Read Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons for Free Online

came out, which it’s bound to, nobody’d believe a word any of us said.”
    I thought about the way Martinez and Curry would think; all they wanted was to make a case. She was right— the alibi she had was like none at all. And, assuming she got off, if being accused of murder didn’t wreck her career, becoming a known psychic— read flake— most assuredly would.
    I was defeated. “Okay. The odds are against us. Let’s talk strategy.”
    “Well, I’ve been thinking about it. If they’re so sure I did it, they’re busy checking out my alibi, trying to find a motive, all that stuff, right? But of course you and I know they’re barking up the wrong tree. The real question is who did kill McKendrick.”
    “You’re psychic. You tell me.”
    She gave me a pained look. “It doesn’t work that way.”
    Well, why the hell didn’t it? I made up my mind to ask, eventually, but for now I couldn’t afford to get distracted.
    “Ladies,” said a voice from my past, “if I may make so bold, who killed McKendrick is only the first question.”
    Our heads swiveled to behold Mr. Rob Burns, my ex-boyfriend, who was standing at the end of our booth, where he’d apparently been eavesdropping on us.
    He put up a placating hand. “I only heard the tail end. Really. I just got here.”
    “To what do we owe the honor?” I asked as coldly as I could.
    “I just came from your office, where, incidentally, I observed Inspectors Curry and Martinez. I convinced Alan I could help, so he sent me over.”
    A million questions pushed to the forefront of my brain, but I hit him with the most immediate. “How do you know they didn’t follow you?”
    “You think Kruzick and I are amateurs?” He sat down across from me, nudging Chris toward the other end of the booth, suffering not a second’s conscience. Rob is a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle. Chutzpah is a requirement for the job.
    The next question popped out: “How’d you find out what’s happening?”
    “I work for the Chronicle, remember? The same as Jason McKendrick did; he was a friend of mine.”
    “Oh, Rob, I’m sorry. I never knew that.”
    “Well, he wasn’t the kind of friend I saw outside the office. Or he wasn’t by the time I met you. Jason had a lot of enthusiasms— one after the other.”
    “He had fights with people?”
    “No, he just got tired of them— and it’s to his credit that he never seemed to make anybody mad. A very popular guy, Jason. Brilliant. Very complex. He was hard to know, but not at all hard to like. It wouldn’t be far off the mark to say that everybody loved him.”
    Nobody mentioned the obvious. “Did you know him, Chris?”
    Chris never looked so much like a racehorse— aristocratic and powerful, tightly wound, dangerous— as when she was angry. Her nostrils quivered. I half expected her to toss her head like Silky Sullivan. “Rob, you’re pissing me off.”
    He backed off— literally— turned toward her, and slid his butt toward the end of the booth. But he never lost eye contact. “You’re in trouble, Ms. Nicholson. Those idiots at the cop shop want to try to hang it on you. Would it interest you to learn the coroner found a piece of paper with your name and address on it in McKendrick’s shirt pocket?”
    “What!”
    “I thought so. You think Alan told me where you are because I want to help them? Trust me, okay?”
    She rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure. I’d be a fool not to.” But she laughed. That was something she hadn’t done lately.
    “Listen, the Chronicle 's pulling out all the stops on this one. Jason was one of our own. I’m assigned to the story, but it’s been made clear to me that it isn’t only a story— we’re out to get the bastard who did this.” Though we didn’t protest, he held up a placating hand. “A little conflict there, but we’re only human. Corporately human, I mean. When I found out you’re the number-one suspect, I made a deal with city desk. Someone else is