As a private investigator, he didn’t have to jump through all the legal hoops she was forced to and could bend some of the rules that she was afraid of breaking. To her way of thinking, that could be a good thing. As long as the case wasn’t compromised. “I’ll let you know,” she said.
“I assume the two cases are connected. Grayson and the judge.”
“The autopsy on Kathryn Samuels-Piquard was today. I’ll have a preliminary report on the cause of death and a ballistics report first thing in the morning. Then we’ll know for sure if we’ve got one assailant, which has my vote, if anyone’s asking. What’re the chances of two assassins? We can even rule out a copycat thing because the judge was dead before the attack on Grayson.”
O’Keefe took a long swallow from his bottle, then pulled out the bread board and started cubing the hot centers from the loaves. “Any chance Grayson and Samuels-Piquard have a connection other than professionally?”
“You mean, like, lovers?” she asked and conjured up the man with whom she’d worked, her mentor and guide. Then she thought about the hard-nosed opinionated judge. “I doubt it. If he was interested in anyone, it was probably Hattie Grayson, his brother’s widow, though actually she was his brother’s ex-wife; they were divorced before he killed himself.”
“Maybe they weren’t lovers,” he said thoughtfully, “but had some other social connection. I know it’s the logical thought that the attacks had to be because of their jobs, that maybe they’d sent a nutcase to the Big House and either he or someone close to him decided to take a little revenge, but that’s just an assumption.”
“I know.” The truth was she’d tossed around the same idea herself but hadn’t found any thread tying the two victims together. “We’ve talked to the families, checked records, though we’re still going through all of the judge’s info.” Once they’d finished with the bread, she looked out the slider again and saw Gabe and Roscoe still running in the snow. “They’re both going to be soaked.” She found water glasses in the cupboard. “I shouldn’t be discussing the case, or any case for that matter, with you, y’know.”
“Just giving you a different perspective, but you’re right. Not tonight.” He touched her shoulder and she looked up. “Are you really okay?” His gaze held hers for an instant too long, a few seconds that caused heat to climb up the back of her neck.
“I’m fine.”
One side of his mouth lifted and a dark eyebrow raised. “More than fine, I’d say.”
“Keep that thought, O’Keefe.” She smiled. She understood that he couldn’t spend the night, not with Gabe here. They’d already had this discussion via quick texts and had decided, especially upon Aggie’s insistence, her maternal instincts in high alert, that O’Keefe would drive the boy home to be with his family later this evening.
Pouring soup into each bread bowl, she said, “I don’t know if having the cases linked will narrow the suspect list or broaden it, but I suspect the latter. We’re already double-checking anyone who knew them both and potentially held a grudge or had something to gain.”
Just as she was setting plates on the eating bar, the sliding door opened and Gabe, red-faced, stepped inside.
She said, “Don’t forget the towel!”
“Oh, yeah . . .”
Roscoe was already sprinting through the door, but Gabe collared the rambunctious pup and did a half-decent job of cleaning those massive paws.
Alvarez asked, “How about you? Are you wet too?”
“Just a little,” Gabe said, as snowflakes began melting in his black hair. “Dry snow.”
“Okay. Come on, wash up and you can help serve,” Alvarez said to the boy. “Around here, it’s every man for himself.”
He was more than glad to find plates and put out flatware while she tossed the prepacked salad dressing with the greens and O’Keefe scooped spoonfuls of thick New England clam chowder into each sourdough bowl. She placed a pat of butter and a pinch of dried parsley on top of the soup. “Voilà,” she said. “Almost homemade.”
“Maybe better,” O’Keefe said.
She laughed. “Nope, assuredly better.”
Carrying his bowl to the table, O’Keefe said, “Aren’t we domestic?”
“We are tonight.” But this was temporary. Despite the lit tree and red candles, tonight wasn’t Christmas, and though there was a heart-warming feeling of family this eveni
ng, it would be fleeting. The truth of the matter was that Gabriel Reeve wasn’t her legal son and Dylan O’Keefe certainly wasn’t her husband. Tonight, though, she wasn’t going to allow her overly practical, realistic self to ruin the moment. This patched-together, belated holiday meal felt right, somehow, as if she actually were part of an oddly splintered family.
Outside the window, the snow fell softly, almost peacefully, while inside the fire burned quietly and the lights on the Christmas tree still glowed.
Growing up, she’d been a part of a large, pious, and happy family. At least that’s how she remembered it, until as a teenager her innocence had been stolen, her rose-colored vision of the future destroyed. She’d left home, never to return, and the spirit and joy of the holidays were, she’d assumed, part of her oh so distant past.
Now as they sat down, Gabe asked, “Don’t you say grace?” Casting a glance at Alvarez. “My mom is, like, we have to say grace before every meal.”
For years, she’d avoided the holidays and any celebration, and she’d sheltered herself from others with a thick, standoffish shell.
Now, with O’Keefe, she felt that shell cracking a bit, sensed there was a chance for a new beginning.