Page 91 of Accidental Murder
Megan blinked, not knowing what to make of Vaughn. Dilettante or straight arrow? Dense or naïve? “Not what I meant. Did she say anything you haven’t told me?”
“When she was asleep, she mumbled something I didn’t understand, but she didn’t mention it when she was awake.” His mouth curved up, as if a humorous idea had occurred to him.
“What’s so funny?”
“She didn’t bring it up because she was hitting me.” He shrugged then explained. “She was having a nightmare.”
Her life is a nightmare, Megan thought. Yet the woman possessed the wherewithal to retrieve this material. Why?
Megan scanned a few more sheets. If high school biology had taught her anything, she was reading about a genetics research project, which was not, as far as she could discern, a motive for murder. “What did she mumble during the nightmare?” she asked.
“Brain Freeze.”
Megan flipped back to one of the pages—the memo with the genetics terms—and saw the phraseBrain Freeze.
Vaughn said, “I think she was trying to work out whether Jacob Feinstein was involved. His company created something called Brain Juice.” He emphasized the wordjuice.
Megan heard footsteps approaching. She shoved the sheaf of papers into the backpack and spun around. Her mouth fell open. She sputtered, “S-sir.”
Captain Wald beamed a flashlight at her. “Don’t look so shocked, Hanrahan. I make house calls.”
With regularity in this case, she itched to say.
“The chief is all over my backside,” he went on. “The Macintyre case is becoming a political hotbed. What do you have?”
Megan motioned to the sketches Peter Vaughn was holding. “Mr. Vaughn’s artwork. He’s pretty good. Other than that, Sir, nothing.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Megan gazedinto the precinct bathroom mirror and realized how much the case was affecting her. What on earth had possessed her to keep vital information from her boss? Now, while applying lip gloss and running a comb through her bedraggled hair, she replayed his arrival at the Macintyre site. Was he involved in the Brain Freeze scenario, whatever-it-was, or was he simply determined to solve an old girlfriend’s murder?
Stymied, she met up with Rodrigo, asked him to assemble the team in the green room, and crossed to her desk. Before Vaughn could say anything, she ordered him to keep quiet. He opened his mouth, but she shot him the evil eye. That shut him up.
In spite of herself, Megan was beginning to like him. He was holding himself together, which spoke volumes. She shuffled through messages on her desk.
A note from Tom in Vice caught her eye:Missed dancing with you.Still have room on your dance card?
“Megan.” Rodrigo approached the desk. “Everybody’s ready to meet—” His gaze softened. “Man, you look tired.”
“That’s because I am. Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Liar.” Truth be told, Rodrigo looked like he had aged as much as she had. She aimed a finger at Vaughn. “Stay put and out of trouble.”
He overemphasized twiddling his thumbs.
“Jerk,” she hissed, and followed Rodrigo to the meeting room. She stood at the head of the table. “What’ve we deciphered from Sara Simmons’s memos, ladies and gentlemen?”
“Bledsoe didn’t come up in a data search,” Rodrigo replied.
“You tried new DBAs, the Better Business Bureau, and acronyms?”
“Yep. Don’t worry. We’ll find it. Plus we’ve got calls in to the bigwigs at Wilkerson Hospital.”
Megan eyeballed the others. “Brief me on Kayla Macintyre’s clients.”
Otis to her left referred to his notes. “Dorman’s parents remembered a cable company’s truck stationed outside their house, and the guy that cleaned their carpets was a sub, but he did a good job.”
