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The Mermaid Murders (The Art of Murder 1)

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“You don’t seem particularly broken up over your girlfriend going missing,” Gervase observed.

“She’s not missing.” McEnroe’s gaze was defiant.

Gervase looked at Kennedy.

“What does that mean?” Kennedy asked.

“She’s just doing this for attention. I know Becky. This is her idea of getting back at me.”

“Getting back at you?” Kennedy repeated thoughtfully. “Why would she want to get back at you?”

McEnroe seemed to struggle to put his thoughts into words. At last he said bitterly, “Because she can’t stand it when everything doesn’t go her way. When she isn’t the center of attention. When she’s not the one in control.” Absently, nervously, he stroked his arms through the soft material of the flannel shirt.

“I see.”

Jason could tell Kennedy wasn’t buying it. Personally, he wasn’t convinced either way. For sure, McEnroe wasn’t telling them everything. Most people didn’t tell them everything. Not at first anyway.

McEnroe wiped his pale and sweaty face on his shirtsleeve. “Is that it?”

It was a hot summer day. Too hot for long sleeves. Too hot for flannel.

Jason asked, “How did you get those scratches on your arms?” He felt rather than saw the quick look Kennedy threw him.

It was a shot in the dark, but McEnroe gaped at him, instinctively tugged at his sleeves, although the cuffs were already covering his wrists, and Jason knew he was right.

“What? I don’t—I was playing with the cat. Becky’s cat. Snowball. She scratched me. The cat scratched me.” He looked frightened.

“You know what I think,” Gervase said suddenly, heavily. He placed his hands on his thighs, as though about to push to his feet. “I think we’d better finish this conversation back at the station.”

“What?”

As McEnroe jumped off the sofa, Jason tensed, ready for anything. He did not reach for his weapon—he would have been the only one who did—but it was close.

McEnroe was babbling, “You’re crazy, old man! I already told you I had nothing to do with Becky running away. I don’t know anything about it. I don’t want to know anything about it.”

“Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. There are still questions that have to be answered.”

“I don’t know anything!”

“Son, you can cooperate and come in voluntarily, or I can arrest your ass,” Gervase said. “Up to you.”

“This is crazy!” McEnroe was trembling, wild-eyed as he looked from face to face. “I didn’t do anything.”

Kennedy looked his usual stony self. Gervase looked pained.

“What are you getting so worked up about, McEnroe?” Gervase’s tone grew fatherly, almost reassuring. “It’s routine. You’re the boyfriend, you’re going to be questioned. If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s a couple of hours out of your life.”

McEnroe stared at the police chief and seemed to calm at whatever he read in his expression. He stopped trembling. The wild-eyed look faded.

“I’m not under arrest?”

“Not so far.”

His Adam’s apple jerked. “Can I at least put my pants on?”

“Please do,” Gervase said cheerfully. “Please do.”

McEnroe shuffled out of the room and down the hallway. A door creaked open. They heard the scrape of drawers opening and shutting. The back and forth of footsteps. The slide of a closet door.



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