Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

One, I hadn’t eaten in a long time.

Two, I wanted to throw up.

The dinner was Donahue’s peace offering, so I put down the ice and picked up my cutlery.

“She was sad,” Donahue said. “We talked about this boyfriend of hers, in Dublin, and I think she loved him in a way, but he didn’t make her heart race. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Not in love with him.”

Donahue nodded. “Do you want me to cut your meat for you, boy-o?”

I smiled painfully, speared potatoes with my fork, and said, “She didn’t tell me that. She said she was happy.”

“Putting on a brave face, more like it,” said Donahue. “Or maybe looking to see if you’d changed your mind. If you still loved her.

“But anyway,” he continued, “I’d stopped worrying she was going to hurt herself. I never thought that someone would do this terrible thing to her.”

“Everyone loved her, Mike.”

“So why? ” Donahue asked me. He thumped the table with his fists. China jumped. Beer sloshed. “Why am I sending her back to Dublin in a box?”

I laid down my knife and fork, pushed my plate away.

“It had nothing to do with Colleen,” I said. “Someone killed her to hurt me. Someone who hates me.”

“Who was it, Jack?”

“I don’t know. Yet. I’m working on it. Whoever he was, he was a pro. He could have found a way to kill me without putting Colleen in the middle. But that wasn’t what he wanted.

“He set me up so that I would get taken down one step at a time. First, this…loss. Then humiliation. Then I’d be locked up for life. Or get the needle. That was the plan.”

“May the cat eat him. And may the divil eat the cat.”

“Copy that.”

We sat silently as the dishes were cleared.

When we were alone again, I looked into Mike’s sad eyes. “I’m sorry, Mike. I’m the one who owes you an apology. If Colleen hadn’t been involved with me, she’d still be alive.”

CHAPTER 35

I PULLED UP to the Beverly Hills Sun, Jinx Poole’s flagship hotel, at just after ten. I stepped out of my two-hundred-thousand-dollar car looking as if I’d been dragged behind it for a couple of miles. I gave my car keys to the valet and checked in at the desk.

The clerk said, “Mr. Morgan, I believe the woman on the red sofa is waiting for you.”

It was Justine.

Thank God.

I was so glad to see her, my eyes got wet. Thinking about stretching out on clean sheets, Justine lying beside me, of feeling her skin against mine, flooded me with relief.

But why was she here? I called her name. She looked up, and I crossed the plush and glittering lobby to her, saying, “How long have you been waiting? Are you okay?”

I couldn’t read her expression.

“What’s going on, Justine?”

“It’s just—we have to talk. Gloves off. Nothing but the truth.”