Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)

Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4) Page 62

“I drove Robert’s car. He sat next to me in the passenger seat. He called me vile, obscene names and demanded that I give him money for Merodie and his other projects until he fell into a nontoxic coma. My experience with my father taught me to be more circumspect. To be sure that my analog would not be discovered in his body, I was determined to kill Robert slowly in order to give his system time to metabolize the drug.

“I drove along East River Road until I found a likely spot near the park, and when I was sure there was no traffic about, I drove the car off the road. I realized later there was a certain amount of danger to me—I could have been injured—but I didn’t consider it at the time. After we came to a stop, I pushed and pulled to get him behind the steering wheel. I locked the doors. After first making sure the exhaust pipe was buried, I climbed to the top of the ravine. The hardest part was trudging through the blizzard back to my own car. It was only a few miles, but the journey took nearly two hours in the storm. My feet and hands were wet and numb from cold—I was afraid I’d succumb to frostbite. Fortunately, I survived the ordeal, drove home, and climbed into a hot tub.”

“What about Robert?” I asked.

“They discovered his car a couple of days later. Once again the autopsy found a great deal of alcohol, but not a trace of my analog. He was ruled dead of carbon monoxide poisoning, and his death was dismissed as an accident.”

My head spun at the admission. I held it with both hands.

“You killed him!” I shouted.

“I most certainly did not,” Cilia insisted. “I merely allowed him to die, just like Father. There’s a difference.”

“No, there isn’t.”

I was on my feet now. I stepped toward the unlit fireplace, then pivoted to face her. “Do you realize what you’re telling me?”

“Yes,” Cilia replied.

When I continued to stare at her, Cilia added, “Do you wish to hear the rest of the story?”

I didn’t say if I did or didn’t, but when Cilia motioned me back to the chair, I sat. She took another sip of her drink, stared at me for a moment, then slowly took one of my bishops off the board as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

“Check,” she said.

I wasn’t surprised by the move. I had seen it coming and simply slid a pawn forward two ranks to block the attack. Cilia pulled her queen back into the first rank next to her king. I slid my queen to the fifth rank of the H file, attacking Cilia’s knight. She studied the move, shook her head, and slid her knight out of danger.

“Tell me about Brian Becker,” I said.

Cilia’s head jerked up. She held my gaze for a moment, then leaned back in her chair. She watched me over the chess pieces.

“Brian Becker abused Merodie, and I have no doubt whatsoever that in time he would have abused Silk. That, I could not allow.”

“So you killed him.”

“It was easy,” Cilia said.

“Did Merodie know you were going to kill him?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you conspire with Merodie to murder Becker? Did she trade custody of Silk for his death?”

“Mr. McKenzie. You’ve met Merodie. Do you honestly believe I would take the enormous risk of confiding in her?”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

A more amazing story I had never heard. Yet throughout it all Cilia’s voice was at once warm and precise, as if she were confiding a minor personal secret to a lifelong friend instead of throwing open the closet door to a nosy stranger.

“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.

“So you’ll believe me when I tell you that I had nothing—absolutely nothing at all—to do with the death of Eli Jefferson.”

Who said you did? my inner voice cried.

“Perhaps not,” I said, “but aren’t you even a tiny bit concerned that I’ll run off to the county attorney and report that you confessed to three murders?”

“My father and Robert were both cremated, so there is no physical evidence to prove a crime was even committed, much less that I committed it. As for Brian Becker, you would need a court order to exhume his body, and I doubt you’d get one. After all, it’s merely your word against mine. If somehow you did manage it, the embalming fluids used by the mortician to preserve his corpse would conceal any trace of the GHB—if there’s any to be found.”

I had nothing to say.

“Besides,” said Cilia. “Why should you care?”

I didn’t have an answer for that. At least not one that Cilia would understand. Yet I did care. I cared a great deal.

Cilia resumed her playing position. She brought her queen out again. I removed a pawn with my own queen. She moved her bishop one space, giving me a clear shot at her king.

“Ms. St. Ana, you’ve been unusually forthcoming. It makes me wonder why.”

Cilia didn’t reply. Instead, she watched me push a rook into position. I watched her watch me. Two more moves and you have her, my inner voice announced.

“The simple truth is, I have nothing to hide,” she said. Cilia pressed her bishop against my king. “Checkmate.”

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