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“It’s been too long.” Jack’s voice.
Then Waterston. “Rum, no ice?”
The sound of liquid pouring—the recorder disguised as a cell phone on the table next to the glasses.
“Which reminds me, I brought you a little something to celebrate.” Jack again.
“Forty-year-old Balvenie? A celebration must be in order.” Waterston.
The sound of clinking glasses. Laughter—Waterston’s unmistakable heh-heh-heh.
“But what happened to make it so . . . complicated?” Jack.
Maren rose and stood behind Detective Sifuentes where she could see the graphic of the sound level going up and down.
“Marjorie Hopkins’s death was Wallis’s idea.” Waterston. “She found out Hopkins could sink our investment with her research, so Wallis took care of it. The journalist figured that out. A tower of blocks and cards in the end. Unfortunate. I know how you feel about Tamara.”
“Kid stuff, times change.” Jack.
Jack Caries is bluffing, Maren thought, keeping Waterston talking.
“Tamara told me she wanted out of the New Mexico funds. Her behavior became unpredictable and jumpy. I came across her crying like a little girl. She had stumbled upon something linking the account to Hopkins’s death.”
No response from Jack.
Waterston again. “I made the decision.” “Did you—”
“Me? I have no stomach for violence.”
“But wasn’t it hard for Wallis to kill another woman? And someone she knew?”
“No. As Wallis told it, the knife cut through Tamara’s heart easily, soft as butter.”
A scuffling sound, a crash, maybe a chair tipping over.
“Okay, okay, calm down. You’re right. I took care of Wallis, didn’t I? Justice was done. A little poison in chocolate. She and that journalist both had a sweet tooth. In its own way, a kite across the harbor. I’ll get us some food, let’s start over. After all, chess satisfies, not checkers.”
The graphic on the screen went flat.
It’s over, Maren thought, but Sifuentes raised a hand.
The sound of one gunshot. Then another. The two that Maren had heard through the fence. Nearly a minute passed.
Then Waterston’s voice. “Maren.” A pause. “Maren.”