Читать книгу Questioning the Heiress - Delores Fossen, Delores Fossen - Страница 8

Well, at least no one was dead.

That was the only good thing Egan could say about the events of the night.

First, an intruder. The intruder’s escape. Then, an explosion. Egan was waiting for a call from the bomb squad so he’d know the extent of the damage, but he didn’t have to hear a situation report to confirm that the killer had a new target.

Caroline Stallings.

She was in the corner of his temporary office. Soaked to the bone. She’d gotten even wetter when they had run from his car and into the country club. Her clothes were clinging to her body, and there were drops of rain still sliding down her bare legs and into those pricey, uncomfortable-looking heels. She was shivering. And using his phone to call her parents in Cancun, Mexico. Her calm, practically lively tone didn’t go with her slumped shoulders and shellshocked expression. The rain, and possibly even a tear or two, had streaked through what was left of her makeup.

“No. I’m fine, really,” she assured her parents. “There’s nothing you can do, and I have everything under control.”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, probably to stop it from trembling. “I’m with one of the Rangers,” she went on. “We’re at his office at the Cantara Hills Country Club.” She paused. “No. I’m with Sgt. Egan Caldwell.” Another pause. “No.” She glanced at him and turned away. “He’s the surly one,” she whispered.

Egan was just punchy enough that he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He didn’t let Caroline see it, of course.

While she continued her call, Egan went to the closet behind his desk and took out one of the four freshly laundered shirts hanging inside. His jeans were soaked, too, but changing them would require leaving Caroline alone. Because they had a killer on the loose, that wasn’t a good idea. So he settled for a fresh blue button-up. Either that or a white shirt and jeans were his standard “uniform” when he was on duty, which lately was 24/7. He changed and put back on his shoulder holster. Later, he’d have to give his gun a good cleaning to dry it out as well.

“Please don’t come home,” he heard Caroline say. She’d repeated a variation of that at least a half-dozen times since the call began. “Yes, I’ll have the locks changed on all the doors and windows at the house. I’ll make sure the security system is checked. And I won’t stay there alone. I promise.” She shivered again. “I love you, too.”

She’d said that at least a half-dozen times as well. I love you. The words were heartfelt. It was hard to fake that level of emotion. Even though he was thirty years old and had been in his share of relationships, it still amazed Egan that some people could say those words so easily.

Not him.

But then, he’d never tried, figuring he was more likely to choke on them than say them aloud.

He finished transferring his badge to the dry shirt, turned, and Caroline was there holding out his phone for him to take. “Thank you,” she said. No more fake cheerfulness. The shock was setting in, and she was shaking harder now.

Egan hung up the phone, extracted another of his shirts from the closet and handed it to her. “Put this on. As soon as the bomb squad clears the area, you can go to your friend’s house and get some dry clothes.” That might not happen soon, though, and her friends wouldn’t be able to get to her since no one could use the road to drive to the country club. The bomb squad had sectioned it off.

She made a small throaty sound of agreement and slipped on his shirt. “Thank you again.”

Caroline wearily sank down into the studded burgundy leather chair next to his desk and closed her fingers over the delicate gold heart necklace that had settled in her cleavage. Like the words to her parents, she’d done that a lot tonight as well.

Egan anticipated what she’d do next. She was wearing two dainty gemstone gold rings on her left hand. Opals on one. Aquamarines on the other. Another opal ring was on her right hand. She began to twist and adjust them. She was obviously trying to settle her nerves. But Egan was betting that settled nerves weren’t in her immediate future no matter how many rings she twisted.

“I suppose the bomb squad will call when they know anything,” she said. Not really a question. He’d already explained that.

Still, Egan nodded and started a fresh pot of coffee. Thank God for the little premeasured packets because that was the only chance he had of making it drinkable, and right now, he needed massive quantities of caffeine that he could consume in a hurry so he could stay alert and fight off the inevitable adrenaline crash.

“You didn’t get to finish your dinner.” Caroline pushed her damp hair from her face and tipped her head to the now-cold burger and fries on the center of his desk. He’d managed only a few bites.

“It’s not the first time.” And he hoped that wasn’t concern for him in her voice.

Wait.

What was he thinking?

It couldn’t be concern. He was the surly one, and she was the richer one. She was an heiress. He, the chauffeur’s son. Concern on her part wasn’t in this particular equation, and the only thing she cared about was getting through this. The only thing he cared about was keeping her alive and catching a killer.

The silence came like the soggy downpour that was occurring simultaneously outside. They weren’t comfortable with each other, and they weren’t comfortable being in the same confined space. Hopefully, that confinement would end when the bomb squad finished, and he could pawn this “richer” leggy brunette off on someone else.

Anyone else.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help more with the investigation of the hit-and-run,” Caroline whispered.

That comment/apology came out of the blue, and Egan certainly hadn’t expected it. More ring twisting, yes. Ditto for touching that gold heart pendant. But he hadn’t anticipated a sincere-sounding apology. “And you’re probably sorry that you were driving the car that night.”

“That, too.” She nodded. “But my memory loss is only of that night. I remember Kimberly.”

So did Egan. Kimberly had grown up on the same street that he had. And her brother, Brody, was now Egan’s boss.

“She was a kind, generous woman who worked hard as an intern for the City Board,” Caroline continued. “I’m glad her killer is dead.”

And yet her killer was also someone whom Caroline had known. Vincent Montoya, who’d rammed his vehicle into the passenger’s side of Caroline’s vintage sports car. The impact had thrown Kimberly from her seat, and she’d sustained a broken neck. Death had come instantly.

But not for the two other men Montoya had murdered.

Two men, Trent Briggs and Gary Zelke, who Montoya likely believed had seen him ram into Caroline’s car, had been killed months later. Montoya had murdered them to eliminate witnesses and probably would have done the same to Victoria Kirkland, a third possible witness, if someone—the vigilante maybe—hadn’t killed Montoya first. Since it was possible that Victoria was now in danger from this vigilante, she was out of state in Brody’s protective custody.

Unlike Caroline.

She was here at Cantara Hills. Right in the line of fire.

“We still need to find out if Montoya was working alone, or if someone hired him to commit those murders,” Egan reminded her. He stood and poured them both some coffee. “And if he was working alone, then who’s this new intruder who came into your house tonight?”

She took the mug of coffee from him, gripping it in both of her shaky hands, and she sipped some even though it was steaming hot. “And you think that intruder might be Kenneth Sutton, the chairman of the City Board?” Despite all the other emotions, skepticism oozed from her voice.

Egan shrugged and sank down in his chair. “Stating the obvious here, but Montoya was Kenneth Sutton’s driver, personal assistant and jack-of-all trades.”

“That doesn’t mean Kenneth ordered Montoya to kill anyone. Kenneth’s a career politician and is running for the governor’s office. He can be ambitious when it comes to politics, but I don’t think he has murder on his mind.”

Egan was about to remind her that rich politicians hid behind their facades just like everybody else, but his cell phone rang, and he snatched it up. “Sgt. Caldwell.”

“This is Detective Mark Willows from the bomb squad. We’ve done a preliminary assessment. No injuries. Property damage is minimal. Definitely nothing structural. A few holes and dents in the garage wall. For the most part, the impact was confined to the Mercedes.”

Well, that was better news than he’d expected. That blast had been damn loud. “There was enough damage to destroy the car?” Egan asked.

“It’s banged up pretty bad, but we’ll tow it to the crime lab and look for prints and other evidence. The explosion happened at 8:10 p.m. You’ll probably want to question the owner to see if there’s anything significant about that time. We’ll question her, too, but it can wait until tomorrow. We’ll be here most of the night collecting the bits and pieces so we can reassemble the device and try to figure out who made it.”

“Thanks. Call me if you have anything else.” Egan clicked the end-call button and looked at Caroline. Who was looking at him, obviously waiting. “Good news,” he let her know. “No one was hurt. Your car is totaled, but the house is okay.”

The breath swooshed out of her, and her hand was suddenly shaking so hard that she sloshed some coffee on her fingers when she set the cup on his desk.

“Good. That’s good.” A moment later, she repeated it.

He debated if he should check her fingers, to make sure she hadn’t scalded them. She certainly wasn’t doing anything about it. Egan finally reached over and caught on to her wrist so he could have a look. Yep. Definitely red fingers. He rolled his chair across the floor to get to the small fridge, retrieved a cold can of soda and rolled back toward her. He pressed the can to her fingers.

She didn’t resist. Caroline just sat there. Her head hung low. Probably numb. Maybe even in shock. “I didn’t want anyone else’s death or injuries on my hands,” she said under her breath. “I couldn’t live with that.”

Since she seemed on the verge of tears, or even a total meltdown, Egan decided to get her mind back on business. His mind, too. He didn’t like seeing her like this.

Vulnerable.

Fragile.

Tormented.

He preferred when she had that aristocratic chin lifted high and the ritzy sass was in her eyes. Because there was no way he could ever be interested in someone with a snobby, rich, stubborn chin. But the vulnerability and the genuine ache he heard in her whisper, that could draw him in.

Oh, yeah.

It could make him see her as an imperfect, desirable woman and not the next victim on a killer’s list.

And that wouldn’t be good for either Caroline or him.

He needed to focus.

That was the best way to keep her alive and catch a killer.

He wrapped her fingers around the soda and leaned back to put some distance between them. No more touching. No more thinking about personal stuff. “The timer on the explosive was set for 8:10 p.m. Where would you normally have been at that time?”

Her head came up, and she met his gaze. “Since it’s Monday, I should have been in the car, driving home from work.”

He was afraid she was going to say that. “That’s your usual routine?”

She nodded. “I always work late on Mondays. The security guard walks me out to my car at eight p.m., because that’s when his shift is over. I leave at exactly that time so he won’t have to stay any longer, and it takes me about fifteen minutes to drive home.” She put the soft drink can aside so she could touch the necklace. “But the security guard wasn’t feeling well tonight. He wouldn’t go home until I did so I left about forty-five minutes earlier than I usually do.”

That insistent sick guard had saved her life. Egan didn’t need to spell that out for her.

“Who knows your work routine?” he asked.

The color drained from her cheeks. “Anyone who knows me.”

Well, that didn’t narrow it down much, and it certainly didn’t exclude Kenneth Sutton. There was just something about Kenneth that reminded Egan of a snake oil salesman. Egan only hoped that his feelings weren’t skewed that way because the guy was stinkin’ rich.

“So did the same person plant that bomb and then break into my house?” Caroline asked.

“Possibly. Maybe he set the explosive to make sure you didn’t come home when he was there.”

She shook her head. “Why? If that explosive had killed me, why bother to break into my house?” She waited a moment, her gaze still connected with Egan’s. “Unless he was there to make sure I hadn’t survived.”

It was Egan’s turn to shake his head. Egan had already played around with that theory, and it had a major flaw. “Then the intruder would have been lying in wait and would have attacked the moment you walked in. You wouldn’t have had time to make that 9-1-1 call or grab a knife.”

She closed her eyes a moment, and her breath shuddered. “So, this intruder perhaps not only wanted me dead but also wanted something from my house?”

“Bingo.” That was the conclusion he’d reached as well. “He probably thought you’d died in the car bomb, but when you came driving up, he’d perhaps already gotten what he came for or, rather, had tried to do that, and he fled because a person who sets a delayed explosive isn’t someone who wants a face-to-face meeting with their victim. Now, the question is—what did he take? The usual is either money or jewelry. Something lightweight enough to carry away.”

“I already told you I don’t keep large sums of money in the house, or on me. I use plastic for almost everything I buy. And I don’t own a lot of jewelry.” Caroline held up her hands. “These pieces are all from family members. Aunts and my mother. My grandmother,” she added, pointing to the gold heart necklace.

Family stuff. Something else he knew little about. “What about any small valuable antique that the intruder could have taken from your house?”

Another head shake. “I run an antiques business and love vintage cars, but I prefer modern decor.” She paused. “Or rather, no decor. I’m not much for fuss or clutter.”

He thought of her virginal white bedroom and glistening black kitchen and agreed. Modern, uncluttered and maybe even a little anal. Everything perfectly aligned and in its place, like the cool crystal.

Everything in place but those cookies.

Store-bought. Not the gourmet kind from some chichi bakery. Normal ones. Egan had a hard time imagining her standing in her kitchen. Surrounded by all that expensive glitter. Wearing silk designer clothes. And eating Oreos.

“Wait. There is something,” she said a moment later. “I have a small clock that was a Christmas gift from my mother. It’s portable and probably worth a lot. It’s on the nightstand, next to the dream journal I’ve been keeping for the psychiatrist.”

Egan didn’t remember seeing a clock or a journal, but then his attention had been on those open French doors, not the nightstand. He grabbed his phone and punched in the number to the SAPD dispatch, who in turn connected him with Detective Mark Willows.

“This is Sgt. Caldwell,” he said when Willows answered.

“Glad you called,” Willows interrupted before Egan could explain. “I just got an update from the CSI guys. They took Ms. Stallings’s lock from her bedroom door so they can test it to see if it was picked. They’ll replace it with a temp so we can secure the house.”

“Thanks. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”

“Well, we don’t want another break-in. This is just preliminary, but those shoe prints left on her bedroom floor are about a size eleven. Some kind of athletic shoes. So, we’re probably looking for a male.”

Egan made a note to check Kenneth Sutton’s shoe size. “I need you to check on the nightstand in the master bedroom and tell me what’s there,” Egan said to the detective.

“Give me a minute. I’m walking that way.” Egan heard the sound of the man’s movement. And waited. “There’s a phone and a clock,” Willows reported. “The phone is white, and the clock is about the size of baseball. It’s gold, and it’s got pearls and what looks like emeralds all around the dial. Heck, the friggin’ hands look like they’re made of diamonds. Caldwell, this is some clock.”

Yes, and the intruder didn’t take it. “Is there anything else on the nightstand?”

“Just a pen. Common, ordinary variety.”

Oh, man. “There’s no paper or notepad?”

“Nada.”

“Thanks. Make sure CSI checks that nightstand for prints.” Egan hung up, ready to relay that to Caroline, but he could tell from her expression that she already knew.

“My dream journal is missing,” she mumbled.

“Yeah. The expensive clock is still there, though. So, let me guess—everyone at that lunch today heard that you’d been keeping a journal.”

The color crept back into her face, and she looked as if she wanted to curse. She nodded.

Hell.

Egan leaned in and looked straight into her eyes. “Caroline, what exactly did you write in that journal?”