Seven

Luckily, I wasn’t sucking on a straw when Abrams said that, or an ice cube might have gotten pulled up and lodged in my eye socket. “What?” I managed to choke out.

He did a very good Cheshire Cat impression. “I thought you’d like that one,” Abrams said.

“So, thirteen million dollars is missing from the foundation Legs Gibson started, Legs has a knife sticking out of his chest, and you’re going to arrest his wife because. . . why?”

Abrams lost most of the grin. “Well, that whole arresting the wife thing seems to be going by the wayside at the moment,” he said. “We have EZ Pass records showing her entering the New Jersey Turnpike a good four and a half hours before Gibson was stabbed. We don’t have any evidence yet that she has the money. She certainly didn’t deposit thirteen mil into her checking account.”

“And there are no other suspects?”

“There are legions of other suspects,” Abrams said. “There are enough people who had access to that funding to keep us interrogating until my retirement. The question is, if someone else was skimming the money, why would they kill Gibson?”

“Because he found out?”

“He didn’t seem terribly concerned about it,” Abrams said. “There he is, on a Saturday afternoon, losing himself in an administrative assistant in the human resources office of the Department of Housing and Urban Development.”

“True,” I pondered. “Money. And here I thought you guys had found some DNA evidence you were going to hang Steph out to dry on.”

Abrams stopped smiling entirely, and tried to catch the waitress’ attention so he could get a refill. He was unsuccessful, both at getting more coffee and at throwing me off the scent.

“You did find DNA, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Keep your voice down,” he breathed. “Okay. I’m going to tell you this, but if you ever, ever try to attribute or connect it to me, I’ll deny not only that I ever met you, but that I’ve ever even heard of the state of New Jersey. Are we straight?”

“I’ve always been. I never even experimented in college.”

His eyes were not amused, and they were practically boring holes into my forehead. “Okay,” I said. “We’re straight.”

Abrams looked positively intense, which was a 180-degree turn from his usual expression. He was talking in a tone so low I couldn’t be sure I was picking up every word.

“We found a hair,” he said. “Just one hair, and it didn’t match Gibson, Ms. Braxton, or Mrs. Gibson. We ran it through the DNA files of known offenders who’ve given samples, through the FBI, and we hit a match. A guy from Texas, Branford T. Purell.”

“What did Mr. Purell get convicted of?” I asked, in a tone almost as low as Abrams’. Some things are catching.

“Murder. He killed three women in Texas in the late eighties.”

I started breathing a little faster. “Did he use a knife?”

“No, a shotgun. Mr. Purell wasn’t exactly subtle.” Abrams was-n’t making eye contact—there was something he wasn’t telling me.

“Okay, so let’s find this Purell guy. Where is he?”

Abrams set his jaw, and turned his head to make direct eye contact with me. His eyes weren’t amused.

“He’s dead,” Abrams said. “Branford T. Purell was executed seven years ago.”