Eve saw two things simultaneously. He hadn’t been prepared to hear that name, and he was going to lie.
“What was your relationship with Larinda Mars?”
“I’m not sure I know who that is,” he began, looking relieved when O’Keefe came in.
“Sorry. Got a little hung up.” He dropped down on the opposite bench.
Eve considered booting him out, then decided to get the two for one.
“Larinda Mars,” Eve repeated. “Gossip reporter, Channel Seventy-Five. She was murdered yesterday. You might have heard about it.”
“I did,” O’Keefe said before Stamford could answer. “Something about her being attacked in a bar, or a restaurant?”
“That’s right. Why don’t each of you tell me where you were yesterday between six and seven P.M.”
“Excuse me?” O’Keefe said it with a quick laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Murder always strikes me as serious. You first.” She turned to Stamford. “Six to seven.”
“I’m going to contact Gretchen,” O’Keefe interrupted. “Wylee’s lawyer.”
“Go ahead. We can wait.”
“No. Just, no.” Wylee waved a hand in the air. “It’s simple. I was at my parents’ house. Or walking down there around six. I’d’ve been having a beer with my dad by around ten after. We ate about seven. No, wait—I was late. Mr. Aaron was out walking his dog, and he caught me. He’s a talker. I probably didn’t get to the house until about twenty after. I’m not sure exactly.”
“Mr. Aaron’s a neighbor?”
“Yeah, he lives two doors down from my dad.”
“All right. We’ll verify that. Mr. O’Keefe?”
“I was home at six. I work at home unless we’re going to an event or I have an outside meeting. I was home until about seven. I had a date, and I left to meet her about seven.”
“Her?”
O’Keefe blew out a breath, shot a glance at Stamford. “Gretchen Johannsen.”
“Gretchen? You and Gretch? This is news.”
Coloring a little, O’Keefe shrugged at Stamford’s grin. “We’re just sort of … testing the waters.”
“You’ve been swimming in the same pool since you were ten. Gretchen’s one of the old neighborhood gang,” Stamford continued, then stopped, lost the easy smile. “Sorry. It’s not important.”
“You never know what is,” Eve countered. “When did Ms. Mars first contact you?”
“I really don’t know who or what you’re talking about.”
Eve stared straight into his eyes. “Mr. Stamford—Wylee—I admire the way you field a ball like your glove has radar, and your power—and brains—with a bat. From my perspective you bring integrity to your game, so I’m going to give you just a little room. I’m going to assume you’re lying to me for the same reason you let Mars blackmail you.”
“You can’t—”
“Quiet,” she snapped at O’Keefe, “or the room gets a lot smaller. We have her electronics. We have your name among her list of victims. She made you a victim by exploiting something you’d pay to stop her from exposing. Maybe you got tired of paying, maybe she asked for too much, maybe you just snapped. Maybe you decided to kill instead of pay.”
“I was at my parents’.”
“A lot of people admire you. Some of them might kill for you. Like your old friend here. Or Je
d. Maybe Gretchen.”