Page 83 of Accidental Murder
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m telling the truth!” Vaughn rubbed his cheeks so hard it had to hurt.
Megan frowned. Was he punishing himself for letting Kayla out of his sight, or was he trying to urge his hysterical, exhausted brain to function?
“Someone wants her dead,” he said.
“Apparently, posing as her sister hasn’t changed that.”
“There’s something else.” Vaughn lowered his voice. “Kayla said Ashley was holding an invitation to the policemen’s ball in her hand. She’s worried someone inside SFPD might?—”
“Hanrahan!” In three long strides, Captain Wald appeared at Megan’s desk. “Didn’t you hear me calling your name?”
She hadn’t. She’d been too wrapped up in Vaughn’s account. She leaped to her feet. “Captain.”
“Have we got a problem here?” Captain Wald looked between her and Vaughn.
“Sir, this is Ashley Macintyre’s fiancé. I mean ex-fiancé. Peter Vaughn, this is Captain Dennis Wald.”
“About time you showed up.” The captain lasered the guy with a hostile look. “Got a fix on your ex-lady love, Vaughn? She’s MIA, and we’ve got another dead body on our hands.”
“Another?” Vaughn blanched.
Megan hadn’t told him about Feinstein yet, too engrossed by his account about Kayla stealing his car and going on the run.
The captain cocked his head. “Why are you here, Mr. Vaughn?”
Vaughn jammed his lips together and met the captain’s gaze. Was Vaughn withholding news about Kayla being alive because of the policemen’s ball invitation? Did he think the captain could be involved in Ashley’s death? If Captain Wald was the killer, wouldn’t Ashley have uttered his name? Maybe. Maybe not. Apparently, Ashley had only met him once.
“Sir,” Megan said, cutting through the tension, “I invited Mr. Vaughan to speak with us so we could get to know Ashley Macintyre better and entertain the possibility that perhaps we weren’t considering all viable suspects.”
“Fine,” he responded. “If something turns up in this case, call me on my cell. Keep me in the loop.” He strode out of the squad room, sucking the energy with him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Kayla spedto her uncle’s cabin, refusing to let fatigue halt her investigation, as multiple questions scudded through her mind. What had her uncle known? And when? She feared the answers but needed to hear the truth.
Halfway across the Golden Gate Bridge, panic gripped her. Drivers seemed to be taking a special interest in her. Why? Because they mistook her for supermodel Ashley Macintyre? No. She no longer bore a resemblance to her sister. Her skin was sallow and her hair was scraggly. Had Peter reached out to the police? Had the police put out an APB? She didn’t think anyone from Bioethics Coalition, hoping to retrieve the file material she’d printed out, had followed her.
Even so, out of a need for caution, she stuffed the backpack under the driver’s seat—out of sight, out of mind—and turned on the radio. She cycled to a news station and listened for mention of her.
Crickets. Good.
Turning down the two-lane road toward her uncle’s cabin, she experienced another surge of anxiety. In her rearview mirror, she glimpsed a patrol car approaching. It pulled alongside. The officer squinted into the driver’s window. Kaylasmiled and returned her focus to the road, doing her best to appear unassuming. The officer lost interest and bypassed her.
Heart hammering her ribcage, Kayla veered into her uncle’s driveway. The gravel popped beneath the Civic’s wheels. She ground to a stop, switched off the car, and took the stairs to the front door two at a time.
“David!” She peered through the clear beveled glass. Tried the doorknob. Unlocked. She stepped inside. “David?” She let the door swing closed. “Where are you?”
A heavy silence filled the cabin. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels stood on the kitchen counter. She hurried to the bedroom. “David, we have to talk.”
Gloom and a hint of tobacco greeted her at the doorway. Her uncle’s bed was unmade. Stray sheets of paper and file folders lay scattered on the floor as if he had shoved them aside in a fit of anger.
Crack, bang!
Outside.
Tamping down panic, Kayla darted out the front door. She didn’t see a soul, but birds were beating a hasty retreat from the pines.
