity anywhere in the suite. Even so, she knew Hillman had to be there. She was the sort of woman who wouldn’t leave her domain unattended. Kayla found her down the hall, cleaningwindow blinds in Sara’s office, now empty except for the old metal desk and chair in the center of the room.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Hillman.”
The woman spun around, a white cloth in hand. Sweat glistened on her café au lait skin. “Oh, my!” Stunned, she settled her large frame into the chair. “Kayla.”
“I’m not . . . No . . . I apologize for the confusion . . . I’m Ashley, her twin sister.” Once again, the lie felt as burdensome as her backpack. “My sister?—”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hillman said quickly.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Kayla stepped into the room. Sara’s silk plants were gone, as were the pictures of Cici riding horseback, doing gymnastics, and posing with characters at Disneyland. “I’m sorry to hear about Sara, as well.”
“Another horrible loss.” Hillman shook her head. Her silver-black curls jiggled. “Such a dear, dear soul.”
Kayla nodded. “Have you heard of Bledsoe Research Institute?”
“You don’t waste time with small talk, do you?”
“No, ma’am.” According to Sara, Hillman didn’t waste time, either. “Bledsoe?”
“I haven’t heard of it.” Hillman rose from the chair and adjusted the blinds allowing additional light to stream into the room. “Why?”
“Sara had business with the facility.”
“We all worked separate cases. We published findings when we had concrete proof, and we discussed cases if we needed legal counsel.”
