Page 70 of 25 Alive

I said, “Morning, Lieu, everyone.”

I propped my feet up on the edge of Brady’s desk. I wasn’t trying to look nonchalant, but I was getting an average of three hours of sleep a night. My smartwatch told me so.

Brady passed me a cup of coffee across his desk, asked me how I was, and I said, “Fine. Considering.”

He nodded sympathetically, then said, “Cindy is bucking for our jobs.”

“I cannot wait to hear this,” I said. I meant it.

I sipped my coffee, looking up at Richie, who could not hide the glee lighting him up.

Brady said, “Boxer. Cindy met with Angela Palmer’s mother, Joann Kinney. Cindy, if I get this wrong, say something.”

“You know I will, Lieutenant.”

More laughter, this time from all of us. We knew Cindy well.

Brady said, “Girl Reporter, you have the floor.”

Cindy looked damned pleased.

She said, “Thank you, all. She leaned forward and put a small digital recorder on the surface of Brady’s desk.

Cindy said. “Joann Kinney, Angela’s mother, thinks Brett Palmer killed her daughter. It’s just her opinion. I was about to leave her house after our interview, and as an afterthought, she gave me this recorder.

“This gadget belonged to Brett Palmer, who was at the Kinneys’ condo after Angela’s death. Apparently, he stopped there en route to a ‘business’ trip, and he was packing and repacking assorted bags and cases. Later, Joann Kinney told me, Palmer called her from the airport saying he’d misplaced his digital diary and asked if she had found it. She looked for it but didn’t find it, and texted Brett that she didn’t have it—then.

“She eventually found the device a year or more later and kept it, but she didn’t listen to it. So, she gave it to me. I played it for Richie and he called Brady. Lindsay. Here comes the message. The first voice is Brett. The other voice is his stepbrother, Nate.”

Cindy turned on the recorder and I recognized Brett’s voice from our meeting at the Ritz with Cindy a couple of days ago. Brett was saying, “It still makes me furious. Angela kept calling. Texting. She sent me a pair of her panties. I had told her no in every way imaginable. I told her, ‘All I’ve got left is the sweat on my balls.’ She still wouldn’t quit. So. You know. I said, ‘You dead.’”

Cindy said to me, “Next. This is Nate speaking.”

“Good job, bro. I never liked that bitch.”

Cindy turned off the recorder and looked at me.

I was in shock, but I took my feet down from the edgeof the desk. Was I getting this right? Had Brett Palmer just admitted to wanting to kill his ex-wife? Had he gone further than that and actually killer her … and others? Was he the “I said. You dead” killer?

Brady said, “Thanks, Cindy. I’ll log the recorder in evidence. Conklin. Boxer. Find Brett Palmer and bring him in.”

CHAPTER104

RICH CONKLIN AND I parked our squad car across from the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, then walked through the lobby to the dining room. Maurice the maître d’—Cindy’s source—wasn’t at his post. Someone else was running restaurant traffic. He was thirtysomething, a genuine redhead whose name tag readRYAN MCCALL.

I badged him, introduced Conklin, and asked, “Is Maurice around?”

Ryan told us that Maurice was off today and asked if he could help.

Conklin told Ryan, “We’re actually waiting for Mr. Brett Palmer.”

“Oh, he was just here,” Ryan said. “Was he expecting you?”

I said, “Oh, boy. I must have gotten the time wrong.”

Ryan seemed eager to have a conversation that didn’t involve seating and menus.

“Maybe I can help you,” he said. “I’ve been working here for a year and I see Mr. Palmer a lot.”

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