Stolen(70)

He’d been thinking the same. He kissed the top of her head, then sat down on the vanity bench and kicked out his legs. “Agreed. What do you make of Kourtney Kennedy getting up in our business again?”

She let out a breath. “Don’t be too hard on her, Spense. It’s Kourtney’s job to break stories. She’s ambitious, but she’s not mean-spirited. And I’m not sure reading that letter on the air was harmful. Now the public’s got an idea that Laura might be dangerous, and Major Crimes doesn’t have to take heat from the senator for putting it out there.”

“But Kourtney bought evidence.”

“You mean her news organization did, and they turned it over to the cops right away. We might never have gotten hold of that note and logbook otherwise. And, even though Kourtney didn’t divulge who her source was, at least she told you what he was.”

Even that, he’d had to drag out of Kourtney with threats. Her anonymous source was a mountain man. One of the loner types Ranger Pandy said lived off the grid. He’d gone to Frank’s Cabin looking for shelter and found a bloody mess instead. From what Kourtney told Spense on the phone, it sounded as if the anonymous mountain man had arrived sometime after their hiker, but before the cops. He’d found a logbook in the cabin and a note that had blown under the porch. When he’d seen the Chaucer’s press conference on a barroom television, he realized what he had was worth money, and he figured he could get more from the tabloids than the measly ten grand reward the Chaucers were offering.

He’d been right.

SLY News paid him double and made him a solemn promise to keep his name out of it.

“Maybe it won’t wreak too much havoc. But I remember Kourtney making a big show of turning over a new leaf. She said she’d learned her lesson after interfering with the Fallen Angel Killer case.”

Caity let out a low laugh. “You believed her?”

“Point taken.” He pulled Caity in for a hug. “Wish me luck with Mom.”



“Chocolate chip or oatmeal?” Agatha asked Spense.

“Oatmeal.” He liked chocolate chip better, but oats were good for his cholesterol.

“Good choice. I wouldn’t want to see you . . .” His mother’s voice trailed off and he finished her sentence in his head, go the way your father did.

He wouldn’t either. In more ways than one.

Arlene Cassidy’s kitchen was the opposite of her daughter’s bedroom. Painted a sunny yellow, the walls were covered with framed inspirational quotes, oversized metal spoons, wooden geese, and coloring book art from the neighborhood kids.

His mother, Agatha, pulled a chair up next to him at the kitchen table, and set a plate of homemade oatmeal cookies on the lace tablecloth.

He broke one in half, dipped it in his tumbler of milk, and took a bite that made his heart smile. His boyhood was filled with memories like these. He was very lucky in the mom department. He cleared his throat. He used to think he was lucky in the dad department, too. But after the information he’d uncovered about his father, while working his last case, that had changed.

“Not to be a Debbie downer—but a family history of early death due to heart attack puts you at risk.”

He turned his palms up. “You’re the one who made cookies. And I can’t control my family history.”

“But you can control your diet and exercise.”

“Thank you, Dr. Mom. I’m a good boy, I promise. You have no idea how much sh— . . . ribbing I take for my veggie burgers. According to the Bureau, real special agents eat meat. It’s in the manifesto.”

She laughed. “Thank you, son.”

“For what?”

“Just for being you. Since your father died, you’ve been looking out for me in every way a mother could hope. And I think these good habits of yours are more for my sake than your own.”

She had that right. He didn’t want his mother to suffer another loss. Which was why, at the moment, his vocal cords had suddenly gone on strike.

“You said you had something important to talk about.”

He sipped his milk. There, that was a bit better.

“Atticus?”

He thumped his chest with his fist and coughed to get his throat working again.

She started to refill his tumbler of milk.

He should just rip off the bandage. There really was no good way to break the news. “It’s about Dad.”

Her hand froze midpour. Milk overflowed onto Arlene Cassidy’s fancy lace tablecloth. “Heavens to Betsy!” His mother set down the carton and tried sopping up the mess with the lone napkin available. “Look what I’ve done. I’ve got to get this tablecloth in the wash right away. I’d hate for Arlene to come home and—”