Page 52 of Accidental Murder

“Of course. Because of the abuse. Even so, I’d like you to come to the precinct.”

“With or without benefit of lawyer?”

“You choose.”

“I didn’t kill Kayla Macintyre.” The elevator doors opened, and Norton exited. He marched past security and faced a rotundman whose cheeks were blazing red. “Sir, how nice of you to visit us.”

“My father’s bill is exorbitant!” The man wielded a fist. “He doesn’t need nurses every hour of every day. He’s a vegetable.”

Megan butted into the conversation and handed Norton her card. “Tomorrow at ten a.m., Sir.”

At the exit, she glanced back. Norton had the man by the coat lapels and was looking anything but cool, calm, and collected.

The holiday eveningtraffic was giving Megan indigestion. She was going to be late to the gala. In order to avoid a snag up ahead, she hung a left on Sutton while continuing her telephone conversation with Thomas Jenkins, the son of Kayla Macintyre’s Arizona client. “Sir, your father was seventy-nine, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And he died from an allergic reaction?”

“Yes.” Over the phone, the man came across as crisp and efficient. “There was soy sauce in his salad dressing. The restaurant responsible swears soy wasn’t in the dressing recipe, but cross-contamination could have been the issue.”

A woman in a raincoat, the collar turned up, darted in front of the Camry. Megan slammed on the brakes. The woman threw her a dirty look.

Megan waved an apology and, after collecting herself, proceeded. “Is there an investigation pending, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any reason to think somebody murdered your father?”

“Are you trying to find some link between his death and Kayla Macintyre’s?”

Megan paused. This guy was intuitive. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I’ve considered the possibility, ma’am, but there’s nothing to connect them that I can figure. They communicated by telephone. Kayla and he never met in person.”

“When did your father last speak with Miss Macintyre?”

“Let me check his datebook.” A moment of silence. “Here it is. Monday. Late afternoon.”

“Could your father have had any research that might have been?—”

“Unearthed?”

Megan hoped the pun was unintended. “I was going to say top secret.”

“Anything Kayla would have known about my father’s research, the world knew. Everything he discovered has been published, thanks to Kayla.”

Megan followed up with her scientists-as-suspects theory. “Did your father know Sara Simmons or Richard Troy?”

“Doubtful. My father was antisocial. After his fiftieth birthday, he ceased seeing people other than those who came to the house. He didn’t go on any digs. Doctors said he suffered from a psychosis associated with his increased size. He weighed over four hundred pounds when he died.”

“Hold it. You said he didn’t go out”—she jumped on an error in the man’s story—“but he went to the restaurant?”

“No, ma’am, he received home delivery.”

Take-out food was easy to tamper with. Megan asked for the name of the investigator in charge of the case, jotted the name on a pad, and thanked the son for his time.

At ten to seven, she pulled into the precinct parking lot and charged upstairs praying she wouldn’t run into the captain. ThePolicemen’s Ball was open seating, meaning if she was late, she would blow the chance of finding a spot at Tom’s table. Tom in Vice. Her dream date for over a year now.