"I could," he said evenly. "I'd want to know why. I'd want to know why you're asking me where I was around the time a man was blown up in Bonaventure."
"I'm asking you because a man was blown up in Bonaventure."
"What does it have to do with me?"
"Let me ask you this first. You didn't say how your niece was spared that day while your sister was killed."
"I told you, the bastards killed Philli because she fought them. Cops caught up with them at a garage; they'd locked themselves in with Marissa. Cops surrounded the place, got them to let the baby go and surrender."
"Who got them to surrender?" Phoebe asked him.
"The cops." His horse tossed its head at the impatience in Sanchez's voice, and automatically he stroked a hand over its cheek to soothe. "The cops saved her life. Men like that? Men who'd kill a mother trying to protect her baby? What's to stop them from doing the same to a little girl? Cops saved Marissa. It's why I'm a cop."
No possible way this is the guy, Phoebe thought, and when she ex changed a look with Liz, saw they were in agreement. "I was the hostage negotiator in the crisis situation with your niece."
"You?" Some of his color drained, then poured back again, deeper, darker. "I didn't know there was a negotiation." His voice had thickened. "You didn't ask for details?"
" I… when I got here… everyone was in shock, in mourning. It was like a blur. Then I had to go back, finish my tour. When I was discharged and came home, I didn't want to know. I didn't want to look back at that. I wanted-I wanted-"
"To be one of the ones who saved lives, who helped people in trouble."
"Yes, ma'am," he managed after a moment, and nodded to Liz. "You asked where I was last night. I stayed the night at my girlfriend's apartment. Here." He took out his pad, his pencil. "Here's her name, her number, the address. Is there anything else you need to know?"
"This is fine. Thank you, Officer Sanchez."
When she took the paper, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet. "Marissa's ten now. She's ten years old now. Here's her picture." He flipped it open, and Phoebe looked down at a dark-haired, darkeyed little beauty. "She's gorgeous."
"She looks like her mother." He put the wallet away, held out a hand. "Thank you, from my sister."
"Life's a strange ride, isn't it?" Liz commented as they walked the wide path back to Phoebe's car. "You changed the direction of his life. Never met him, never spoke to him before today, but he's doing what he's doing, maybe is what he is, at least partially, because of what you did one day five years ago."
"Maybe. It's just as true that due to someone's perception of what I did some other day, two people are dead."
Liz followed the direction of Phoebe's gaze toward the house on
Jones. "Do you want to go in, check on them?"
"No. Let's go talk to the husband, just to tie this one up. Then we'll try Brentine."
Delray was a quiet, gentle-eyed man. After five minutes, Phoebe decided he'd have a hard time squashing a spider much less killing a man in cold blood.
She had a much different impression of Joshua Brentine.
He kept them waiting twenty minutes in the reception area of his river-view offices. Clouds the color of angry bruises roiled in from the northeast, Phoebe noted. A wicked storm was just waiting to happen.
They were ushered in by Brentine's glossy, narrow-hipped assistant to an office with a wide view of the river that had been furnished more as an elegant parlor than a place of big business.
The mix of elegance and power reflected the man, to Phoebe's mind, who looked as if he'd been born wearing a perfectly cut suit. The burnished hair waved back from a high, aristocratic forehead; the hawksharp brown eyes didn't mirror the smile his mouth offered.
"Ladies. I apologize for keeping you waiting." He rose from behind an antique desk, gestured to a seating area with curved settee and wingbacked chairs. "My schedule is well packed today."
"We appreciate the time, Mr. Brentine. I'm Lieutenant MacNamara, this is Detective Alberta."
"Please, sit. I'm forced to admit I have no idea why I've warranted a visit from two of our city's most attractive public servants."
"The bank robbery which resulted in the tragic death of your wife has come up in a current investigation."
"Is that so?" Settling back in his chair, he looked politely puzzled. "How so?"
"I'm not able to divulge the details of an ongoing investigation. According to the information in the file, you weren't in Savannah at the time of your wife's death."
"That's correct. I was away on business. In New York."
Phoebe glanced around the office. "You must travel extensively, given the nature of your business."
"Yes, I do."
"And the bank where your wife was killed. Am I correct in saying that wasn't the bank you used, at that time, for your professional or personal businesses?"
"No, it wasn't. I don't understand why this has anything to do with something current, Lieutenant."
"We're just confirming details, and I certainly apologize for the necessity of bringing up a tragic event that caused you such grief."
But you don't appear to be touched by that, Phoebe thought. Not like poor Falk, reliving the death of Brenda.
"Witness statements agree that Mrs. Brentine did have an account in the bank. That, in fact, she came in that day to withdraw all her funds and close that account. Maybe you could tell us about that, Mr. Brentine, as it was over three years ago. We haven't yet been able to access the bank records on that transaction."
"Tell you what?" He rolled his shoulders. "Angela had a small, personal account of her own. Mad money, you could say. A few thousand dollars. Some terrible twist of fate had her deciding to bank that day, at the very time of the robbery."
"You didn't know about the account?"
"I didn't say I didn't know about it. I said it was her little piggy bank, so to speak."
"I'm sorry, I'm just wondering why the wife of someone in your enviable financial position would need a separate little piggy bank."
"I imagine she enjoyed the independence."
"But, according to the file, she wasn't employed during your marriage."
"No, she wasn't." He lifted a hand from the arm of his chair, a palmup gesture she recognized as impatience. "She was very busy taking care of our home, being a hostess, working with charitable organizations. I'm afraid I can't help you any more with this, so if you'll excuse me-"
"But to withdraw all of it, at one time," Phoebe persisted. "That's what stood out for me when I read the case file in conjunction with this other investigation. That's just puzzling."
"Unfortunately, neither you nor I can ask her."
"That is unfortunate. I expect she was going to buy you a present, or splurge on something foolish. I'm always splurging on something foolish if I get enough money in my hands. I bet she had a couple of close girlfriends. We women do, and we tend to tell them these silly details we don't tell our husbands."
"I fail to see what that detail has to do with anything."
"You're probably right. I'm just going off on a tangent. It just niggles me, I suppose. I hate not to know. Well, if you could tell us where you were last night, that would be helpful, and we'd be right out of your way. After eleven last night?"
He said nothing for an icy ten seconds. "I don't like the implications of that."
"Oh, there's no implication at all. I apologize if it seemed otherwise. It'd be helpful if you'd verify your whereabouts. Otherwise… " Phoebe looked toward Liz.
"That would niggle both of us," Liz said with a big smile. "Then we'd be taking up a lot more of your valuable time."