Page 149 of Fire and Bones
I swallowed, fighting down a new wave of nausea. Inched another small step.
“She was referring to tattoos and piercings. I saw you and your friend at the Petco.”
“What’s your point? That I was dancing with someone besides my ball-and-chain fiancée?”
“I had to wonder why you’d go to a pet store, you being so allergic to animals.”
Zanetti’s jaw muscles clenched, relaxed.
“I might not have put it all together, but you tipped me with your ‘super weird’ comment.” Hooking shaky air quotes. “You got that wrong, too.”
Adrenaline was pumping through me now, muscling out whatever Zanetti had put in the tea. I feigned dizziness and, imperceptibly, eased another few inches toward my goal.
“You overheard Ivy and me discussing kitty litter and gasoline, thought we were talking about the MO for the earlier Foggy Bottom arsons. You used the trick to make the third blaze look like the work of the same person.”
“You’re fucking nuts.”
“What you didn’t know, being out in ‘Hooterville’?”—more air quotes—“was that a suspect was already in custody for the first two arsons.”
“This is all lunatic speculation.” Though concern now wrinkled his brow.
“Is it?”
“You’ve got nothing to tie me to any fire.” Firm, but with an undercurrent of intense feeling growing in his voice. “Or to any fricasseed chick.”
“The property was on the market, Ben. Listed with your firm. You knew that W-C held title. You had the keys. The entrance code. Whatever.”
“That could be true of a dozen other realtors.”
“The dead woman was a poster child for tattooing and piercing. The ME says she’ll have her IDed by day’s end.” Not exactly Thacker’s words, but close enough.
Sweat was now dampening the black curls at Zanetti’s hairline.
If you don’t set him off, this doesn’t have to get violent.
Good advice from my frontal lobe. I ignored it. I’d made it across the room and was now close enough.
“Sound like anyone you know, Ben?”
“You’re batshit crazy.”
Maybe it was the drug-laced chamomile. Or the adrenaline rush. Maybe outrage at the way Zanetti had obviously been playing Ivy, whose wealth had likely kept him close. Maybe it was the false confidence I felt from having managed to reach and push the panic button. Ignoring the cerebral warnings, now at Defcon 1, I pressed even harder.
“Are you familiar with the big three in cop lingo, Ben?” Still brain-clouded, I had to think for a second to recall what they were: “Motive, means, and… opportunity? You… you’re rock solid on the last two. But for the life of me I can’t figure out why you killed her.”
No response. Just a hot amber sizzle that sent electricity fizzing through my chest, down my arms, and out into my palms.
“You’re batshit crazy,” he repeated.
I must have kept talking, but I couldn’t remember most of what I laid out. Warnings about the risk of physical harm during a takedown by cops? About the hazards of prison? The needle? Eternal damnation?
I was going full throttle when Zanetti straightened, bringing the hidden arm into view.
For the second time in three days, I was staring down the barrel of a handgun pointed at my face. This one was a big-ass Ruger 5.7 semi-automatic.
“You’re dead, lady.”
The amber eyes flicked to the gun’s inspection port, checking for a live round.