Page 122 of Dead Man's List

Finally, the attorney knocked on the glass.

“Showtime,” Kit said.

She and Connor filed back into the room.

“My client is ready to talk, but he wants protection,” the attorney said.

“From whom?” Connor asked.

The attorney gave him a cutting glare. “From this guy with a neckbeard, of course. That was your intent in mentioning him, wasn’t it? To scare my client into a confession?”

Of course it was, Sam thought, but Kit was ignoring the attorney, her attention focused on Daly. “You saw him, Mr.Daly?”

Daly nodded. “He came to my office. Brought me a package. It was an Amazon package, so it could have been left on the stoop and he just picked it up. Never occurred to me that he wasn’t the legit deliveryman. He stopped to chat. Asked how I was doing. Asked how my wife was. Said he’d heard she was under the weather.”

“Didn’t you find that suspicious?” Connor asked.

“No. Our normal deliveryman knows my wife. She works in the front office. Answers the phones and does the accounts. She wasn’t there that day because she had a cold.”

“Which day was this?” Kit asked.

“Monday.”

Kit glanced at Connor. “Neckbeard didn’t waste any time, did he?” She turned back to Daly. “How were you contacted about new payments?”

“Text on a burner phone. Same one as before.”

That was not unexpected, but still good information to have. “When were you contacted by burner phone?”

Daly swallowed. “Sunday morning.”

“What did Munro have on you?” Connor asked.

His attorney shook his head. “That’s not on the table.”

“How much were you paying him each month?” Kit asked.

Daly ground his teeth. “Thirty grand.”

Kit whistled softly. “Wow. The other victim only paid five. What you did must have been really bad. What do you know about a group effort to kill Munro?”

“We want a deal,” the attorney said.

Kit’s smile was feral. “We’ll call Joel Haley.”

San Diego PD, San Diego, California

Wednesday, January 11, 8:00 p.m.

“Thank you for dinner, Betsy,” Ashton said, handing her the plate he’d completely cleaned of a heaping stack of chicken and waffles. “This sure beats a burger and fries.”

“Of course it does,” Betsy said, clucking over them like the mother she was. “My Rita loves breakfast for dinner, and she had a bad day today so she got to pick what we ate. It wasn’t any trouble to make enough for you all. Sam? Another helping?”

Sam patted his flat stomach. “Oh no, ma’am. I couldn’t eat another bite. But thank you.”

“Kevin? Connor?”

“No, ma’am,” both men said.

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