Jake closed the book, flipped it over and read the author biography. It was brief, but told them she resided in Oregon.
So she was a local author. Coincidence?
Bagging the book, he passed it to one of the officers combing the crime scene and turned to Rebecca.
‘What do you reckon?’ he asked, keen to see if her thoughts were on the same track as his own.
She rubbed at her temples and closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering her thoughts. Jake suspected she was regretting her marathon drinking session.
‘Someone with a grudge against the author, perhaps, or a fan of the book? I doubt she is our killer.’
Probably not, but they were going to need to talk to her anyway because, killer or not, Amy Gallaty was somehow involved.
5
If there was one thing Amy loved, it was her friends.
The moment she had called her best pal, Heidi, and told her about the graffiti on her windshield, her friends had rallied round; and they were all now gathered in her apartment, Heidi pouring her wine, Gage making her laugh and Fran cooking her dinner.
Heidi was her oldest friend from college, while Fran and Gage she knew through work. As an only child who had lost her parents to an automobile accident when she was in her early twenties, Amy regarded them as her family.
Fran had brought tortillas and chicken and, using other ingredients in Amy’s refrigerator, was making up enchiladas in the kitchen, while Huckleberry sat patiently watching her, eyes pleading and tongue drooling. The smells were drifting through to the living room, reminding Amy she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was pretty hungry.
‘Next time you do a signing, I think one of us should go with you,’ Gage suggested, glancing up at Heidi, who was pacing the balcony, cigarette in hand. ‘In case psycho bitch decides to show again.’
Heidi glanced up at Amy, a look of guilt on her face. ‘I’m sorry, honey, I should have been there.’
Amy set down her wine glass. ‘Heidi. We’ve been through this already. It’s not your fault. I
never asked anyone to go with me.’
Because you didn’t think there would be a problem.
Truth be known, she was rattled. She could’ve handled Nadine showing up and kicking off, but the graffiti had been a step too far. It made it personal.
Maybe she should be flattered her characters meant so much to her fans.
Screw that. Nadine is a nutjob, pure and simple.
‘I still should have been there.’ Heidi was beating herself up. She’d had the day off and had gone shopping, not knowing her friend was going to need her.
Gage slipped his arm round Amy. ‘What’s happened has happened. Next time one of us will be there.’ He glanced over at Fran, flipping chicken in the frying pan. ‘How much longer until dinner? We’re starving over here.’
Fran glanced up and grinned, enjoying herself in Amy’s little open-plan kitchen, towel over her shoulder, generous glass of Chablis in her free hand.
‘Another fifteen minutes.’ She glanced at Huckleberry. ‘Behave yourself buddy and maybe you’ll get lucky.’
Huckleberry grinned, seeming to understand what Fran had said, then woofed loudly as the buzzer sounded.
Amy glanced round as the collie bolted for the door, wondering who it could be when her friends were with her. Getting up from the couch, she followed Huckleberry to the door, expecting to open it to a cold-caller and readying herself to tell them in the politest possible terms to get lost.
What she wasn’t expecting to find was the guy from the park standing on the other side, a pretty dark-haired woman beside him.
Huckleberry recognised him instantly and was on his hind legs, woofing his excitement.
The guy glanced at the dog, stroking his head, then back at Amy, his expression one of surprise, as he too recognised her.
‘You’re Amy Gallaty?’
‘Yes… why?’
‘You know each other?’ This was from the woman standing beside him, who was looking equally surprised and curious.
Girlfriend? Wife?
‘Not exactly,’ he muttered. Amy got the feeling he wasn’t too impressed to see her.
‘We ran into each other in the park last night,’ she elaborated to the woman. ‘My dog got off his leash, knocked him on his ass.’
‘Really?’ This had the dark-haired woman smiling.
‘Because you couldn’t control him,’ the man added, pointedly.
Was this why they were here – because of Huckleberry? Was the guy after compensation for new pants and a sore butt cheek?
‘So what do you want?’ she asked, cutting to the chase. ‘You’ve come here to give me some more tips on dog walking?’ He had looked surprised to see her, so maybe it wasn’t about Huckleberry. And both he and the woman were dressed in suits: official.
Amy’s eyes wandered down to his pants and her insides went cold as she recognised the bulge of the holster underneath his suit jacket. Noting the area to which her attention had gone and wrongly assuming she had been checking him out, he narrowed his eyes, looking unimpressed. Amy’s mind was in too much of a spin to correct him. The last time she’d had a visit from the police it had been to say her parents were dead.
‘I’m Detective Rebecca Angell,’ the woman told her. ‘This is Detective Jake Sullivan. We’d like to ask you a few questions if we may. Can we come inside?’
Amy felt sick. ‘Has there been an accident?’
Most of the people she cared about were here with her in her apartment. But Ryan was overseas. Had something happened to him?
‘Can we come in?’ Sullivan was looking at her, eyebrows raised questioningly.
‘Yeah, sure.’
She led them into the living room where three pairs of eyes glanced up, all settling on Detective Jake Sullivan with keen interest.
‘Cops,’ she told her friends, her heart thumping far too fast. Heidi rushed over to stand beside her.
‘Is this about the graffiti on her car?’
‘Graffiti?’ Angell asked.
‘Some jerk wrote on her windshield.’ This was from Gage, who was still sitting on the couch. Although he addressed Angell, his eyes were all over Sullivan. ‘We’re pretty sure we know who it is.’
Angell looked at Amy.
‘Do you have somewhere we can talk with you for a few minutes, alone?’ she asked quietly.
‘What’s this about?’ Heidi demanded.
‘It’s okay.’ Amy touched her friend’s arm. ‘They have a few questions.’ Then to Angell and Sullivan, ‘We can go out on the balcony.’
She led the way, uncomfortably aware of the presence of both detectives behind her. The night was warm and a little humid; her fifth-floor balcony was closed in on three sides and overlooked the park where she had run into Detective Sullivan less than twenty-four hours ago.
Pulling the patio doors shut, leaving a distraught Huckleberry inside the apartment with her friends, she turned to face the detectives, arms crossed defensively.
‘So what can I help you with?’ she asked, insides knotting, wishing she had brought her glass of wine outside with her. A few sips would have calmed her nerves.
‘We need to ask you a few questions about one of your books,’ Sullivan told her. He had a slight southern lilt she hadn’t noticed before. Not a native Oregonian.