Читать книгу Incriminating Passion - Ann Peterson Voss - Страница 13

The roar of the truck’s engine fading, John struggled to catch his breath. There was no doubt in his mind that the driver had been gunning for Andrea. Trying to kill her. He rolled his weight off her. Wiping thick blond hair back from her cheek, he tried to see her face, to make sure she was all right. She had to be all right. “Andrea?”

Her eyes opened. Drawing in a deep breath, she pushed into a sitting position and scraped the remaining strands out of her eyes. Her injured hand left a trail of crimson on one cheek. “The truck— Did you see?” A strangled sound erupted from deep in her throat. The unmistakable sound of fear.

“It almost ran you down.”

“It was the same. The same truck that ran me off the road and into the quarry.”

John gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to wrap her in his arms, to comfort her. There was no time. The truck could be back any moment. And this time he had the feeling the driver would make sure he didn’t miss. He pointed to a full-sized silver van towering above the cars. “My car is just on the other side of that van. Do you think you can make it?”

She swallowed hard, as if pushing down her panic. “I can make it.”

“Good. Lean on me if you need to.” He held out a hand.

She grasped it. Her hand trembled. Her palm was sticky, blood oozing from raw flesh. She pressed her lips together in a determined line and nodded. “Let’s go.”

Rising to a crouch, John peered over the trunk of one of the cars. The distant roar of a truck engine cut through the still air. He looked in the direction of the sound, waiting for the black behemoth to appear from around the corner and crash headlong into the parked cars, pinning them between the twisted metal. But he couldn’t spot the sound’s source. The parking lot was still as death.

Time to make their move. He pulled her up. Still crouched, he dodged through the maze of cars, Andrea on his heels. Reaching his blue sedan, he unlocked the driver’s door and motioned her inside.

She scrambled over the stick shift and into the passenger seat. John ducked behind the wheel. He slipped the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine revved to life.

Suddenly the sound of the engine grew louder, deeper as it was joined by another engine’s growl.

Andrea gasped. “The truck.”

“Hold on.” Throwing the car in reverse, John hit the gas. The car shot backward. He yanked the wheel to one side. Tires screeching, it spun in place.

And faced the truck.

Black windows stared like malevolent eyes. The front bumper was dented. The perfect gleam of the truck’s right fender was marred by silver paint. No doubt the color of Andrea’s car.

She covered her mouth, stifling a scream.

John hit the gas. The car leaped forward. Another twist of the wheel and his car dodged to the side, just missing a black fender. He pressed his foot to the floor. He took the corner full throttle, tires screeching in protest. Fishtailing out of the parking lot, they raced onto the highway frontage road.

One eye on the rearview mirror, John tried to steady his pulse. The black truck was nowhere to be seen, as if it and its driver had disappeared.

“No one is following. It looks like we lost him.”

Andrea stared shell-shocked at the cars around them, as if she was convinced any one of them might morph into the black truck at any moment. “You believe me now?” Her voice rang hollow, monotoned.

He’d seen the evidence with his own eyes. The black truck. The squeal of rubber as it shot straight for Andrea. “Do I believe someone is trying to kill you? Yes.”

“And Wingate? Do you still think I killed him?”

He blew a breath through tight lips. He’d gone to her hotel room this morning to catch her in a lie, to prove she’d killed her husband, and to banish her from his mind for good. But instead of getting answers, he was stuck with more questions and no convincing evidence. He didn’t even have a body. “I don’t know.”

“I suppose that’s an improvement. Maybe if the truck had run me down, you’d actually believe me.”

Maybe I believe you now.

He clamped down on the thought. A bitter laugh lodged in his throat. Hadn’t he seen enough in his years in the district attorney’s office to know how easily people lie? Didn’t he know the lengths people would go to protect their own guilty hides?

He damn well should. But somehow, when he saw the tears in Andrea’s eyes, when he heard the fear and sincerity in her voice, he forgot every hard lesson the past fifteen years had taught.

Whether she was guilty of killing her husband or not, he wanted to believe her. And that scared him more than a charging black truck ever could.

STILL TREMBLING, Andrea stood in front of the window in John Cohen’s cramped office. She felt like a sitting duck waiting for the bullet. She hadn’t wanted to come here. She hadn’t wanted to report the latest incident with the black truck to the police. She’d wanted to disappear, to get out of town. She’d be long gone if that truck hadn’t shown up.

And she’d be dead if John Cohen hadn’t pushed her out of the way.

She shook her head. It didn’t make sense. John Cohen had bullied her, accused her and refused to believe her. But he hadn’t hesitated to rush into on-coming traffic to save her life.

She turned away from the window and raked her gaze over his office. The battered desk. The ancient chairs. The stacks of files that towered like pine trees in the north woods. With most people, she could get a sense of them by examining their surroundings. Not so John Cohen. The room was so plain, so devoid of personality, the only feeling she could glean from it was the bone-deep ache of fatigue.

And a loneliness that spoke to something in her own soul.

She shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself. Ridiculous. She didn’t know John Cohen, and she didn’t want to know him. She wanted to get out of this office. She wanted to get as far away from the police and the district attorney as she could. She wanted to disappear.

Male voices filtered in from the hallway. John pushed the door wide and strode inside alone. He crossed to his desk and dropped a small stack of files on the already heaped desktop. “I struck out. Seems the department doesn’t have the man hours available to offer citizens protection from what they consider to be two unfortunate accidents.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “I told you I didn’t want the cops involved.”

He frowned. “Because you still think the Green Valley police are after you?”

“You might not want to take a chance either if your life was on the line.”

He held up his hands as if trying to fend off her anger. “You’ve got to admit, that’s a hard one to swallow.”

“All I know is that I called the Green Valley police station and the next thing I knew, the black truck was after me.” She paced to the far side of the office, shaking her head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I’ll take care of myself when it comes to the black truck.”

He narrowed his eyes on her. “And how do you propose to do that?”

“I can get lost. I’ve done it before.”

“Not when you’re involved in a murder investigation, you haven’t.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Which is close to nothing.”

“It’s all I remember.”

“You can’t just throw half memories and paranoia out there and then ‘get lost’ as you say. Especially not when you’re a suspect.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Her story probably did sound like half memories and paranoia to him. It sure sounded that way to her, and she’d lived through it. A bubble of helplessness rose in her throat. She might have never quite had control of her life, but she’d always had control of her memories.

Now she’d lost even that.

She straightened her spine and forced herself to meet his dark eyes. She couldn’t afford to be helpless. She couldn’t afford to be weak. Not now. Not ever again. “What about hypnosis? I’ve heard of lost memories being retrieved under hypnosis.”

He shook his head. “Can’t do it. You may be the only witness to a murder. Hypnosis introduces questions about which memories are real and which are planted. Once you go under hypnosis your testimony is worthless in a court of law.”

“So what do I do?” She swallowed, trying to keep the panic at bay. She could make a run for it, but somehow the image of her dashing down the hall with John Cohen on her heels was too ridiculous to contemplate. Judging from his runner’s physique, he’d probably catch her before she made it to the office door.

He let out a long, defeated sigh. “You mean, what do we do?”

She looked at him hard. “We?”

“If you think I’m going to have a relaxing weekend chugging beer, watching football and waiting to read about your death in Sunday’s State Journal, guess again.”

A chill prickled over her skin. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’re stuck with me. Until we get some answers about this case or I can convince the police to spring for an officer to keep an eye on you, I’m your bodyguard. And your personal memory coach.”

“Oh no, you’re not.”

“Do you have any other ideas?”

“Yes. You find out who killed Wingate and I leave.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll go someplace safe and give you a number where I can be reached.”

He shook his head. “You’re either my key witness or my prime suspect. Either way, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

She glanced at the door. Maybe she should reconsider running for it, just throw open the door and dash down the hall. Maybe it was her only chance to get out of this mess.

Ridiculous.

But equally ridiculous was the idea of John as her bodyguard. No, not ridiculous. Dangerous. Because even now, with his questions and threats still ringing in her ears, she could hear the loneliness in his voice. And she could feel her heart respond.

“You can wipe that scared rabbit look off your face. I’m not going to hurt you, for God’s sake. I’m going to keep you safe.”

She didn’t know if he intended to hurt her or not, but she did know that being around him certainly wouldn’t keep her safe. “And what can I say to change your mind?”

“Nothing. But there’s something you can do.”

“What?”

“If you didn’t murder your husband, prove it. Help me find who did.”

She gnawed on the inside of her cheek until she raised a sore. If they found the real murderer, if they put him behind bars, she would be safe. Both from the killer trying to prevent her from remembering and from the police trying to pin Win’s murder on her. All she had to do was stay strong a little longer. Because a little longer and she’d be away from John Cohen for good. “What do you want me to do?”

“You can start by going with me to see a man about a rug.”

JOHN GLANCED at Andrea standing next to him in the showroom of Ryman International Rugs and took a deep breath. A light scent tickled his nose. Floral and feminine. The kind of scent that caused a man to lose his mind.

Too late for him. He’d obviously already lost what little gray matter he’d had rattling in his skull. That was the only explanation for what he was doing, playing bodyguard to a woman who could be a murderess. And, even worse, playing Holmes to her Watson.

He massaged the aching muscles in his neck while pretending to examine the multi-colored silk of one of the elaborate Persian rugs hanging from the ceiling. On the drive across town, he’d told himself he was just doing his job, just trying to keep her safe. Well, she might be safe, but he sure wasn’t sane. Not around her. Her body had him as hot and humid as a Wisconsin July. And every time she looked at him with those bruised eyes of hers, he had the feeling he had the power to make things better.

Or at least he’d go down trying.

He needed to get the hell away from her. And he needed to start by finding some answers about who killed Wingate Kirkland. And whether the woman beside him was a suspect or a witness.

“Hello there. I’m Oscar Ryman. Can I help you find a certain type of rug?”

John spun around and looked into the man’s be-speckled eyes. He’d tracked the blue van with the gold logo to Ryman International Rugs, a small rug shop on Madison’s upscale west side. Oscar Ryman must be the owner. He held his identification out for the man to examine. “I’m with the district attorney’s office, and I need to ask you a few questions about a rug.”

“The district attorney’s office, huh? Is this about a crime?” Tall and wire-thin, Ryman nearly quivered with excitement. Apparently the rug business lacked drama. If he only knew the reality of life in the district attorney’s office, he’d see what a real lack of drama was like.

John fixed him with his best all-business stare. If this guy wanted to pretend he was a bit player on “Law and Order,” John had no problem going along. Especially since guys like this were willing to turn themselves inside out to provide information. “A week ago, one of your trucks picked up a rug at Wingate Estate—”

“Out in Green Valley, right? A Persian. Top-of-the-line. But you’re mistaken. We didn’t pick it up. We delivered it.”

“You delivered a new rug and picked up a stained one?”

He tilted his head to one side as if doing so would connect normally unused synapses. “I don’t think there was a pick-up with that order.”

“Can you check?”

“Certainly.” He spun around and almost skipped to the tall desk looming in the center of the sales floor. At least John didn’t have to worry about this one hiding anything from him. On the contrary, this guy would probably be calling him all next week with meaningless details he remembered about the transaction.

John followed him. Once he had been that eager to prosecute the bad guys and lock them behind bars, that eager to make a difference in the world. Ages had passed since then.

Andrea stepped up next to him at the desk and leaned close, trying to see the manager’s computer screen.

Awareness prickled John’s skin like static electricity. Forcing himself to step a safe distance away, he peered over the manager’s shoulder. Dates, numbers and names were arranged in neat columns on the computer screen.

“Here it is,” the man pointed at the screen. “Wingate Kirkland, delivery. If there had been a pick-up, it would be noted here.”

Maybe Ruthie Banks was mistaken. Maybe she hadn’t seen Ryman’s delivery van hauling away a rug. Maybe she’d seen them delivering it.

Or maybe the computer wasn’t telling the whole story. “Who was the employee who delivered the rug?”

The manager squinted down at the screen. “Sutcliffe. Hank Sutcliffe.”

“Where can I find Mr. Sutcliffe?”

Ryman shrugged his bony shoulders. “Can’t help you, I’m afraid. Sutcliffe quit last week.”

Damn. Just his luck. Now he’d have to track the man down. “What day did he quit?”

“Monday. Didn’t even give two weeks notice. In fact, his last delivery was the one you’re asking about. The one to Wingate Estate.”

“Do you have a forwarding address for him?”

“Afraid not. He said he was moving back to Chicago, but he didn’t leave an address.”

Damn. The lack of a forwarding address would make the job of tracking him down tougher. Not impossible, but more time-consuming. “Where are you going to send his last paycheck?”

“He told me to keep my money. Said he didn’t need it. So unless he changes his mind and comes to collect the check, I’m taking him at his word.”

Interesting. Doubtful a man who worked delivering rugs made so much money he didn’t need his last paycheck. Unless he’d come into a lot of money from another source.

A source that paid him to haul away a blood-soaked rug.

John glanced at Andrea. She watched Ryman, her gaze steady, open, as if she had nothing to hide.

Or was that just what he wanted to see?

Ryman popped his head up from the computer. “I do have a picture of him.”

“A picture?” John glanced at Andrea again. A picture might be helpful for jogging her memory. “Can I see it?”

The manager reached for a stack of glossy advertising flyers balanced on the edge of the desk. Grabbing a flyer, he gave it to John. “Here he is, carrying the rug.”

The flyer was an ad for free rug delivery and pickup with cleaning or purchase. In the center of the photo, a beefy blond Adonis grinned at the camera, his trunk-like arms wrapped around a rolled rug. He handed the advertisement to Andrea. “Recognize him?”

A crease dug into her forehead. Releasing a breath, her face fell. “I’m sorry.”

John fought the need to trace a finger over the lines of frustration tooled in her forehead and around her mouth. As if he could erase them. As if he could make things better for her with the touch of his hand.

He forced himself to turn back to Ryman. If the man had sold the rug to Andrea, he would have recognized her when she walked in the door. But some one must have bought the rug. “Do your records show who bought the rug?”