Inherit the Dead

matter-of-fact, “while Julia would get half the money, supposedly the other half was due Angel on her twenty-first birthday. Assuming the papers were signed in time.”
    “Why look for the daughter?” Fleming asked, frowning. He’d gotten interested enough to stop playing smart-ass. “If she didn’t sign the papers, wouldn’t Julia, her mom, have kept it all?”
    “Maybe Julia was less . . . pragmatic than you, Detective.”
    “Especially if she was dying,” Watson put in. “She wanted to find the daughter, repair whatever it was that got broken between them, then make sure her daughter was set for life.”
    “That’s what I don’t get,” Perry admitted. “If all that’s true, then why the hell did Julia jump before she knew whether or not I’d found her daughter?”
    Watson seemed about to reply when a burly detective stuck his head into the room. “Henry, someone here to see you.”
    “Busy,” Watson said, waving off the detective.
    The big cop raised an eyebrow. “It’s Angelina Loki,” he said.
    The three seated men traded looks.
    Watson said, “Send her in.”
    They all rose as the burly detective stepped aside and two women entered the interview room. The blond and beautiful Angel Loki appeared tiny next to Athena Williams, the African American woman who ushered her in, a firm arm wrapped around her charge.
    As Perry made the introductions, the burly detective brought in another chair, placed it next to the one Perry had used, then exited and shut the door.
    Her hair tied back in a conservative ponytail, a single strand of pearls riding her black silk blouse, Angel already seemed to be dressed in mourning clothes. The tissue clutched in one hand, occasionally dabbing at her eyes, confirmed that.
    The nanny had changed, too: a dark dress instead of the designer jeans she’d been wearing when Perry last saw her. She carried a purse so big and heavy that Perry half expected her to pull out a small lawyer, should one be needed.
    Stepping forward, Watson said, “We’re terribly sorry for your loss, Ms. Loki.”
    “Thank you.” Her voice sounded like it was coming from far away.
    The detective waved them to the two chairs, while he and Fleming took the other two, leaving Perry to lean against a wall.
    Sitting, Angel said, “So, then . . . it’s true? My mother is . . . she’s dead?”
    “Unfortunately, yes,” Watson said. “We were searching for you to inform you—how did you hear?”
    Angel turned to her nanny as if unable to respond.
    “One of those twenty-four-hour news channels,” Athena said. “It’s on the TV already. They were just guessing, of course . . . but Angel, she knew it was her mama right away.”
    Perry ran a hand over his face. Damn twenty-four-hour news cycle meant the vultures were pouncing faster than ever; speculation had long since replaced reporting. They didn’t give a good goddamn about the families. But then, how would Angel know it was her mother if the news hadn’t actually said so?
    “What made you think, know it was your mother, Angel?” Perry asked.
    “Well, they—” Angel stammered. “They gave the address, so I just thought—”
    The nanny stepped in. “That’s a rude question at a time like this, Mr. Christo.”
    “What happened to my mother?” Angel asked, now choking back sobs.
    “I thought you saw it on the news,” Perry said.
    “I did but—”
    Perry studied her, the tilt of her head, the tissue to her eyes. He watched Watson grow uncomfortable, and even the smart-assFleming was doing his level best to disappear into his chair. Angel had that effect on men.
    Finally, the older detective said, “We’re still gathering evidence, and waiting for the coroner’s report. But it would appear your mother took her own life.”
    Angel’s eyes widened, but still there were no real tears that Perry could see. “How?”
    “I’m sorry. Indications are that she jumped from her balcony.”
    While one arm remained around Angel’s shoulders, Athena’s free hand shot to her mouth, clutching at herself.
    Looking toward the PI, Angel said through splayed fingers, “Mr. Christo must have told you that my mother was terminally ill. She probably didn’t want to . . . to go through the pain of a long, slow death.” Bitterness now edged the sorrowful little voice. “She hated pain . . . probably even more than she hated being married to my father.”
    Perry thought that the illness might explain a leap to her death—despite the