He felt her before he saw both men’s eyes go to the doorway as Ryn walked in.
She went right to Mueller, hand up. “Sorry. We had a late night and lazy morning. I’m Kathryn.”
Mueller took her hand, tipped his chin down. “Detective Lance Mueller.”
She nodded, pulled her hand from his and offered it to Bogart.
“Detective Kevin Bogart,” he said when he took it, and Boone clocked the asshole’s eyes drifting to her tits.
Ryn didn’t miss it.
She pulled from him a lot less friendly and went to Boone.
He clamped an arm around her waist.
“I’m going to make coffee really quickly. Do you two want coffee?” she asked Mueller and Bogart.
“They’re not staying that long,” Boone said.
She looked up at him and then looked to the men. “Okay, I won’t be long. Please, take a seat.”
He gave her a squeeze and she looked back up at him.
“Baby, they’re not gonna be staying that long,” he repeated.
“Right,” she whispered, skimmed her gaze through the cops and muttered, “Be right back.”
She took off.
Boone crossed his arms on his chest.
“We have a number of questions,” Mueller warned.
“Maybe, but it still won’t take long for Ryn to answer them,” Boone replied.
“And you know this, how?” Bogart asked, and Boone didn’t miss his snide tone or that he phrased his question like Boone phrased an earlier one.
He ignored the guy and looked to Mueller, who was good cop.
Or acting like it.
“When was this woman killed?” he asked.
“We tend to be the ones who ask the questions,” Bogart replied.
Boone looked back to him. “I can pull up the Post online and find out so I’m not sure why you won’t just tell me,” Boone pointed out.
“Last night. ME’s preliminary puts time of death between nine and eleven,” Mueller answered.
“Where?” Boone kept at him.
“Her master bath,” Mueller shared.
“How?” Boone asked.
“Back of the skull. She was on her knees.”
“Execution,” Boone murmured.
Mueller gave a short nod.
“Husband out of the house?” Boone asked.
Bogart spoke up.
“They’re perverts,” he sneered. “He was somewhere probably getting fucked up the ass by a bitch in leather and a strap on.”
“Kev,” Mueller muttered, then to Boone. “The Mortons have an open marriage. He had a date. He shares that Mrs. Morton knew about it and approved.”
This was a lot of detail to convey to a civvy, which part had to do with Mueller covering for Bogart being a dickhead and part had to do with the fact he knew they were going to leave, and Boone was going to be on the phone with Hawk, Mitch or Brock before they were out of the front vestibule, so he’d find out anyway.
“So he’s alibied,” Boone noted.
“He found her and called it in,” Mueller shared. “This happened around one. He fucked the scene. Open marriage or not, he came unraveled. Tried to give a woman without half her head CPR.”
“Christ,” Boone bit.
Mueller’s chin suddenly jerked up, his gaze going beyond Boone, and Boone turned to see Ryn coming through the dining room.
She hit him, her front to his side, and shoved the fingers of one hand in the back of his jeans, her other hand she set to his stomach, and he curled an arm around her shoulders.
“Coffee’s on,” she told him.
“Right,” he replied.
She turned to the cops.
“This is very upsetting about Corinne,” she declared.
“We can imagine,” Mueller mumbled, then, distinctly, he said, “It’s our understanding two nights ago you went to Mrs. Morton’s house and there, you met a client of hers.”
“Brett,” she confirmed.
Boone held her closer.
She pressed her hand in at his stomach.
“Yes, Brett Rappaport,” Mueller said.
He felt her eyes and looked down at her to see her looking up at him.
“Is that his last name?” she asked.
“Yup,” he answered.
“You didn’t know his last name?” Bogart spoke up again.
Ryn turned to him, shaking her head. “He kidnapped me and my girlfriends in March.”
“Yes, this is on record,” Mueller stated.
“So we weren’t formally introduced,” Ryn went on.
Mueller cleared his throat like he was hiding a laugh.
Bogart narrowed his eyes on Ryn.
“Can you tell us why, when he’d kidnapped you last March, you met with him at Corinne Morton’s house two nights ago?” Mueller asked.
“Corinne told me she was throwing a party. She lied. She was setting me up to talk to Brett because Brett wanted to talk to me,” Ryn answered.
“You didn’t know he was there?” Mueller pressed.
Ryn shook her head. “No.” Again she looked at Boone. “And I now feel like a bitch because she kept texting she was sorry, and I blocked her.”
“The texts,” Mueller mumbled, and the way he said it, it was not for Ryn and Boone, it was aimed at Bogart.
Boone shifted his attention to the cop.
They had Morton’s phone. They saw her chain to Ryn.
Puzzle pieces were slotting together.
“What did Rappaport have to say to you that was worth him making his attorney set you up for this chat?” Bogart asked.