Page 87 of Armed ’N’ Ready

“Portia Laird,” Eric said.

Nick searched his memory. Nada. He’d been expecting Brian Argyle, possibly Meera Devine, or even Joe Myer, if the sonofabitch had lied to them. So, who is Portia Laird?

“As soon as the Portree cop heard the name,” Eric continued, “he called me directly. Everyone in Portree knows the name. Ten years ago, Portia Laird was investigated for murdering her husband.”

Eric paused, giving Nick a moment to absorb this information, and his heart began beating faster. “What was her husband’s name?”

“Andrew Laird. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No. What were the circumstances of his death?”

“Portia and Andrew Laird were on a hunting trip on the Isle of Skye. Andrew Laird was shot in the back. Portia said she heard the shot but didn’t see anyone. Problem was, there were no other documented hunters in that area, and the local police never found any evidence. Not even another weapon.”

“Did they compare the weapon Portia was carrying to the one that killed her husband?”

“The bullet didn’t match her gun or her husband’s, but they were sure they had their man. Er, woman.”

“Why were they so sure?”

“Several reasons. Portia had never gone on a hunting trip with her husband before, but she was the one who suggested it. Laird had been previously married, and his children hated Portia. What his children didn’t know is that Laird had just changed his will. Portia stood to inherit everything, even though it wasn’t an enormous estate.”

“They think she killed him for the inheritance.”

“You got it.”

Nick’s shit meter swung into the red zone. “Can they send us a photo of Portia Laird?”

“Since she was never arrested and never charged, the police don’t have her photo or prints on file. They’re trying to dig up her old UK driving license photo.”

“Wouldn’t the shooting have made the news? Is there a photo of her in one of the local papers?”

“I already checked,” Eric said. “It’s not only been ten years, but apparently Portia Laird did a good job of staying out of the limelight after her husband’s death. Someone up there will find a photo sooner or later, and they’ll send it to me when they do.”

“Good work.” He tried to disguise the disappointment in his voice. He really needed that picture. “What about the bank? Did they say when Portia was there last? They might have video.” Then again, if Portree was that much in the Scottish sticks, he wondered if the banks even maintained cameras.

“Negative video. It’s been two years since she was physically in that branch accessing her safe deposit box, and the bank video turns over every thirty days.”

He wasn’t surprised to hear that. Most banks didn’t maintain footage forever. At least they knew she had a bank box, and they could include that in their MLAT request.

Some things about Portia Laird still bugged him, not the least of which was that she’d been investigated for murdering her husband. “Can the Portree cop or anyone in the bank give us a description of the woman?” he asked.

“The cop said she’s kinda plain. Average height, brown hair, brown eyes. The bank tellers said the same thing. Aside from her being a suspected murderer, the only other thing people remember about her is her dog.”

Her dog?

Nick pushed from the wall. Every one of his senses went on high alert. Through the opening into the conference room, Saxon lifted his head, watching Nick intently.

“What about her dog?” His voice was low and controlled, but inside he was wound tighter than a rubber band.

“Big thing, with thick wavy gray hair covering its eyes, cropped tail. Sounds a lot like a—”

“—Bouvier,” they both said at the same time.

His heart began beating wildly. “Saxon! Cox!” he shouted, already taking off down the hall. “Eric,” he yelled into the phone, “get in here and call for backup! Conference Room C. Third floor. It’s Meera! The bitch has been playing us the whole time.”

“Already on my way,” Eric said. “Backup’s in tow.”

He jammed the phone into his pocket and tore down the hall. Behind him, Saxon’s claws scrabbled on the floor as he caught up. His partner didn’t need to know what was up. Saxon knew from Nick’s body language that it was bad.