Strange. None of the women from Beedle Drive asked any questions about Kara. I know she wasn’t a nice woman, but they hung out with her, yet none of them even asked how she died.
Pulling into my small two-bedroom bungalow, I put the car in Park and sit with it running. Come to think of it, neither TaylernorLuke asked how she died. In my mind, if it weremebeing arrested, I think that’d be my first question. But I am a cop. Still, if they had, maybe knowing the cause and that it likely wasn’t premeditated would help. Whoever killed her—and I’m not entirely convinced it was Tayler—grabbed the first thing they saw andbam. It’s what we call a crime of passion. Which means anyone could have done it. The weapon of choice, a four iron from what appears to be Kara’s golf bag, was something anyone could have grabbed and swung with enough force to kill a person. You don’t have to be male or even especially strong to do the damage that was done, because the golf club did all the work.
Just then, I hear the phone vibrate in my pocket. Leaning back, I slide the phone out and see it’s Quinn calling. I knew it was just a matter of time. I’ve been dreading this.
“Hello?” I answer with as much calm as I can muster.
“Oh my God, Gage. What’s going on there? You arrested Tayler? For murder?” The last word came out as a loud sort of screech. “How could you? She’d never kill anyone. Trust me.”
“Quinn—”
But she doesn’t let me speak. “She’d never kill anyone.Ever. She’s so happy. She and Luke finally figured their stuff out. She wouldn’t jeopardize that.”
“Quinn, listen—”
“You’ve got to find who really killed her, Gage.”
“Quinn—”
“How’d she die, anyway?”
Finally! “Blunt force trauma.”
“Huh?”
“She was hit over the head.”
“Tayler couldn’t hit anyone hard enough to kill them. She’s a wimp. She’s got no upper body strength.”
I want to laugh. I really do. But this is serious.
“The weapon appears to have been a golf club.” I shouldn’t be saying anything to Quinn. They haven’t released anything to the press. If it gets around that I’m telling people, especially the suspect’s best friend, about the crime scene, I’d be reprimanded.
“Well, there you go. I know it wasn’t her. Taylerhatesgolf.”
That’s it. I can’t help it. I laugh. Which makes the other person on the phone grow silent. It’s then I hear what sounds like sniffles. Quinn’s crying.
Shit.“Quinn, I didn’t mean to laugh.”
More sniffles.
“Quinn?”
“She’s my best friend, Gage. This is serious. She’s in jail!” she wails. Between sobbing and deep breaths, she adds, “She didn’t kill her. I know it. Can’t you do something? Can’t you investigate more? Because I promise you, Gage. Tayler. Didn’t. Do it.”
“It doesn’t work like that. The detective in charge….” Is an asshole who thinks he’s the best of the best, but the few times I’ve worked with him, I haven’t been impressed.
“Please, Gage.” Her voice sounds so sad and desperate. “I’m worried about her.”
“Gage, mate.” I can’t help noticing Quinn’s voice has gotten deeper and British.
I’d love to tell you that I liked Quinn’s boyfriend, Cooke Thompson, famous rugby star, but that’d be a lie. I tolerate him for her sake. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a decent guy, but I had hopes for Quinn and me.
Shaking my head, I finally speak. “Hey, Cooke.”
“Listen, mate, Quinn’s bloody beside herself, and I can’t do shite here to help her. We’re getting on a flight day after tomorrow, but until then, can you please do whatever you can to find the real killer? You know she didn’t do it, mate.”
Mate?We’re not mates.
