“Yes, ma’am.”
We sat, not talking, spending the minutes catching up reading reports and files from the interagency investigation.When there were only two visitor cars left, we got out and spoke with the private security types who were trailing around the property. They were packing up gear and writing reports themselves, having been informed by their boss, P. Simon—Peter—that their services would no longer be needed. Which seemed a tad strange to me. Simon was there, in charge, sending his men away, staring out over the house and grounds. His body language seemed particularly angry, tense, and something else. Something odd, like, maybe possessive. I touched Occam’s arm and nodded toward Simon.
Occam made a rumbling noise in his chest, a catty sound of interest.
Inside, we spotted Justin in a formal dining room, talking to two Washington types, one younger, one older. The older, gray-headed man said, “Whenever you’re up to it, we’d like to begin substantive talks on the possibility of your taking over the office and then, next year, your run.”
“Your family name would be a strong bonus in any campaign,” the younger man said. “We know it isn’t something you had ever considered, and it’s far too soon, but the feelers we’ve put out suggest that the seat is yours if you want it. But don’t wait too long to decide. People forget too soon.”
Occam and I eased away, into the living room. He leaned down and put his mouth to my ear, murmuring, “Motive? Kill your brother—who isn’t really your brother—and your wife—who wasn’t human and maybe you just figured it out—and your brother’s wife—who might be offered the Senate seat—and take over his high-powered political position?”
I said softly, “Stretching a lot. Why kill them now? We don’t have an instigating event for that line of reasoning to fit the parameters of the crimes.”
Occam reared back and gave me a look that said he hadn’t expected me to talk cop-speak. Which was mildly insulting. I scowled at him and he grinned and shrugged. “Sorry, Nell, sugar.”
“We need to get a look at all the Tollivers’ wills. Double-check who might have seen a divorce lawyer. Go over the financials again.”
“I’ll text HQ,” he said, pulling out his cell and tapping with his thumbs.
The grieving Tolliver showed out his last two guests. We approached Justin, offered IDs, and shook hands. I could see Occam sniffing the man out—literally—and I held Justin’s hand a moment too long, feeling for the metallic, sour scent and feel of blue blood, now that I knew what it felt like.
Justin Tolliver felt human. I could tell from Occam’s body language that he still smelled human too, maybe more human, now that his salamander wife was no longer in the picture, sharing her scent with him. We offered condolences, asked the proper grief-talk questions, and said the appropriate small-talk things. Then Occam asked if we could talk to Devin.
“I’d rather not,” Justin said. “The children are all in bed. Devin’s a little boy and he’s been through some horrible things.” He looked at us more closely. “May I ask why PsyLED wants to talk to him?”
Occam lied smoothly, his Texas accent stronger than usual, as if he deliberately brought it out to put people at ease, the way I sometimes did with my church-speak. “Our boss at PsyLED feels there might be a paranormal angle to the method of his parents’ deaths and we want to see if he remembers anything new about his aunt’s death. Witnesses, especially children, tend to recall things later, after traumatic events.”
Justin’s eyes went bigger. “I thought that was a gas tank explosion or something mechanical. You mean it was a magic? Why didn’t someone tell me?”
I said, “The car is still in forensics, Mr. Tolliver. Our greatest concern is to catch the killer and to protect little Devin.”
“Wait,” Justin said. “You think Devin is in danger too? At the recommendation of Peter Simon of ALT Security, I’m sending the crew home at midnight. He didn’t think we would need them again.”
“We’re not sure about anything,” I said. “We’re just covering all the bases.” I realized that I had just lied, withoutlying but with obfuscation and prevarication, speaking a truth but in such a way as to hide the real truth behind the words. In other words, I had lied. Lied well. I frowned.
Thomas Jefferson’s quote about the truth came to mind, as it often did when I was working. He had said,He who permits himself to tell a lie once, finds it much easier to do it a second and third time, till at length it becomes habitual; he tells lies without attending to it, and truths without the world’s believing him. This falsehood of the tongue leads to that of the heart, and in time depraves all its good dispositions.Last time I thought about that quote it had been in regard to Rick LaFleur. Now it applied to me. Lying was a slippery slope and I was sliding down that slope into hell mighty fast.
“It’s against my better judgment, but I’ll get Devin. Please have a seat.” Justin indicated the matching sofas in the living room to the left, and then stopped, the cessation of movement jerky. Without turning to us, he said, “I shouldn’t be here, letting guests into my brother’s house. He should be here. Sonya and Clarisse should be here. This is... a nightmare.” His shoulders hunched and he left the room quickly, his leather shoe soles slapping across wood floors and up a set of stairs.
Occam said, “My nose says he was speaking the truth every time he spoke.”
My frown got darker. “Speaking the truth is sometimes still a lie.”
Occam looked puzzled and then slightly insulted.
“I was talking about me, not you,” I said.
“Even worse, Nell, sugar.” But he entered the living room through a wide, cased opening and sat on one of the sofas to wait. I took the seat across from him.
“You got Pea?” I asked.
A green and black nose poked out of Occam’s jacket pocket. Pea chittered and vanished into the pocket.
“More like the grindylow’s got me,” Occam said, disgusted. “So. Tell me what kind of food you like best.”
I frowned at him.
“It’s called small talk, Nell, sugar. The kind people use when they’re trying to get to know each other.”
