“Special Agent Love. Or is it Mendez?”
His eyes are bloodshot, puffy skin puddled beneath them that speaks of a rough night of suffering.
“Mendez,” I say because this isn’t about my reputation among the ranks of law enforcement. This is about me helping him find out who killed his son. The result is what matters to him. “I thought we were meeting at the station tomorrow?”
“I couldn’t wait. I mean, what was that shit with the governor, inviting us to a meeting and cancelling it? He said you did that. We need answers. Now. Not later. Were you hiding from us? What do you know that we don’t know?!”
It’s all an emotional roar, one that doesn’t frustrate or upset me for any reason other than how much I understand, especially after what I learned from Kane. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking of all the things I thought I knew about my mother’s death. Murphy said he was investigating my father, and Lucas' father was going to testify against him. If Murphy was my mother’s stalker, I’m blown away. If he’s a part of the Society, nothing I know is what I know, at all.
In which case, I have to wonder, if my rape and attempted murder didn’t make me go away, did the Society decide Murphy was the next best thing? Was he the beginning of an elaborate disinformation campaign to satisfy my need to unravel the mystery of my mother’s death and shut me up? Linking Murphy and my mother being critical to that plan. Throw a little Roger into the mix, a serial killer who was my mentor, and the pitch ended with a hook, line, and sinker effect.
But I haven’t crashed and burned yet. And they haven’t felt the wrath of my hatred yet.
Yet being the operative word.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Are you going to say anything?” Kellerman demands, snapping me out of my reverie on all things Murphy.
God, what am I doing? This man deserves my attention. I shake off my own personal drama and walk to the end of the table, pressing my hands to the back of a chair. “I didn’t hide from you. I invited you for a one-on-one tomorrow, and I did that because today, you were political fodder. That meeting should never have been on the table.”
“Why the hell not? We need answers. I don’t give two shits about political fodder.”
“Using you for a press event is not helping you. If one, just one, of the family members invited was involved in your son’s death, and somehow got tipped off on the investigation because of that meeting, we all lose. Then what?”
His lips part, and he turns toward the table and grips a chair, chin plummeting to his chest before he draws a breath and looks at me. “You think a family member was a part of this?”
“I literally flew in from my honeymoon yesterday and went straight to the newest crime scene. I stayed up most of the night, reviewing the cases that were thought to be connected, including Grayson’s and Natalie’s files. Yes, I know their names. They matter to me. Now, in answer to your question, do I think a family member of a victim could be involved? I don’t know yet, but those close to us are always the best and worst. And even if one of the direct family members is not involved, one wrong word to someone close, someone who might be involved, could slow things down.”
His chin lowers to his chest again, and seconds tick by before he looks at me. “Tomorrow, then?”
“No. You’re here. I’m here. Why don’t we sit down and chat?”
“Don’t you need a file, or paper, or something?”
“I’ll record our conversation if you’re okay with it.”
“If it catches whoever did this, do it.”
“Okay.” I pull the recorder I carry in my field bag out and sit down. He does the same.
“Ready?”
“Yes,” he says. “As ready I can be.”
I push play and state the date, time, and my name and title before motioning to Mr. Kellerman. “Can you state your name, the date, and your address please?”
He does as I ask. I move on then to basic questions. “How did you find out what happened to your son?”
“I was in the Hamptons showing a property. I flew out early that morning. The NYPD called me.”
“Who?”
“Rollins. Detective Rollins. I collapsed in front of a client. I lost all semblance of macho. EMS came and gave me drugs.”
“Where were you the night your son died?”
He laughs bitterly. “I know you have to ask that, but it bites. I was with a woman. Kerri Morris” He dictates her phone number. “She has security cameras and so do I. We’ll both hand them over.”
“Thank you. Get them to Detective Rollins.” I move on. “And your wife? Is she in the picture?” Of course, I know she’s deceased, but I like to gauge responses.