Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [96]
Pat pat pat.
Finally, when he could not take one more second of weeping and could pat no longer, he took her gently by the shoulders and said, “Dolores, you’re gonna make yourself sick. Now, I understand that you and Connie were close friends. But the last thing she would have wanted is for you to make yourself sick over her dying. It’s time to get a grip, Dee. You gotta get a grip.”
She nodded. Of course Vinnie was right. She rested her head against his shoulder. “You think they’ll catch him?”
“Catch who?” He was looking over the wild mass of blond hair piled on top of her head to the TV where the highlights from last weekend’s NFL games were being played.
“The bastard who shot Connie.” She pushed him away. “Who the hell do you think I’m talking about?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to catch the score of the Jets game.
“Oh, so am I. I shouldn’t take it out on you.” She sighed, then started to cry again. “But it’s just so terrible. . . .”
Vince rolled his eyes to the heavens. “Well, Connie was a nice girl and all. And I know she was your best friend and your partner. But I’ll tell you what I think would be really terrible.” He lowered his voice, searching for his sincere tone. “What would’ve been really terrible is if it hadda been you. Think about it, Dolores. Remember how you were gonna close instead of Connie? You would have, too, if we hadn’t gone out to dinner.”
“Oh, my God, Vinnie, that’s right. Oh, my God. It coulda been me.” She looked up into his eyes and whispered solemnly, “She died for me. Connie, my best friend, died for me.”
Vince flinched. Let the wailing begin. As the level of weeping rose louder and louder, he squeezed his eyes closed, wishing he could close his ears just as easily. Something told him this was going to be a long night.
Pat pat pat.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Sean’s cell phone was ringing in the pocket of his jacket, which at that moment was hanging on the back of his office door. By the time he got to it, the ringing had stopped, and the message 1 missed call displayed a few seconds later. He viewed the number of the missed call, but did not recognize it, though it was a local area code. He hit the automatic dial button and waited to see who would answer.
“Mercer here,” he said when the call was picked up but the voice was only vaguely familiar. “I’m returning a call to this number.”
“Sean, it’s Evan Crosby. I was just checking in to see how my sister is doing, see what’s going on. She told me about the attack . . .” Evan paused. “How is she?”
“Amanda’s fine. She’s at her shop—and before you ask, yes, someone is with her. We’ve had a watch on her house, but no movement. And the investigation is pretty much at a standstill. No leads, no suspects. If anything, the water just keeps getting muddier.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got a call earlier from the chief of police in a neighboring town. A hairdresser was shot and killed in her shop on Saturday night, the cash register emptied.”
“So? Your two killings were not robberies.”
“The hairdresser was killed with the same gun that killed Derek.”
“Any connection to Derek or Marian? Or Amanda?”
“Nothing that we can find. The Carleton P.D. interviewed the woman’s business partner and according to her, the murdered hairdresser not only did not buy antiques, she didn’t like what she called ‘old stuff.’ The business partner didn’t even recall her going in to Broeder for much of anything. No cause to, she says.”
“And Amanda doesn’t know her?”
“Never heard of her, and never had her hair done by either of these women.”
“So maybe it was just a quick robbery. Maybe he’s on the move and he needed some cash. Saw the shop . . . Was the woman in there alone?”
“Yes. It happened close to nine-thirty. She’d had a late appointment and was closing up the shop.”
“So maybe he was passing by, saw the lights on, figured a quick in and out . . .”
“Maybe. Maybe. But it’s the damnedest thing. We know it’s the same guy, but there’s no prints anywhere, nothing to tie them together, except the gun.”
“Maybe he sold the gun—or tossed it