Blood Always Tells by Hilary Davidson (always you kirsty moseley .TXT) 📗

her friend were in the house for hours before the CO killed them. They probably went in, turned on the furnace, and had no idea they were slowly being poisoned by it.” She touched his arm. “I’m very sorry about your sister. I don’t know if this is any consolation, but it’s a painless death. Carbon monoxide makes people drift off to sleep, and they just don’t wake up.”

That wasn’t any solace to Desmond, not just then. The shock of Dominique’s death was too fresh and too raw. Returning to consciousness meant that the pain of discovering her cold body hit him all over again. He swallowed hard. “Her boyfriend, Gary, he died the same way?”

“Yes. There hasn’t been an autopsy, but it’s pretty clear without one.”

He’d built up such a case against Gary in his mind. It was hard to let go of it. Gary was a victim, too.

“There are a couple of officers from the PMRPD who want to ask you a few questions,” the doctor went on.

“PMRPD?”

“Pocono Mountain Regional Police Department,” Dr. Torres explained. “They seem to have a pretty good picture of what happened at the house, but they want you to clear up a few details.”

His brain fog was thinning. He remembered what had happened in the house. “I want to talk to them, too.”

“I told them they only get five minutes right now. We need to get you into the oxygen chamber.”

The state troopers were waiting in the wings. One introduced himself as Tyson; his partner was Westergren. Tyson did most of the talking. “We wanted to check in with you. Did you know both of the deceased?”

“Dominique Monaghan is my sister. I met Gary Cowan a couple of times. I don’t know him well—didn’t know him well—but I recognize him.”

“What, exactly, was the nature of their relationship?”

“My sister was seeing Gary for the past couple of years,” Desmond answered. “But Gary was already married.”

Westergren nodded. “We figured it was something like that.”

“Champagne, condoms, fancy lingerie,” Tyson added. “Kind of obvious what they were up to, you know?”

Desmond gave him a cool, appraising look, and Tyson recoiled slightly, but he didn’t look apologetic.

“You’ve talked to Gary Cowan’s wife?” Desmond asked. Dominique had cared more about saving that woman’s life than she had her own. He had to know.

“We tried to,” Tyson said. “She’s not home.”

“We tried calling her. Someone from the NYPD went to her apartment to notify her of her husband’s death.” Westergren was frowning. “She wasn’t there. The doorman said she and her houseboy had left in a rush last night and never came back.”

“Houseboy?” Desmond asked.

“Rich people can be weird. Kind of makes you wonder if she and this houseboy have something going on, huh?” Tyson wriggled his substantial eyebrows.

All eyes went to him, but no one said a word.

“Well, her hubby was cheating on her, so maybe she was screwing around, too. She’s probably not going to be sad he’s gone,” Tyson added. “Anyway, she’s a billionaire heiress, so it’s not like she was counting on her hubby to support her.”

Desmond remembered how upset Dominique had been when she’d called him. His sister had been agonizing about the wife. Gary had been plotting the woman’s death. Only, the world had turned upside down and Dominique and Gary were dead instead.

“Trin,” Desmond said slowly. “That’s the wife’s name.”

“Trin Lytton-Jones,” Tyson answered. “The names rich folks give their kids, huh?”

“She ran off?”

“Yeah. Why?” Tyson frowned at him.

“Dominique was worried about her last night.”

“There’s a record of a 911 call your sister made last night from her boyfriend’s phone,” Westergren said. “She was talking about a woman named Trinity who was in danger. The operator thought it was a crank call.”

“Well, we know now what happened,” Tyson said. “The doc explained how CO fogs up the brain until you’re so confused you can’t tell which way is up. So, Dominique Monaghan maybe thought to call 911 because she and Gary weren’t feeling well, but then she got confused on the phone.” Tyson nodded to himself, as if all the pieces were coming together tidily in his mind. “It’s sad. All this could’ve been avoided if the house had a CO detector.”

“It’s a tragedy,” Westergren said. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

Desmond’s experience with the police didn’t allow him to trust them. He wasn’t prepared for this sympathy and obvious credulity.

“Whoever rented them that house may be criminally liable,” Tyson said.

“What?”

“Sorry, not them. Whoever rented Gary Cowan the house, I should’ve said,” Tyson explained. “Fellow named Jake Weston. We’ve got him coming in.”

“Gary rented the house?” Desmond asked, unsure whether he could believe his ears. Bits and pieces of Dominique’s conversation with him were coming back. He remembered what she’d said about being kidnapped, only to find that Gary had really planned everything. Only, how stupid was Gary, if he staged a fake kidnapping at a house he could be easily traced to?

“Yes. Can’t imagine why. It’s a wreck.”

“There was someone in the house when I went in,” Desmond said. “What about him?”

Tyson and Westergren looked at each other. “Who?”

“There was a black car, an old Honda, parked in front of the house when I got there. When I was in the house, someone locked me in the basement. I had to break the door to get out.”

Tyson shook his head. “There wasn’t anybody else there. There was no car, except yours.”

“I noticed that,” Westergren piped up.

Desmond and his partner stared at him. The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty-two.

“I noticed that your sister and her boyfriend didn’t have a car there, even though there are tire tracks,” Westergren explained. “You’d have to use a car to get to that house. It didn’t make any sense.”

“Huh.” That was all Tyson had to offer.

“That was weird,” Westergren said. “That and…”

“What?” Desmond asked, but the doctor was there, interrupting them.

“I’m sorry, but we really need to get Mr. Edgars into the hyperbaric chamber,” Dr. Torres said, just as Desmond’s body shot some adrenaline through it and