“That, too.”
“Good,” Mendoza said. “Now sit down and wait for me. Don’t let anyone else go inside. Not even another cat. Do you understand?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Breathe, Mrs. Kelly. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
He hung up, and I collapsed into a heap on the stoop, next to the kitchen door I’d left open, and tried not to think about Nick Costanza lying dead in his bed with a bullet hole between his eyes.
* * *
It was more than fifteen minutes later, but not quite twenty, when Mendoza’s car—a silver Jeep this time, not the small gray sedan he uses on the job, nor the dark pickup truck I’d seen before—came around the corner and down the road where it pulled up behind the Lexus with a squeal of tires.
He was out of the driver’s seat before the engine had fully died, and around the front of the car before the slam of the door had finished reverberating. Gone was the easy-going waiter from last night, with his dimple and melting chocolate-brown eyes. This was Detective Mendoza, grim-faced and hard-eyed, and he looked every inch the part despite the civilian clothes.
“Are you all right?” He stopped in front of the stoop, looking down at me.
I nodded.
“Did you touch anything else? Besides what you already told me?”
I shook my head.
“Good.” He climbed the two steps and peered into the kitchen before flicking me a look. “Stay here. Don’t follow me in.”
“No problem.” There was no part of me that wanted another look at Nick. “To the left once you’re inside.”
Mendoza disappeared through the doorway, and I heard his sneakers squeak against the vinyl as he moved through the kitchen. It was silent after that, as he presumably entered the minuscule hallway and the bedroom. I stayed where I was, trying not to think about what he was looking at, and doing my best not to remember what Nick had looked like, lying there with that neat hole in his forehead.
I should probably call Zachary and Rachel, to let them know what was happening. They needed to know. But what good would it do to tell them anything right now? There was nothing they could do to help, and I certainly didn’t need Rachel to leave Daniel just to come hold my hand.
And as for Zach, he’d probably feel guilty. He’d been here last night, and had scampered off to McDonald’s as quickly as he could. He’d probably worry that whoever had shot Nick had been here when he arrived, and that if he’d stayed longer, there was something he could have done to stop it. I didn’t think there was, but I could understand why someone would think that.
No. Better to wait until I knew more.
A flash of orange and white caught my eye, and I looked up to see the tortoiseshell come trotting around the corner of the duplex again. Behind it came the elderly neighbor from earlier.
“Patches!” she called. “Come here, you naughty girl!”
The cat ignored her and continued toward me, weaving through my legs before sitting down at the base of the stoop to wash its face.
The cat’s owner came to a stop a few feet away, looking from me to the open door and back again. “That don’t look good.”
I shook my head. No, it wasn’t.
“I suppose you can’t tell me what happened, can you?”
I probably shouldn’t. Better to let Mendoza deal with it—and her.
“I’m Mrs. Miller,” she continued when I just shook my head again. “Coco Miller. I own this duplex. Nick’s been my tenant for, oh, five years now? Such a nice boy. Handsome, too.”
Yes, he was. Or had been.
“I’m Gina Beaufort Kelly,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “A private investigator? No kidding? Is Nick in some kind of trouble?”
Not any longer. But before I could blurt that out—or anything else—Mendoza emerged in the doorway. I shut my mouth again.
