Julia Milliken looked as if a twitch would make her face break. "My husband was a sick man," she said. "He died because he was sick."
Detective Norris replied with a half-nod. "That's...probably true...but it's beginning to look like he might have had some help."
Julia looked away, but he kept trying to read her face. He knew she was involved, but he had to know how—
His cellphone rang and they both gave a start. She put a hand to her chest and drew a sharp breath, and he flashed a reassuring smile. "If you'll excuse me," he said gently, "I need to take this."
She gave him a nod and looked away, and he rose up from the sofa and strode into the next room. Once he faded into the shadows and got out of earshot, he opened his phone and slipped into his Sangalan accent.
"I told you not to call me."
"I had to warn you," Dubaku said. "Sherry Palmer was involved."
"I know. And it was just as I expected: Julia tried to give him his medication, and Sherry intervened."
Dubaku sighed. "Milliken is dead; that's what matters. But his company was a conduit for the FBI. He found out what we were doing in Sangala, and he might have told his wife."
"I cannot kill her, Dubaku. The LAPD will be looking for me."
"Then how do we dispose of her?"
He thought for a moment. "I can manage things from here. I will call the LAPD and have them arrest her. I will plant some evidence, put some pressure on her. By the end of the day, it will look like a murder-suicide."
A sigh and a pause followed. Then...
"Very well, General. Bon chance."