Page 29 of The Right to Remain

“Owen killed Owen,” he said in a matter-of-fact fashion.

Jack let the answer hang between them, but the silence didn’t seem to make CJ uncomfortable in the least.

“If that’s what you think, then why does Patricia say that your interests are at odds with Elliott’s?” asked Jack.

“Because I don’tknowthat Owen killed Owen. The police seem to think Elliott killed Owen. And—” he started to say, then stopped.

“And what?”

“So does Helena.”

“Why?”

The kitchen door opened, and one of the trainees entered. “Excuse me, Mr. Vandermeer. Are you coming back to the studio, or should I tell everyone that the session is over?”

“Tell them I’ll be right there.”

The trainee left the room, and CJ wrapped things up with Jack.

“If you want to know what’s behind Helena’s thinking, you’ll need to ask Helena. Now, I have a training class to finish. But stop by anytime. Don’t let Patricia Dubrow’s bark scare you away. I have nothing to hide.”

He started toward the kitchen door.

“Before you go, let me ask you one last question,” said Jack, stopping him.

“Anything at all. Shoot.”

“Is Helena a sheep or a sheepdog?”

“Oh, be careful with that one,” he said with an uneven smile. “Helena’s a wolf.”

Jack couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.

CJ left the room, and Jack was left alone to wonder how a suicide became a murder, why Elliott was the only suspect—and, most of all, why his own client was no longer answering his calls.

Chapter 10

It was pizza for dinner, and Righley could not have been happier.

Andie had left a nightly dinner plan to keep Righley from eating like a frat boy while Mom was away. Jack had picked up Righley from soccer practice with every intention of adhering to the Monday plan. But Righley made a convincing case: How could they in good conscience continue to say that the best pizza was from Sir Pizza on Key Biscayne if they hardly ever ate pizza from anywhere else? Jack gave in, but only because they were within striking distance of what, in his opinion, was the number one contender.

“Casola’s it is,” he said.

Casola’s had been at the same unadorned location, just off busy U.S. 1 and on the other side of the elevated Metrorail tracks, since Jack was a kid. It was family owned, having migrated to Miami from Boston, and quickly earned a name for itself serving traditional thin-crust pizza by the slice or the pie, but only to those willing to wait in line and paycash only. Righley, a purist, got plain cheese. Jack went for the Italian sausage and peppers. They took one of the old wooden picnic tables outside.

“Can Max have the pizza bones?”

In Righley-speech, “pizza bones” were the leftover crust.

“He can haveone,” said Jack. “Max is not as active as he used to be.”

“Are you as active as you used to be?”

It was as if she’d timed that question to coincide with the first bite of his second slice.

“All right, smarty-pants. Max can have two.”

Righley was nibbling around her crust, creating the perfect “bone,”when Jack’s cell phone rang. Not his regular phone. It was his burner. Andie always left a prepaid, untraceable cell with Jack when she went undercover. She wasn’t supposed to call except for an emergency, and even then, it had to be burner-to-burner.