A hard, sarcastic grin cut across his bearded jaw line. “Who is, Alex? Who the hell is?” He stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut.
“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath as he hunched his shoulders and jogged, limping slightly, across the parking lot. He started to slip once on the ice but caught himself easily.
Maybe she should follow him. There was a good chance he would run because the cops were going to arrest him for Margrove’s murder. It was only a matter of time. He’d been at the murder scene. The victim’s throat had been slashed, just like his family members who were murdered in the McIntyre Massacre at Cold Lake twenty years ago.
As far as Rousseau knew, no murder weapon had been found in Margrove’s case, but as for motive? Jonas was a hothead, his volatile temper legendary, and he’d already told her that Margrove and his aunt had bled the McIntyre Estate dry. That would be more than enough.
She watched as he made his way to a small sedan parked at the far edge of the lot.
Jonas was still rough around the edges, but she’d dressed him well, getting him new jeans and sweaters and jackets, even boots. She’d also bought him a cell phone—one of those temporary burners—and handed him a grand in cash. She needed to be able to communicate with him and would bill him for it, along with her time, as soon as he got even a penny of the McIntyre inheritance. He’d get his share and more of whatever was left, and then they’d sue the hell out of Faiza Donner, Merritt Margrove’s estate and his half sister for the rest of what Alex figured was his fair share, but that was just a pittance. The big hit would come when she sought restitution for Jonas being falsely imprisoned. She planned to sue the county and the state and she was just warming up. There could be others . . . oh, the opportunities were endless.
Jonas hadn’t been wrong when he’d called her out just now.
It wasn’t just the fame Alex Rousseau wanted, she intended to take the fortune, too.
She saw Jonas climb into the passenger seat of the beater car, and as the dome light of the little sedan blinked on, Alex caught a glimpse of the driver: Mia Long. No real surprise there. Mia was his most ardent and loudest supporter. Alex even saw the rosary dangling from the rearview mirror, visibly twinkling until the door was shut and the interior light dimmed.
Mia hit the gas.
Her car sped out of the parking lot to the access road.
For a second Alex wondered if the two were getting together for sex, long yearned for and idealized. If so, the physical act would probably be hot as hell. Until it wasn’t. Even still recovering from the accident, Jonas looked tough. Muscular. Sexy. Or was there something else going on? She hoped not. Sliding her SUV into gear, she told herself that she wasn’t worried, then eased the Lexus onto the access road, drove across the overpass and turned onto the freeway.
As she increased her speed, she switched on the wipers.
Jonas was right, she reminded herself as she sped past a huge truck that was spraying sludge behind its big tires. If he got himself into more trouble, he’d just become more valuable.
A win-win.
As long as he was her client.
She pressed down on the accelerator, her LX 570 shooting around some muscle car, her wheels humming on the asphalt, the engine a soft, steady purr.
Jonas McIntyre could leave tonight and screw his brains out—or whatever.
But he’d be back.
Alex and the remaining McIntyre son who had survived the massacre and been so wrongly charged were symbiotic.
Jonas needed her as much as she needed him.
*
Kara slid into Tate’s SUV. “Buy me a drink?” she asked.
“It’s not even noon. You serious?”
“Just kidding. Drive.” She hadn’t been kidding. Cooped up with the detectives in the interrogation room had been excruciating. Her nerves were shot and nothing would calm them more than a Bloody Mary or a Mimosa or a damned wine cooler.
“Where to?”
“Back to your place to pick up Rhapsody, then I guess I should go home.” There was vodka and wine waiting for her in the kitchen and she felt a gnawing ache to taste it.
He pulled into the slow-moving traffic, then glanced her way. “How’d it go with the police?”
“It went,” she said, glancing at Tate as he slowed for a red light. “Look, I haven’t been totally honest with you.”
He didn’t seem surprised.
Great. Probably meant he hadn’t been honest as well.
“I don’t trust reporters, I don’t trust men, hell, I don’t trust anyone because I have abandonment issues and blah, blah, blah. It’s been explained to me by a dozen shrinks.”