I could have pointed out the logical inconsistencies in that. Sometimes, though, it's clear you aren't dealing with a logical person. Or even a particularly bright one. So I let her rant and nudged Gabriel to silence when he seemed ready to jump in.
"She can speak to Mr. Walsh alone, then," I said when she paused for breath.
"How's that supposed to help? It still dredges up . . ." She continued talking.
I counted to three, then cut in with, "Gabriel? I'm going to let you handle this. I don't want to cause trouble. I'll wait in the car."
As soon as I started down the stoop steps, he eased over, blocking Mrs. Seale's view of me before resuming his requests to speak to Imogen.
I made certain the old woman's attention was on Gabriel. Then I scooted between the house and a neighboring apartment. Ahead, a shadow scurried behind that next-door building. Imogen, making her escape. I jogged along the wall until I could peek around it.
A middle-aged, painfully thin woman with badly bleached hair stood midway between the apartment and the adjacent parking garage. Her gaze darted about, dark eyes too big for her gaunt face. She reminded me of a bird. Not a raven or an owl, but an undernourished sparrow that's had one too many run-ins with the big guys. She was breathing hard, fluttering in place as she watched for trouble.
I evaluated my position. Five feet from a window in the Seale house. Ten from the back door. In other words, too close to where I could be spotted by a pissed-off momma bird. But Imogen just stood there, catching her breath after the short dash and watching her house, as if expecting us to come after her.
I picked up a fist-sized rock and sent it rolling her way. Hardly a sign of descending enemies, but Imogen was skittish enough to flee. I followed. Again she didn't go far, stopping in the mouth of the parking garage.
I texted instructions to Gabriel. Then I settled in to wait. A few times Imogen peeked from her shadowy spot, as if contemplating a return to the nest, only to decide it was too soon.
When I got a text from Gabriel, I set out. I made it halfway to the garage before Imogen did one of her peek-checks. She saw me and retreated fast. I heard a shriek, and I burst into the garage as she was wheeling to run back out, a large shadow blocking her other escape options.
I lifted my hands. "We just want to speak to you."
"I don't have anything to say." Her voice was girlish. Everything about her was, now that I closed in and got a better look. A pink blouse, white jeans, bare feet with hot-pink nails. She even had pink barrettes in her hair. Cute on a seventeen-year-old. Sad at forty-three.
"Your mother says you're having a rough time," I said. "With me popping up in the news. Bringing back memories, is it?"
Her sharp chin bobbed.
"Memories or guilt?" I asked.
"Wh-what?" Then she glanced quickly at Gabriel, her look pleading. A woman accustomed to turning to men. When Gabriel only stood there, silent and impassive, she inched toward him and directed her answer his way. "I don't have anything to feel guilty for," she said.
"No?" I stepped toward her. "That's not what I've heard."
She flinched.
I continued. "Marty knew the first victims: Amanda and Ken. Their connection is very intriguing. One that would be of great interest to others. The police, the press, my parents . . ."
>
She dove to the side. I had no idea where she thought she was going. We were in an enclosed parking garage. Cars lined either side of the narrow lane. One exit was behind me, another behind Gabriel. But she chose to race sideways, smacking into the rear bumper of a pickup. Then she dropped and scuttled under it.
I looked at Gabriel. He shook his head and took up position on the other side of the truck. It didn't seem as if she planned to escape that way--or any way at all. She was just hiding.
"All right," I said. "I take it that means you'd rather speak to the police."
"I'm not talking to anyone," her breathy voice whispered.
"I don't think you'll have much choice in that. It's a murder investigation. You did hear that it's reopened, didn't you? I proved my parents didn't kill Jan Gunderson and Peter Evans. All the murders are being reexamined. As soon as I tell the police about that very interesting link I found--"
"It was her fault."
I paused. "Amanda's?"
"No, Lisa. Marty's bitch wife. It was her fault. Her idea."
I glanced at Gabriel. He was thinking fast, his gaze gone distant, but no answer seemed to be forthcoming quickly enough.