“I should be the one to tell McCourt.” I touched the sleeve of Nick's jacket.
We stood in the high-ceilinged atrium that was the sheriff's department waiting area.
He shifted, brushing against a peace lily. “You're getting awfully pushy, woman.”
“You married a lawyer. You were asking for it.”
He laughed.
“What I meant,” I said, “was I have the least to lose. Jayce was right. You could be disbarred.”
“So could you,” he said.
“It's different. I've got my writing, and I haven't practiced law since Emmie was born.”
“But you could go back to it, if you wanted to.”
“I could, but I'm not sure I want to. I like writing. And I like its flexibility. If the kids need me, I can be there.” I grimaced, because I hadn't been there much lately.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Good. I think I can tell her without admitting to breaking into Castor's hotel room,” Nick said.
A deputy approached us.
“Just let me do the talking,” Nick said out of the side of his mouth.
The deputy led us through a maze of desks, down a hallway, and to an office with a pebbled-glass door. He knocked twice.
“Come in,” the sheriff called.
The deputy opened the door for us, and we walked inside.
Sheriff McCourt pointed to two chairs in front of her dented metal desk. “Have a seat.” She waited for the deputy to leave and close the door behind him. “You said you had information on the murder?”
“A man named Castor Stella has been following Karin and her sisters,” Nick said. “She confronted him last night, just outside the field where you found Trevor's car. He told her that he and Trevor were members of an occult society based in San Francisco, and that he'd come to Doyle after Trevor was killed. We talked to Erica at the Doyle Hotel. She said Castor checked in on Tuesday.”
The sheriff straightened. “Interesting, but that doesn't make him a killer.”
“We saw him leave the hotel later this morning,” Nick said. “He had a gun tucked in his pants.”
I swallowed a smile. Aside from the gun in his pants, which we could assume, my criminal attorney husband hadn’t lied.
The sheriff pursed her lips. “You should have led with that.” She swiveled to her desk computer and typed. “There's no Castor Stella listed as having a concealed carry license. In fact, there's no Castor Stella listed at all. You said he was from San Francisco?”
We nodded.
“He told us that Trevor had used a different name when he joined the group,” I said. “Desmond. Castor is a name with mythological and magical significance, and Stella–”
“Means star,” the sheriff said. “I do know some Latin. All right, Castor's probably not the name he was born with. And he's staying at the Doyle Hotel?”
“Yes,” Nick said.
“I'll look into this.” She rose. “Thank you for coming forward.”
“No problem,” Nick said.
We shook hands and left the way we'd come in.
“Well?” I asked when we reached the parking lot.
Nick helped me into his black Land Rover. When angry gnomes had trashed his old SUV (long story), he'd upgraded to something sturdier. Since the car was big enough to fit Emmie and Mitch's car seats and my two sisters, I hadn't argued about the price tag.
“I'd be willing to bet the sheriff's at the Doyle Hotel within the hour,” he said.
I grinned. “And there’s nothing to stop us from enjoying the day outside it.”
We drove to Ground, parked in the alley and walked around the corner to the front of the café. It was closed on Sunday, but Jayce and Brayden let us inside, and we told them what had happened.
The four of us left the coffee shop. We walked down the street and took up positions across from the hotel. Nick and I relaxed on an iron bench. Jayce sat on the shaded wooden steps to the raised sidewalk. Brayden stood behind her and frowned.
Twenty minutes later, three sheriff's department SUVs rolled to a halt in front of the stone hotel. The four of us badly pretended disinterest. The sheriff's pointed look toward us was scalding.
Thirty minutes later, she strode from the hotel and crossed the street to us.
“The room's been cleaned out,” she said.
“What?” Jayce asked. “We just— I mean, when did he check out?”
“He didn't. No one saw him leave with his things, but they’re gone. I'll put out a BOLO. He won't get far.” She swiveled on her boot heel and crossed to her SUV.
“Guilty conscience?” Brayden asked.
“Castor couldn't have known the sheriff was about to drop by,” Nick said. “And he'd have no reason to run from us.”
“But he said he'd be here through Tuesday,” I said, uneasy. “Maybe he's planning on returning?”
A van drove slowly past.
“Or maybe his magic told him now was the time to beat it.” Jayce straightened off the step.
“We've done what we can.” Nick rose from the bench and handed me up. “It's in the sheriff's hands now. And we've left Mitch and Emmie with your sister longer than we should have.”
I bit my bottom lip. Yes, we had, and it had been a blessed relief not to have to worry about them for a few hours. My mommy skills needed help.
We said our goodbyes. Jayce and Brayden walked toward Ground, and Nick and I walked around the corner to the alley. He touched his key fob, and the lights on the Land Rover flashed.
“Oh, no,” I said. “I left the book in Ground.”
“The book?” Nick's chiseled face creased. “You brought it?”
“I've been nervous about leaving it alone. It's in Jayce's safe.” I trotted to Ground's metal rear door, in the shade of the exterior stairs, and banged on it with the flat of my hand.
“Maybe it's safe enough there,” Nick said.
I shook my head. “No, she removed the wards from Ground...” I trailed off, staring.
A mud-spattered leather shoe stuck out from behind the garbage bins beneath the stairs.
The locks on Ground’s rear door squealed.
I stepped closer to the garbage cans and sucked in a breath.
The shoe was attached to a leg, which was attached to Castor Stella. He lay sprawled on a tumble of garbage bags, his eyes open, a rivulet of blood darkening his cheek and temple.