Читать книгу Temptation Calls - Caridad Piñeiro - Страница 8

Samantha Turner was a frickin’ saint. Or at least, that’s what most people believed along the block where the shelter was located. The funny thing was, when asked if they’d had any personal contact with Ms. Turner, most said they’d never seen her. The remainder had only seen her once or twice.

The one thing they all agreed on was that the area had gotten better in the three years since Samantha had opened the shelter.

A one-woman frickin’ social improvement campaign.

Peter didn’t know why he was so annoyed about the supposed sainthood of Samantha Turner. Maybe it was because he knew that behind a woman’s beautiful face and virtuous ways was often a soul filled with deception.

His ex-wife had been beautiful. She’d been sweet and oh-so-needy of Peter’s attentions. Warm, willing and waiting for him, even when he’d worked the long hours required of a beat cop. He’d been working his way up the ranks so he could provide for a wife and family. Oh, how he’d looked forward to the day when they could have children and buy that home they’d always wanted.

Peter slapped shut the file on his desk. Glancing into the squad room, he realized no one had even noticed. There was too much going on.

Just as there had been too much going on in his life for him to notice what his wife was doing when he was gone. Eventually she had walked out on him with her lover and their life savings.

Beautiful is as beautiful does.

Samantha Turner was an exceptionally beautiful woman.

How had she come to be where she was? Who had marked her back with those scars?

Criminal any way you thought about it. Which meant there had to be a record of it somewhere. With that information, he might get a more complete picture of the enigmatic head of the Artemis Shelter. Maybe that would help him deal with her, know how to get her to open up and provide whatever information she had about the shooting.

More than anything, Peter wanted to nail those responsible for the killings, but he needed more evidence. So far, he’d been unable to track down the car. The license plate number had revealed that it had been reported stolen a few days earlier. It might not ever be found if it had been turned over to a chop shop. And the descriptions provided by the sole witness weren’t very specific—described a large number of youths in Spanish Harlem.

So, Ms. Turner might be the key to breaking this case and because of that, he needed to know more about her. He went through the various databases available to him, from the local ones to those kept by the Feds. Hours passed. His investigations yielded nothing except a Social Security number and minimal financial information. For anything more detailed, he’d have to ask for help. Escalate the investigation. If she’d been a suspect, he wouldn’t hesitate to bring in others and expose her private life to greater scrutiny. But Samantha Turner wasn’t a suspect. She’d done nothing wrong. There was no reason to sic anyone else on her…yet.

He had a job to do and if he stepped on some toes while doing it, so be it. At least that’s how he felt until he remembered the faint lines on her back and the look she’d given him.

He recognized that almost haunted expression. He’d seen it in the mirror more than once in the months after his wife’s desertion.

So, this time, he would cut Ms. Turner some slack. Respect the pain he’d seen in her eyes. Leave it and her alone.

That’s what Peter told himself as he put his fingers back on the keyboard. That’s what he told himself as he listened to the M.E.’s phone call about the evidence he’d turned in the day before. The blood couldn’t be typed nor could any DNA samples be extracted. Had Peter bagged the evidence properly? Had the materials been close to any chemicals or excessive heat that might have compromised them?

With a tired sigh, Peter answered the M.E. and hung up.

Glancing at his watch, he realized that with little happening in the investigation, he might as well call it a night. Head home to the fourth floor walk-up apartment in downtown Manhattan that wasn’t the house in the suburbs with the neatly manicured lawn he’d always wanted. That thought made him remember the tidily kept courtyard at the Artemis Shelter. Was Samantha the one who’d been busy planting flowers?

She shouldn’t be on his mind. She was just a witness. Not a suspect. Not a victim. At least not on his watch. Whoever had failed her had to deal with that guilt. Not him.

He had enough to handle. He didn’t need any woman in his life, especially one with as many secrets as Samantha Turner.

Which was why he called himself a fool when he drove away from the precinct and headed uptown to ask Ms. Turner a few more questions.