Tom reached for his coffee cup, frowning when he found it empty. He’d been looking for a way into Sunnyside’s security network for the past few hours and had come up with nothing.
Liza had gone back to sleep after he’d made love to her for the second time, but he’d been unable to quiet his mind. All he’d been able to think was that she was going into a hostile situation from which she might not return. And that he’d lose her after just finding her.
So he’d crept from bed, kissing her forehead as she’d burrowed her cheek into his pillow, muttering for him to come back. He’d promised he was just getting a drink of water, but he’d returned to his office.
He had nothing for his trouble except a sleepless night.
A creak in the floorboards had him looking up a second before she appeared in the doorway, holding two cups of coffee.
“Did you sleep at all?” Liza asked.
“No. Is one of those for me?”
She placed the mug next to his keyboard. “You said you were getting up for some water.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I’m sorry.”
She put her cup down and moved to stand at his back. “Lean forward.”
He obeyed, then groaned when her hands did that magical thing to the muscles in his back.
“You’re all tight.”
He groaned again, for a much different reason. “I said that to you last night.”
“Douchebag,” she said fondly. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to get a toehold in Sunnyside’s security network. I still don’t have access to their cameras and alarms.”
“I thought you did,” she said, confused. “You saw the personnel records and patient records.”
He folded his arms on his desk, letting his head fall forward. “They’re on a different network, not connected to the rest. I got into the personnel and patient databases because one of the night nurses clicked on a link in a phishing e-mail. I honestly was shocked that it worked.”
She worked her thumbs into the base of his neck, the way she knew that he liked. “Where did you get the e-mail address for the night nurse?”
“Guessed, mostly. Did an info-at with a bunch of different extensions.”
“But the security network has been harder to breach.”
“Yeah. I’ve sent e-mails to a few others on the list, like the facility accountant and network administrator. All the e-mails have links that will let me in, but nobody’s opened them yet. Today’s a damn holiday.”
She gentled her touch, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Always wanted to do that when I was massaging you.”
“Any time you want.”
“The massage or the kiss?” she asked, amused.
“Either. Both. Just don’t stop.”
She leaned forward to kiss his cheek before returning to his back. “How did you know they were doing background checks on me if you couldn’t see the security network?”
“I’m not going to be able to get anything past you, am I?”
“No, and answer the question.”
“I embedded Trojans in the résumés you and the two FBI agents uploaded with your applications. When the HR manager clicked on your résumés, I got access to her computer. That’s where I got the e-mail addresses for the accountant and network admin.”
“I did not like the HR manager,” Liza muttered. “She was smug, but I guess that’s the least of their sins. You’ll be able to get them for all the others, right?”
“I hope so. The problem is that the warrants only covered information on Pastor and/or DJ. Nothing else I see online or hear through your comm device is usable.”
“What if I see stuff? You know, as a legitimately hired employee? Can I report any illegal activity that I see?”
He looked over his shoulder, his grin sharp. “Take lots of notes.”
“Good. Are we going to Walnut Creek this morning?”
She was dressed, he noted. She’d even put on makeup, which she did not need. “Yes. I’ve been trying to reach Croft for the last hour, but—” His phone began to buzz with an incoming call from Croft. “Speak of the devil.”
Liza stopped her massage, retreating to a chair in the corner. “I won’t eavesdrop.”
Her years in the army had taught her about classified information, and, other than the night when she’d listened in on his conversation with Raeburn, she’d always been hyper-respectful.
“Good morning,” he said to Croft when he answered, keeping her off speaker.
“I saw your calls, but I was in the middle of a crime scene.”
All of the stress that Liza had worked out returned in a blast. “What now?” he asked wearily.
Liza frowned but said nothing.
“I’m at Anthony Ward’s compound in Granite Bay. We’ve got a dead Fed and three more bodies. All male, ranging in age from nineteen to forty-five. Angelina Ward and her children are gone. Their suitcases are gone and there’s no sign of foul play inside the main house. The maid discovered the bodies this morning when she arrived for work.”
“Who of ours?” Tom asked heavily.
“Wainright.”
“Goddammit. He was a nice guy.” The man had gone out of his way to be kind when Tom had first arrived in Sacramento in January. “When was he killed?”
“Sometime between three a.m. and six a.m. He’d made his last check-in at three. The maid arrived at six. His replacement was due at seven.”
“I can be there in thirty minutes.” He just needed to shower and change. Walnut Creek would need to wait for now.
“No, that’s not necessary. Raeburn wants you to continue getting security ready for Liza’s first day tomorrow. Plus, you’re technically off the clock at the moment.”
“We both know the second one means nothing.”
“Raeburn said that, but Molina insisted you be given the time. She’s worried about burnout.”
“Yeah, I got a lecture.”
“You mean the ‘marathon, not a sprint’ lecture? Because she gave me that one, too.”
“That’s the one. What else do you have from the scene?”
“The wife left her cell phone behind, along with all of her electronics. All in a neat pile on the spotless kitchen counter.”
“She was afraid her husband was tracking her,” Tom murmured. Liza’s frown deepened, but she remained silent.
“I think so,” Croft said. “Especially with the way she was glancing up at the camera when we talked to her on Friday. The maid said that the garage contained three vehicles when she left last night—a Jag, a pickup, and a white panel van. The van and the Jag were gone. We’re looking for the Jag. We found the panel van a short distance away, empty. Next to it were tire treads that matched those left by the car Belmont stole on Saturday night.”
“We still don’t have an ID on the female victim?”
“Not yet. Her face wasn’t . . . appropriate to share with the media.”
“I remember,” Tom said grimly. He’d see that woman’s face in his mind for a long time.
“Yeah.” Croft sighed. “The garage was lined with cabinets, and guess what they held?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Enough weapons to keep ballistics busy matching them to past crime scenes. Looks like there was also a box missing from the dynamite cabinet. The cabinets were all unlocked. There are a few safes too, but they weren’t opened, and we haven’t blown them yet. Bomb squad is afraid of what they’ll find.”
“Fuck.” Possession of dynamite gave DJ an even greater range. “And Kowalski?”
“In the wind. He may have taken his wife and kids away, but I don’t think so. Not with the way her devices were all stacked so neatly. It felt like a fuck-you.”
Tom agreed. “I planned to make a small day trip today. I can cancel if I need to.”
“Where?” Croft asked, drawing the word out to several syllables.
“I got a lead on Pastor’s wife. I think she’s living in Walnut Creek, married to an architect named Hugh Kitson. That’s why I kept trying to reach you this morning. I thought you might join me. I want to know who set up Pastor’s bank accounts thirty years ago. We can follow any handoffs over the years to discover whoever’s helping him manage his money now.”
“Huh.” Croft was silent for a beat. “That makes sense. Where did you get the lead?”
“From Jeff Bunker, the journalism student who brought us Cameron Cook.”
“You’re an interesting partner, Hunter, I gotta say. I’ll let Raeburn know where you are. He can call you if he wants you back here. Have you busted into Sunnyside’s network yet?”
“No,” he grunted. “Not for lack of trying. I’m just going to have to wait for one of those e-mails to play out. What about the three bodies found at the scene? Have you ID’d them?”
“No, but we think they were Kowalski’s security. Keep me updated and I’ll do the same.”
Croft ended the call and he met Liza’s gaze. “Nobody you know or need to know,” he said.
“Okay.”
He was surprised. “Okay?”
“If you thought I needed to know to keep me safe, you’d tell me.”
He smiled at her and the words were suddenly there, needing to break free. “You know I love you, right?”
She sucked in a breath, her eyes growing bright with unshed tears. But she smiled back. “I think I figured that out. But it’s awfully nice to hear.”
He pushed away from his desk and knelt before her. “I love you, Liza Barkley.”
She cupped his face in her hands. “I’ve been waiting to hear that for seven years.”
He turned to kiss her palm. “And?”
She smiled down at him, her dimple popping. “Thank you?”
He poked her lightly in the ribs. “Say it.”
She rested her forehead on his. “I love you, Tom Hunter. I always have.”
He drew a breath. “You’re right. It’s awfully nice to hear.”
They stayed there for a long moment, happy in their bubble. Then Tom sighed. “I need to get dressed, which is the exact opposite of what I want to do. But Raeburn could call me in, so if we’re going to get to Walnut Creek, we’d better go now.”
She sighed. “I’ll walk Pebbles and put your coffee in a travel mug. Meet me downstairs.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, MAY 29, 9:28 A.M.
DJ shifted in the driver’s seat of the Civic. He’d been sitting in this same position outside Daisy Dawson’s radio station since eight. Her car wasn’t in the lot, but she was on the air.
The package DJ had addressed to her had been delivered, thanks to a college kid who looked so squeaky clean that nobody would have suspected him of wrongdoing. He’d seen the kid riding by on his bike and asked if he’d make a private delivery.
It’s a peace offering for my girlfriend, DJ had explained earnestly. I fucked up and hurt her feelings and she’s not taking my calls. I got her a stuffed animal and chocolate. Think it’ll work?
In reality, the stuffed animal and chocolate had come from Smythe’s house. The explosives were in the stuffed animal, a very rudimentary bomb, detonated with a common alarm clock.
He’d built two bombs, in fact. The first was a minute away from detonating inside the radio station, having been delivered by the random kid to whom he’d paid twenty bucks. It would be worth every penny.
It wouldn’t be a big explosion. The box he’d taken from Kowalski’s garage had been filled with a variety of stick sizes. DJ had chosen a quarter stick for Daisy Dawson’s package, the size used in cherry bombs and fireworks.
He wanted the station evacuated so that he could finish what he’d started on Friday morning. Hopefully Gideon was in there, too. He’d kill them both and then he’d wait for Mercy to surface, either at their funeral or at the Sokolovs’ house.
He’d driven by on his way out this morning, sticking to the street a block over. He’d spied no fewer than six guys patrolling, and that was just a two-second glimpse through the houses on the other side of the street. He wasn’t getting close to the Sokolov house anytime soon.
So he’d arranged for their package to be delivered the following day by a private courier service. He’d drop it off as soon as he was finished here. Their package contained a significantly larger load. Four full sticks. If it didn’t kill everyone in the Sokolov house, it would damage them severely. Hospitalize them at the very least.
Either way—whether at the hospital or at a funeral—he’d get close enough to Mercy to eliminate her. He needed to do it soon. Pastor was getting well enough to watch the news. He wanted Mercy’s murder to have cleared the news cycle by then.
If it hadn’t been for that bitch blocking his shot at the eye doctor last week, he’d have finished her off already. He’d put her on the list, too, just because.
DJ checked the time. “Three, two—” The explosion was audible from where he sat, the windows in his car rattling for a second before settling down. Perfect.
Except . . . He frowned. People were coming out the front doors of the building, but the two radio personalities kept talking as if nothing had happened.
Could the booth be that soundproofed? He hadn’t expected that.
“—come out this weekend,” the male show host was saying. “What do you think, Poppy? Will we have good weather for the festival? Poppy?”
“I’m sorry, Jake,” Daisy Dawson replied, her tone having changed to one of concern. “I wasn’t listening. There’s been a small explosion at KZAU.”
“What?” Jake exclaimed. “How? Why?”
“Nobody knows yet. They’ve evacuated the building,” Daisy said. “If you’re not sleeping in on this holiday morning and are out and about, you should avoid the area around the station.”
“Come out,” DJ growled. “Now.”
Sirens were already blaring and the station employees were standing on the curb, wringing their hands. Smoke had started billowing already.
“We’re broadcasting remotely,” Daisy said, “so we’re safe. Please, we’re asking you to stay away from KZAU so that first responders can take care of our people and put out the fire.”
DJ stared at his car radio in shock. “Remotely?” he whispered. Then his temper exploded. “Motherfucking sons of bitches.” This had all been for nothing.
His attack on Gideon last week had done this. You’re a goddamn fool, Belmont. He’d shot at Gideon and now Daisy was being guarded, her location kept secret.
Hands shaking with rage, he backed out of his parking space and drove past the fire truck speeding toward the station. Getting the second package to the Sokolovs was even more important now, but he’d have to be smarter. They’d be on their guard.
He had to think of another way to get the second package into the Sokolov home. “Fuck.”
WALNUT CREEK, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, MAY 29, 9:30 A.M.
The Kitson home was nice. Not as big as the Sokolovs’ house, but fancier. “What if she slams the door in our faces?” Liza asked, nervous now that they were here. She’d driven while he’d continued to monitor the Sunnyside communications he could see.
“We’ll get a subpoena to get her to tell us about Pastor’s banker.” Tom took her hand, giving it a squeeze as they walked to the door. “Let me talk for now,” he murmured before he knocked.
The door was opened by the woman who’d worn the evening gown in the photo. Marcia Travis—a.k.a. Marcia Hampton, a.k.a. Margo Kitson née Holly—smiled at them politely. “This neighborhood has an ordinance against soliciting.” She started to close the door.
“I’m Special Agent Tom Hunter, FBI.” He showed her his badge and the woman’s face froze. “This is my associate, Miss Barkley. We’d like to talk to you.”
After her initial shock, Marcia’s eyes flickered with fear, then shame. “I . . .” She looked at her very expensive shoes. When she looked up, she was resigned. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Liza hadn’t been expecting that, but Tom was relaxed. “May we come in, ma’am?”
Marcia drew a breath and stepped back so that they could enter. “Please. Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee or tea?”
“No, ma’am,” Tom said. “Can we sit and talk?”
“Of course.” Marcia clasped her hands together as she led them into a sitting room.
Liza sat on a small sofa next to Tom while Marcia took the closest wingback chair.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
“Through a reporter who rejected your offer of reparations.”
“Mr. Hickman,” Marcia murmured. “I hope he’s well.”
Not responding to that, Tom studied her for so long that the woman began to shift uncomfortably. “How would you prefer to be addressed, ma’am? We have a number of names.”
“Margo Kitson is who I’ve been for fourteen years. Or who I aspire to be. Call me Margo.”
“All right, Margo.” Tom looked around the room, his gaze pointedly pausing on the framed photographs lining the mantel over the fireplace. “Your daughter?”
“Yes. Tracy.” Margo rose, retrieving a family photograph and handing it to Tom.
Margo and her husband Hugh stood with a younger blond woman. Bernice, Liza thought. Bo was missing from the family portrait, having killed himself.
A boy and a girl, both about eight years old, stood in front of Margo and Hugh. Two older children stood in front of Bernice and another man. They looked to be middle-school-aged.
Tom pointed to the children. “Your grandchildren?”
“The two oldest. They’re Tracy’s children. Chris is twelve and Robin is eleven.”
“When you say Tracy, you mean Bernice,” Tom said and she winced.
“Yes, but she no longer answers to that name. The younger children are mine, with Hugh.”
Wow, Liza thought, busily doing the math. Margo had been thirty-three when she’d escaped L.A. and gone to Eden, thirty-eight when she’d escaped Eden and gone to Benicia. If those kids were eight years old, then Margo had conceived at age fifty-four.
Margo chuckled dryly. “I can see you figuring numbers in your head, Miss Barkley.”
“I’m sorry,” Liza said honestly. “I’m going to be a nurse. I can’t help but think of how unusual your pregnancy must have been.”
Margo lifted a slender shoulder. “Hugh loves my daughter and Tracy’s babies were his grandchildren from day one. He did want babies of his own, though. So we tried.” She shuddered. “Lots of fertility drugs. But it was worth it. It made him so happy.”
Tom set the photo on the end table. “You said you were expecting us. Why?”
“Not you, per se. But I saw a news special a month ago, the one about the serial killer in Sacramento?”
“You saw the locket,” Tom murmured. “The Eden locket.”
Liza knew the news special Margo was talking about. She’d seen it as well. It was an account of the serial killer who’d murdered so many women. The reporter had briefly interviewed Daisy, who’d found the locket when she’d fought and escaped the killer.
Margo nodded. “The locket was only featured for a few seconds, but my heart nearly stopped. I’ve . . .” She blew out a breath. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell my husband. I wanted to go to law enforcement and tell them what I knew, but I couldn’t blindside Hugh that way. Especially if I was held accountable for my part in Ben’s scheme.”
Ben. “Benton Travis,” Liza said. The name Pastor had been given at birth.
“Yes. He stole a lot of money from our church, the one in L.A. I didn’t know about it at first, but I didn’t tell anyone when I did. I know that was wrong. Now I’m going to have to tell Hugh. He’s going to be very disappointed in me, but he’ll support me. I hope.” She folded her hands in her lap. “What do you want to know?”
Liza thought Tom would begin with the banker but was stunned when he asked, “Did Pastor know that Waylon fathered your children?”
Margo’s mouth fell open, her laugh brittle. “You certainly go straight to the hard questions, Agent Hunter. No. He never knew. I think . . . I don’t know what he would have done.”
“So you continued your relationship with Waylon after your divorce.”
Margo nodded. “Waylon was my first love.”
“Why did you divorce?” Tom asked.
She sighed. “It was this thing that Ben and Waylon cooked up between them. Ben figured they could start a church and get donations. Then he realized that if he became the minister of an established church—a wealthy one—he could have a steady income for not a lot of work.”
“You were at the L.A. church for ten years,” Tom said. “That’s a long time.”
“Ben found that he liked it. He always believed himself superior to everyone else. Being a pastor let him act out that role. Waylon had all the tattoos and looked big and bad, but he was sweet. Ben was the brains, but he was . . . what’s the word the kids are using? A douchebag.”
Liza had to swallow a startled laugh at hearing the word fall from this stylish woman’s lips.
“He was a born swindler,” Margo went on. “He and Waylon met in prison and . . . I guess Waylon was as snowed by Ben as everyone else. Me included, for a while. By the time we realized what a monster Ben was, it was too late.”
“Waylon brought you to his parents when he helped you escape Eden,” Tom said. “You lived in their house on Elvis Lane.”
Margo nodded. “I was terrified that Ben would come looking for us. I didn’t step foot from that house for years.”
“Did Waylon’s parents know that they were the children’s grandparents?” Liza asked.
“They did. My William and Waylon’s other son, DJ, resembled each other.”
“Did you know that Waylon produced bodies that he found in a ravine and claimed they were yours?” Tom asked abruptly.
Margo gasped, all the color draining from her face. “What? No. That’s impossible.”
“That’s why Pastor didn’t come for you. He believed you were dead,” Tom said. “No one is sure who those people were, but Waylon brought back the remains of a woman and two children.”
“No.” Margo shook her head violently. “No. Waylon would not do that.”
“He did.” Tom was insistent, but gently so. “He did again when Gideon Reynolds escaped eight years after you did.”
“Gideon? I don’t . . .” She looked away, thinking, then her gaze flashed back. “There was a little boy whose mother came to Eden, not long before we left. His name was Gideon.”
Tom nodded. “His younger sister was Mercy. She was only a year old when you escaped. But if you saw that news program on the serial killer, you saw her, too. Mercy Callahan was thirteen when her mother got her out. Mercy was married to Ephraim Burton for a year.”
Margo looked as if she’d be sick. “Not him.”
Her reaction made Liza’s stomach churn, thinking about what Mercy had suffered.
Margo twisted her fingers together, nerves on display. “That’s why I ran. My daughter was going to be twelve. I hated that rule. I tried to get Ben to change it, but he wouldn’t. I knew that my daughter was going to be given to one of those brutes and . . . I couldn’t let that happen. Neither could Waylon. So he got us out.”
“Who made the rule about twelve-year-olds being married?” Tom asked.
“Ben did, but it was because of Ephraim. He got several of the younger girls pregnant. Ben couldn’t say Ephraim was a pedophile, because Founding Elders were important. They were church leaders. So Ben changed the rules so that Ephraim’s raping of young women wasn’t a crime. It was a . . . sacrament.” She spat the word. “I couldn’t stand it, but I also couldn’t change it. Within a few years of being in Eden, it was like the men started believing that women were subhuman. I hadn’t wanted to stay there, hadn’t wanted to go there to begin with, but Ben had promised it would only be temporary. That we could leave when the scandal died down. Maybe six months. A year at the most. But he got used to the power. They all did, I think—the Founding Elders, I mean. Except for Waylon. The others liked having women subservient to them. I begged Ben to revoke the marriage law, not to marry Tracy off when she was still a child. He said he couldn’t make exceptions, even for his own child.” Her face grew hard and angry. “Maybe he did know that the kids weren’t his. I don’t know. I just knew we had to get out. Waylon made it happen.”
“You didn’t report Eden when you escaped,” Liza said.
“Yes, I did!” she cried. “But when I told the police where to find them, they said there was no sign of anyone there. Waylon was angry when I told him. He asked if I wanted all of them to go jail. I did, except for Waylon. He was the only one of the Founding Elders who didn’t have a standing warrant for his arrest. He’d served his time. He wouldn’t have gone back to prison.”
“Unless he’d killed another family to take your place,” Tom said quietly.
Margo whimpered. “He wouldn’t have.”
Tom’s tone remained mild. “At the very least Waylon was selling drugs grown in Eden.”
“Growing a little pot is not the same as murder, Special Agent Hunter,” Margo declared.
Liza frowned, Margo’s words about standing warrants triggering a thought. “All of the Founders got new names. Ben was Herbert when he was the minister of the L.A. church, but he became Pastor in Eden. Edward McPhearson had been Aubrey Franklin, and Ephraim Burton was Harry Franklin. But Waylon kept his given name. Why?”
Tom turned to stare at her, pride in his eyes. “I didn’t think of that.”
Neither had Margo, from the look on her face. “I don’t know,” she murmured.
“Pastor made him the one to do supply runs,” Liza went on. “Waylon sold the drugs. And he had the most recognizable face. He was covered in tattoos, right? Even on his face?”
“Right.” She closed her eyes. “You think that Ben wanted him to get caught?”
Liza thought it was entirely possible. “Do you?”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? Ben knew I loved Waylon first. He hated that.” Margo reached for a tissue, drying her eyes. “Waylon came to see us every weekend in that house in Benicia. Until one weekend he didn’t show up, and that was it. I waited and waited, but he never came back. It devastated my children, Will especially. He loved Waylon.”
“Did he know that Waylon was his father?” Liza asked.
She shook her head. “He’d always called him ‘uncle.’ But when Waylon never came back, Will felt abandoned. He’d always been an angry child, but he . . . Well, he took his own life.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Liza murmured.
Margo’s smile was small and sad. “Thank you. Eventually, I met Hugh and he offered me a better life. This is going to kill him. I assume that Waylon is dead?”
“He died seventeen years ago,” Tom told her, then abruptly changed gears. “What made you offer Craig Hickman a million dollars?”
Margo jolted. “What?”
“A million dollars is a lot of money,” Tom said. “Why did you offer it to him?”
She was quiet for a moment, struggling to regain her composure. “Waylon put it in an account for me when he helped me escape. I never spent it. I was afraid that Ben would know. When Tracy’s first child was born, I offered her the money, for the baby. She was . . . appalled.”
Margo grew pensive. “I didn’t know that she understood what would have happened to her if she’d turned twelve in Eden, but of course she did. She knew I was scared and hurting, so she never said anything. When I offered her money, though . . . She said it was blood money. That I should give it to someone else, and suggested Hickman. When she’d started college, she’d looked up the whole sordid story of Ben’s embezzlement. She told me to offer Hickman the money. I couldn’t find him, so Tracy contacted that reporter. Erica Mann. She got me in touch with Mr. Hickman. He said he didn’t want my money, that I should donate it. So I did.”
“Where did Waylon get a million dollars?” Tom asked. “Did he steal it from Ben?”
“No, he said it was his share of the money. But Ben wouldn’t have given it to him. He said he’d gotten it through Ben’s financial manager. Ben called him his ‘banker.’ ”
“Do you remember this man’s name?” Tom asked, and Liza held her breath. This was what they’d come for.
“Of course. They were prison friends at Terminal Island. I knew him, too. His name was Daniel Park. He was in for securities fraud. Insider trading or something like that.”
“Waylon had access to Mr. Park?” Tom asked.
“Yes. When we first started Eden, Waylon was the only one to leave—to get supplies. Ben would give him a code to use with Daniel, along with instructions on stock trades. That was how Ben and Daniel communicated. The code changed every time. Ben loved puzzles and he had a . . . what do you call it? The rule that tells how the code will change each time.”
“A cipher?” Tom prompted.
“Yes, a cipher. Waylon figured out the pattern. Ben never did give him enough credit. Treated Waylon like he was dumb. I think Waylon would skim money from Ben’s accounts and tell Daniel to invest it for him, pretending he was acting on Ben’s instruction. Ben was very good with money. Waylon took his stock tips and was able to grow the money he skimmed. He told me that was where the million had come from.”
Skimmed. Margo still was making excuses for the criminals in her life.
Margo looked away, then resolutely back at Tom. “Am I under arrest?”
“Not at this time,” Tom replied.
She huffed out a breath. “I still have to tell Hugh. I hate this.”
Not once, Liza realized, had this woman expressed sorrow for those who hadn’t gotten out. She was only worried about herself.
Tom gave Margo one of his cards, then stood, holding a hand out for Liza. “We’ll leave you to the rest of your day, ma’am,” he said, and they walked out together to Tom’s SUV.
“Well,” Liza said once they were locked in and buckled up. “That was interesting.”
“It was. I need to let Croft and Raeburn know about Daniel Park and then we can grab some lunch. Oh. Good timing,” he said when his phone buzzed with an incoming call. “Hey, Croft. What’s—” He stiffened. “Injuries?”
He pulled back to the curb, listening. He finally nodded. “I’m on my way. I’ll use the flashers and get there faster.” He paused again, looking over his shoulder at the Kitson home. “Yeah, we found her. I got a name to run. Daniel Park. He was in Terminal Island with Pastor and Waylon. He was a financial manager. Handled all of Pastor’s accounts, so aiding and abetting at the very least. I’m hoping Pastor is still using him, but if not, we might be able to use him to find out who Pastor’s financial advisor is now, and that person’s communications might lead us to Eden.” He listened a moment more. “See you soon.” With that, he ended the call and pulled the car back onto the road, on the way to the freeway.
“What happened?” Liza asked.
“Explosion at KZAU. No serious injuries, except for the receptionist, who may have a concussion. Belmont stole some dynamite last night. The KZAU bomb was a small load, like a cherry bomb.”
“So not to maim, but to get everyone out of the station,” Liza said.
His brows went up. “You saw that in Afghanistan?”
“A few times, yes. Was Daisy there?”
“No. She and her cohost were broadcasting from their houses because of Gideon getting shot. They didn’t mention that they weren’t physically in the station until after the explosion.”
Liza’s stomach turned over. “He’s still trying to get to Gideon so that he can get to Mercy.”
“Yeah. We’re gonna need to take a rain check on lunch.”
“I couldn’t eat a bite now anyway. Get us home.”
