Читать книгу Incriminating Passion - Ann Voss Peterson - Страница 12

Assistant District Attorney John Cohen trudged out of the courtroom and down the hall to the elevator on the way back to his office. Thank God the day was almost over. He’d won another case, put another scumbag in a long line of scumbags behind bars for a few more months, and added to his impressive conviction record. He should be happy. He should be looking forward to a night out with friends, to lifting a glass in celebration. But the only thing he wanted to do was go home, collapse into his recliner and forget the whole depressing mess his life had become.

When he’d taken the job with the district attorney’s office, he’d had aspirations of justice and making the world a better place. But after fifteen years of prosecuting the scum of the earth, only to have viler scum replace them while they did their too-short stints in prison, it was getting harder to drag himself to work each day. He felt more and more as if he was fighting a losing battle. As if his soul was being weighed down with the evil of life.

He needed a vacation. A vacation that would last the rest of his years.

The elevator door slid open. It was almost full. Just his luck. He crowded inside and hit the button for the fifth floor, trying not to breathe the air, sour with tension and stale sweat.

“Hold the door, please.”

Reflexively he reached out his arm to stop the door from sliding shut.

A slip of a woman with stringy blond hair and bruises marring her forehead and chin darted into the elevator. Her eyes met John’s for an instant, their depths pale blue and glassy, as if she’d gotten too little sleep or done too many drugs or just plain seen too much of the sordid underbelly of life. She turned her back to him and focused on the lighted numbers over the door.

John resisted the hypnotic tradition of staring at the numbers. Instead, he stared at the top of the newcomer’s head and tried to guess whether she was a battered woman coming to plead for her husband’s release so he could go home and punish her for calling the cops in the first place, or a prostitute struggling to look reformed for a court date. Her petite body and slender curves evident even under the jacket pulled tight around her shoulders made him think she had the goods to be a prostitute. And a successful one at that. But the bruises, her lack of makeup, and the silent desperation in her eyes settled it. She was here to plead for her husband.

He shook his head. Not that it made much of a difference. She was stuck in a hell of a life either way. A hell of a life that he sure couldn’t rescue her from. God knew he’d tried before with other women. And he’d failed miserably each and every time.

He directed his gaze to the numbers over the door, determined not to think about the woman in front of him too hard. Just the idea of a man laying a hand on that slender neck made his blood boil. Or at least simmer. His blood was too thick to reach boiling anymore. These days it only hardened and burned.

When the door opened he followed her down the hall and into the district attorney’s office. There he left her waiting to speak with a receptionist while he walked to his glorified cubicle and dropped his briefcase on a chair. He had nothing left to do but hop a bus and return to his empty two-flat dump. To his recliner, a dinner of cold pizza and a good stiff drink. In fact, since his big, empty house was within stumbling distance of the office, a good stiff drink was in order right now. He was just reaching for the bottle of Jack Daniels in the bottom drawer of his desk when his phone rang.

He held the receiver to his ear. “Yeah.”

“Mr. Cohen?” The new receptionist’s voice melted over the line like warm honey.

Chantel was her name, if he remembered correctly. A welcome change from Maggie. He pushed the thought of the former receptionist from his mind. He didn’t like to think about her. How she’d tried to set him up to take the fall for fixing a case that set serial rapist Andrew Clarke Smythe free. How she’d almost succeeded. And, worst of all, how she’d utterly ruined his taste for ketchup. “Do you know what time it is, Chantel?”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I know you just returned from court.”

He heaved a breath and released it into the phone. “It’s all right. What do you have for me?”

“I have a woman here who needs to talk to someone.”

There’d been only one woman in the reception area when he’d entered the office. The one he’d seen in the elevator. He exhaled a stream of air through tight lips. He was tired. Exhausted. He’d had it with sad, dead-end stories. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in another. He should tell the receptionist to find another assistant district attorney to talk to the woman or tell her to come back tomorrow. But something wouldn’t let him push the words past his lips.

Maybe it was the desperation he’d seen in her pale-blue eyes. Maybe it was the fear plain on her face. Hell, maybe it was simply the urge to be near that saucy little body again. He grimaced. He was even more cynical than he’d given himself credit for. “Send her in.”

He had replaced the receiver and relocked the booze drawer when a timid knock sounded on his door. “Come in.”

She pushed the door open and stepped inside before recognition registered on her face. “I saw you on the elevator.”

“You sure did.” He half rose from his chair and held out a hand. “The name’s John Cohen.”

She reached out and shook his hand. Her skin was soft, her nails perfectly manicured. Quite a contrast to her stringy hair and desperate look.

“And what brings you here today?”

“I need your help. I don’t know where else to turn.” She met his gaze with an urgency that made his gut tighten.

He pushed the unease aside. He couldn’t afford to feel for this woman, no matter how desperate she seemed. Once he let himself feel, expectations were right around the corner. And once he started to expect too much, disappointment was inevitable. It was a mistake he’d made many times before. And it was one he damn well wasn’t going to repeat.

“Why don’t you have a seat and tell me about it?” The words automatically tripped off his tongue. Maybe he should be a shrink. He could psychoanalyze himself during off hours. Save a bundle of money.

She lowered herself into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

He sank into his own chair. Gluing his gaze to hers, he waited for her to begin.

“It’s about my husband.”

Damn. Could he call them or what? A leaden weight settled in his gut. He’d been doing this job far too long. He braced himself for the rest of her sad story—a story he likely couldn’t do a damn thing to make end happily. “What about your husband? Is he a ward of the county?”

“What?”

“Is he in jail?”

“Not hardly.” She frowned and drew a slow breath as if to steel herself. “I’m Andrea Kirkland. Wingate Kirkland’s wife.”

John sat forward in his chair. He’d thought he’d run out of surprises during the past few years, but this certainly qualified as a change of pace. “Wingate Kirkland?”

She pursed her lips together and nodded.

Even though John didn’t exactly rub shoulders with the movers and shakers in Dane County, he’d sure as hell heard of Wingate Kirkland. Everyone had heard of Wingate Kirkland. The millionaire and his money were single-handedly responsible for reclaiming countless landmarks in Madison’s historic downtown. Of course, once reclaimed, he turned them into condos and rented them to anyone who could pay. Capitalism in action.

He narrowed his eyes on the woman in front of him. The manicured nails and doe-soft skin fit the image he had of Kirkland’s wife. But the stringy hair, the bruises and the desperate glint in her eyes were another story. “And what is it you want to tell me about your husband?”

“He’s dead. Murdered. And whoever killed him is after me.”

Second shocker in a row. John blew a breath through pursed lips, creating a soft whistle. Wingate Kirkland. Murdered. So even living in a gated rural estate and having more money than God couldn’t isolate a person from violence and villainy. What else was new? “Why haven’t I heard about this? I would think the news media would be all over Wingate Kirkland’s death.”

She gripped the arms of her chair. “No one knows yet.”

He raised his brows. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“I don’t know what the beginning is exactly.”

“Then start as close as you can. When was your husband killed?”

“About a week ago, I think.”

“A week ago? You think?” He didn’t even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice. The rich really were a different breed from the rest of the human race. “Glad you could take time out from your busy schedule to finally report it.”

She raised her chin and looked him square in the eye. A show of superiority. An empty show, if her nervous fingers tangling together in her lap were any indication. “I would have reported it, but…”

“But what?”

“But I didn’t remember it until last night.”

“Your husband’s murder just slipped your mind?”

She untwined her fingers and splayed her hands in front of her in a pleading pose. “I must have blocked it. I mean, that happens sometimes, doesn’t it? My mind must have blocked out the murder until I was better able to deal with it.”

Maybe he should have had that belt of Jack before agreeing to talk to this woman. He needed a good buzz in order to swallow this wild tale. “Are you suggesting you had amnesia?”

“I guess. I don’t know. All I know is that except for some nightmares, I thought my life was business-as-usual up until last night.”

“Except you had no husband. I take it a body hasn’t been found.”

She shook her head.

“Do you know who killed him?”

“No.”

“This sounds more like a missing person’s case than a murder. Have you filled out a report with the police?”

“No.”

“When did you realize he was gone?”

“Just last night. When the memories—”

“When you remembered your husband had been missing for a week.”

She raised her chin at the suspicion in his tone. “I thought he was away on business. His real-estate development company is based in Chicago. He’s down there most of the time.”

Incredible. The woman seemed to have an answer to everything. “Was he often gone for a week at a time without giving you so much as a phone call?”

“We didn’t have the greatest marriage, Mr. Cohen. In fact, we didn’t have much of a marriage at all. He kept me around for show on the rare occasions he needed a trophy wife. And he said he wanted an heir eventually. Otherwise, Win didn’t have a lot of use for me.”

“So why did you marry him?”

“I had my reasons.”

“I’ll bet you had a few million of them.”

Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed to blue bands. “I didn’t marry him for his money, if that’s what you’re implying. Not really.”

“Then why did you really marry him?”

“Listen, I didn’t want to come here. I can take care of myself. I don’t want yours or anyone else’s help. But a man is dead, and I thought you might care to know about that.”

“But you say you can’t tell me much about that, Mrs. Kirkland. So I need to know all you can tell me about your husband. Including what his marriage was like.”

She pushed a defeated breath through tight lips. “Fine. My father left when I was young. Win was a father figure, I guess. He took care of me, offered me security. I was eighteen when I married him. It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“Then why did you stay married to him?”

“Win made it clear he didn’t want me to leave.”

“He threatened you?”

“Yes.”

“With violence?”

“At times.”

John’s gut tightened. So he’d called Andrea Kirkland right after all.

She raised her chin again, a flash of fire smoldering in the depths of her eyes. “I was leaving him anyway. I had made arrangements, set aside money. I was leaving that night—the night I saw him murdered.”

Time for John’s eyes to widen again. “You witnessed the murder?”

“Yes. But I don’t remember much about it. Just the gunshots. And Win’s head resting on the Persian rug. And all the blood….” She dropped her gaze to his desk and studied the wood grain for a full minute. Crossing her arms, she rubbed her hands over them as if she was cold. She looked like that little girl in search of a father figure she’d talked about. Desperate, vulnerable, yet determined to go it on her own.

An ache settled in John’s shoulders. He shouldn’t care about her vulnerability. He shouldn’t care that her husband had used threats of violence to keep her in line. He shouldn’t care at all about her bizarre tale. He should merely do his job and go home to that recliner and stiff drink. “Have you told the police you witnessed a murder?”

She swallowed hard and met his gaze. “I tried.”

“But?”

“I called the Green Valley police station last night, but all the officers were out on a call. I told Ruthie, the woman who answers the phone, the things I remembered and that I was driving in. I didn’t want to stay in that house one more second.” She paused as if hesitant to go on.

“And?”

“On my way a black pickup truck ran me off the road. My car is at the bottom of the Green Valley quarry.”

He crooked a brow. “That old quarry is full of water.”

“Good thing. Otherwise I would have crashed and died. As it was, I only had to worry about drowning.”

Yet another surprise. That old quarry was deep as hell itself. And this time of year it would be bonecold as well. Somehow this petite woman had managed to free herself from certain death. She must be a lot stronger—and even more determined—than she looked.

He took hold of the stirrings of admiration. He couldn’t go there, couldn’t start weaving her into some sort of heroine in his mind. Or some sort of victim in need of his protection. Not unless he wanted to give reality an opening to bite him in the ass like a snarling dog. He reached for the phone. “I’ll call the Green Valley police right now. They can investigate your claims and we’ll see what we can do.”

Her eyes sprang wide. She lunged for his hand. Her fingers clamped down hard, preventing him from lifting the phone out of its cradle. “No police. Please.”

“That’s how cases like this are handled, Mrs. Kirkland. The police investigate the crime. I prosecute the offender.”

Her gaze landed on her hand gripping his. She yanked her hand back as if afraid he would bite. But she didn’t sit back in her chair. She stood at the edge of his desk, every muscle in her body rigid. “You can’t call the Green Valley police.”

He pulled his hand from the phone, leaving the receiver in the cradle. “You’d better give me a good reason.”

“The police were the only ones who knew I remembered what happened to Win. I called the station, then suddenly this truck showed up and tried to kill me.”

“And you think someone in the police department was in that truck?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

She had him there. But where did that leave him? If he couldn’t call the police and have them check out her story, what was he going to do with this woman?

He glanced at his watch. Almost six o’clock. Except for a few assistant district attorneys preparing for court tomorrow morning, the office would be empty. That ruled out foisting this woman off on a junior ADA. “Do you have any family you can stay with until we can figure out what’s going on here?”

“Win has a sister, but we aren’t exactly close.”

“How about friends?”

She shook her head.

The weight dragged him down like a two-ton barbell. Every instinct he had screamed for him to stay as far away from this case—and as far away from this woman—as possible. He’d been through this grind before. A beautiful woman witness to a crime. A sad story. A need for his help. And him racing in on his white steed only to be bucked off. He’d be a fool to subject himself to that kind of torture again.

A fool or a masochist.

As if she could see the path his mind was traveling, she thrust her chin forward. “Listen, I can take care of myself. Just find out who murdered Win. We may not have had much of a relationship, but he was my husband. He deserves justice.”

John pushed back from his desk and rose to his feet. The recliner and belt of Jack would have to wait because it didn’t look like he was going home any time soon. “I’ll look into it. But I’ll need your permission to search the house. I want to bring in the county sheriff and a crime scene unit.”

“Anything. I’ll call Marcella, our housekeeper. She can let you in and give you any help you need.”

“Good.” The ache in his shoulders eased slightly. The evidence. All he had to do was trust the evidence. Trust the facts and leave feeling out of this. “I suggest you check into a hotel. At least until I can figure out what’s going on.”

Her head bobbed in a tight little nod. She was scared. Of that he was sure. And if someone had run her car into the Green Valley quarry as she claimed, she had damn good reason.

“If you let me know where you’re staying, I’ll ask the Madison police to keep an eye out.” He gave her his best attempt at a reassuring smile. “You’ll be okay.”

ANDREA SLID the deadbolt home and followed it with the security chain. She’d been afraid a lot in her twenty-four years, but never as afraid as she was now.

She crossed the no-frills hotel room and lowered herself onto the bed. “Everything is going to be okay,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll survive this. I always do.”

She’d faced the streets of Chicago alone at fifteen years old. She’d faced Wingate’s temper alone. She’d faced the decision to leave him, even if she hadn’t gotten the chance. She’d faced all of it and she’d survived. So far. But she’d never had someone trying to kill her. And worse yet, she’d never faced the loss of her memory—her very mind.

She glanced at the phone sitting on the nightstand. She wasn’t totally alone. At least not as alone as she had been in that car last night. John Cohen had agreed to look into her story. He’d asked the Madison police to drive by the hotel and check on her. He’d promised to call as soon as he found anything.

When she’d first entered his office, she’d thought she was sunk. His dark intense eyes had seemed to drill right through her. His narrow face had seemed to harden against her, icy with cynicism. But as she told her story, she’d seen a transformation in him. Although he might still be skeptical, he’d listened. And when she’d finished explaining the unexplainable, he’d even seemed concerned. Far more than she’d gotten from another person in longer than she could remember.

And she still didn’t know what to make of it.

She slipped her legs under the sheets and blanket and pulled the covers up to her shoulders, hoping the warmth would still the shaking in her bones. She had to keep her wits about her. She had to be strong. Because although John Cohen had offered to help, she knew better than to rely on him. Or anyone. And if an enemy of Wingate’s had now set his sights on her, she might be up against more than she could handle this time.