Cold-Blooded Liar (The San Diego Case Files Book 1)
Cold-Blooded Liar: Chapter 6

Oh my God.” Ann Reeves put a hand to her throat as Sam finished the tale of his overnight adventure. “They arrested you?”

He and Joel had come straight to his parents’ apartment after picking up Siggy, and now the four of them were gathered around the dining room table, surrounded by remnants of their late lunch—leftover lasagna from the night before.

“And then they let me go,” Sam assured her. “It was just a misunderstanding. Everything is fine, Mom.”

“But your face.” His mother stared at the bruise darkening his cheek. “They hit you?”

“Not exactly,” Sam told her. “They were arresting me and I . . . well, I . . .” He drew a breath. “They grabbed my arms.”

“Oh,” his parents said together.

“You struggled,” his mother said quietly.

“I did. One of the detectives was maybe a little rougher than she needed to be.”

He wasn’t going to mention that the detective in question was six inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter than he was. That was humiliating.

Ann’s mouth tightened in fury. “We should sue them.”

“No,” Sam said quickly. “I did my duty. I just want to walk away.” With what’s left of my dignity intact.

Bill Reeves turned to Joel, who was consuming his second plate of lasagna.

“This won’t hurt his career?” Bill asked.

“No, sir,” Joel said. “The detectives dropped all charges and thanked him for aiding them in closing a case.” He gave Sam a sly look. “I think Detective McKittrick even liked him.”

Sam rolled his eyes, wishing he hadn’t told Joel about her smiling at him. As the adrenaline rush had faded, the more irritated he’d become. He’d liked and respected McKittrick before this. Now . . . Well, maybe he still respected her, but he didn’t like her anymore. “She gave me a dog biscuit for Siggy because they’d scared him.”

“And she smiled at him,” Joel told Sam’s dad in a conspiratorial whisper. “Detective McKittrick never smiles. Not even at me and I’m . . . well, I’m me.”

Ann laughed. “Yes, Joel, dear. You are you, and we’re grateful for you every day. Can I get you any more lasagna?”

It seemed his parents had taken Sam’s cue and let the subject drop and for that he was profoundly grateful.

“No, ma’am, but thank you for offering. My appetite is depressed.” Joel grimaced in distaste. “Seeing Laura does that to me.”

Bill scowled at the name. “Laura? Why did you see that—” He cut himself off before he could finish the sentence. His parents’ disgust for Laura Letterman knew no bounds.

Joel rolled his eyes. “Sam called her to represent him.”

Sam winced when both his parents turned to him, expressions sour. “She was the only defense attorney I knew offhand.”

His father stared. “Sam! I can’t believe you didn’t know another lawyer to call. Her, of all people.”

Sam gave Joel a look that promised retribution. Joel just grinned back at him. He instinctively knew all the buttons to push. That was probably one of the things that made him such a good prosecutor.

“I was in a panic, Dad. If I’d been in my right mind, I’d have just let them get me a public defender.”

Although Laura had been far more helpful than he’d anticipated, keeping him levelheaded. Still, it had been a relief to see her go when they’d finished at the police station.

“Or you could have called us,” Bill grumbled. “I don’t know any defense attorneys but I sure as hell would have found you a better one than that bi—”

“Bill,” Ann said sharply, interrupting him. “She’s an awful woman, but we will not stoop to calling her bad names.”

His mother rarely cursed and lectured Sam and his dad every time they did so.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Sam said. “I’d have never forgiven myself if this misunderstanding caused you to relapse from the stress.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. I’m staying on my new diet and everything. I didn’t even have any of that lasagna.”

“Because I wouldn’t let him,” Ann said archly.

Bill really was doing so much better on the new regimen. He’d accepted that his life had to change after his stroke, but he still loved to care for his family, so he continued making the meals they enjoyed.

“At least we know why you didn’t eat much last night,” Bill said. “I thought I’d added too much salt or something.”

“Nope. It’s as delicious as always.” Joel rose, holding his dirty dishes. “Now that you’ve fed me, I’m going home to sleep. I didn’t get much last night.”

Ann frowned. “I thought Sam didn’t call you until dawn.”

“It was five a.m.,” Joel corrected. “And I hadn’t slept before—” He stopped, looking embarrassed when Sam’s mom bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“I see,” she said. “Who was it this time? Do we know her?”

Joel’s reputation as a womanizer was well known. Sam wondered how much of that was Joel trying not to get hurt again. Laura’s betrayal had devastated Sam, but it had somehow been worse for Joel when she’d done the same to him.

It was, however, the shared experience that had brought them together. Joel was the best friend he’d ever had, so while Sam wasn’t grateful to Laura for cheating on him, he’d accepted it as one of those clouds with a silver lining.

Joel sighed. “Amber from the records department, and no, you don’t know her.”

“Well, if you ever replace the one, you bring her home to us,” Ann said. “We will treat her like a queen.”

“Translated,” Bill said, “Ann will skewer her with questions to make sure she’s good enough for you.”

Joel’s smile was shy. “Thank you, Ann. I appreciate that.”

Joel’s parents had died when he was in college and he’d missed having someone care about him like Sam’s parents did.

“I’ll take your dishes,” Bill said. “You go on home and sleep. We’ll make sure Sam and Siggy get home safely, too.”

“It’s three floors up, Dad,” Sam said dryly. “I think we can make it on our own.”

“We’re going with you,” Ann said in a tone that brooked no argument. “And if anyone stares or whispers, we will give them what for, believe you me.”

Oh, Sam believed it. Normally he bristled when they helicopter-parented. He was thirty-five years old, dammit. But today . . .

Today he’d let them do it.

They saw Joel off, another plate of lasagna in his hands, then set off for Sam’s apartment. Luckily there was no one either staring or whispering.

But his apartment . . .

“Fuck,” Sam murmured when they’d entered.

“I’d normally tell you to watch your language,” his mom said, “but . . . fuck.”

There was black powder on the walls and nearly all the surfaces, left over from whoever had dusted for fingerprints. Drawers were opened and his dishes sat in haphazard stacks on his kitchen counter.

His bedroom was in a similar state, the bedding torn off and the mattress up against a wall. The gauzy bottom of his box spring was gone, cut away to reveal the interior. His clothes were on the floor, the dresser drawers lying on top of them.

The contents of his closet were on the floor as well. It was going to cost a fortune to have his suits dry-cleaned.

Feeling like a zombie, he marched around the piles of clothing to the wooden box on top of his suits. Leaning over, he picked it up and lifted the lid. Then shuddered out a breath of relief.

“They’re still here,” he murmured to himself. His childhood treasures were intact—his track medals, the Boy Scout sashes covered with the merit badges he’d earned on his way to Eagle Scout.

He found his class ring and . . . hers. Marley’s. But he didn’t truly relax until he’d found the simple silver band beneath their senior prom photo. He’d given her a promise ring that night, and she’d cried when he’d slid it on her finger. They were going to get engaged when they were twenty-one. Her father had made him promise that he’d wait that long.

Sam had wanted her buried with the simple ring on her finger, but her parents had put it in his hand, closing his fist around it. Keep it, they’d said.

Remember her, they’d said.

As if he could ever forget. She’d been seventeen and the love of his young life. They’d been so sure that they’d have forever. But some things were not to be.

“All there?” Sam’s father asked gruffly.

“Yeah. The photo’s a little bent, but it’s all here.” He was surprised, honestly. He figured they’d have taken the box as evidence, given they’d thought he’d murdered a teenage girl.

Maybe it had been the photo of the two of them together, so very young, that had prompted CSU to leave the box behind. He might never know.

He certainly had no intention of asking Detective McKittrick, no matter how much she’d smiled at him. She’d thought him capable of murder.

She didn’t know you. She still doesn’t.

And she never would. Now that he’d come down from the euphoria of being released, he was shoving the events of the past twelve hours to the back of his mind.

Because that was so healthy. But he didn’t care. Not right now.

He tucked the box under his arm, backed out of his bedroom, and headed into the bathroom—where he found another mess. All the toiletries were in the sink, along with the over-the-counter medications he’d had in his medicine cabinet. On top of the pile was an unopened box of condoms that had been in the cabinet for four long years.

That wasn’t embarrassing at all. He turned from the sink and stopped cold. There was a crusty residue all over his bathroom wall. It covered the wall next to the shower and continued to the tiled wall of the shower itself.

“What is that?” his mother demanded, only her head sticking in through the door, the rest of her still out in the hall.

“Luminol,” Sam realized.

They’d sprayed his walls with luminol. Looking for blood. Because they thought he’d killed someone. Or several someones, from what McKittrick had said.

“Oh my,” his father said faintly from behind him. “This is . . . wow.”

His mother took Sam’s arm, gently pulling him from the bathroom. “You can’t stay here, honey. Get a change of clothes and bring them back down to our place. I’ll get some food for Siggy. You can stay in our guest room until this is cleaned up.”

“It’ll take me days,” he mumbled, numb.

“No, it’ll take a crime scene cleaning service days,” his mother said, leading him down the hall to his living room. “Bill, take him and Siggy back to our place. I’ll make some calls.”

Sam had the presence of mind to be surprised. “Mom, how do you know about crime scene cleaning services?”

She sniffed. “From TV.”

“True-crime shows,” his father said mournfully. “She’s gotten addicted to them.”

Sam couldn’t help it. He laughed and laughed and laughed until his eyes leaked tears. In his mind, he knew this was normal—a release of endorphins after a traumatic experience. So he let it all out, laughing until his gut hurt. When he finally caught his breath, he found himself sitting on his sofa, his parents hovering, their expressions worried.

He wiped at his eyes. “Sorry. I guess I have some sh—stuff to work out.”

Ann raised a brow. “Nice save, son. Now go. You’ve been up all night. Get some rest and we’ll figure all of this out.”

“I have to have a suit for Monday.”

“I’ll grab one and call the dry cleaner’s for pickup,” she promised. “Go, Sam. Sleep.”

Heaving a sigh, he lurched to his feet feeling like he was walking through molasses. “Thanks, Mom.”

Standing up on her toes, she kissed his cheek, then swiped gently with her thumb to remove her lipstick. It was such a familiar, sweet gesture that his eyes stung again.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered.

“So am I,” she whispered back.

Blinking hard against a sudden wall of fatigue, he leashed Siggy and followed his father downstairs.

SDPD, San Diego, California

Saturday, April 9, 8:30 p.m.

Kit tugged on her uniform cuffs as she hurried down the hall toward the bullpen. She hadn’t worn her uniform in a long time, but it was clean, so that was a bonus. She caught up with Baz, who was opening the door to Homicide.

“What’s going on?” she asked, because Navarro had only told her to come in right away and to wear her uniform.

“I’m assuming some sort of statement from the captain since we’re in uniform. Navarro didn’t say.”

There were several detectives in the office, none wearing uniforms. All of them looked up when Baz and Kit entered. After a split second of silence, Howard Cook started to clap. The others joined in and Kit knew the story had broken somehow.

“Jig’s up,” she murmured to Baz.

“Did you really think we could keep something like catching Driscoll quiet until the autopsy came back? It was bound to get out.” Baz gave their colleagues a dramatic bow, drawing chuckles and snorts. “Thank you, thank you.”

Connor Robinson poked Howard in the shoulder—harder than he’d needed to if Howard’s wince was any indication. Howard was one of their oldest detectives, nearing retirement, and his partner was big, brawny, and brusque. Kit didn’t think Connor even realized he was being so rough. “Howard’s just happy you closed a case so we can have cupcakes.”

Because that was how they rolled here in Homicide. Solved murders got cupcakes, and it was Howard’s turn to hit the bakery.

Howard shrugged. “It’s true. But congrats, guys. This is a big one. Huge.”

It felt awkward, accepting congratulations when she was still unsure, but for Baz’s sake, she smiled. “Thanks, guys,” she said, then turned to Navarro’s office.

He was at his desk, also wearing his uniform. A woman in a lab coat sat in the guest chair, her intricate braids an immediate giveaway. Dr. Alicia Batra was here. Hopefully that meant she had a cause of death for Colton Driscoll.

Navarro looked up from what he was reading when they came into his office. “Detectives.”

“Sir,” Kit said, then turned to Alicia. “What did you replace?”

“Death by asphyxiation,” Alicia said. “Ligature marks were consistent with the rope he was found hanging from. Shape, size, and placement were consistent with a hanging. The basic tox screen came back negative. Still waiting for the results of the other tests you asked for.”

Kit was . . . disappointed. She’d expected Alicia to replace something off in her exam. Something that would reinforce her gut feeling that the crime scene hadn’t been right.

“But Dr. Batra’s initial replaceings are enough to make a statement,” Navarro said.

“Why today?” Kit asked, her skin feeling too tight over her bones. “I thought we were going to wait for the full autopsy report.”

Navarro glared, but Kit didn’t think it was meant for them. “Tamsin Kavanaugh.”

“Oh no,” Baz groaned. “What did she do now?”

“Got a real scoop from Jaelyn Watts’s parents,” Navarro said bitterly. “She followed you to their house when you took them home from the morgue, Kit. Plus, she’d followed you two to Longview Park on Monday.”

“But we had that entire area cordoned off,” Baz protested.

Navarro shrugged. “She used a long-range telephoto lens to get photos of you at the grave site. Apparently, your reactions were enough to make her realize that this was bigger than an individual murder.”

“We didn’t tell the Wattses about the handcuffs,” Kit said. “Did she get a photo of those, too?”

“No, thankfully. But she knows that Jaelyn was a victim of a serial murderer.”

“That didn’t come from us,” Baz said fiercely.

“I know,” Navarro said. “But Kavanaugh’s not stupid and she’s apparently been keeping records on our homicides over the years. She showed me her notes when she came by two hours ago with her article, looking for my comment. She did her research and knows we have unsolved murders of girls in the same age group with similar physical characteristics. She’s already put together that there were five victims, but that we’ve only ID’d two—Ricki Emerson and Jaelyn Watts.”

“What doesn’t she know?” Kit asked, frustrated.

“She doesn’t know about Cecilia Sheppard and she doesn’t know about the handcuffs. She also doesn’t know that you’ve ID’d Miranda Crisp as one of the Jane Does. She does know that Driscoll died by suicide—she followed you from the precinct this morning. The neighbors saw him being taken out in a body bag, and apparently someone overheard a first responder mention a rope.”

Baz sighed. “What a mess.”

“No argument from me,” Navarro agreed. “She has this story ready to go on the front page of tomorrow’s paper. Sunday edition, above the fold. She said it’s going up on their website within the hour and asked for SDPD’s comment. So we had to decide if we’ll get ahead of this or not.”

“And Dr. Batra’s autopsy replaceings give you the information you need to do that,” Kit said heavily. “Dammit. We needed more time.”

“Sometimes you don’t get more time,” Navarro said, but not unkindly. “Sometimes we can dot our i’s, but we don’t get to cross our t’s. It’s a balance, but if we let this story run tomorrow on its own, it makes us look like we’re hiding something.”

Kit blew out a breath. “I get it. Does she know about Dr. Reeves?” Please say no. That would be a nightmare for the man with the sincere green eyes.

Navarro shook his head. “I don’t think so. She didn’t say anything about him, and I think she would have.”

Relief hit her harder than it should have. But the man had risked his career to help people he’d never met. “Good. What do you need from us?”

Navarro shook his head. “Nothing except to stand next to me while I read a statement prepared by the captain’s office.”

“Do you need me to be there?” Dr. Batra asked.

“Not at this time,” Navarro said. “You’ve done your part, and we thank you for making it a priority. Just prepare your office for the follow-up calls.”

“Will you leave Dr. Reeves out of it entirely?” Kit asked.

“Entirely. We won’t put his career in any more jeopardy.”

Kit nodded once. “When do we do this thing?”

Navarro checked his watch. “Now. Let’s go. Thanks again, Dr. Batra.”

“No problem. I’ll have my official report ready as soon as possible. I still have some tests out to be run.”

Kit gave Alicia’s arm a pat. “Talk to you soon.”

“Counting on it,” Alicia said wryly. “Don’t scowl at the camera.”

“That’s her normal face,” Baz said, ducking when Kit swatted at him.

But the three of them sobered as they headed to the conference room, the noise from the gathered media growing louder as they drew closer.

The noise quieted abruptly as they filed in, and Kit was surprised to see the mayor and the district attorney already waiting. The DA was Joel Haley’s boss. Kit didn’t know him well, but Joel respected him and she respected Joel.

Joel, who was Dr. Reeves’s best friend. Kit had to push the image of Reeves’s green eyes from her mind. He’d been telling the truth.

So at least her gut instincts had been right on that.

Kit caught Tamsin Kavanaugh’s eye as she climbed the steps to the platform. Tall and athletic, the reporter wore a satisfied smirk.

Kit wanted to knock it off her face. Representing the dead was hard enough. If she was constantly looking over her shoulder for the damn reporter, she’d never get anything done. And if she was always worrying about long-range telephoto lenses, she wouldn’t be able to do her job at all.

She shot the reporter a cold glare. Tamsin’s smirk faltered, but then returned, smarmier than before.

Kit followed Baz to stand on Navarro’s left. The mayor and the DA stood on his right. Navarro read his statement, which covered Driscoll’s suicide and his role in the deaths of “several local women.” He credited Kit and Baz with the closure of the homicides, which set off a flurry of camera flashes, making Kit’s head pound. True to his word, Navarro did not mention Sam Reeves.

As expected, the first question was “How many women?”

“Our investigation is ongoing,” Navarro stated. “We’ll be able to provide more information after we’ve talked to the families of the victims.”

“How did you identify him?” another reporter asked.

“A confidential informant tipped us off,” Navarro said with no inflection whatsoever.

“Cause of death?” another reporter shouted.

“Manual asphyxiation,” Navarro replied. “We’ll be providing updates as we uncover new information. Thank you for your time.”

Then the mayor got up and said really nice things about the department and Kit and Baz in particular. Kit managed to stand straight and stoic, avoiding any of the reporters’ direct gazes.

Especially Tamsin’s. It would be just Kit’s luck to have her photo taken while sneering at the nosy bitch. Sure, it was Kavanaugh’s job to uncover news, but pouncing on a mourning family was beyond the pale. The Wattses had deserved privacy to grieve.

Finally, the torture was concluded and Kit and Baz were free to go. Baz squeezed her shoulder as they walked to their cars. “What do you want to do about Kavanaugh?” he asked. “We could have her pulled over every day for speeding.”

Kit chuckled. “Tempting. We’re just going to have to be more careful.”

“That’s a problem for tomorrow. I’m going back home to finish dinner with my wife. Navarro called when we’d just sat down to a roasted chicken.”

Kit’s stomach growled at the thought. “I went to Akiko’s for dinner. She smoked some salmon and we were going to eat like kings. I hope she saved me some.”

“She’s tiny. How much can she eat?”

“More than you and me put together. I don’t know where she puts it.”

Baz paused at his car, his expression serious. “You still having doubts about Driscoll?”

“I don’t know. My head isn’t clear right now. I’ll let you know on Monday.”

Baz smiled. “See you then.”

San Diego, California

Saturday, April 9, 8:45 p.m.

Sam was watching TV with his parents, Siggy lightly snoring on his lap. It was one of the true-crime shows to which his mother had become addicted. His father, too, despite Bill’s protests to the contrary.

Sam would rather be alone, but they seemed to need him close by. It wasn’t like his life had been in danger today, but after having a son who was such a Boy Scout—as Laura had so helpfully pointed out—having him arrested had been a shock.

Join the club.

He could still feel the bite of the handcuffs, the panic of having his arms restrained. The cold suspicion in McKittrick’s eyes. At first, at least. After she’d returned from replaceing Colton’s body, she’d been much warmer.

Colton’s body. Visualizing it hanging from a rope made Sam ill. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told McKittrick that he was surprised that Colton had killed himself. The man had seemed the type to run, to continue lying his way out of every situation.

And to continue killing young women.

Colton would never be able to do that again, and for that Sam was grateful.

“Sam?”

Sam blinked, focusing on his mother, who looked worried. “Sorry, Mom. What?”

She pointed to his phone. “You have a call.”

He dropped his gaze to the lamp table on which his cell phone buzzed. It was Joel. “Hey,” he said after hitting accept. “What’s up?”

“SDPD’s doing a press conference in a few minutes. They’re going to announce that Colton Driscoll was a killer and is now dead. Thought you might want to watch. It’s likely going to be on all the major affiliates.”

Sam’s gut twisted painfully. “Are they going to mention me?”

Bill muted the TV, he and Ann turning in unison to stare at Sam, the worry they’d been trying to hide now plain on their faces.

“No,” Joel said. “My boss is going to be there with Navarro—he’s McKittrick’s lieutenant. The mayor’s also going to be there, so it’ll be a big deal. They’re going to keep it short. They still have some open questions to answer.”

“Then why are they doing this now?”

“A reporter caught wind of the investigation and grilled one of the victims’ parents for information. They talked to her.”

“The parents of the girl found in the park?”

“Yeah. The reporter followed them home from the morgue after they’d ID’d their daughter’s body. She took advantage of their fragile state of mind.”

“That’s . . .” Sam searched for a word bad enough. “Evil.”

“It is. So SDPD had to get ahead of the coverage. My boss is texting me, so I have to go now. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Thanks.” Sam ended the call and exhaled. “Dad, can you change the channel to the news? Any of the major ones will do.”

His father complied, his hand trembling slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing to do with me.” Hopefully. “But there’s going to be a press conference.”

Ann’s swallow was audible, her hold on Bill’s hand visibly tightening.

The TV screen showed a large conference room in which at least forty people sat in folding chairs. A lectern stood on a raised platform at the front of the room.

A minute later, a large man with gray hair entered the frame, followed by two familiar figures. “That’s Detective McKittrick,” Sam said, “and her partner, Constantine. The gray-haired guy is the lieutenant.”

Ann scowled. “That woman put her hands on you?”

“And her partner threatened Siggy?” Bill growled.

Sam loved his parents. “I think she was just doing her job. I think her partner is a jerk.” Who threatened to shoot a helpless dog? “That’s the mayor and Joel’s boss beside them. Turn it up, please.”

Together they listened to Lieutenant Navarro give his statement. Sam’s breath hitched in his chest when the man stated that several local girls had been victims.

“How many is several?” Ann asked sharply.

“Shh,” Bill hissed.

Sam held his breath when a reporter asked how they’d identified Colton Driscoll, then let it out when the lieutenant said they’d had a confidential informant.

He didn’t fool himself into thinking that was the end of it, though. That was a tidbit too juicy to ignore. The reporters would dig. That Sam had been hauled into the police station would soon be common knowledge. He’d have to call Vivian and begin whatever preemptive damage control was possible.

When the mayor and the DA finished speaking, the five people on the platform stepped down and filed out. McKittrick and Constantine hadn’t said a word, maintaining stony expressions throughout. It must be a cop thing.

“You’d think those two detectives would look happier,” Bill mused. “This is a big deal for them. They looked like they were marching to a firing squad.”

“I don’t think McKittrick cares for the limelight,” Sam said, remembering the video interview he’d watched. “I think that look is Constantine’s default face.”

“She looks . . . small,” Ann observed. “How ever did she knock you down?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Oh, hush.” She met his eyes. “I’m proud of you, Sammy. That man won’t be able to hurt anyone else.”

“He pretty much solved that problem on his own, by killing himself.” That bothered him, though. Not that the young women of San Diego were safer now, because that was huge. Not even that Colton had killed himself.

The timing bothered him. A lot. Why had Colton hanged himself this morning? Had he known the police were onto him? If he had known, how?

Did he revisit the park and see that the grave had been dug up?

Did he know that I was the one who reported him?

But Sam hadn’t given McKittrick Colton’s name until dawn. She’d said time of death was between three and seven a.m., so Colton had killed himself before Sam had given his name, or right about the same time.

My information had nothing to do with his decision. Unless Sam’s line of questioning during their session had caused him to fear being caught. And if that’s the case, did I even need to call the police?

“Sam?”

He looked up at his mother’s gentle tone. “Yeah?”

“Your father and I are proud of you, son. You did the right thing when it wasn’t the easy thing. It doesn’t matter that the bastard who killed several girls killed himself first. They would have arrested him and taken him off the street. Driscoll just saved them the trouble.”

“And the taxpayers the expense of keeping him in prison.” Bill frowned. “Don’t tell me that you feel sorry for him.”

“No. I really don’t. It’s just . . . this has been a lot to absorb.”

“I know.” Then her eyes narrowed speculatively. Sam never liked that expression. His mother was too good at reading him. “You seem to have forgiven the lady detective, though.”

“She was nice to Siggy.”

“She’s not bad looking,” Bill put in. “If you like women that can knock you down.”

Sam had to laugh. “Well, I don’t.”

Which was kind of a lie. He at least respected her ability to handle herself on the job. It meant that she’d be safer from real criminals with intent to harm her.

Nerdy psychologists who were no threat didn’t really count.

Ann was looking at her phone. “Her first name is Kit. Kit McKittrick. That name sounds familiar. Bill, didn’t I buy a doll with that name for your sister’s granddaughter?”

Sam laughed again, because he’d had the same thought. “That doll’s name is Kit Kittredge. One of the reporters mentioned it during an interview—asked her if she’d been named for the doll. She didn’t look amused.” He shrugged. “I read another article about her that said she’d grown up in the foster system. She was adopted by a couple named McKittrick. She served in the Coast Guard out of high school, earned her degree while serving, then joined SDPD and worked her way up.”

Ann turned her shrewd glance back at him. “You like her.”

His cheeks grew warm. “I respect her. She’s done good work, solving the murders of young women who would have been forgotten.”

She hmmed. “Like the ‘several’ that Navarro guy mentioned.”

“Exactly. When she got to my place last night, she thought I was involved in harming them. She was representing those young women. I mean, I didn’t like getting arrested, but once I was free, I understood her suspicion. Her priority was the victims. I didn’t know there were several, though. I thought there were only two.”

“And now there will be no more.” Bill stood up, signaling the end of the conversation, which was honestly a relief. “Who wants coffee?”

Ann raised her brows. “Decaf, dear.”

“Of course,” he said in a way that clearly indicated he hadn’t meant that at all. “Sam?”

“Sure. Thanks, Dad.” Sam gave Siggy a gentle stroke down his back. Hopefully they’d be back in his own apartment soon and this whole fiasco would only be a bad memory.