I reached my own car, conveniently parked against the sidewalk near the driveway, facing the direction taken by the other car.

  I leapt in and took off after them. I had not taken time to consider what I would do if I caught them. I was lucky they didn’t appear to have a gun on them. I was lucky they’d been as surprised to see me as I had been to see them. Perched awkwardly on top of that wall, I’d been in no position to put up any sort of fight in my own defense.

  I kept going.

  The car I was after was a white Toyota Corolla, about five years old. A good, reliable vehicle, perfect for taking the family on vacation or for the run to the shops. I was in a two-seater Miata. I often had to restrain myself from letting her have her head on the winding oceanside roads of Cape Cod.

  I don’t leave my phone’s virtual assistant on, ready to serve me at any vocal command. That would have been convenient at the moment. Instead, I had to fumble in my pocket with one hand, while trying to steer the car with the other, to turn it on.

  “How may I help you?” the computer voice asked pleasantly.

  “Call Ryan.”

  “Do you want the cell number for Ryan Ashburton?”

  “Yes!”

  “Calling Ryan Ashburton.”

  The phone rang. Voicemail picked up, and I was asked to leave a message. “Whatever you’re doing, drop it. I’m in pursuit of … of a housebreaker and possible assailant. Going west on …” I glanced around me and pulled up a mental map. Top of a hill, ocean to the east, bright lights of town to the north, an area of small houses, large lots. Intersection with convenience store and petrol station coming up. “McConnell Street, approaching Wyatt Boulevard.”

  The Toyota tore through the intersection without bothering to so much as slow down to check if anyone was coming. Fortunately, no one was. I also disregarded the stop sign, although I did venture a peek in both directions first. “Okay, we’re passing Wyatt. Still going west on McConnell. Toyota Corolla. White. About five years old. Can’t read license plate; it’s covered in mud. I doubt that’s an accident.”

  “Pip-pip.” Ryan’s voicemail informed me my time was almost up. “Uh … call me,” I said.

  This was a residential area. Small houses close to the street and low apartment blocks. It was late, but some people were in their living rooms watching telly or out walking their dogs before turning in. The dog walkers stared as we sped past. A man shouted. A car began to pull out of its driveway and managed to stop with a squeal of brakes and inches to spare as the Toyota rushed past.

  This, I thought, might not be the best of ideas. Someone could be killed. The car ahead of me didn’t bother to flick the turn indicators before they took the corner onto the street that led to the main road to Chatham. Water sprayed up from the wheels, soaking a woman standing at the corner waiting for the light to change. If the light facing her had not been red and the woman had been in the intersection, would the driver of the Toyota have noticed her? Would they have cared? It was coming up to eleven, and plenty of traffic was still heading into and out of town. Horns blared as approaching cars gave warning.

  I put on my own turn indicator and allowed my car to drift to the side of the road. Once it came to a halt, I sat there for a long time, shaking from more than cold feet.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My phone rang.

  “Are you out of your mind!” Ryan screamed. “Call off the chase now.”

  “I have. I’ve stopped. I don’t dare continue. He’s heading toward the route to Chatham. Possibly going to take the main road to Chatham or circle back to West London.”

  “Give me that,” Louise Estrada said, presumably meaning the phone. “Calls are coming in. A couple of kids street racing. Several near collisions. Might that have something to do with you, Gemma?”

  “Possible. Likely even.”

  “Of all the—”

  “I’ll handle it, Louise,” Ryan said. She mumbled something rude, but she handed the phone back. “Gemma, care to tell me why you were in hot pursuit of person or persons unknown?”

  “Someone broke into Robbie’s Ellis’s flat. I interrupted him—them—whoever—and they tried to get away.”

  “And you decided it was your business to arrest them?” Estrada said, obviously listening in.

  Truth be told, I hadn’t decided anything. I’d acted.

  “We need to get back to the flat,” I said. “You’d better call for backup. I didn’t see Robbie, but if he’s home, he might need help. I’ll meet you there.” I rattled off the address and hung up to Ryan’s cry of “I don’t—!”

  I pulled into the next driveway and turned the car around. Then slowly and sedately, I drove back the way I’d come. Red and blue lights filled my rearview mirror, a siren yelled at me, and I was about to pull over when it accelerated and sped past me.

  The cruiser reached Robbie’s building before I did. By the time I arrived, another was screeching to a halt. I parked on the street outside the building and got out of my car. A uniformed officer was in the brightly lit vestibule surrounded by a cluster of residents. I saw my shop-clerk friend dressed in a long, thick housecoat, fluffy slippers on her feet.

  A car pulled up next to mine. Neither Ryan nor Estrada smiled at me.

  “Around the back,” I said as they joined me on the sidewalk. “First flat on the left side. The door off the ground floor patio’s open. That is, it was open when I left. It looks to have been forced. I’ll show you—”

  “You will show us nothing,” Estrada said. “Stay here or I’ll have you arrested for interference.”

  Ryan didn’t come to my defense, so I mumbled, “Okay.”

  An ambulance arrived under lights and sirens. The medics got out, but they didn’t rush into the building. They awaited the all-clear.

  Ryan and his partner strode across the lawn, shouting orders. “Officer Johnson,” Ryan called. “You’re with us. Richter, keep everyone where they are. And I do mean everyone.”

  Ryan, Estrada, and Stella Johnson pulled out their guns, and they walked slowly but purposely around the apartment building. I could have told them not to bother, but I refrained. The culprit was long gone.

  Several minutes passed. More people began coming out of the building and the adjacent ones to see what was going on. Nothing was going on. Shots did not ring out. No one cried for help. No one tried to flee the scene. Red and blue lights continued to flash, reflecting off the puddles on the grass and the sidewalk, the faces of the nosy and the curious and those here to do a job. Radios crackled.

  Eventually, the medics gathered up their bags and went in the front door. Stella held the door open for them. Estrada came out and walked toward me.

  “Detective Ashburton says you can view the scene now,” she said. “Be prepared to answer a heck of a lot of questions.”

  “I am. Is Robbie in there? Is he okay?”

  “A white male, late thirties, is dead in the unit you directed us to. Residents of the building tell us that apartment is occupied by one Robert Ellis, which is the name on the mailbox.”

  I nodded. Robbie. Poor Robbie. I’d never liked him, and he’d never liked me, but I was sorry for his death.

  Estrada’s dark eyes studied me. “Coincidence you were here in time to almost apprehend the killer, Gemma?”

  “Yeah, for once it was. I intended to ask Robbie if he killed Tina Armstrong.”

  One expressive eyebrow rose. “Didn’t see that one coming. Do you … still think he did it?” She asked the question almost despite herself.

  “I’ll have to give it some thought. Falling out among thieves perhaps?”

  “If the two incidents are related.”

  “If,” I agreed.

  * * *

  This time I went in via the main door and down the corridor. A medic stood outside the door to Robbie’s apartment talking with Ryan. She gestured, and he nodded. She stuck her head into the apartment and said, “We’re good to go.”

  Robbie would not be taken away. Not yet.

  “Go on in,” Ryan said. “Shoes off, booties on. Step carefully, don’t touch anything.”

  I slipped out of my wet trainers and into the protective foot coverings, and then I went in. Small entrance hall with closet to the left, bathroom to immediate right. Tiny open kitchen with a table for two on the right next to the bedroom, living room—telly still on, but now quiet—straight ahead. Drapes over the balcony doors at the far end of the room moved gently in the incoming breeze. Robbie lay on his back on the floor just out of sight of the windows, his legs and feet next to the kitchen table, his torso and head partially in the bedroom. His eyes were open, but he saw nothing. The dirty beige carpet beneath him was wet and red, residue of blood spatter on the walls.

  The bedroom was a jumble of objects. Half-made bed, clothes on the floor, stacks of cardboard boxes. A tablet sat on a table, screen dark.

  Despite what Robbie told Jayne about continuing to work on his art, not a trace of painting supplies or canvases in progress (or even finished) was to be seen.

  The only thing on the night table was a framed picture of Jayne. It was the only photograph in the entire flat. I estimated the picture to have been taken about four or five years ago. She smiled at the camera; the wind had caught her long blond hair, her eyes shone with youth and, if not love, traces of affection. The sea was blue and sparkling and calm in the background.

  “Yeah,” Ryan said following my gaze. “I saw that.”

  “Poor Robbie.”

  A knife lay on the floor of the living room, long and sharp, glimmering in the lights.

  “Was the man you saw wearing gloves?” Ryan asked.

  “He was. Winter coat, some sort of bandana around his lower face, hat pulled down almost to his eyes. Gloves, boots.”

  Estrada came into the room. “Makes it tough sometimes in winter. In midsummer, everyone would take notice of a person wearing gloves.”

  I looked at the carpet. Some clumps of mud, but likely not enough prints to be able to identify what shoes had been in here recently.

  “What can you tell us about the man you saw?” Ryan asked.

  “Was it definitely a man?” Estrada said.

  “I can’t say. Might have been a woman. Under six feet, more than five seven or eight. Lightly built, meaning not overweight, or from what I could tell, overly bulky.” I thought about the way they’d vaulted easily over the balcony wall. “By the way this person moved, almost certainly they are under fifty and in reasonably good physical shape. Although I suppose an older person who works out regularly might have been able to move that fast and clear the wall. Not a police officer or any sort of emergency responder.”

  “How can you tell that?” Estrada asked.

  “He—and I will call this person “he” only because “they” is getting awkward. We really do need to come up with a good singular, gender-neutral pronoun.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” Estrada muttered. “In the meantime—”

  “He parked face-first in the parking space. Wasted precious seconds having to back out and turn around.”

  “Good one,” Ryan said. His phone rang and he checked it. “Be right back. Gemma, keep looking.”

  I kept looking, but I didn’t see anything more of interest. “Was the door to the hallway locked when you accessed it?” I asked Estrada.

  “It was.”

  Not a surprise, but worth knowing. The killer had obviously come in via the patio after breaking the glass on the sliding door. Unfortunately, it had rained earlier, washing away much of the snow, and people would have been up and down the path to the cars all day. It might not be possible to tell if this person had lingered outside for long, waiting for—what?

  “It’ll be important to determine if Robbie was drunk,” I said. “Judging by the number of cans of beer on the table, that is a possibility.”

  “Wits dulled. Slow to react,” Estrada said.

  I stood where I was, conscious of not leaving a trail of my own footprints or knocking anything over. “He’s watching telly, beer and pizza. He hears a noise as the glass breaks and the door opens. Or maybe he doesn’t hear it because the telly is so loud. Someone steps into the living room. He notices them and stands up, probably confused. Does Robbie recognize this person? Did he have the face coverings on yet?” I took another look at Robbie. His right wrist was cut, but not too deeply. “Not much in the way of defensive wounds, so I will assume, until evidence proves otherwise, he didn’t put up any sort of a fight. The killer, again until evidence proves otherwise, came here with the intent to kill. And wasted no time doing so. Therefore, they brought their own knife rather than wander into the kitchen in search of one. That knife looks fairly ordinary, but it might be significant. Did my unexpected appearance cause the killer to panic and leave it behind? Or did they not care if it was found, as it’s nothing special?”

  “Your unexpected appearance,” Estrada said calmly. “We only have your word about what happened here.”

  I smiled at her and held my arms out to my sides. “No blood.” I unbuttoned my coat and held it open. “As you can see. Robbie was knifed up close. Look at the spatter on the walls. No way would the killer have been able to avoid getting blood on them. You are welcome to search my car for hastily disposed-of garments.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “We will.”

  Ryan rejoined us. “The car you chased appears to have been found,” he said. “Abandoned in a big box store lot in West London. Only because we put the word out did anyone check it. Plates were covered in mud, but they’re good. Do you know a Rose Jane McMaster of Chatham?”

  “No,” I said. “I do not.”

  “Me neither,” Estrada said.

  “Officers are calling on Ms. McMaster now. At a quick look, she has no record other than a couple of parking offences.”

  “Car stolen?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Stolen car,” I said. “Broken door to gain access. Knife brought. I’d say this is clearly a premeditated killing. Did the neighbors hear anything? Robbie yelling or something like that?”

  “We’re asking,” Ryan said. “So far nothing.”

  “I don’t have my hopes up. That TV was on loud,” Estrada said. “Some sort of action movie, all gunshots and yelling and thumping music. I turned the sound off when I came in. This building is old, solid and well built.”

  “Let’s let these people do their jobs,” Ryan said. “I still want to know what brought you here tonight, Gemma. We can sit in my car.”

  Estrada held out her hand. “Keys.”

  I looked at the hand. “What?”

  “Keys to your car. You said I could search it. I intend to do so.”

  I took the keys out of my pocket and gave them to her. She tried not to smirk. “After I’ve done that, and presuming I find nothing incriminating, even if I find something incriminating, I have a line I want to follow, Detective.”

  “What?” Ryan asked.

  Estrada pointed into the bedroom. “That picture is of Jayne Wilson. I’d say the presence of that photograph in an apartment that otherwise has nothing similar indicates the deceased was, shall we say, very fond of Ms. Wilson. Ms. Wilson is due to be married in a matter of days. Is it a coincidence that a death, which is still under investigation, happened at Ms. Wilson’s birthday party? Or that the person who died at the party was a former girlfriend of Ms. Wilson’s fiancé, Andy Whitehall?”

  “You can’t be thinking—” I said.

  “I want to talk to Andy Whitehall,” Estrada said. “Tonight. His ex-girlfriend died only two days ago. His fiancée’s ex-boyfriend died tonight. Coincidence, or did those two individuals somehow threaten his impending marriage?”

  “That’s—” I said.

  Ryan held up a hand. “Do it, Detective. Take a uniform with you. Because I’m good enough friends with Andy to be the best man at his wedding, I can’t be involved.”

  Estrada gave him a nod, gave me a long look, and walked away, tossing my car keys from one hand to the other.

  “She can’t—”

  “She’s got a valid point, Gemma,” Ryan said. “Let her do what any good detective would do. Now you still haven’t told me what brought you here tonight.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was late when I finally got home, tired, grumpy, hungry, seriously annoyed. At least, Louise Estrada graciously returned my car keys before heading out to question my best friend’s fiancé.

  I’d sat in Ryan’s car, and as we watched forensics people coming and going, and neighbors peering over balconies or through windows, I outlined the thought process that caused me to be at Robbie’s place tonight. I told Ryan I had reason to believe Robbie had been acquainted with Tina Armstrong in New York, and I was curious as to why he never mentioned that. I told him I was worried Robbie would become a pest, or worse, in Jayne’s life, and I intended to tell him to back off.

  I did not say I thought it possible Robbie killed Tina to cause trouble for Andy. Once Estrada mentioned Andy’s name, I didn’t want to put any additional focus on my friend.

  “If Tina and Robbie knew each other in New York,” I said, “that might mean the origins of this case can be found there.”

  “Except that this picture you dug up on the internet was taken three years ago, and Tina went to California afterward. You’re stretching here, Gemma. No need for what-ifs and supposedlies. We know they were in the same place, at the same time, on Tuesday night.”

  “I am never fond of coincidence. ‘The universe is rarely that lazy.’ ”

  “You’ve said that before. Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Brother Mycroft, not in the original Canon but the Cumberbatch TV show. The point is still valid. Unlikely as it sometimes is, coincidences do happen. It might be possible Robbie’s death is unrelated to Tina’s. I know you and Louise are investigating Tina’s death as a murder, but I’m still holding the door open to suicide or misadventure.” In the light of the police car behind us, I caught the quick grin flashing across his face. “What?”