Part 3 (2/2)

The only thing I could possibly be charged with was being a fas.h.i.+on disaster in a tatty terry bathrobe and yellow flip-flops, but as far as I knew, that wasn't a criminal offense.

”Besides the fact that he's dead?” I said wittily. My mother always said my sense of humor would be the death of me, and I wondered whether she could be right.

”You knew all about that,” Martino said flatly. ”It was the first thing you mentioned when we came to the door.”

”Well, of course I knew about it,” I shot back, feeling a little bubble of anger rising in me. ”It's on all the news outlets, and Cyrus Still called me this morning to tell me about it.”

I glanced at the smiling Mexican sun G.o.d wall clock over the brick fireplace. ”In fact, I'm supposed to be at the station doing a live broadcast in thirty minutes.”

”Don't let us stop you,” Opie piped up again. I could tell he was trying to put on a low, testosterone-charged David Caruso voice, but his voice cracked in an embarra.s.sing squeak.

”Am I free to go, then?” I asked. If I didn't bother with hair and makeup, I could still make it to the station on time.

Martino stared at me, his face a picture of calm innocence. He made no move to get up; he just sat there, tapping his pen against the cover of his notebook. ”Of course you're free to leave,” he said easily; ”this is your house.”

He laughed at his own wit. Move over, Jay Leno!

”I mean are you going to leave?” I asked pointedly. Did I imagine it, or did his dark eyes flicker to the bedroom right behind me to the left? I felt as if we were playing a Tom and Jerry game, and I didn't like being Jerry.

”Just one more question,” he said, dragging out the words like Columbo. ”Where was your roommate last night?” He glanced down to check his notes. ”Lark Merriweather.”

”Lark?” I repeated, stalling for time. Opie leaned forward eagerly in his chair, muscles tensed as if he were a cougar sizing up a wildebeest, or maybe he just smelled the delightful aroma of French vanilla creme brewing in the kitchen.

The sooner I got these two out the door, the better! I planned on grabbing a cup of coffee and hitting the road in five minutes flat.

”Lark was . . .”

”Yes?” Martino said lazily. He was eyeing me carefully, and I could tell that his bulls.h.i.+t detector was in hyperdrive.

”Well . . .” I faltered, my chest tightening as my pulse thudded. Martino's eyes narrowed a little, and I tried to keep my expression neutral.

Did I dare tell them that Lark had disappeared for a few hours? Why did I have the sneaking feeling that they already knew that? Was this some sort of trap? I hesitated, and then Martino frowned, something registering in his dark eyes as he looked past me. I resisted the impulse to look around and took a deep breath.

”Lark and I . . . ,” I began.

Then I heard the bedroom door fling open behind me, and Lark walked into the living room. She looked pale and tired and was wearing a gray Juicy sweat suit that only highlighted the dark circles under her eyes.

”You don't have to answer that,” she said quietly. ”Go to work, Maggie; I'll handle this.” She pulled over a bar stool from the breakfast nook and slumped into it. She looked like she hadn't slept a wink, and even her choppy blond tresses appeared limp and dejected.

Both Martino and Opie jumped to their feet.

”Are you Lark Merriweather?” Martino asked, his voice hard and metallic. When Lark nodded, Martino and Opie positioned themselves on either side of her.

I didn't like the look of this, and I wouldn't put it past Martino to slip a pair of cuffs on her. I was still smarting from the embarra.s.sing perp walk he had put me through at the station yesterday.

”We have some questions for you, Ms. Merriweather,” Martino said, ”about your whereabouts last night.”

”She was here,” I said, my brain finally kicking into gear. ”I just told you we had dinner together.”

Lark glanced at me, her forehead creased. Her expression was hollow, guarded, as if she was afraid of what was going to happen next.

She was telegraphing something to me with her eyes, but all I could pick up on was an emotion I had never a.s.sociated with her. Uncertainty? Dismay? Naked fear?

I felt like my brain had been taken over by alien body s.n.a.t.c.hers who had tinkered with my neurotransmitters and now I was incapable of forming a coherent thought. Think, Maggie, think!

I hesitated, uncertain of my next move, and Martino pounced as if he'd been reading my mind.

”Be careful what you say, Dr. Walsh, unless you want to be charged as an accessory.” His voice was like shards of ice.

”An accessory to what?”

”To murder. The murder of Guru Sanjay Gingii.”

My heart stuttered, but I held my ground. ”That's ridiculous! Neither one of us knows anything about his death. I interviewed the man on my radio show yesterday, and that's the last I saw of him.”

”Maybe that's the last you saw of him, but I bet Ms. Merriweather here has a different story to tell.” Opie looked pleased with himself, and I felt like I'd been sucker punched.

”Lark, tell them you don't know anything about this!”

”Just stay out of this, Maggie,” she said in a weary voice. ”Go to work. I know they need you at the station.”

”But I can't just leave you here alone with . . . Batman and Robin!” I blurted out.

Martino flashed me a c.o.c.ky smile and Opie smirked. ”Oh, don't worry about that, Dr. Walsh. You won't be leaving her here with us. We're taking her down to the station for questioning.”

Chapter 5.

”They can't possibly believe Lark did it,” I moaned to Vera Mae half an hour later.

I'd just finished the rush-hour traffic report, filled in for Big Jim Wilc.o.x on the sports desk, and then covered the breaking news of the day: ”Visiting Guru Turns Up Dead.”

Vera Mae peered over my shoulder to read the copy, sucked in her cheeks, and twitched her nose as if she had caught the odor of rotting fish heads. ”Visiting guru turns up dead?” She snorted scornfully. ”Oh, honey, you must be upset!”

Okay, it wasn't my best effort. I knew my writing was as flat and boring as a fried mackerel, but my creative juices just weren't flowing this morning.

Irina had come up with a breezier opening line: ”Sanjay Says Sayonara!” It had some nice alliteration going for it, but Cyrus had nixed it because he felt it sounded too flippant.

Since all we had from Martino and company was radio silence, we didn't have many newsworthy details about the crime scene, and the piece about Guru's Sanjay's death took up less than two minutes of airtime.

Ray, the summer intern in the news department, had cobbled together some clips, and I'd included a quote from Guru Sanjay's publicist, who said they were rus.h.i.+ng a posthumous biography into print ($7.99 and available at fine bookstores everywhere).

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