Cold-Blooded Liar (The San Diego Case Files Book 1)
Cold-Blooded Liar: Chapter 8

Navarro leaned his head back, his eyes closed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Baz sat silently, rubbing his temples. He’d been so happy eating cake and celebrating their “win” that Kit had hated telling him what the ME had found. But he’d squared his shoulders and sat at her side when she’d delivered the news to Navarro.

“No, sir. Not kidding.” Her boss had reacted to the ME’s report exactly as she’d anticipated. “It doesn’t mean Driscoll’s not guilty of murder.”

“The fuck it doesn’t,” Navarro grumbled. “If there’s even the smallest chance that this was homicide instead of suicide, the confession he left behind isn’t worth the paper it was printed on.” Then he sighed. “Go ahead. Say it. You told me so. We should have waited.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, sir,” Kit said firmly.

One side of Navarro’s mouth lifted. “Smart.”

“Or maybe I just have a very well-developed sense of self-preservation.”

Navarro sighed again. “Or that. Fuck. Well, what are we going to do next?”

Kit exchanged a glance with Baz, startled to see him looking so . . . old. It was as if he’d aged ten years in the last ten minutes. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes closed. His cheeks were pale and he seemed defeated.

Kit hadn’t been in Homicide when any of the earlier victims had been discovered, but Baz had been around for all of them. Being unable to solve their murders for years had affected him as much as Wren’s murder had. Closing this case had rolled a weight off his shoulders. A weight that had now visibly returned.

But Baz straightened in his chair, drawing a breath. “We’re going to keep investigating. We’ll reexamine Driscoll’s house as the scene of his murder rather than only the home of a murderer.”

“I asked CSU to collect evidence as if it weren’t a suicide,” Kit added. “We’ll start with what they found. Although I want to repeat that Driscoll could still be our serial killer. He may have been killed for something entirely unrelated. He wasn’t well liked from what we understand.”

“You’re such a ray of sunshine,” Navarro muttered. “You really think he did it? That Driscoll killed five women? Maybe six?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “If he didn’t, then someone went to a lot of trouble to make us think he did. Batra said it wouldn’t have been categorically impossible for him to have climbed up on that stool to stick his head in a noose. Just very difficult.”

“Meaning the two to ten percent chance she gave.”

“Yes, sir. I think that the brand-new Top-Siders on his feet are more problematic if he was killed, because they would have been part of the setup.”

Navarro scowled. “Which means that someone knew you’d found that print at Jaelyn Watts’s grave in Longview Park.”

That had been worrying her since replaceing Driscoll’s body. “Best case, Driscoll is our serial and he killed himself, just like we thought. Next-best case, he was murdered but whoever killed him had nothing to do with the murders and was maybe mad at his lies. We’ll check out the neighbor he assaulted, see if this was a revenge tactic. Medium-best case, Driscoll is our serial and he had a partner who wanted to pin it all on him and/or keep him quiet. Worst case, Driscoll only knew about it, and the real killer is still out there.”

Navarro nodded wearily. “Is the shrink a suspect again?”

“No,” Kit said—too quickly if the look her boss shot her was any indication. Baz’s brows were also lifted. “The body was still warmish when we arrived at the scene,” she added, keeping her tone logical. Not emotional. “Batra put TOD between three and seven a.m. Dr. Reeves was in an interview room all that time. He couldn’t have killed Colton Driscoll.”

“But he could still be involved,” Baz countered.

No, Kit wanted to say again, because she didn’t want Reeves to be involved. But she forced herself to nod levelly. “It’s possible. We’ll check him out. But we’re going to dig into every aspect of Driscoll’s life. If he did kill those teenagers, we’ll replace the connection.”

“Then get to work and let me make some tough phone calls,” Navarro said, his gaze dropping to his phone, his dread palpable.

Kit glanced at Baz. She’d told him about the Maria Mendoza murder and he’d been supportive of reopening the case, but right now, he shook his head slightly.

“What?” Navarro barked. “What else?”

Kit hesitated, then exhaled. Better to get it all over with at once. “One more thing, sir. Not related to the Driscoll case.” She laid the Mendoza file on Navarro’s desk and told him about her conversations with Rita Mendoza yesterday and with Alicia Batra that afternoon.

Navarro’s lips thinned. “Seriously? Someone changed an official autopsy report?”

“Dr. Batra isn’t certain yet if it was a simple error or something more malicious, but she was sure that she hadn’t submitted the single photo in this file. She’s investigating. The victim was eight weeks pregnant, sir. That’s included in the autopsy report. They took tissue samples from the fetus but never had any suspect to compare DNA. It doesn’t appear that anyone even questioned her employer, and definitely no one asked him for a DNA sample. I’m hoping you’ll reopen the case. I know I can’t work on it because of my connection to the victim’s daughter, but . . . what if Maria Mendoza’s employer did kill her?”

Navarro stared at the file like it was a poisonous snake. “You realize that in the two years since this investigation, the employer in question has become a city councilman.”

Kit had to force herself not to wince. “Yeah. I saw that.”

Navarro pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll look into it. I may not reopen until Batra knows what happened to the damn autopsy report, but I will look into it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Navarro waved at the door. “Go.”

Kit didn’t dawdle, following Baz out the door. She slumped into the chair at her desk. “That was fun.” She looked into the windows of Navarro’s office. He was still staring at his phone. “I shouldn’t feel guilty. Why am I feeling guilty?”

Baz shrugged. “I’m not. That’s why they pay him the big bucks. What first?”

“Let’s go back to Driscoll’s house and look harder for pills. On the chance that he did dose himself with sleeping pills and hang himself, he had to have gotten the pills somewhere. Our lives will be so much simpler if he had a prescription for them.”

“But there was nothing in his medicine cabinet on Saturday.”

“Not even Tylenol,” Kit murmured. “That’s also been bothering me.”

“You mean that if someone helped him into the noose, they cleaned out his medicine cabinet.”

Yes. “Maybe. We also need to replace some connection between Driscoll and high school drama clubs. These young women crossed their killer’s path somewhere, and right now the drama angle is all we have. Knowing this, we can go back and talk to the victims’ families and friends. There has to be some commonality with how he lured them.”

“What about Dr. Reeves?”

Thinking about the man’s earnest green eyes, Kit shook her head. “I still don’t think he’s involved, but I’ll talk to him again.”

Baz frowned. “We’ll talk to him.”

“We can try. I think he’s going to be angry enough at us as it is. But you threatened to shoot his dog. I don’t think you’re on his favorites list.”

“I don’t care.” Baz shot her a pointed look. “You shouldn’t, either.”

“I don’t,” she insisted.

Except . . . she did care. A little.

Which was still too much.

Baz sighed. “Dammit, Kit.”

She didn’t want to meet his eyes. “Let’s just go.”

Mira Mesa, California

Monday, April 11, 6:30 p.m.

Kit met Baz in Colton Driscoll’s living room. “There’s nothing here.”

“I know. I mean, the normal stuff is here, but not a single personal item. No cell phone, no photos on the walls, no bills to be paid, no take-out menus or stuff in a junk drawer.”

“It’s like the house was staged by a real estate agent or something,” she murmured. She glanced up at the beam in the foyer. It was where Driscoll had looped his rope. “How did he get the rope up there? There’s no ladder in the garage and that beam’s too high for him to have reached it, even standing on the tallest chair in the house.”

“I suppose he could have tossed the rope up and over,” Baz said, but sounded doubtful. “The more we look at this place, the less likely it seems that Driscoll’s suicide was unaided.”

“I think whoever killed him wanted us to be happy that he was dead and not come back for a second look.”

“We wouldn’t have had cause to if you hadn’t thought to ask for the rapid half-life sedative check.”

Baz sounded pleased with her, and that was always an ego stroke. “It was the five victims, not six,” she said. “We didn’t know about the sixth victim until Friday evening, when Dr. Reeves called again and mentioned a lacrosse player. Whoever wrote that confession didn’t know that we knew.”

“Well, CSU found only Driscoll’s fingerprints on all of the cabinet doors, but his killer went to a lot of trouble. I’m sure he wore gloves. I’m assuming it’s a man. Driscoll was too heavy for most women to have dragged him up on a stool to put his head in a noose.”

Kit nodded. “I agree. CSU vacuumed all the carpets, so maybe the killer dropped a hair we can use. Were any hairs found on the first four victims? In their clothes?”

“No. DNA was a regular tool by the time we found the first victim. The most rapid tests still took twenty-four to forty-eight hours, but we would have definitely tested a hair if one had been found.”

Kit sighed. “I figured as much. I think we should talk to the neighbors again.”

“Which neighbor was assaulted by Driscoll?”

“David Epstein. He lives across the street. We didn’t talk to him on Saturday. He wasn’t home.”

“Fine. We’ll talk to him and the other neighbors, and then we’ll go have another chat with Dr. Reeves.” Baz held up his hand like a traffic cop. “To see if he can recall anything else Driscoll said that might help us.”

“You need to apologize for threatening his dog. He’ll be more likely to cooperate.”

Baz rolled his eyes. “I’ll stop at the store and bring his pooch a dog bone.”

“I have dog treats. No need to stop at a store. A simple apology might be enough, Baz.”

“Fine,” he huffed. “But that dog was snarling at you, Kit. I was worried.”

She smiled at him. “Tell him that. Come on, let’s talk to Mr. Epstein.”

They stopped on the front porch to tell the uniform on guard duty that they were finished for now. There had been a constant stream of gawkers driving down the street, and a few had even tried to sneak a souvenir from the house. The overgrown backyard was fenced in and SDPD had put a lock on the gate, but that wouldn’t keep out determined true-crime buffs.

The neighbors had kept to themselves, not engaging with the curious public. Hopefully they hadn’t engaged with any curious reporters, either, but Kit wasn’t too hopeful. She’d bet that at least one neighbor had given the media an earful.

Kit was petty enough to hope that Tamsin Kavanaugh had come up empty, though.

Baz knocked on the Epsteins’ front door and it was answered by a forty-something woman with a toddler on her hip. “If you’re reporters, go away,” she snapped.

Kit held out her badge. “SDPD Homicide, ma’am. I’m Detective McKittrick and this is my partner, Detective Constantine. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Colton Driscoll. Are you Gemma Epstein?”

The woman nodded, her eyes narrowing. “I am.”

“May we come in?” Baz asked. “We’d really like to avoid the media.”

“Like vultures,” Gemma muttered. “They’ve been bothering us all day long.” She opened the door wider. “I suppose we should just get this over with. David! Cops are here.”

A man came down the stairs slowly, his gait unsteady. His hair was buzzed, military-style. A framed photo on a side table showed a much younger Mr. Epstein in his navy uniform.

“I figured you’d be coming by sooner or later,” he said. “I’m David Epstein.”

Kit introduced them, then gestured to the living room. “Can we sit?”

“Please,” Gemma said, looking flustered. “Let me take care of the baby. Maureen!”

A teenage girl came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. Her gaze darted toward Kit and Baz and her eyes flickered wildly before she looked away. For a moment, Kit thought it was fear, but the girl had looked away too quickly for her to be sure. “You need me to take her, Mom?”

“If you would. Thank you, honey.” Gemma handed the baby over. “Put her in her high chair and give her some Cheerios. Nadine will be by soon to pick her up.” She sat on the sofa next to her husband, gesturing to a love seat. “Please, Detectives.”

Kit studied the family photos on the walls as she and Baz sat. “You have a lovely family. Two daughters?”

David nodded. “Yes, and one granddaughter. Our girls are Nadine and Maureen. I read the article in the paper. Said Driscoll liked small blond girls. Like mine.”

At least Tamsin Kavanaugh hadn’t known about the pink handcuffs.

“That had to have come as a shock,” Baz said quietly. “I have a daughter, and I can’t imagine having lived so close to a predator.”

“Yeah,” David said shortly. “I know I shouldn’t say it, but I’m so glad he killed himself. I don’t know how many girls make up the ‘several,’ but it was several too many.”

Kit nodded. “We agree. We’re trying to fill in the gaps. He obviously couldn’t be questioned and we have so many unanswered questions. Can you tell me about your interaction with him? We know he assaulted you.”

David nodded stiffly. “My jaw was wired shut until last week. At least I lost thirty pounds.” His attempt at a smile fell flat and his wife made a hurt noise.

“Driscoll was unhinged,” Gemma said. “He just attacked my David. For a moment, the people who were there just stared. We were all shocked. Then two of the neighbors pulled him off David, and Driscoll stomped off. We called 911 for David and figured the cops could go after Driscoll because none of us were willing to go near him.”

“Makes sense to me,” Kit said. “What happened next?”

Gemma shook her head as if still unable to believe it. “He got in his car and tried to run David over.”

“The two neighbors who’d come to help pulled me into the garage,” David added, “then Driscoll drove away. He got probation and therapy.” He spat the two words. “Fucking judges.”

“Did you see him again after that?” Baz asked.

“No,” David said. “He kept to himself. He lost his driver’s license, so he ended up taking the bus. Maureen used to take the local city bus to school. My wife’s been driving her there and picking her up. I’m glad, too. With as much as he hated me . . . Well, I’ve been horrified since last night, knowing he was even worse than we thought he was.”

“Again, that makes sense to me,” Kit said. “What caused him to lose his temper that day?”

“He’s a liar. Lies about everything. He claimed he was a Navy SEAL, for God’s sake. That man was no SEAL. He never served anyone or anything but himself.”

“Stolen valor,” Kit murmured. “I served, too. Coast Guard. People who lie about service make me upset, too.”

“I didn’t attack him,” David said. “I just told him that he needed to knock off the lies or I’d report him. It’s a misdemeanor, you know.”

“He wouldn’t have gotten any time for it,” Mrs. Epstein said, her body rigid with rage. “Just like he didn’t get any time for attacking my husband.”

Kit understood her rage. “Did you ever see him with any young women?”

David shook his head. “No sixteen-year-olds. Driscoll’s lived here for about ten years. Had two wives in that time—both just barely legal. He liked to come to our block parties and tell his stories. We’d try to time them for when he was on vacation, but he never went anywhere. It got to the point where we’d rotate responsibility for keeping him talking and away from everyone else. The last block party was my turn.”

“And when the fight broke out?” Baz asked.

“Wasn’t really a fight,” David said dryly. “I was injured in combat twenty years ago. I don’t have full use of my right hand and I still limp on that side. I didn’t swing back.”

Kit sighed. “What a nightmare for you all.”

David’s newly healed jaw tightened. “Would have been worse if he’d touched my girls. I asked them both and they both said he never did. I haven’t talked to many of the others on the block, but the few I did talk to say their daughters said the same.”

“Got it.” Kit glanced at Baz, and he nodded once. They’d gotten all they could from the parents. “Could we maybe talk to your daughter?” Because if that had been fear in her reaction, Kit wanted to know why. “She might have heard something in school. She’s at the age of the other victims.”

David shuddered. “I’ll stay with the baby. My wife will stay with Maureen.”

“Of course,” Baz murmured. “We just want to ask her what else she might know. We’ll be gentle. I promise.”

With another nod, David went into the kitchen and Maureen came out, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. Warily she sat next to her mother.

Kit smiled at her. “You’re not in trouble, Maureen. We just wanted to ask if you’d heard any of the girls in school mention Colton Driscoll.”

Her shoulders sagged in unmistakable relief. “No. Some of the girls on the block would say how weird he was, especially after a block party. The dads would team up to keep him away from everyone. Just talking to him,” she raced to add. “Nobody did anything bad.”

“So the girls thought he was weird?”

“Well, yeah. He was always talking about knowing Beyoncé and Jay-Z. Or even Meghan Markle. It was like he’d read People magazine and just spewed it all out.”

Baz smiled. “That’s pretty accurate, from what we’ve heard. If you do hear anything at school, can you have your mom call us?”

She looked at her mother uncertainly. “Sure.”

Kit thought about the way that Driscoll was dressed. “Did you see him go out Friday night?”

The teenager flinched, but before Kit could probe the reaction, Gemma spoke. “We did. He left in his car, even though his license was suspended after he tried to run over my husband.” The older woman’s cheeks heated. “We debated calling the police about it, but we didn’t want any more trouble from that man. My husband is just now able to work again. We couldn’t afford another attack—from a mental, physical, or financial standpoint. And it wasn’t like the law was going to do anything to Driscoll. He got probation for breaking David’s jaw. They’d just smack his hands if we reported he was driving, and he’d be free to hurt us.”

Unfortunately, the woman had a valid concern. Kit tried to soothe. “It wasn’t your job to report his infractions. Do you remember what time he left?”

“About eight o’clock,” Gemma said. “Why?”

“We’re trying to establish his movements right before he died,” Baz said. “Did you see him return?”

Gemma shook her head, but her daughter became even twitchier.

“Maureen?” Kit asked softly. “Did you see him return?”

Gemma turned to her daughter. “It’s okay, Maureen. If you know, tell them.”

Maureen swallowed. “I did. My bedroom window faces the street and I saw the headlights. It was about eleven, maybe? He put his car in the garage.”

“Did he leave again after that?” Baz asked.

“No,” she said, a little too quickly. “Mom, can I go now? I don’t like talking about him. He was awful.”

“Of course, honey.”

“Thank you,” Kit said, giving the girl a smile as she scurried up the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” Gemma said with a weary sigh. “She saw David getting beaten and . . . well, therapy has helped, but she still wakes up with nightmares.”

“We get that,” Baz assured her. “Thank you for your time.”

Kit and Baz gave her their business cards in case the family remembered anything else and took their leave. Kit chanced a look over her shoulder as they walked to the street. Sure enough, a pair of eyes peered out between the curtains in an upstairs window.

“Don’t look up,” Kit murmured.

“She’s watching us?” Baz asked, just as quietly.

“From her bedroom window.”

“She knows something.”

“She sure does. And it scares her.” Kit pointed to the house two doors down. “The lights are on, so they’re home. Let’s chat with a few more neighbors and go. We can come back to talk to Maureen again tomorrow.”

“That’s fine. As long as we talk to Dr. Reeves again today.”

Kit wanted to say no, that they should leave the man alone. But her reluctance to bother the man wasn’t helping them fill in the blanks left by Driscoll’s death—however it transpired. “Let’s ask him to meet us in a neutral place instead of going to his apartment. Being seen with us so close to the presser might lead his neighbors to put two and two together and guess he was our confidential informant.”

Baz’s gaze rested on her face for a long moment before he nodded. “That’s fair.”

Fair. That was all she wanted to be. That was what Dr. Reeves deserved.

San Diego, California

Monday, April 11, 8:15 p.m.

Sam watched the two detectives approaching with growing unease. It felt like a troupe of Irish folk dancers was performing in his stomach. He repositioned himself behind the wheel of his RAV4, scared shitless because he had no idea why McKittrick and Constantine had asked to see him again.

They’d asked to meet him in a “neutral place” of his choosing so that they didn’t clue his neighbors in to the fact that he was their CI.

Which he appreciated. He figured it was McKittrick’s idea versus her partner’s. She seemed the type to think about things like that. It didn’t really matter, though. Maybe this was standard operating procedure for confidential informants.

Maybe I should watch more true crime with Mom.

No, that was a terrible idea. He already had enough fodder for his nightmares from his client sessions, thank you very much. The few episodes he’d watched with Ann over the weekend had added detail to his nightmares that he really could have lived without.

McKittrick tapped on his front passenger window. “Can we get in?”

Sam unlocked the doors and the two climbed in, McKittrick in the front and Constantine in the back.

Sam hadn’t vacuumed since the last time he’d taken Siggy to the dog park, so the back seat was probably dirty. Hopefully Constantine’s suit would be ruined.

The older detective cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize for threatening your dog the other night. He was growling at my partner and I was concerned for her safety.”

Sam blinked. “Oh. Well, he wouldn’t have hurt her.” Probably. “But I accept your apology.”

McKittrick twisted in the seat so that she was looking at Sam directly. “We had a few more questions about Colton Driscoll. Trying to tie up some loose ends.”

Sam stiffened. Her words sounded right, but her body language was off. Something was wrong.

“Okay,” he said warily. “What do you want to know?”

“You told us about what he said concerning the young women—the lacrosse games, the color lilac, the grave site. What did he say about himself?”

“Not a lot. Like I told you, he was a pathological liar. Some liars are unaware that they’re lying. Their brains confabulate images or situations, which tumble out of the individual’s mouth. But I think Colton Driscoll used lies as a crutch. He wasn’t comfortable in social situations, and being someone else allowed him to be charming and sociable. He also used his lies as deflection. He didn’t want to be in therapy and was basically punching a time clock.” He had a sudden recollection. “Oh, wait. Punching. He had abrasions on his knuckles on Friday afternoon. They looked fresh.”

McKittrick nodded. “We saw those. What did he say about them?”

“I thought maybe he’d hit someone. He claimed that one of his coworkers was giving him a bad time, trying to get him in trouble so that the other guy could have his job.”

“I thought he worked in a mail room,” Constantine said.

“He did. I thought the same thing—what job is lower than the mail room that the coworker could have had? But Colton claimed he took out his anger on a wall. The abrasions seemed to match that story. I offered to teach him ways to deal with his anger that wouldn’t hurt him and he seemed receptive for the first time since we’d started sessions.”

“So his coworkers knew about his arrest for assault?” McKittrick asked.

“They at least knew he had an anger management problem. They might have found out about his arrest and probation or they might have heard that he’d lost his IT job because he got mad and punched someone. How much do you know about him?”

“Not a lot,” she admitted. “We’re just getting started digging into his past.”

“Well, he lost at least four IT jobs in the last twenty years because of his temper. Or his lying. Or both. He was a rather . . . unpleasant man.”

Constantine snorted. “Yeah. We figured. Murdering young girls usually takes an unpleasant person.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the man and started to bite out a retort, then shook his head. It wasn’t worth it.

Constantine made a face. “Sorry. I worked on these murders over the years.”

“Oh.” Sam hadn’t considered that. There had been several victims. “That must have been disheartening, not being able to get justice for the victims.”

Constantine’s expression grew pained. “It was. Still is. Because those girls didn’t get justice. Their families didn’t get to face Driscoll in court. He took the coward’s way out. So . . . yeah. ‘Disheartening’ is as good a word as any.”

McKittrick gave her partner a sympathetic look before returning her attention to Sam. “Did he have any friends? Anyone he would have confided in?”

“No. He was very lonely, I think. He could be very charming on the surface. I assume that’s how he was married four times. But none of his marriages lasted that long because he couldn’t keep up the facade. His wives were only eighteen but figured out that he couldn’t be trusted to tell the truth about anything. His longest marriage lasted a year. The shortest was four and a half months. This is according to the court records that came with the referral. By his own account, his wives were ‘cheating whores’ and he left all of them. Of course, after our first session I knew whatever details he’d provided had to be taken with a grain of salt.”

“Like his home address,” McKittrick said.

Sam’s cheeks heated as he remembered that stupid crime board, including the map he’d made of the two potential victims’ homes and Colton’s real address. “Yeah.”

“I would have made the same kind of crime board,” she said softly. “You just had the misfortune of having two suspicious cops see yours at a very bad time.”

One side of his mouth lifted. “Thanks, but it was stupid.”

She shook her head. “You cared, Dr. Reeves. That’s never stupid.” Then she seemed to realize that she’d strayed from the topic. “We know he had four ex-wives and no children.”

“Thankfully,” Constantine muttered and Sam had to agree with that.

“Definitely,” McKittrick said. “His parents are deceased and we didn’t see any brothers or sisters in his background check. Did he ever mention any other family?”

“No. He was fascinated with famous people almost to the point of obsession. He knew about their affairs, divorces, and their children. He claimed to be buddy-buddy with them, teaching them new skills and partying hard with them.”

“He also claimed to have been a Navy SEAL,” McKittrick said.

Sam sighed. “Yes, he did. I never confronted his lies, though. There was no point. But we did discuss the difference between lies and illegal lies. He seemed to be surprised that claiming to be in the military was a crime. He blustered about it, saying his neighbor was too thin-skinned and couldn’t take a joke.”

McKittrick scowled. “His neighbor served and was permanently disabled after a combat injury.”

Sam hadn’t known that. “What Colton did to him is even worse, then.”

“Did he ever threaten you?”

“Yes, once. During our last session on Friday.” Was that really only three days ago? “He said he wanted to skip a session to go to a party in London. I told him that his probation officer would have to approve it and he came at me. I have to admit, for a few seconds I was . . . alarmed.” Scared shitless was more like it, but whatever.

“I guess so, knowing what he’d done to his neighbor,” McKittrick said with a commiserating smile. “Was he on any kind of medication?”

Sam hesitated, because that was protected information, even though Colton was dead. “Not according to him.”

McKittrick tilted her head. “But you know that he was?”

“I can’t say.”

She sighed. “Right. HIPAA and all that. Okay. Can you tell us if he was seeing a psychiatrist who might have prescribed something?”

“Like what?”

It was McKittrick’s turn to hesitate, but she met his eyes directly. “Sleeping pills.”

Sam considered his options because there had to be a good reason she was asking. Finally, he shook his head in an exaggerated fashion while saying, “I can’t say.”

Her smile was quick. “Got it. So we should be checking for other medications. Thank you. Did he ever mention driving anywhere?”

“No. His license was suspended. Although I don’t suppose that would have stopped him. If he drove to any of our sessions, I wouldn’t know, but he was supposed to be taking a city bus or the trolley.”

“Did he mention that he had weekend plans?” Constantine asked. “Maybe meeting someone that evening?”

Sam started to reply, then closed his mouth. This was important. Why were they asking? Colton was dead, his murders ending with him. Unless . . .

Holy shit. “Did Colton have a partner?”

Both detectives flinched, although it was minute. “Why do you ask that?” Constantine asked, his tone appearing easy, but there was an underlying belligerence that couldn’t be ignored.

“Because you asked if he was meeting someone and if he had friends. He’s dead, so that shouldn’t matter unless he had a partner or an accomplice.”

Constantine’s expression darkened. “Fucking shrinks.”

Sam shrugged. “Sorry. Did he?”

“We don’t know,” McKittrick said, and Sam almost believed her.

Except . . . Sleeping pills. Partners. Accomplices. Sam sucked in a breath at an unwelcome thought. “I’ve got to stop watching true crime with my mother.”

McKittrick’s lips twitched. “Why?”

“Because now I’m wondering if he really killed himself, and that’s just ridiculous.”

He thought they’d laugh at him, but . . . they didn’t. They both looked sucker-punched.

“Oh fuck,” Sam whispered, his pulse going from normal to stratospheric. “You’re kidding. Please say I’m ridiculous.”

“Fucking shrinks,” Constantine muttered again, but with less heat this time.

Well, hell. “Am I in any danger from this partner?” Sam asked, wishing they weren’t in his car so that he could escape.

“We don’t know that one exists,” Constantine deflected.

That was a lie. Sam could see it in the man’s eyes. “Right. Goddammit.”

“We really don’t know,” McKittrick said levelly. “We don’t know much right now, to be honest. We’ll keep you updated as it pertains to your personal safety.”

“Wow.” Sam wanted to say something cutting in response to that, but he couldn’t think of a single remark that made any sense. He settled for a sarcastic “Gee, thanks.”

She sighed again. “I’m sorry, Dr. Reeves. This situation sucks and I wish you’d never been involved. But you are. Be aware of your surroundings and call 911 if you feel threatened.”

“That is so not helpful, Detective,” he spat. But it wasn’t her fault. He knew that. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”

“It’s okay. I get it.”

“What about that reporter? The one who got the scoop on Colton being the killer? Will she replace out about me and put my name in the paper?”

“How do you know about her?” Constantine demanded.

“Joel told me.” He winced. “Dammit. Now Joel’s going to be pissed at me, too.” He shook his head. “Never mind. Will she? Will my name be publicized?”

“She hasn’t published it yet,” McKittrick said. “And I don’t think she’d keep something like that to herself if she knew.”

Sam nearly snarled that that wasn’t good enough, but she was just doing her job. “All right.”

“If your name is publicized, we can look at police protection, but it’s not likely.” She grimaced. “Budget cuts.”

Sam closed his eyes, trying to control his temper. “So I’m on my own.”

“You have a gun,” Constantine said sardonically.

Sam glared at the man. “You are an asshole.”

Constantine had the grace to look a little ashamed. “You’re right. That was uncalled for. I’m not a fan of shrinks.”

“I figured that out for myself,” Sam said with as much malice as he could channel. “This is a nightmare.”

“I’m sorry you’re going through this,” McKittrick said quietly. “Can you take a vacation? Go away for a while?”

“I have clients. I can’t just up and go.” Although he did have vacation time saved up and Vivian had offered. “I’ll consider it,” he amended.

“Let us know if you leave town,” Constantine warned.

Sam gave him a dirty look, opened his mouth, then thought of something even worse. “My parents live in my building. I’m staying with them right now. Are they in danger?”

“I don’t think so,” McKittrick said and this time he believed her.

“Why aren’t you staying in your own apartment?” Constantine asked.

Sam sneered. “Because your CSU team left my apartment a fucking mess, that’s why. There’s fingerprint dust on the walls, the contents of every drawer were dumped, and there’s luminol on my bathroom wall. I’ve had to hire a crime-scene cleaner at my own expense.”

Constantine flinched. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Sam scoffed. “Oh. I’m going to tell my parents to go home to Scottsdale. They’ll probably fight me on it. What am I allowed to tell them?”

“Nothing,” Constantine snapped.

McKittrick held up a hand. “Can you go to Scottsdale with them? Maybe make it sound like you need to get away? You can even tell them that you don’t want to be around if the media catches wind that you were involved.”

Sam scrubbed his palms over his face. “Yeah. I can do that.” He glared at Constantine. “She has good ideas. Be like her.”

Constantine looked momentarily shocked, then he laughed, a loud, rolling belly laugh. “I’ll try. She’s the better of the two of us, for sure.”

“She’s nicer,” Sam grumbled. “Especially to my dog.”

“I apologized,” Constantine said, still chuckling. “You accepted.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I should have held out for a treat for Siggy.”

Constantine gave McKittrick a triumphant look. “Told you I should have stopped for a dog bone.”

McKittrick dug in her jacket pocket and pulled out a bone-shaped treat half the size of her palm. “There’s a bakery near the precinct that makes them. They’re good for dogs. My poodle Snickerdoodle loves them. Siggy will like it, too. Give it to him, compliments of SDPD.”

Sam took the treat, charmed despite himself. “Thank you.”

She smiled at him gently. “Take care, Dr. Reeves. If you think about anything that Driscoll said in session that would be helpful, please contact us. And if you do go to Scottsdale, I’d appreciate it if you’d shoot me a text letting me know.” She drew a card from another pocket and scribbled on the back. “This is my cell phone and my partner’s as well. If you run into any trouble, let us know. We’ll do what we can to help.”

He took the card, believing she was telling the truth. Or, more correctly, he believed that she believed she was telling the truth. “Thank you, Detective.”

Hoping he wouldn’t need to call, Sam slipped the card into his wallet as they got out of his vehicle and walked away. And then later, when this was all a distant, bad memory, he could call her number and ask her out for coffee.

Dream on, Sammy. Dream on.