He shakes his head. “No one applies to be in the cold case division.” His features darken with his deprecating statement. “What about an obsessed fan?” he challenges with a cock of his head.
I admit, that hadn’t occurred. But no—I’ve hidden my identity pretty well. “When there are too many possibilities, it’s usually the simplest one.” I watch him closely.
He smirks. “More psychobabble.”
“Philosophy, actually. Occam's razor. Too many assumptions can lead down a wrong path.”
“I believe that.” He groans as he sits forward to grab my phone. “Regardless, we’re doing exactly what the suspect wants. Stalling the investigation.”
He moves on, and like being cut free of a noose, tension uncoils within me. Rhys has never brought up my death’s door “hallucination.” Not once since I confessed it to him. Admittedly, I was anticipating the mention of it at some point—as if the letter could reopen the conversation.
He didn’t put credence in my admission then, so I shouldn’t expect him to consider the prospect now.
The letter proves nothing.
Rhys may be right about my leaping to conclusions amid this case.
I scrub my hands over my face, trying to rub away the achy tiredness. “Okay. Let’s go over the brothers’ interview. What did they give us?”
He sets my phone on the table and tabs the Play bar to the middle of the sound bite. “Torrance recalled a line cook that his brother employed for a few weeks. Said he was let go due to some complaints from women.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “And this didn’t come up during Mike Rixon’s first interview with the case detectives?”
“Here. Listen.” He starts the recording.
I reach for my notebook. I like to jot down my thoughts as they come to me, transcribe them into the book later. Focusing on the story gives me a degree of separation, too. I need the distraction.
“…We didn’t have a full staff that week. Don’t you remember, Mike? That guy… What’s his name? God, I can’t even remember now. Some weird-ass name.”
“Kohen.”
*snap* “That’s it. Kohen. He laid out a couple of days that week, and I had to cover his shifts. Worked doubles. Anyway, with all the complaints we got from the women at the bar, Mike fired his ass.”
“What kind of complaints?”
“Some of the regular customers, beach bunnies, we call them. They said he made them uncomfortable. He’d like, just stare at them, all creepy. One woman said he hit on her, offered her free drinks. Ha. Yeah, he had to go.”
Rhys pauses the recording.
I look up from my notebook. “Was Torrance able to give a last name for this Kohen who was suspiciously missing from the initial interview with his brother?”
“No,” he says. “And even more suspicious is the fact that, according to Rixon, since this guy only worked a few weeks, he didn’t bother to log him into the payroll system. Basically, he might not exist.”
“Except for in their imagination.” A way to throw suspicion off the brothers.
Rhys walks to the wet bar and fetches a bottled water from the mini fridge. His gait is hindered as he puts most of his weight on the leg that didn’t suffer a gunshot. After a full day of walking, his leg starts to aggravate him in the evenings.
“But I was able to get the names of the women who lodged complaints,” he says. “Since they frequent the bar, it should be simple enough to track them down.”
“Maybe,” I say, “if they’re at the bar often enough, they can even confirm whether or not the brothers were actually working the night of Joanna’s murder.” Because otherwise, we’ll have to pry that information out of the staff. Family members cover for each other.
A smile twitches at my lips, thinking about Rhys fighting off the advances of the beach bunnies. “You should take the lead on that. I’m sure the beach bunnies will take to you.”
He takes a swig of water and recaps the bottle. “Funny. But I do have a way with the ladies, don’t I?”
I crane an eyebrow. “Is that a joke, Agent Nolan?”
“Don’t get used to it.”