His lips press together and he motions to the other room again. I sigh and just do it. I play the game, the one where he makes sure I know he has the bigger cock, even though I don’t have a cock at all. I back into the den and he’s right there, towering a good foot over me. “I’m wondering what you know that I don’t know,” he says. “Why are you in on this one?”
The wedding dress, I think. Or my brother doesn’t trust him. Actually, I’m not sure my brother even trusts me. “Did my brother warn you that I get along with dead people better than most officers?” I ask.
“He did, actually.”
“Then we can agree it’s in our best interests that I interact with the woman on the floor, not you. That said, let's get what we have to out of the way. What do we know about the victim?”
His lips tighten but he answers. “Emma Wells,” he says. “Thirty-eight-year-old interior designer. She and her husband, Gibson Wells, bought this house right after you moved to L.A. He’d become the ‘it’ accountant for the rich and famous. They’d been here six months, and he’d really just hit big in his career when he died of a heart attack at only forty-five.”
Young, I think, but more common than most want to believe. “How long ago was that?” I ask, because yes, I could guess based on when I left and returned, but you never guess or assume in police work. Too often expected timelines don’t connect.
“A year ago.”
“She moved on fast,” I comment. “Who’s she marrying?”
“Morgan Rockport,” he replies. “His dad is Barry Rockport. He was a big banking executive before he passed a few years ago.” Morgan isn’t familiar, but Barry stirs a memory I can’t quite catch. For now, I focus on the more important Rockport. “What else do we know about Morgan?” I ask.
“Morgan apparently went to some prep school and then Harvard. And now he’s an attorney for the rich and famous. Yes, there is a theme here, but as you know, perhaps irrelevant, as it’s a common one in East Hampton.”
I still don’t know how I know Morgan Rockport, but I move on. For now. “Where is Rockport now?”
“San Francisco on business. We haven’t been able to reach him. Agent Love—”
“Why’d you leave a city of opportunity to come to a small town?”
“I left the city of corruption to work with your brother,” he says and adds, “He’s a good man.”
“And the son of the future governor?” I challenge.
There’s a flash of something in his eyes I can’t quite identify and he says, “If he wins.”
“Do you know my father?”
His lips press together. He does that a lot. It’s like a poker tell. Something I won’t like is coming. Something he doesn’t want to tell me. Or maybe he needs some Chapstick. “I was on his security detail for six months.”
It’s definitely a poker tell.
“Of course you were,” I say, and that look is back in his eyes, the one I can’t quite identify.
“Officer North,” someone says from behind me. “We need you.”
He lifts a hand over my shoulder. “I’ll be right there,” he calls out, but his attention is on me. “I respect your father and your brother. I’m not sure what to make of you.”
“Don’t you?” I challenge.
He studies me long and hard and then mumbles, “I’ll be back,” and steps around me.
I rotate and stare after him and decide I still don’t actually hate him, which surprises me. That’s rare. But something is off with him.
CHAPTER FIVE
I don’t love obvious moves, but my next move is pretty darn obvious. I walk back into the kitchen.
The pretty blonde woman is squatting next to the body, intently studying the victim’s neck. She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t notice me, which works just fine. My attention is on the woman sprawled on the floor, who can no longer speak, but she can tell us a story. The would-be bride, I don’t know which as of yet. Notably though is the fact that’s she’s in an extravagant dress, with sheer lace and little roses, with not a stroke of makeup on. There’s a bottle of water open, on its side, drained out, just like the woman we can assume held that bottle. Or it could have been someone else.
“Agent Love.” The blonde woman has noticed me and pops to her feet. “You’re back. I’m Danica Day, the new deputy medical examiner from Suffolk county.”
“And your name is Danica Day,” I say flatly.
“Yes.” Her spine stiffens defensively. “It is.”
“Let me guess, it’s a stage name and you want to be an actress.”
“Actually,” she bristles, “I come from a long line of medical professionals. My mother and father are surgeons. My sister is an OBGYN.”
“But you came here to be an actress.”