What I did know, was that she had hired me to find out whether Nick was cheating. And I had told her, not once but several times, that I hadn’t seen any sign of it. I didn’t believe he had been. If she’d killed him, it hadn’t been over that.
Unless Mendoza was right, of course, and Jacquie had caught him on her own, with someone other than Megan. It hadn’t been last night, though. Last night he’d been with Sal at the Tin Roof, and Zachary would have seen any woman—or man—who joined them.
The Body Shop was on my way home, and I eyed it as I rolled past. Everything looked normal, like nothing was wrong. Business as usual. Two of the bay doors were open, with cars inside and mechanics working on them. The Open sign in the office window was lit. Maybe the police hadn’t gotten here yet.
A small part of me wanted to stop. I had spent so much time watching these people, and thinking about them, over the past few days, that it felt almost like we were close. And I’d known Nick. I knew he was dead. Sal might not, and part of me felt like I should stop and tell him.
Then I imagined Mendoza’s face if I did, and if nobody—or at least nobody official—got to see Sal’s face when he heard the news, and I pushed my need to be helpful down along with the gas pedal and cruised past.
A few minutes later I came upon the turn into Charlotte Park, and I hesitated.
There was no legitimate reason for me to drive by Megan’s place, I told myself. It didn’t matter whether she was home or not. If she’d ever slept with Nick, she wouldn’t do it again. And if she was involved in his death, the police would figure it out. I was off this case.
But on the other hand, what could it hurt to make a tiny detour? It was practically on my way home, or only a couple of minutes out of it. And there was the little boy, the one who might be Nick’s, or at least look like him.
Maybe that was why Jacquie had snapped. Not because she discovered that Nick was sleeping with anyone at all, but because he’d had a fling with Megan six or seven years ago, and now there was a child. For someone unhinged—and you had to be unhinged to shoot your boyfriend between the eyes—that might be enough to set someone off.
The street looked the same as it had this morning—quiet, residential, settled. A few residents had put their Christmas decorations out early, I saw: big, inflatable reindeer and snow globes on still-green lawns. On the other hand, there were those who hadn’t taken down the skeletons and bats yet, when Halloween was several weeks past. One old gentleman who was raking his leaves gave me a wave as I drove past, and I waved back. No reason to draw attention by being unfriendly.
The little brick house came into view up ahead, and I slowed to a barely-there crawl as I approached. Megan’s car was not in the driveway, nor were there any pumpkins or snowmen to be seen. Everything looked as still and abandoned as when I’d been here… God, was it only a couple of hours ago? Three?
I was just about to put my foot on the gas and pick up some speed when I noticed the car tucked away in the semi-darkness of the carport.
Not Megan’s Accord. Something taller and boxier.
A Jeep. A silver Jeep.
I stepped on the brake and came to a shuddering stop in front of the driveway. From there, I frowned up the slight incline at it, trying to convince myself that I had to be wrong and that there were plenty of silver Jeeps around. Just because I had seen a silver Jeep today, didn’t mean that this was that silver Jeep.
After all, I hadn’t—naturally I hadn’t—noticed the license plate, had I?
I was still staring, still trying to convince myself, when the door under the carport opened and Mendoza came out. As I watched, he jogged down the steps and headed for the car, moving with the kind of easy confidence that suggested he’d done this a thousand times before.
I stared at him as my mind churned.
Or more accurately, as my mind deliberated at the speed of a geriatric snail with broken limbs. Each thought felt like it was stuck in glue, and it took a small eternity for me to wrest it out and process it.
I had tailed Megan to this house yesterday.
There had been a little boy inside, who had run out to greet her.
Mendoza had organized for a babysitter last night, because he had to work at Sambuca and couldn’t spend the night with his son.
Elias was five, and while I had never met him, he had probably inherited Mendoza’s dark hair and olive skin.
Slow as it was, the conclusion was hard to escape. This was Mendoza’s house. The kid was Mendoza’s kid. And Megan was the babysitter.
While I’d been processing, the Jeep had started, and Mendoza was on his way down the driveway.
He didn’t get far. It was a short driveway, and I was blocking it, still staring at the Jeep with my mouth open and my eyes wide. He gave a polite little bip-bip of his horn, and I put my car in reverse and backed up a couple of feet, still speechless.
He rolled back until he could turn in the opposite direction. As he came up on the side of my car, he rolled down his window.
I did the same. At least I had managed to hike up my jaw by now. “Listen, Detective…”
“Hello, Mrs. Kelly,” he told me, pleasantly enough.
“If I had known that this was your house?—”
