Читать книгу Police Business - Julie Miller - Страница 11

Using the beam of his flashlight to guide his way through the dark offices and hallway, the man with the long fingers paused in his work. Caution, more than curiosity, guided him to the shiny gold disk that had caught his eye. Squatting down beside the potted ficus tree, he picked up a small gold pin. Cheap, by the weight of it. He turned the trinket over in his palm.

Forsythe.

He couldn’t quite place the name, but he’d file it away in the back of his mind until he could.

Before he straightened, he lifted his gaze, studying the view from this vantage point. Interesting. A place to see, but not be seen. If anyone was of the mind to do so.

He’d been assured that the 26th floor would be abandoned after 6:00 p.m. That the cleaning crew wouldn’t arrive until ten o’clock.

Was the pin a result of sloppy housekeeping? Unlikely, given the money and expectations tossed around this place. Was it just coincidence that someone had lost this pin on this night—in this place with a camouflaged view of Cain Winthrop’s office?

In his business, it didn’t pay to count on coincidence. Had there been an uninvited guest at their meeting? A witness who could destroy years of hard work and cost him millions of dollars in potential profit?

His pulse didn’t quicken at the possibility; his heart didn’t leap into his throat. He closed the pin inside his palm and stood. This could be a problem.

The question was, did he tell his partner?

Or did he take care of it himself?

A.J. TUCKED HIS NOTEPAD AND PEN inside his leather jacket and knelt down to brush his fingertips across the polished sheen of the mahogany floor in the executive waiting area. While Josh did what he did best, and handled most of the interview questions, A.J. had taken his time to walk around the top floor and study every posh nook and imported treasure of Cain Winthrop’s state-of-the-art decor.

He wasn’t thrilled with the mix of eagerness and melancholy he felt at returning to the expensively hallowed halls of the Winthrop Enterprises Building. What had he been—seventeen? eighteen?—the last time he’d been here? He’d come in to see his father while Antonio, Sr. worked the night shift, vacuuming carpets and buffing floors, doing the minor repairs that kept the building in working shape.

He’d come here to bum money off the old man. Probably for something stupid, like the cigarettes he used to smoke or gas for the car he drove too fast and wrecked too often.

He splayed his fingers across the cool wood and admired the exotic decor, wondering if any of this was his father’s handiwork. Wondering how many times his father’s footsteps had crossed this floor.

Wondering why he couldn’t have appreciated his father for the man he was until it was too late.

Eighteen years later, A.J. had finally come back.

Not to pay homage to his father, but to investigate a homicide.

Customarily, though, when two detectives were summoned to the scene of a murder, there was usually a dead body involved.

A.J. rolled the kink from his bum shoulder and pushed to his feet, squinching his face against the three itchy stitches that closed the gash along his left cheekbone. If it weren’t for the location, he’d probably appreciate the diversion of a call. Even an apparent wild goose chase like this one was turning out to be. After the week of desk duty he and Josh had been assigned to following the explosion last month in front of the Jazz Note—which had sent him to the E.R. and stalled out their investigation into the drug dealer murders—A.J. was ready for a little action.

But coming to the Winthrop Building after all these years, looking Cain Winthrop in the eye and remembering the last words his father had spoken about the man, left A.J. feeling unsettled rather than relieved to be back in the game.

Despite the hysterical tinge in Claire Winthrop’s distorted voice, she seemed absolutely sure that she’d witnessed a murder here. Both times he’d asked her to relate her story, she’d been clear and vehement about her facts—and unable to explain why Winthrop’s office was spic-and-span tidy, with nary a bullet hole, speck of blood—or a body—in sight.

It wasn’t the first time someone had reported a crime in the Winthrop Building that evidence said hadn’t taken place.

No one had believed his father, either.

Well, one person had. One person believed Antonio Rodriguez’s story enough to kill him.

A.J. lifted his gaze up to the vaulted ceiling and pondered the odds of something like that happening twice in the same location. No wonder he didn’t feel right in his skin on this one.

There were too many secrets in this place. Too many lies. World-class players walked these hallways, as well as invisible men like his father had been. His father deserved better than what he had gotten. He deserved the truth.

So did Claire Winthrop. A.J. could feel something funny going on here all the way down to his bones. He couldn’t put his finger on it yet, but he trusted that instinct more than what his eyes told him.

“I’m gonna make this right,” he whispered out loud. He didn’t know if he was making a promise to his father or Claire Winthrop or to the powers that be.

His determination might not show on the outside, but it was a vow he intended to keep.

“I don’t mean to make light of the situation.” A.J. tuned in to the conversation across the waiting room as Josh followed Cain Winthrop out of his office.

“But could your daughter be mistaken in what she saw? She did leave the alleged crime scene. The guard downstairs said she was the only one who checked in for the 26th floor. Without his pass key to override the lock, no one could take the elevator to the penthouse floor. Maybe she got off on a different floor and we’re in the wrong place.”

The white-haired millionaire shook his head. “Everyone who works on this floor has a pass key. They wouldn’t have to sign in, even after hours. But Claire would. If she said it was the 26th floor where she saw something, then I believe her. She wouldn’t make a mistake about that.”

Josh asked the right question. “Is there something she would make a mistake about? Is it possible this is a cry for some attention? Or the repressed memory of another crime?”

“She’s been known to have an active imagination, if that’s what you’re hinting at, Detective.” Winthrop shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his charcoal wool slacks. When he pulled out his left hand, he was fiddling with something at the end of his key chain. “Claire lost her hearing when she was three. To the same illness that claimed her mother’s life. She had a very lonely childhood. I know she filled her time with books and stories she made up inside her head. Sometimes she’d get so lost in her imaginary world that it was hard to reach her.”

“So you think she’s making this up?” A.J. strolled over and invited himself into the conversation.

Winthrop narrowed his gaze, studying A.J. as intently as he had when they’d first arrived on the scene and introduced themselves. “Are you sure I don’t know you, Rodriguez? You look damn familiar.”

So he was a dead ringer for his father. If the man had a good memory, he might be able to make the connection. But A.J. wasn’t about to give Winthrop any information that might color his answers or affect his cooperation. He came up with an honest response and steered him back to the interview. “No sir, we’ve never met. You were telling us about your daughter?”

The older man shrugged, his expression perplexed. “I can’t imagine why she’d be making up a story like this now. Those episodes were years ago, when she was a child. Tonight she seems so certain. But it’s impossible. Maybe I should have called a doctor instead of—”

A.J. sensed the man striding up behind him and turned before he heard the gruff interruption. “Cain. I should have been notified if there’s a situation.”

“Whoa, buddy. Who are you?” Josh stepped in to deflect the verbal attack with an easy smile.

The man in the corduroy blazer and jeans matched Josh in both height and brawn. But there was nothing easy about the grim set of his pale gray eyes or the blunt cut of his hair. “Marcus Tucker, Chief of Security, Winthrop Enterprises. Who the hell are you?”

A.J. didn’t hesitate to square off against the bigger man. “Rodriguez and Taylor, KCPD.” He flashed his badge and nodded toward the bulge beneath Tucker’s coat at the side of his waist. “You got a permit to carry that weapon, Chief?”

The big man’s cheeks ruddied as he schooled his temper. A.J. braced on the balls of his feet as Tucker wisely pulled open his coat to reveal the Smith & Wesson he carried. At the same time, he slowly reached inside the jacket to pull out his wallet and show his permit and ID.

The man was legit. But A.J. never relaxed his guard and Tucker never answered his question. Instead, the security chief pointed a blunt finger at his employer. “I shouldn’t have to hear about a shooting on the premises from my contact at KCPD.” He thumped his own chest. “I should have been your first call.”

“You have a contact at the department?” A.J. asked.

“I have contacts all over the world, Rodriguez.” Tucker sneered.

Cain Winthrop patted the air with placating hands. “Relax, gentlemen. Marcus, please. There is no situation.” He glanced at Josh and A.J. “More of a misunderstanding, I think.”

The pale eyes narrowed. “Was there or was there not a shooting?”

A.J. answered before Winthrop could discount his daughter’s story again. “That’s yet to be confirmed. But if you really are the top dog in security around here, then I’d start with your man at the desk downstairs. At least three unknown parties made it to the top floor without him being aware of their presence in the building. And when Miss Winthrop asked him to assist her earlier tonight, he refused to leave his post.”

Tucker swung his gaze to Winthrop. “Is that true?”

“That’s what Claire said.”

That seemed to blow a hole in the chief’s malign-the-cops-and-save-the-day routine. “Warren’s new. He’s still green about how we run things here and who we answer to. I’ll take care of him. Miss Winthrop’s okay, right?”

Cain nodded, though he didn’t look entirely convinced.

After what passed for an apology to his boss, Tucker huffed up his chest and pointed another finger at the two cops. “I want to be copied on your report. Anything you find out about crimes on this property or against anyone associated with Winthrop, Inc. comes through me. Understood?”

Idly, A.J. wondered if Tucker would miss that annoying finger if he twisted it off the end of his hand. He’d taken down bigger blowhards before.

Josh grinned and vented the sarcasm that A.J. held in check. “I’ll run your request past Captain Taylor. If he gives the okey-dokey, I’ll trot that report right over to your office myself.”

“Just do your job, Detective. And let me do mine.”

Tucker pulled out his cell phone and stormed back down the hall the way he’d come. No one said goodbye. No one seemed to miss him.

“He’s a charmer,” Josh joked.

“He might be short on personality,” Winthrop apologized, “but he’s well-qualified to safeguard an empire the size of Winthrop Enterprises. I do business on six continents, and he oversees security for all of it.”

Maybe Chief Tucker could handle men across six continents, but he’d done a lousy job making one young, frightened woman feel secure in her father’s own office.

And maybe his father’s death wasn’t the only reason A.J. was still here an hour after finding out there was no crime at the alleged crime scene. Claire Winthrop had reminded him of his youngest sister, Teresa, the night she’d been mugged on her way home from work. That same shock was in her eyes; the fear was in every darting glance over her shoulder. Something had spooked the young lady. No matter what the evidence said, Claire was afraid.

Of what or whom didn’t matter. He supposed it was the big brother instincts in him. Or maybe some sort of continual atonement for not being able to prevent or solve his father’s so-called accident. But A.J. wasn’t going to walk away until he was sure that Valerie Justice wasn’t really dead and Claire Winthrop wasn’t in any real danger.

“Do you need anything else from me, Mr. Winthrop?” Pulling on her lightweight trench coat, Valerie Justice’s replacement waltzed out of the office and joined them. She’d introduced herself as Amelia Ward, and Winthrop said she’d come highly recommended from the temp agency from which he’d hired her for two weeks. “I can’t find anything that’s missing in either your office or Ms. Justice’s. The files and the phone logs all seem to be in the same order she showed me this morning. I’ve contacted the airline and the hotel in the Bahamas, as well, asking Ms. Justice to call us as soon as she gets the message.”

The new boss offered her a reassuring smile. “Good thinking, Amelia. I’m sure everything will be fine. I appreciate you coming in so late. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“No problem, sir. I’m going to head back home and finish watching that movie I rented.” She tucked her auburn hair behind her ear and offered Josh a smile that was more than friendly. “Unless the police need me for something else?”

Subtle.

Josh made a point of adjusting the front of his jacket and showing off his wedding ring. “I don’t think so, Miss Ward.”

Rebuffed by the big, blond cop, she turned her hopeful smile on A.J. “Officer Rodriguez?”

Not his type.

“It’s Detective.” He tapped his pocket where he’d stuffed his notepad. “But we’re good. We have your name and number on file, and if we need anything more we’ll give you a call.”

She didn’t quite take the hint. “Please do. Good night, gentlemen.”

With a nod, Amelia sashayed down the hallway. A.J. watched her leave, but he wasn’t noticing the purposeful strut of her hips. Instead, he was marking off the distance in his head because, for several steps before she turned the corner to the elevators, she’d completely disappeared from his line of sight.

I hid behind the trees and aquarium. I could see him, but he couldn’t see me.

Claire Winthrop’s words replayed in his head, fueling his curiosity. Marcus Tucker had been tall enough to remain in view as he walked the length of the hallway. But the top of Claire Winthrop’s head barely cleared A.J.’s shoulder. Was she tiny enough to pull off what she claimed?

Leaving Josh and Winthrop to wrap up their conversation, A.J. drifted back to the doorway of Winthrop’s office. He rose up on tiptoe, trying to make himself as tall as the man in the black suit Claire had described. Nada.

Even looking straight at the circle of pots and furniture, she could have hidden and watched the office without being seen. Why give that sort of accurate detail if she wasn’t telling the truth? Unless she was in the habit of hiding behind potted plants and spying on her father?

Though her handicap and slender, petite build added a delicacy to her appearance, Claire Winthrop didn’t strike A.J. as a woman prone to childish pranks. Maybe it was the designer suit or the careful way she chose and articulated her words that made her seem more grown up.

Or not.

“Miss Winthrop?” His voice fell on empty air as he turned into the interior of Winthrop’s office. Maybe the boss’s daughter did make a habit of playing hide and seek. She was nowhere to be seen inside here, either.

But he could hear her—rummaging around, mumbling to herself—on the other side of Winthrop’s sized-to-intimidate mahogany desk.

Hooking his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, A.J. circled the desk and was greeted by the elegant sway of a pink silk bottom. Bello. His initial amusement at finding the proper, ladylike heiress crawling beneath her father’s desk heated with something decidedly male as he watched the graceful shape bob up and down.

He made no apologies for enjoying the view, but heeded the voice inside his head that reminded him he was here on business. Unlike Amelia Ward’s obvious flirting, this was no practiced seduction meant to entice. It was just a nice butt. Okay, a very nice one. One that moved with an innate sense of rhythm that seemed to match the pulse beating in his veins.

Ignore it, Rodriguez. He blinked and politely looked away. Whatever pleasures he might enjoy with the opposite sex, he knew they wouldn’t be with the daughter of the man his father had once cleaned toilets for.

“Miss?” Despite her assertion that she could hear some sound, thanks to surgery and cochlear implants, A.J. raised his voice. “Miss Winthrop?”

She seemed inordinately engrossed with running her fingers around every inch of the plastic chair mat beneath the desk. Needing her attention, A.J. leaned down and tapped her on the shoulder. “Miss Winthrop?”

As soon as he touched her, she let out a yelp, smacked her head on the desk and muttered something a little less classy than he might have expected from the dainty heiress. She spun around and landed on her bottom in a graceful heap, rubbing at the back of her skull where she’d conked herself.

“Sorry.” He squatted in front of her, bracing one hand on the desk above her head. Her blue eyes looked a bit dazed. Guilt instantly replaced both curiosity and amusement. He gently touched her shoulder, needing to do something to make amends. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you hurt?”

She glanced down at his hand as if the comforting gesture surprised her. When she didn’t pull away or protest, he trailed his fingers up the side of her neck and found skin as soft as the silk she wore and a racing pulse. Or maybe that was his own heart rate speeding up with awareness and concern.

“Do you need to lie down?” Her gaze darted to his lips and searched them as if she couldn’t quite grasp what he was asking. “Miss Winthrop?” he repeated, reminding himself to focus on first aid and not the way her eyes pooled and darkened as if she was having a hard time staying focused herself. “Are you hurt?”

He reached behind her head to probe for any cut or goose egg. As he gently nudged his fingers into her hair, his palm brushed against the small plastic hearing device hooked behind her ear.

The instant he touched the device, she blinked her eyes clear and pushed his hand away. “I’m fine.”

Rightly denied the contact that had slipped beyond professional, A.J. sat back on his haunches. But he never got the chance to apologize.

Instead, Claire Winthrop moved her fingers in a frantic dance that he knew to be sign language, even if he didn’t understand the words. Fortunately, she spoke out loud as she signed. “I think the mats have been switched.”

The discovery seemed to excite her, judging by the flush of color on her cheeks. A.J. grinned in relief and rose to his feet. This woman wasn’t hurt—he’d seen that distant focus dozens of times in his sisters’ eyes. Claire Winthrop was preoccupied. Obsessed, even.

A.J. offered his hand to help her stand. “What makes you say that?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he waited until she looked up into his face and repeated the question.

“This one is worn around the edges and has wheel dents.” She pointed out the damage. “I’m sure my father’s was replaced within the last couple of months when my stepmother remodeled his office. This one should still be smooth.”

Interesting eye for detail.

Seemed he couldn’t help noticing a few details himself.

About his witness.

After a moment’s hesitation, when he thought she might refuse his assistance or continue her explanation, she laid her fingers across his palm, giving him a glimpse of the evocative contrast between her creamy porcelain skin and his callused, olive-tinted hand.

To his surprise, there was nothing weak in her grasp as he provided an anchor for her to pull herself to her feet. The pink suit and delicate features had given him a mistaken impression of fragility. This woman possessed a sinewed strength from the tips of her fingers to the length of her shapely calves.

“Detective…Rodriguez?” She pronounced his name carefully, slurring the Rs with subtle W sounds. And while he mulled over the husky softness of her voice when she wasn’t desperate with confusion or shouting with excitement, she dropped her sky-blue gaze to the clutch of their hands. “Thank you.”

She hadn’t signed, but A.J. understood the prompt and quickly released her. He’d held on a shade too long to be proper; his grip had been a little too snug to be polite.

Bad move, A.J. He shouldn’t be noticing anything about Claire Winthrop except her reliability as a witness—which at this point was, unfortunately, questionable. He shouldn’t care one damn whether the pampered heiress was offended or turned on by holding a working man’s life-scarred hand.

It wasn’t like him to get distracted from his purpose, not by any woman. Certainly not by Cain Winthrop’s daughter. The job didn’t allow it.

He wouldn’t allow it.

He stuffed said workingman’s hands into the pockets of his jacket and told himself he hadn’t noticed the subtle perfume that clung to her hair and emanated from the heat of her skin, either.

Needing his space before his brain got addled with any more pointless impressions, A.J. strolled to the center of the room and placed the desk between them. “So you think the killer—”

“—and his accomplice,” she insisted. A.J. conceded the addition to her scenario. “The killer and his accomplice rolled up the body in the plastic mat and disposed of it? Then they put a new one in its place?”

“Isn’t that a realistic possibility to explain why Valerie’s not here?”

“Assuming Miss Justice is as least as big as you are, how do you smuggle out a body without being seen?”

“It’s a big building. They took the freight elevator or the stairs. Only the security lights are on inside. The sky’s overcast so there’s no moon outside. I don’t know.” Her shrug was an easy enough sign to read. So was the quick snap of her fingers. “But we should be able to check the mats.”

When she breezed past him and headed out the door, A.J. wondered if he was being polite or just plain crazy for following her and joining the search. At Claire’s pace, it didn’t take long to inspect every office on the floor to discover that there were no chair mats missing from beneath any of the desks.

He could almost feel her disappointment at a good idea refusing to pan out. Her frustration was such a tangible thing in the stiff set of her shoulders and crossed arms that he wanted to say he believed her story, even though the possibility of a woman being shot to death in Cain Winthrop’s office seemed more remote by the minute.

“How many offices are in this building?” he asked, knowing he didn’t have enough of a case here to warrant pulling any manpower off the Slick Williams murder and other homicides for an extensive room-to-room search.

“Hundreds.” She tipped the point of her chin at him, her blue eyes blazing. He recognized that look from his sisters, too. “And, yes, I’m sure I have the right room.”

She looked about as dangerous as a kitten, all huffed up and ready to spit in self-defense. A.J. respected her right to a temper, but couldn’t help smiling to himself at the notion she looked more cute than ferocious. “That wasn’t what I was thinking, amiga.”

Tiny fine lines appeared beside her eyes as she frowned. “What?”

She hadn’t understood him. “Amiga?” Reading lips in English was amazing enough. He supposed translating a foreign language on top of that would confuse most people. “It’s Spanish. It means friend.”

“Oh. Amiga.” She said the word again, touched her own lips as she repeated it, giving A.J. the feeling she wasn’t most people. She’d just expanded her vocabulary and wouldn’t miss that word again. “I’m bilingual, too.”

“You seem to communicate just fine.”

Her pale cheeks colored at the compliment. “It helps when someone really listens.”

Meaning there were others who didn’t listen to what she had to say? A.J. raised his guard a notch against his growing admiration for the woman. Maybe she had more of a reputation for making up stories than her father had indicated. Or maybe, like his own father had once told him, Winthrop will ignore the truth if it doesn’t suit his purpose. Or he’ll change things to make them fit his truth.

As a smart-ass teenager, A.J. had asked his father what he was smokin’ to come up with that deep thought. Antonio, Sr. had shoved his only son up against the wall and warned him to watch his mouth. Maybe if he listened a little better, instead of putting so much noise into the world, he could see the truth. If he heard the truth, if he championed it, then men like Cain Winthrop and his compadres at Winthrop, Inc. would lose their power to control and ruin other people’s lives.

His father, who had never once resorted to violence with his children, had been trying to tell him something important. But A.J. shrugged him off, called him loco and worse, ignored his warning and sped away in his muscle car.

It wasn’t the first time his father had tried to teach him how to be a man.

But it was the last time.

Though A.J. knew his father’s car, even as a burnt-out skeleton in the police impound lot, the coroner had needed dental records to identify his father’s remains. His mother had needed a sedative, his sisters had needed a shoulder to cry on and he had needed to grow up and become the man his father wanted him to be.

He was still working on that last one.

With little more than a blink to betray the depth of guilt and hurt he buried inside him, A.J. shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and tried to hear Claire Winthrop’s truth.

“Your father doesn’t listen to you?” he asked.

Claire’s cheeks paled again, giving him the real answer. “So what were you thinking, Detective? About the offices?” she asked, defending her father by refusing to condemn him.

A little spark of anger kindled deep inside A.J., disrupting the Zen-like sense of calm that kept his temper in check, his priorities straight and his desires under control. How could a father ignore his own child? Dismiss her when she needed his support? Antonio, Sr. never had.

But he was years beyond giving vent to angry words. His personal opinions were irrelevant to the investigation, anyway. So he did what he did best. He played it cool and let the witness and the facts take the investigation where it needed to go.

He shrugged off any awareness that he’d gotten too personal with his questions. “I was thinking more along the lines that your killers stashed the body somewhere else until they could come back and move it later.”

Her eyes followed the movement of his lips, then lit with hope. “The supply closet.”

He’d checked the supply closet earlier. No dead assistant.

But she was already hurrying across the reception area to a black steel door. A.J. followed at a more deliberate pace. Claire Winthrop wasn’t looking for bodies. She was back to finding what she thought was the missing chair mat.

A.J. turned on the light for her and helped her move some chairs to uncover two plastic mats stacked on their sides against the wall. Her toes tapped an impatient rhythm as she tried to transform the items into a clue.

He tried to help. “Any idea how many are supposed to be in here?”

When she didn’t answer, he realized she had her back to him and hadn’t heard the question. As soon as he touched her shoulder, she spun around. Oh man, this was killing her. He could see the frustration carving squint lines beside her eyes. He could read what it was costing her to keep from screaming out loud in the tight set of her mouth.

“Who would know how many mats are supposed to be in here?” he asked.

He was fascinated with the way her eyes followed his lips whenever he spoke. It was an intimate connection that made him want to keep talking, that made him want to study her lips with equal thoroughness.

But Claire Winthrop was all about finding answers, not making a play for a world-weary homicide detective.

“Valerie would know. Or the chief maintenance engineer.”

Bam. Finally, the wake-up call he needed. Maintenance engineer. No matter how she sugarcoated the term, Claire Winthrop was the daughter of a multimillionaire while he was the custodian’s son. He had real crimes to solve, real victims to protect. A real world to live in.

He was done playing. It was late, he was tired and he was a damn lonely son of a gun for wasting even one moment feeling whatever the hell he was feeling for Claire Winthrop.

A.J. drew back the front of his jacket and hooked his thumbs into his belt, giving Claire a clear look at his guns, his badge and the seriousness of making a false report to the police. He needed the truth from her and he needed it now.

“How long were you gone tonight, Miss Winthrop? From the time you allegedly saw the murder to the time you returned to the 26th floor with your father?”

“I didn’t allegedly see anything.” Her temper spiked, then dissipated just as quickly. “I don’t know. I didn’t check my watch until I got home. Maybe two hours. Maybe less.”

Was that enough time to completely erase a crime scene? Or just enough time for a needy young woman to perfect an elaborate lie?

He waited for her to turn off the light and close the closet door behind her. “Since there’s no body for us to look at, maybe you could tell me more about this man with the gun you saw?”

“I’ve already given a physical description to you and Detective Taylor.”

“Tell me again.”

“So you can catch me in a lie?” she challenged. Her probing eyes locked onto his.

Definitely not as fragile as she looked. A.J. pulled out his notepad and pen to add credence to his request. “So I can find some truth to back up your claim.”

Her defensive posture sagged on a weary breath.

“All right. One more time.” He fell into step beside her and went back to Winthrop’s office. “How tall are you, Detective?” she asked, turning to face him inside the doorway.

“Five-ten.”

“Then I’d say this man was about six-one or six-two. He had hair as black as yours, longer, combed back. But his skin was pale. Almost sallow-looking. And there was acne scarring all over it.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if replaying the scene in her mind…or reviewing the details of her story. When her eyes sprang open, he was reminded again of just how blue they were—like a clear spring sky. “His suit and shirt were black, and his clothes fit as if they had been personally tailored for him. The man had money. But then I suppose professional hit men make—”

“Hit men?” A.J. slapped his notepad shut. His attention flashed back to the murder of Ray “Slick” Williams at the Jazz Note. That had been a professional job, not the work of some penny-ante thug guarding his territory. KCPD had even issued a profile on the type of man they were looking for.

Tall. Well-dressed. Probably wearing dark clothes to blend in with the shadows. Armed and extremely dangerous.

Hell. Had she read about Slick’s death in the papers? Had he been about ready to buy into a crime because her story reminded him of his father’s claim? Because her pretty blue eyes and articulate mouth stirred up a few hormones?

Being played for a fool didn’t ruffle his feathers. Feeling any kind of attraction to the woman playing him did. “What do you know about hit men, Miss Winthrop?”

He wondered if she could pick up subtle nuances in vocal tones, or if he’d revealed something in his expression. Her shoulders went back and she crossed her arms in a classic defensive posture. “You don’t believe me.”

“There’s nothing here to corroborate your story.” This woman needed some help. But not the kind a cop could give her. “There’s no sign of forced entry. No sign of struggle. No blood. No body.”

But she wouldn’t let the damn farce die. She paced the room, still searching for a way to make her story stick as she began to speak and sign again. “I could go down to your office to look through some mug-shot books. Or talk to a sketch artist. I have classes in the morning, but I could come in right after that.”

Sure. Waste some more of his time.

But the taunt never left his lips. Instead, the phone on Winthrop’s desk rang. On the second ring, Claire touched the receiver, as though using the vibrations to verify whatever sound she must have heard. “Daddy?”

It rang again before Cain Winthrop dashed in and picked up the receiver. “Winthrop here.” His blue eyes nailed Claire’s, warning her to pay attention. “Yes. I’ll accept the charges.”

The older man reached out for his daughter. He smoothed the hair across her crown, practically patting her on the head as if she was still a child. Then he smiled. “Thank God,” he said into the phone. He wrapped his arm around Claire’s shoulders and hugged her to his side. “Sweetie, everything’s going to be okay. We can go home and forget all about tonight.”

Her complexion blanched to a shade beyond pale as Cain delivered the truth A.J. had been pushing for.

“It’s Valerie. She’s alive and well and calling from Nassau.”