“Targeting a loved one? We’ve seen that before.”
“I guess,” he said, “but ten years ago feels like ancient history to me, Alex. Sure, call your friend. Please. Thank you.”
He salaamed. I laughed.
“Meanwhile,” he said, “my first priority is talking to Sophie’s girlfriends.” He frowned. “Kind of thing I shoulda done right at the beginning.”
I said, “If you feel like beating yourself up, I can’t stop you. But the truth is you didn’t screw up, you got had, just like Heck did.”
He stared at me. “What was that, tough love?”
“Talking truth to power.”
His lips began spreading in a smile. That died when his cell squawked atrocious Mahler.
“Hi again, kid…what? You’re kidding. That’s insane. Oh yeah, definitely.”
He clicked off and strode to the Impala’s driver’s door. “Alicia just found more money at Martha’s place. Not like before, this was a paperbag hidden behind stacks ofNational Geographicand stuffed with a hundred hundreds.”
“Serious stash.”
“And there are still plenty of places left to search in that dump so maybe it’ll come down to burglary.”
“Burglary plus disarticulation?”
“Okay, someone who knew she had dough and hated her for whatever psychy reason. A crazy daughter would fit that nicely, right? And the fact that Lynne Matthias can’t be found makes her look dirty. I’m heading over there now. Want to see it for yourself?”
“Sure.”
He walked to the rear of the Impala, popped the trunk, and produced a heavy-duty plastic zip bag. Inside was a neatly folded, hooded white coverall along with paper booties and rubber gloves.
“Here you go. Dress for success.”
Chapter
11
Martha Matthias’s house remained an active crime scene, the front door sealed by yellow tape. But a whole new mood had setin.
None of that first-call tension, no flashing lights, no flotilla of black-and-whites.
No uniformed presence at all.
Parked directly in front of the house and spanning its width was a massive, unmarked white van roomy enough to transport the contents of a McMansion. Rear doors propped open above a sloping metal ramp offered a view of a long, dim space. Nothing inside but flat-packs of unassembled cardboard boxes. Piles of them.
A couple of burly guys in blue coveralls stood on the sidewalk near the van’s cab, smoking and pretending to ignoreus.
Milo said, “Hey, guys.”
Dual nods. Bored. The badge flash didn’t change that.
He said, “You from the crime lab?”
The older man said, “Nah, we got a contract to bring stuff they can’t. This time they said we’d be taking boxes back but they didn’t say boxes of what.”
His partner looked at him. “It’s a crime scene, dude, what do you think, floral arrangements?”
He took a deep drag on a non-filter cigarette. “We been here three hours forty-two minutes. County wants to pay us to wait, bring it on.”
