Page 15 of Don’t Say a Word (Angelhart Investigations #2)

Chapter Eleven

Margo Angelhart

After debating with myself about whether I wanted to talk to Rick Devlin about the Bradford case, I decided his insight could help so I called him as I drove home from Tess’s.

“Devlin,” he answered.

He must be on duty.

“It’s Margo.”

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you never call me.”

“You don’t call me either,” I snapped.

“I’m sorry, I’m preoccupied.”

“You’re working.”

“On my way to a major accident at Bell and Thirty-Fifth. Likely DUI, injuries, the whole nine yards.”

It had to be serious, because as a sergeant, Rick was generally only called out when they needed someone in command to manage the scene.

“I have some questions about an old case you worked. Do you have time tonight? Tomorrow?”

“Not tonight—I don’t know how long I’ll be at the scene, and I don’t like getting home after midnight. Lunch tomorrow?”

It felt so easy. Maybe because I was still basking in the affection of Gabriel and Tess, but I couldn’t help but think what would have happened between Rick and me if both of us were less stubborn and more forgiving.

“Name the time and place.”

“Twelve thirty, Lenny’s or Orozco’s?”

“You’re making me hungry already,” I said, thinking of Lenny’s delicious and cheap(ish) cheeseburgers.

And 12:30 should be doable—if I didn’t track down Angie in the morning, I had the standing appointment with Lena at 11:20.

“Lenny’s,” I said. My cousins owned Orozco’s, and while I loved the food, I wanted privacy.

“Bet you haven’t had dinner yet.”

“I had cheese and crackers,” I said.

He snorted. “I’m rolling up to the scene now, see you tomorrow.” He ended the call without asking me specifically what I wanted to talk about.

My love life had never been as turbulent as my sister’s. In high school, I’d had one boyfriend. We weren’t really in love (though we thought we were), and when we graduated, we went our separate ways.

In the Army, I never dated anyone in my unit, which would have been awkward.

But meeting civilians wasn’t easy, and honestly, I didn’t have the energy to maintain a relationship.

I dated a firefighter for a while, but he was more serious than I was.

Then a construction worker for more than a year.

We had fun, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

Growing up in my family, casual relationships weren’t the norm. Dating was about finding your soulmate. It was hard to shake that mindset, and I didn’t want to. Too many of my friends had gone from person to person, never landing anywhere, and none of them seemed happy.

I firmly believe you had to be happy with yourself first before you could be happy with someone else. And for the most part, I was. My dad once called me an “optimistic pessimist,” and that pretty much fit.

I left the Army at twenty-four. While bartending and starting my PI business, I met and fell in love with Charlie Endicott.

I thought he was The One . He made me feel special in a way no one else had.

The flutter in my stomach when I saw him, how hearing his voice lifted my mood, how I looked forward to the time we spent together.

Sex was deeper, more passionate. Love does that. I hadn’t known until I knew .

And once I knew, I couldn’t go back.

Charlie was the first man I truly loved. He left me for the first woman he had ever loved. I never doubted that he loved me when we were together, but when his high school sweetheart returned to Phoenix, he realized he still had feelings for her and thus, we parted ways.

Rick was my friend before we became lovers. Rick needed a date to a wedding and practically begged me to come. I didn’t have plans, so I said yes. We had a fantastic time, the chemistry was obvious, and things just continued.

He was exactly my type—fit, active, spontaneous. He liked hiking and hot air balloon rides, but also lazy mornings in bed and soaking in hot tubs. We took it slow, mostly because of his daughter, Sam. We were comfortable.

But Rick and I are both stubborn and set in our ways.

He didn’t mind that I was a PI, but he hated how close I came to crossing legal lines.

So I stopped telling him everything. We’d argue, break up, get back together, and have fantastic make-up sex.

Rick also had some baggage. A divorce after his wife left him for France, leaving him with their six-year-old daughter.

An abusive, alcoholic father. Certain cases got under his skin, bringing back memories he didn’t like to talk about.

He never crossed any hard lines, but it was enough to affect his future with the department.

I could handle it, but he wouldn’t let me in.

Ultimately, those problems we could have overcome because I loved him and we had a comfortable relationship. I grew close to Sam, more like a big sister than a mother figure. When she confided in me about something and asked me not to tell her dad, I agreed. He found out anyway and exploded.

That moment made things clear. He didn’t see me in his life for the long haul. Because if I was going to love—and maybe marry—Rick Devlin, I was all-in, and that meant being Sam’s stepmother. But he didn’t trust me, and that hurt.

It hurt way more than I expected.

Our four-year on-again, off-again relationship ended in January.

I don’t see us rekindling it. I understand, Rick is Sam’s father.

Maybe I should have told him about the online bullying after her first kiss, even though she swore me to secrecy.

But I helped her, I was there for her, and Rick cut me out of her life. And damn, I missed it.

I miss Rick, I miss Sam, I miss what I thought we had.

It was dark when I walked into my house.

I opened the refrigerator and stared, as if willing food to magically appear.

Sighing, I grabbed the bread and jelly that were pretty much the only edible things I had, closed the door, took the peanut butter from the cabinet and made a sandwich.

Not the best meal because I didn’t have milk to go with it, but it filled the void.

I was halfway done eating at my counter when my cell phone rang. It was Josie.

“Hey, Pussycat,” I said.

“Margo, I just got an email from command. There was a stabbing at Sun Valley High School.”

“That’s awful. A student?”

“No. The guidance counselor, Lena Clark. She’s dead. Didn’t you talk to her today?”

“Yes,” I said, my stomach churning. I tossed the rest of my sandwich in the trash and drank water. “What happened? Do they have a suspect?”

“I don’t know, I’m not on duty. It’s not public yet—I mean, the name of the victim hasn’t been released.”

“Can you send it to me?”

“Yeah, don’t share it.”

“What time? I saw her this afternoon, before school let out for the day.”

“Um, it says she left a volleyball game at 5:05 p.m. and was found dead in her office at 5:25 p.m.”

“Twenty minutes—that’s a narrow window.” Then I remembered something else. “Shit, Josie, I talked to her this afternoon.” I scrolled through my phone. “She called me at 5:14.” My stomach twisted and I felt lightheaded. She was dead ten minutes after we talked.

“What did you talk about?” Josie asked.

“We scheduled a meeting with Angie Williams for tomorrow.”

“I’ll see if I can learn more.”

“I’ll call Jack,” I said. “Thanks, Josie.”

I ended the call and two screenshots popped up into my messages of a memo headed: NOT FOR PUBLIC DISTRIBUTION. There wasn’t much more than what Josie told me. I brought up Phoenix PD on social media, but the public information officer hadn’t issued a statement yet.

I forwarded the info to Jack with a call me in bold. Ten minutes later he did.

“Still at Whitney’s?” I asked. Did I sound snide? Mean? I hoped not. But I couldn’t say his ex-wife’s name without an edge of disgust.

I was working on it.

“No, I’m home. Is this the same counselor you talked to today?”

“Yep. The thing is, I’m expecting the police to talk to me tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“She called me at 5:14 this evening.”

“That’s specific.”

“I just looked it up. We talked for two minutes.”

“About?”

“Something I don’t really want to tell the police.”

“You can’t withhold information in a homicide investigation.”

“I know, so I’m going to avoid them as long as I can.”

“What’s going on?” Jack demanded. He sounded kind of angry.

“Bad dinner?”

“I’m not talking about Whitney,” he snapped. “What was your conversation with Lena about?”

“To arrange a meeting with Elijah’s friend Angie. She also told me Angie has my business card and may call me herself.”

“Okay, so? Why don’t you want to tell the police?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell them about the conversation, but I don’t want it getting back to Detective King that I’m working on Elijah Martinez’s death investigation.

Lena said that Angie left an angry message on King’s voicemail Friday.

I’d like to talk to the kid first, get her side of the story. ”

“I don’t think you need to avoid the police, but I understand the need to have as much information as possible before talking to them.”

“I’m only answering their direct and relevant questions,” I said.

Jack and I had a slightly different style when it came to working with law enforcement.

Jack was always on their side, which I understood since he’d been a cop.

I wasn’t. Not because cops were generally bad—I knew many and that wasn’t true—but because they didn’t always have my client’s best interests at heart.

I didn’t want to jam Angie or anyone else.

“Let me find out who’s investigating the homicide. King isn’t the only detective in Violent Crimes.”

“And maybe find out if they have a suspect?”

“I’ll see what I can learn. Don’t avoid giving your statement for too long.”

“I won’t, but I’m not saying a word until they track me down. By the way, thanks for the file on the Bradfords. Tomorrow, I’m meeting with Rick about it.”

“Why Rick?”

“He led the team that executed the search warrant. Lenny’s at twelve thirty, if you want to join us.”

Jack snorted. “You don’t want to be alone with him?”

“Knock it off.” He was partly right, and I didn’t want to talk about it. “Let me know what you learn and if the police show up at the office to talk to me.”

“Don’t avoid them for too long.”

“Roger that.” I ended the call and considered what Lena Clark’s murder meant. While I couldn’t see how her murder was connected to a teenager’s overdose, what were the odds that she’d end up dead only hours after I met with her about Elijah?

Had she learned something she hadn’t shared with me over the phone? Did she suspect where he got the drugs? Had she confronted one of his friends at the volleyball game? What did she know that was so dangerous someone killed her on campus? It was risky and reckless.

I needed to talk to Angie Williams as soon as possible. I called Theo. “I’m going to send you an address and a photo of a teenager. She lives in an apartment on Nineteenth, south of Dunlap. Be discreet.”

“Always am.”

“Get there by six thirty—I suspect she’ll leave between seven and seven-thirty for school, but earlier is better.

” If they didn’t cancel classes, which was a definite possibility after a campus murder.

But if I had a home life like I suspected she did, I might leave just to get out of the apartment.

“I’m on it, Boss.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Theo.”