Page 189 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

“No way!” Jardine was backing toward the rear door.

“Drop it!” Rivers too had his pistol pointed at Jardine, who awkwardly swung it, aiming first at Rivers, then Mendoza, and back again.

“Put the gun down, Gus,” Rivers said. “It’s over. We know you were in San Francisco the night Charity Spritz was killed.”

“No!” Korpi cried from the vestibule. “Oh, Gus! You couldn’t. You didn’t.”

Jardine snapped, “Shut up, Jen. Just shut the fuck up.”

“Oh. Dear. God. You told me you didn’t do it!”

“I said, ‘Shut the fuck up’!”

Sobbing, Jennifer opened the front door, letting in a rush of cold air carrying with it the sound of ever-approaching sirens.

Jardine was rattled. “You’re bluffing,” he said to Rivers. “I was here that night.”

“No, you weren’t. Your alibi doesn’t hold up, and Charity Spritz scratched you, Jardine. Got some skin under her nails. DNA came back, and once we get a sample of yours . . .”

“Not happening!” Gus shook his head. “Nuh-uh!”

“We’ll get a court order. Until then, we’ve got pictures of your hand before surgery, and guess what? Teeth marks match her bite.”

“What? No!” He was wild-eyed now, moving slowly and steadily to the door, but with one hand in a bandage and the other holding the gun, he couldn’t open it.

“Careful,” Mendoza said, still aiming.

“This is all a lie!” Gus charged, but he was sweating. “I’m not goin’ down for this. You set me up! You fuckin’ cops set me up!”

“Drop the weapon,” Mendoza ordered again.

“It’s over, Gus,” Rivers said and saw the reaction in Jardine’s face.

“Shit!” Mendoza said, and three guns fired as Rivers threw himself behind the recliner, a bullet whizzing within inches of his head.

Jardine spun, dropped the gun, and went down hard, his head cracking against the back door as he fell, his gun flying out of his hand.

“Gus! No! Gus!” Jennifer Korpi screamed and attempted to run to her brother, but Mendoza restrained her.

“Stay back! Ambulance is on its way,” Mendoza said. “I called. It’ll be here in two minutes.”

Jardine’s eyes started to glaze over. “I’m gonna sue you,” he swore as he stared up at Rivers as he approached.

Rivers kicked the gun into the living room, far from Jardine’s reach.

But the injured man wasn’t done with his invective. “I’m gonna sue the hell outta you, you miserable cocksucker, and I’m going to sue that shitty Sheriff ’s Department for all it’s worth.”

“No, Gus, that’s not going to happen. You got it wrong.” Rivers squatted just out of Jardine’s reach, his gun still drawn. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going down. For the murder of Charity Spritz and maybe a few more. If you don’t want to spend the rest of your life behind bars, you’ll tell us everything you know and cut a deal. Not just about the murder in San Francisco, but who killed Willow Valente and what the hell happened to Megan Travers.”

“Not me,” he said. Then, before the EMTs and two deputies burst through the door, his face contorted in pain, a stain of red showing through his shirt at his right shoulder, he said again, “I’m gonna sue your ass, Rivers. And you know what? I’m going to sue everybody else’s fuckin’ ass, too.”

“Is that right?” Rivers said, spying the cigarette lighter Gus had dropped. He picked it up, slipped it quietly into his pocket, and said, “I don’t fuckin’ think so.”

* * *

How many days had passed?

Five?

---