“Let’s go to my room,” I said. I turned my head, pointed to my bruised jaw, and said, “I’ve got to lie down.”
“You stink of beer. You were in a bar fight?”
“You don’t miss a thing.”
“Sit down. Please. This won’t take long.”
It didn’t sound good, whatever was coming. I eased myself onto the sofa next to Justine.
“I’m just about brain dead. Maybe we should talk tomorrow.”
“Very little of your brain is required.”
I looked at her and she hooked me in with her eyes. I loved Justine. I loved her.
“When you saw Colleen last week, before you left for Europe—what happened?”
“We had lunch at Smitty’s. I have a receipt somewhere. I haven’t had time to go over my credit card bill.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Christ. You shouldn’t do this. Do I ever grill you? Can’t you just trust me?”
“Did you say ‘trust me’? I’ll take that to mean it wasn’t just lunch. Oh, Jack.”
She shook her head.
I threw up my hands. “If you don’t believe me about this,” I said, “then what’s the point? How can we work things out if you don’t trust me?”
Justine got up, hooked the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, and without looking back, left the hotel through the revolving doors. I watched her through the glass. She gave her ticket to the valet and faced the street as he went for her car.
Justine could read me like an FBI polygraph. Lying to her was futile. I could chase after her, but what more could I say?
The valet brought her car, and Justine slid in behind the wheel, strapped in, and took off fast down South Santa Monica.
This time I was sure I’d lost her. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was pretty much what I deserved.
PART TWO
LOVE YOU, LOVE YOU NOT
CHAPTER 36
THE NEXT MORNING, I walked from my office across the hall to the “war room,” thinking about Colleen. I wondered what she’d been doing in her last hours, trying to see through her eyes how she’d been trapped by a man with murderous intentions. I imagined her horror when that gun—probably my gun—had been aimed at her chest, her killer taunting her before he squeezed the trigger.
I had a horrifying thought.
What if she’d believed her killer was me?
I stiff-armed the door, saw that the conference room was packed: Sci, Cruz, Mo, and Del Rio, arrayed around the black table, hunched over coffee, texting and phoning, looking up when I came in.
Associates filled the row of swivel chairs around the perimeter, buzzing about a hot case that had been resolved at four this morning when a team of Private investigators caught a runaway teen and her user boyfriend withdrawing funds from an ATM with her mom’s bank card.
Justine’s seat was empty. Justine was never late for a meeting. Had never been late in five years.
The chatter stopped as I pulled out my chair.
Cody brought in my Red Bull and a list of names.