Читать книгу Millionaire's Last Stand - Эль Кеннеди - Страница 10

Jamie spent the entire evening and following morning going over the meager files Finn had given her, and by the time afternoon rolled around, she hadn’t gained any insights about the case. Teresa Donovan had argued with her ex-husband in the parking lot of a bar, gone home at midnight, and two hours or so later, took a bullet to the heart.

Until the forensic results came back, there was nothing to prove that Cole Donovan had killed his ex-wife. He had the motive, sure, but Jamie still couldn’t reconcile the man she’d spoken with yesterday with a cold-blooded killer. Besides, judging by Finn’s notes, half the town had a motive when it came to Teresa.

By three o’clock, Jamie finally closed the case folder and left the cozy suite she was renting at Serenade’s only bed-and-breakfast. Joe Gideon had agreed to meet with her at four o’clock, and since she had an hour to kill, she decided to head into the town and poke around. The townsfolk probably wouldn’t want to talk to a stranger, but maybe someone would have something to offer. And if not, she could always sit in the town diner for a bit and eavesdrop.

As it turned out, she did neither of those things. After finding a parking space right on Main Street, she hopped out of the SUV, glanced at a store window and got sidetracked. She stood in front of a small art gallery, admiring a gorgeous oil painting that captured the town of Serenade so beautifully she found herself walking inside.

“Can I help you with anything?” a pleasant female voice asked.

Jamie looked over at the narrow counter by the door, surprised to find the same brunette she’d glimpsed by the fountain yesterday. Up close, the woman was even more beautiful, with the creamy pale skin of a cosmetics model, enormous liquid brown eyes, and a cupid’s bow mouth that had Jamie feeling envious.

“I’m interested in the painting in the window, the one of the town,” she answered. “Is it for sale?”

The brunette nodded. “It just came in last week. One of our local artists painted it, Miranda Lee. She’s unbelievably talented.”

“Her work is beautiful,” Jamie agreed.

The woman hopped off the tall stool she was sitting on and headed over to the easel by the window. “I’ve got it priced at three hundred,” she said over her shoulder, “but I’m sure the artist would be willing to lower the price if it’s too steep for you.”

“It’s fine,” Jamie reassured. “And I’ll take it. It’ll look fantastic hanging in my living room.”

The brunette gave a wide smile. “Wonderful. I’ll just wrap it up for you then.” As she gently lifted the canvas from the easel, she shot Jamie a curious look. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Jamie laughed and gestured to her business attire. “I stick out like a sore thumb, don’t I?”

“Kind of.” With a smile, the brunette extended one delicate hand. “I’m Sarah Connelly, by the way. I own this place.”

“Jamie Crawford,” she answered as she shook Sarah’s hand. “I’m in town helping out a friend. You probably know him, actually. Patrick Finnegan, the sheriff?”

It was as if a light switch had been flicked off. One moment Sarah’s fair face was animated and friendly, the next, it went pale and expressionless.

“Sure, I know Finn,” Sarah replied, a slight edge to her voice.

Well, okay. Definitely some history there, but Jamie knew not to push for details. She could always ask Finn about it later. From the distrustful crease marring Sarah Connelly’s forehead, it was obvious the woman wasn’t going to answer any personal questions.

“So I guess you’re here because of Teresa Donovan,” Sarah added, her motions stiff as she placed the canvas on the counter and bent down to get a roll of bubble wrap.

“I am. I’m with the FBI,” Jamie admitted. “The sheriff asked for my input on the case.” When Sarah didn’t reply, she decided to do some fishing. Might as well, seeing as this woman seemed to know both Finn and the victim. “Were you close to Teresa?”

An incredulous laugh popped out of Sarah’s mouth. She quickly cut it short, offering an apologetic look. “Sorry, I don’t mean to disrespect the dead or anything. It’s just that you’re not going to find any female in this town who was close to that woman.”

Jamie raised her eyebrows. “Who hated who?”

“Oh, it went both ways. Teresa was … Let’s just say she wasn’t concerned with things like wedding bands.” Sarah shook her head. “In Teresa’s eyes, any man was fair game, even if he was taken. The women here didn’t take kindly to her throwing herself at their men.”

“What about the single ones?”

Sarah shrugged. “Teresa saw them as competition. She didn’t want or need friends.”

“What about when she married Cole?”

“What about it?” Sarah taped up the edge of the bubble wrap, grabbed a large paper bag and gingerly slid the canvas into it. “Marriage didn’t stop Teresa from going after any man she saw.”

Jamie had been trying very hard not to feel sympathy for Cole, but Sarah’s words brought a slight ache to her chest. Murder suspect or not, she didn’t envy the man. She couldn’t imagine how disgraced he must have felt, how badly his pride had been damaged knowing that his wife was not just unfaithful, but openly unfaithful.

But was he humiliated enough to kill her?

Her methodical brain piped up and she couldn’t ignore the question it raised. When it came to motive, Cole really did have a doozy of one, didn’t he?

“Let me just ring that up for you,” Sarah said, moving to the cash register.

Jamie absently reached into her purse and found her wallet, wishing that she could think of Cole Donovan as just another suspect, but for some reason, each time she pictured his handsome face, her body reacted in the most irritating way.

“So did he do it?”

Sarah’s wary question brought a frown to Jamie’s lips. “You mean Cole?”

The other woman nodded.

“I don’t know yet,” Jamie replied. “What do you think?”

Sarah looked uneasy. “I’m not sure. Everyone in town is pretty much convinced of his guilt—they’re ready to lock him up and throw away the key.”

“And you?”

Sarah shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it. Though I’m not sure if he should be locked up or given a parade in his name.” She suddenly glanced at the window. “Speak of the devil.”

Jamie followed the other woman’s gaze. Almost instantly, her heart did a little somersault.

Cole was standing outside, staring right at her. With a tentative smile, he lifted one hand in a wave.

She smiled back, confused by the way her pulse sped up at the sight of him. He wore jeans again, along with a pair of black boots and a long-sleeved dark blue shirt that emphasized the ripples of his broad chest.

Damn. Why couldn’t he look like a normal rich person? Designer clothes, expensive haircut, pretentious smirk. Those were the wealthy people she was accustomed to, the ones whose houses her mother used to clean. Sometimes her mom brought her along if she couldn’t find a babysitter, and Jamie had grown up thinking that all rich people were evil, something her mother never failed to remind her of.

She didn’t think it anymore; she knew several affluent folks who were incredibly wonderful people. But it would just be easier if Cole Donovan was like one of the wealthy jerks she’d known growing up.

Maybe then she wouldn’t find him so attractive.

Trying to hide her reaction, Jamie accepted the credit card receipt Sarah handed her and scribbled her signature on the slip. “Thanks for being so candid with me,” Jamie told the other woman.

“Candid is my middle name.”

Jamie smiled. “Maybe we can have coffee sometime, when I take a break from the case?”

“Sure, that sounds great.”

With a quick goodbye, Jamie headed for the door and stepped out of the gallery. She made a mental note to ask Finn about Sarah Connelly, though she truly hadn’t had an ulterior motive when she’d suggested coffee. With the stress of her job, making friends—or making time for friends—wasn’t usually a viable option, and she’d actually enjoyed meeting Sarah. It might be nice having some female company as long as she was in town.

“Shopping on the job, huh?” Cole said as she came outside, eyeing the paper bag she carried.

“Killing time,” she answered. “I’m meeting with your neighbor in a bit.”

His expression darkened. “Will you let me know what he says?”

“I can do that.” She noticed he held a shopping bag, a clear one that revealed the stack of candles and flashlights within it. “Are you planning a séance or going camping?”

His mouth quirked. “Neither. I’m just stocking up on some supplies. The weather network says there’s a hurricane making its way up the coast. It probably won’t make it this far inland, but that’s what I thought last time, and we were without power for two days.”

We. She wondered if he meant him and Teresa. She also wondered why the sight of his mouth brought a spark of heat to her belly. He really did have a nice mouth. Wide and sensual, with a surprisingly full bottom lip.

Murder suspect!

She clung to the reminder, though it only left her a little bewildered. Despite Cole’s rough masculine voice and somewhat reserved demeanor, she didn’t feel an ounce of fear in his presence. Not that she scared easily—she’d been in the same room with dozens of vicious killers in her career, and didn’t usually feel frightened. She was always aware, though. Aware of their crimes, aware of what they were capable of, and that awareness succeeded in making her cautious. Maybe that’s what troubled her about Cole, not that she didn’t fear him, but that she didn’t think she needed to.

“I like storms,” she said, trying to keep the subject neutral.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“No?”

“You seem like the kind of woman who likes the excitement.”

Their gazes locked, and there it was, that rush of heat again. Even as a girl she hadn’t been one to indulge in silly crushes. Boys hadn’t evoked many primal reactions in her, and when she’d felt something for someone, she’d always been guarded, wondering if the boy who showed interest in her did so because he truly liked her or because he thought she was easy since she came from a trailer park. That cautiousness had followed her into adulthood, as had the lack of carnal sexual attraction.

But carnal was the only word to describe her reaction to Cole. Everything about him teased her senses—his silky dark hair, the hard set of his broad shoulders, his delicious scent of spice and musk.

Okay, this definitely needed to stop.

“No, I just like the sound of thunder,” she said lightly, then edged off to the side. “I should get going. Gideon is expecting me—”

“You son of a bitch!”

The shrill female cry came out of nowhere, and Jamie nearly dropped her canvas from the sheer volume of the voice. She turned in time to see a petite woman marching toward them. Toward Cole.

Jamie immediately noticed the resemblance between this woman and the photo she had of Teresa Donovan. Both women had the same pale skin, inky-black hair and gunmetal-gray eyes, only this one looked older thanks to the deep brackets around her mouth and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

“You have real nerve!” the woman shrieked, her fair skin taking on an angry flush. “Walking around, shopping, when you should be in jail for what you’ve done!”

“Valerie,” Cole started reluctantly.

“You murdered my sister!” Eyes blazing with hostility, she lifted her hand and sent it flying into Cole’s left cheek.

Jamie winced at the sound of the fierce slap, at the way Cole’s head jerked back from its force. Looking stricken, Cole took a step to the side. “I didn’t kill your sister,” he said in a low voice.

“Tell that to the judge!”

Jamie stifled a sigh. Several passersby had stopped and were staring openmouthed at the commotion. With Cole doing nothing to end the confrontation, Jamie moved between him and Teresa’s sister, softening her tone as she looked at Valerie and said, “This really isn’t the place, ma’am.”

The woman’s jaw dropped. She glanced from Cole to Jamie, then let out a hysterical-sounding laugh. “Already got yourself a new woman, huh, Donovan? You make me sick!”

Cole instinctively moved back, as if expecting another assault, but Valerie just stared at him with daggers in her eyes. She glowered at him for several long moments, before finally storming off.

Jamie watched her go, then turned to Cole. “Not your biggest fan, I see,” she murmured.

He didn’t look amused. “The feeling’s mutual. Valerie Matthews is as nasty as her sister was. In fact, she raised Teresa by herself, so she probably taught her everything she knew about being a terrible person.”

Jamie couldn’t even argue. Valerie hadn’t exactly seemed like the most stable person. She made a mental note to ask Finn about her, and the relationship between the sisters. Had jealousy been a factor there?

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Cole said with a heavy breath, reaching up to rub his red cheek. “As you’ve probably figured out, I’m not the most popular guy in this town at the moment.”

A silence fell over them. Jamie wanted to say a word or two of comfort, but she kept her mouth closed. She wasn’t allowed to reassure this man. She was investigating him, for Pete’s sake.

Evidently taking the lull as a sign of goodbye, Cole cleared his throat. “I should head home and try to fix the generator, in case that storm makes an appearance.”

With an awkward goodbye, he walked off, leaving her standing by the curb. Although she’d promised herself she wasn’t allowed to view Cole Donovan as anything other than a suspect, his parting sentence stayed in her mind. He was going to fix a generator. So he did work with his hands. She found herself wondering what else he did on his own. Was he involved in the actual building of any of his properties?

She shoved the questions aside, a sigh rising in her chest. She really needed to exorcise this ridiculous urge to get to know him.

Fifteen minutes later, Jamie pulled up in front of Joe Gideon’s cabin, her mind on the impending interview. The structure was a far cry from Cole’s luxurious house. It was nothing but a small one-story shack made of logs that seemed to be rotting in several places, with a splintered door, two boarded-up windows and a weathered porch with a gaping hole in it. Jamie carefully climbed the unstable steps and knocked on the ripped screen door, then waited.

A few seconds later, a burly man with a salt-and-pepper beard appeared in the doorway. His too-close-together brown eyes narrowed, thin lips curling into a frown as he barked, “What do you want?”

She pasted on a bright smile. “Mr. Gideon? I’m Special Agent Jamie Crawford. We spoke on the phone this morning.”

“Oh, it’s you. Come in, I guess.”

Not the warmest of welcomes, but Jamie would take it. She followed Gideon into the house, immediately overcome by the odor of stale beer, mothballs and spoiled food. Jeez, Finn hadn’t been kidding when he said Gideon’s life had taken a downward spiral. Just looking at the man, she could tell he was a heavy drinker. A beer gut spilled over the waistband of his jeans and his cheeks boasted a ruddy flush that made her wonder just how much he’d already drunk today.

“You can sit wherever,” he said brusquely as he flopped down into a large recliner with tattered plaid upholstery.

Jamie swallowed down her disgust and finally sat on the stained brown sofa, choosing the end that wasn’t covered with wet newspapers and an empty carton of beer bottles.

“Do you mind if I record this?” she asked pleasantly, already pulling out the mini recorder from her purse.

Suspicion clouded his eyes. “Why?”

“Just so I make sure to get everything right when I type up your statement.”

“Fine,” he grumbled.

Jamie turned on the recorder and placed it on the stained coffee table. “All right, Mr. Gideon, why don’t we start with what you did the morning of July 15.”

As the man recited everything he’d done, throwing the phrase “Had a cold one” after each task he outlined, Jamie finally had to cut him off. “Why don’t you just give me a ballpark amount of the drinks you had?”

“Ten, fifteen.” He shrugged. “I have a high tolerance for the stuff.”

Congratulations, she almost bit out.

“Okay, so after you finished the construction job—”

“Carpentry,” he interrupted impatiently. “I was helping a buddy of mine sand some chairs.”

She fought a wave of impatience of her own. “After you finished that, you came straight home?”

“Sure did.”

“And you were here for the rest of the evening. Didn’t leave the house until the next morning?”

“Didn’t go nowhere,” he muttered.

“So you didn’t run into Cole Donovan about a half a mile from here at around two in the morning?”

“I already said I didn’t go nowhere!”

He was lying. One look at his defensive brown eyes and the now even redder cheeks, and Jamie knew that Gideon was hiding something. She wondered why Finn hadn’t seen it when he’d interviewed the man.

“Why would Mr. Donovan say he saw you?” Jamie asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

Gideon rolled his eyes. “Because he’s a killer, and he needs an alibi.”

“You believe he killed his ex-wife then?”

“Of course he did.”

“Do you have any proof of that, or is it just your own personal belief?”

His brown eyes flashed. “No, I don’t got no proof. But everyone knows he did it. He attacked her outside Sully’s, then followed her home to finish the job.”

Jamie put on an unaffected mask, all the while marveling over how facts could get so distorted in the small-town grapevine. Eyewitnesses had grudgingly admitted to seeing Teresa attack Cole. Now it was the other way around, apparently.

The distrust coursing through her blood made it difficult to keep a professional distance. Gideon was lying—either about his claim that he hadn’t seen Cole that night, or about something else entirely. Either way, the man wasn’t telling her the whole truth.

Don’t push him.

She heeded the advice, relying on the instincts she’d learned to trust after ten years in law enforcement. Gideon wasn’t budging on his story, not today, anyway, and forcing the subject right now would only cause him to clam up. So despite the reluctance seizing her body, she pasted a smile on her face and leaned forward to shut off the tape recorder.

“Okay, then. Thanks for your time, Mr. Gideon.” Rising from the sofa, she extended a hand, trying not to cringe when Gideon’s beefy hand gripped hers, his dirty fingernails digging into her palm.

“So you’re sending the bastard to jail, right?” Gideon muttered as he walked her to the front door.

“We’re still investigating,” she corrected. “And I may want to speak with you again, if that’s all right with you.”

His shoulders stiffened. “Why?”

“Just in case I need some more details, you know, about Mr. Donovan’s reputation around town, or to answer any other questions that arise.”

“I’d be happy to help,” Gideon said.

A satisfied gleam entered his eyes, and she knew she’d played her cards right. She had to make him think she needed his help to railroad Cole, which Gideon seemed intent on doing. But the defensive flicker of mistruth she’d glimpsed on his face during the interview refused to leave her mind. He’d lied to her about something.

And she was determined to find out what he was hiding.