11th Hour (Women's Murder Club 11)

I laughed, said, “Brilliant analysis, Frank. Thanks a lot.”

He laughed too. “Yeah, what did you expect? That I can unwrap her crazy little mind in ten minutes?”

On the other side of the glass, Conklin was still trying to pry something useful out of Connie Kerr.

“Connie, your friend who brings you food. Who is it?”

“Ahhh,” she said dramatically. “Is he a man with a past? Or is it a lady friend she doesn’t want to expose?”

“Connie, this isn’t helping you.”

“I don’t have to tell you all my secrets. And I won’t. If I’m not under arrest, I want to go home. You can’t keep me here without probable cause.”

Conklin sat back and said without any malice, “You’re wrong, Connie. I can book you for trespassing, for theft of services, for obstruction of justice.”

“Listen,” Kerr said, slapping the table and leaning toward Conklin. “You’re wrong about the trespassing and all the rest. Tommy Oliver knows that I live in number six and he’s known it for years. I’m sure he has told Harry Chandler.”

“Tommy Oliver? Is that T. Lawrence Oliver? Harry Chandler’s driver?”

“Yes. Tommy hooked up my electricity. He fixed the locks.”

“Okay. We’re holding you as a material witness while we check out your story, talk to a few people, and so forth. The law gives us forty-eight hours.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can. I’m doing it. Please stand up.”

“I demand to make my phone call.”

“Not a problem.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Of course. By the way, we don’t have single-occupancy accommodations here, so you’re going to be sharing a cell with some other ladies. If you remember something helpful about the boneyard underneath your window, please reach out to me, Connie. I’ll be happy to talk to you anytime.”

Chapter 82

WHILE CONKLIN BROUGHT Connie Kerr to booking, I invited Frank Cisco to the break room for leftover cookies and stale coffee. He accepted.

We were alone for the moment, sitting across from each other at an old table, and what had started as a consultation suddenly felt like a therapy session. I guess that’s because after Jacobi and I got shot on Larkin Street, I’d had to see Frank for a couple of months or lose my job.

I’d been furious that the department sent me to a shrink to determine my mental fitness, but even though I was insulted, I had gotten a lot from my sessions with Frank. Actually, he was a great therapist.

Now he asked me, “What’s going on with you, Lindsay?”

“I’m pregnant,” I said.

“Heyyy. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

I dipped my head. I didn’t want to tell him that Joe had cheated on me, that I had thrown him out, that working non-stop meant I didn’t have to concentrate on how I was going to provide for my baby without my husband.

“Oh, man. If you could see your face. I gotta ask again. What’s going on, Lindsay?”

Frickin’ mind reader.

“This case,” I said, “is a bear. We’ve got seven victims, their heads buried on the property of a big movie star, and we can’t find the bodies. Were they murdered? Or is this a very creepy art installation? We don’t know.