Evening Bags and Executions(22)

I hardly recognized him.

Detective Shuman was good looking, kind of tall, with brown hair and a boy-next-door smile. He didn’t need that smile much in his line of work, but I’d seen it a few times and it was killer.

But tonight he looked thin and drawn, wearing a beige oxford shirt and jeans—Shuman seldom wore things that went well together—that seemed to accentuate his frailness. He sat hunched over his paper coffee cup, his arms on the table, as if the weight of Amanda’s loss bore down on him so heavily he couldn’t sit up straight.

“Hey,” I said softly as I walked up.

A few seconds passed before he looked up, and then several more went by before he seemed to recognize me. He hadn’t shaved in a while, probably since he heard about Amanda’s death, and his eyes were bloodshot and red rimmed.

I sat down across from him and placed my hand atop his on the table. Shuman latched onto my hand—not too tight—and gazed into my eyes. I’d never seen anyone look so completely devastated in my entire life. Pain and sorrow radiated from him.

I guess I should just buck up, get over my breakup with Ty, and move on with life. We were, after all, both still alive.

I wanted to tell Shuman how sorry I was about Amanda, but there wasn’t a word in the entire English language that could express how I felt, or one that would make things better for Shuman.

I covered his hand with my other one and we sat there for a few minutes just holding each other, then Shuman glanced away and pulled his hand free of mine.

“What’s the story?” I asked.

“We’re working on the theory that it was somebody she was prosecuting,” he said.

“You know who it was?” I asked.

Shuman shook his head. “Several possibilities.”

“You must have a gut feeling about one of them,” I said.

Shuman gazed across the parking lot. “Yeah, I’ve got some ideas.”

Unlike the other detectives investigating Amanda’s murder, Shuman had the advantage of having spent his evenings, nights, and weekends with her. Surely she’d talked about her cases. She’d made casual comments, expressed worry, confessed she was scared—something that Shuman knew and had been investigating on his own, and probably not according to established LAPD procedures.

He wouldn’t be on leave for no reason. More than likely he’d been looking for the creep himself.

That’s what I would have been doing.

A minute passed before he looked back at me again.

“How did you find out about . . . Amanda?” he asked.

“I called your office. Whoever is covering your calls told Madison,” I said. “He came by the store and told me to back off.”

“Why did you call?” he asked.

“I hadn’t heard from you in a while,” I said. “And, well, seems I’m a murder suspect again.”

Shuman’s expression hardened, and he seemed to sit up a little straighter.

“The murder at the bakery,” he said. “It’s the only case Madison has caught since . . .”

“Madison seems to think I killed Lacy Hobbs over a cake dispute I had with her a few months ago,” I said. “Which is ridiculous, of course.”

“I talked to Madison,” Shuman said. “He’s got nothing. No clues, no leads, no witnesses. Nothing—but you.”

While I appreciated Shuman asking Madison about the murder investigation I’d been thrust into, I felt a little odd thinking he’d gotten involved in my troubles when he had so many of his own. Then it occurred to me that since Shuman hadn’t been able to help Amanda, maybe he wanted to help me.

“Listen to me, Haley.” Shuman reached across the table and took my hand again. “Madison is in a worse mood than usual. This thing with Amanda, it’s got everybody on the hunt—and wanting to bring someone down. If you’ve got any idea who was involved—or any way of finding out—then you’d better jump on it. Now.”

Okay, this was kind of scary.

Shuman pushed out of his chair. “I’ve got to go.”

“If you need anything—anything at all—let me know,” I said. I grabbed my mocha frappuccino and walked with him to the parking lot. “Stay in touch.”

Shuman nodded, got into his car, and drove away.

I slipped into my Honda and dug my cell phone out of my purse. I accessed the Internet and pulled up the Lacy Cakes Web site while I slurped down most of my frappie. They were open for business, according to the hours posted on the site. I started my car and headed for Sherman Oaks.

Okay, yeah, Shuman had scared me. I knew Madison had it in for me—he’d had it in for me for a long time now. I could see where everyone in law enforcement was majorly twisted up about Amanda’s murder and wanted to take it out on anyone and everyone. Arresting me would somehow make Madison feel better about things.