NINETY-ONE

I downed a second cup of coffee while I absorbed Franco’s revelation, too stunned to do more than listen as the two officers talked.

Mike asked Franco to keep quiet about my return to the city. He filled him in on his appointment with a law firm later today. “Once we secure Clare’s legal protection, we’ll consider our next step—and we need a little more time for that.”

“My lips are sealed, but I won’t be around anyway,” Franco said. “Lorca is at his clinic upstate today. Me and Tony are going to take a drive and visit the doctor.”

“What’s your plan?”

The sergeant shrugged his big shoulders. “We’re calling it an initial background interview.”

“Good,” Mike said. “Get some responses on the record. If he gives you contradictory answers or makes false statements, we’ll have something to press him on—especially if the forensic evidence shows he’s lying.”

“Will do.”

“Good work, buddy. Keep it up. And thank DeMarco for me.”

“Sure.” Franco rose. “Good luck with those attorneys today. I’ll talk to you soon—”

“But not by phone. Check in when you get back, in person.”

Mike escorted Franco to the door. On his way, Mike’s phone buzzed and he answered the call. By the time he returned to the kitchen, the conversation was so intense that he hardly acknowledged my presence. Then the call ended and he faced me.

“I’ve got more upsetting news, Clare. I’m sorry. Stevens is being released.”

“What?! Why would they let him go?”

“There was no evidence to hold him on. Stevens had no GSR on his clothes or skin—”

“GSR? That has something to do with firing a gun, right?”

“That’s right. It means gunshot residue. Like I said, there was none on Stevens. No weapon in his possession when he was apprehended, and the Crime Scene Unit at the hotel has yet to find one in or around the parking lot.”

“Stevens could have hidden it, or tossed it out the window of his car!”

“He didn’t have a gun, Clare. The security camera footage from the parking lot clears him . . .” Mike continued to describe the footage, which showed a figure in a black rain poncho with the hood up approaching the dead man’s car. It appeared Mullins rolled down his window and spoke with the stranger before the shooter fired twice. Then the shooter reached into the car.

A moment later the shooter fled the scene.

“This all happened a good thirty seconds before Stevens even appeared. His arrival was immediately followed by a woman with blond hair and big glasses wearing a green rain poncho. She peeked in the car, then saw Stevens nearby and raced after him.”

“The police don’t know the blonde was me, do they?”

“Not yet,” Mike said. “And Stevens didn’t recognize you, either. He described the woman who chased him as a ‘nutcase.’”

“Great.” I folded my arms. “Do you think he was lying? I mean, if Stevens honestly didn’t remember me, that means he wasn’t following me. So what did he claim he was doing at the hotel?”

“Following the dead man, Toby Mullins. Turns out, Mullins is a licensed private investigator. But Stevens didn’t know that and neither did Victoria Holbrook. Both became suspicious of Mullins since he was lurking around the Parkview Palace, asking the staff questions. Victoria convinced herself that Mullins was involved in Annette’s disappearance. She ordered Stevens to find out if Mullins was hired by Tessa—and whether Tessa was responsible for abducting and possibly murdering Annette, since her young niece is the principal beneficiary in Annette’s will.”

“What about the late Toby Mullins?”

“Mullins was hired by Tessa to find her aunt—”

“So that’s why he was watching my hospital room?”

“Right. Tessa was highly suspicious of your loss of memory and asked Mullins to find a way to question you. Mullins was asking questions at the Parkview because Tessa was convinced Victoria was responsible for Annette’s disappearance.”

“Wait a second. If Victoria thought Tessa was guilty and Tessa thought Victoria was guilty, then it’s unlikely either was behind Annette’s abduction.”

“It looks that way,” Mike said.

“Here’s a question for you. What about the leather glove? The one I saw on Mullins’s dashboard. If it was mine, that’s proof he was involved.”

“We don’t know yet if it’s your glove. Forensics is testing for your DNA, but that takes time. And even if it is your glove, it proves nothing.”

“How is that?”

“Remember, the shooter reached into Mullins’s car. The police know he took the dead man’s phone, but the killer might have also planted your glove on the dashboard—to set Mullins up.”

“I understand. The shooter wanted to frame Mullins as a party to Annette’s abduction, and by extension Tessa Simmons. That seems logical. Is that the theory of your police investigators? Do they suspect the shooter is involved in Annette’s abduction?”

Mike shook his head. “The investigating officers are treating Mullins’s murder like a smartphone robbery gone bad.”

“But that’s crazy!” I cried. “Can’t the police pressure Tessa and Victoria? One of them must know something!”

“They’ve been questioned. Each suspects the other of being guilty. But there’s no evidence, and you can’t squeeze a square peg into a round hole.”

Square peg into a round hole.

For some reason, my mind held on to that phrase and even formed a picture of that geometry. Suddenly something extremely disturbing emerged from my memory. Square peg can’t fit, round hole. Can’t fit, round hole!

“Clare?”

Like a punch in the head, this new memory was so powerful that I dropped my coffee, shattering the cup and scaring poor Java and Frothy into scampering away. Close to passing out, I sank into a chair—and started to slide off it.

Mike caught me before I hit the floor.

“Clare, what’s wrong?!” he asked, alarmed. He was holding me so close, I could feel his heart beating under his T-shirt. I think my lips moved, but no words emerged.

Before I knew it, Mike was helping me lie down on the living room sofa. But I had to tell him! I had to get it out, even though it was difficult to form the words.

“The room,” I rasped. “It had a round window, like a porthole, too small for me to fit through.”

“What room, Clare?”

“The room they kept me in, for days.”

“Who? Who kept you there?”

“The Grunting Men.”