Читать книгу Witness... And Wife? - Kate Stevenson - Страница 12

Judge Wainright’s clerk, Chelsea Sparks, was every male’s fantasy. Tall and willowy, with a liquid fall of hair so platinum it could only have come from a bottle, she was padded in all the right places. Indeed, her ample curves strained the limits of her smartly tailored suit in a manner that was nearly indecent.

Feeling like nothing more than a mushroom in comparison, Cassie poked at her own wild mass of permed curls and watched Chelsea’s pouty Elizabeth Arden lips form into an expression of profound sorrow.

“He was the greatest boss a girl could have.”

Cassie shifted uncomfortably under the syrupy flow of sentiment and wondered how long the woman had practiced the slight quaver in her voice and the sad flutter of mascaraed eyelashes. The display was so blatantly false, it curdled Cassie’s stomach. How could the woman just sit there, a room away from where her boss was murdered?

Deliberately Cassie looked at the closed door, ignoring her clenched stomach and clammy skin. Luke had expressed doubts about returning so soon to the scene of the crime, but Cassie had overridden his concern. Now, forcing herself to breathe deeply, she admitted he might have been right. Thank goodness she’d skipped breakfast.

She darted a glance at Luke, who leaned against a bank of metal file cabinets, pen and notepad in hand. He was eating up Chelsea’s performance, if the silly smile on his face was any indication.

Not that Cassie minded. As far as she was concerned, Luke could play the fool over any woman he wanted. Even one so obvious as Chelsea Sparks.

A throbbing ache settled in the spot between Cassie’s shoulder blades. She wished she hadn’t insisted she and Luke combine their efforts. It had seemed a logical solution at the time. Luke could conduct some of the interminable interviews necessary to a murder investigation while she tried to pinpoint the reason for Judge Wainright’s call and work on her articles.

Perfectly logical, mocked an inner voice, except for one small detail.

Watching Luke in action was driving her crazy. His slow smile. The lazy focus of dark eyes half-hidden behind heavy lids. His loose-jointed stance. His demeanor was so potently male it conjured up visions of sultry nights in shadowed bedrooms.

She squirmed in her seat, dismayed at the direction of her thoughts. The last thing she needed was to once again fall under the spell of raging hormones. She was far too familiar with where that could lead. With conscious effort she forced her thoughts back to what had brought her here—drugs, mayhem, murder. Not the most soothing of subjects, but definitely safer, she decided as she caught Chelsea’s murmur of distress in response to something Luke had said.

“I realize this is difficult for you, Ms. Sparks,” Luke commiserated.

Chelsea managed a tremulous smile that would have done credit to a vestal virgin. “I don’t mind. I know you’re just doing your job.”

Luke nodded approval of her attitude as he thumbed open his notepad. “I’ll be as brief as possible, since I see you’re busy.”

“Busy?” Chelsea followed his gaze to the half-filled cardboard boxes on the floor. “Oh, yes. I’m moving. But I have plenty of time to get things in order. I don’t start my new job for a couple of days.”

“New job?”

“Judge Kimball’s clerk recently retired, and he was kind enough to offer me the position.” Spurred by Luke’s raised brows, she elaborated. “He and Judge Wainright worked so closely, it’s rather like keeping it in the family, you know.” She fingered the gold chain at her neck and sighed.

The movement drew attention to her deep cleavage, a fact Cassie concluded was not wasted on Luke, based on the pregnant silence that followed. By sheer force of will, she refrained from shooting him an exasperated glance before she steered the conversation back on course. “What was Judge Wainright like to work for?”

“Wonderful. He was positively wonderful.” Chelsea appeared ready to launch into a soliloquy about her former boss, but before she could start, Luke segued to the next question.

“So you were aware the judge was working late?”

She nodded. “Yes, he had a trial starting first thing Monday morning and wanted everything ready. He often stayed late. Lots of people do here. There are fewer interruptions at night. And on Fridays almost everyone’s gone by six.”

“You didn’t know he was expecting anyone?”

“No.”

“Is that usual? I thought you kept track of his schedule.”

“I do—did. Judge Wainright was a stickler for proper procedure. He insisted I record every appointment.”

Luke frowned. “Yet he didn’t mention a meeting with Ms. Bowers.”

Annoyance painted twin creases between Chelsea’s penciled brows. “If Ms. Bowers did, indeed, have an appointment…” She shot Cassie a skeptical look that indicated she wasn’t entirely convinced of the veracity of Cassie’s claim. “Judge Wainright was undoubtedly being considerate. He knew I was expecting my mother for dinner.”

Cassie refused to take offense at the insinuation she might be lying. Chelsea was obviously miffed she hadn’t been informed of all her boss’s activities. To tell the truth, Judge Wainright’s secretiveness puzzled Cassie as much as it did the clerk. Not for a moment did she consider it an oversight. The man was too conscientious to be forgetful.

No, he’d had some reason for not advertising the meeting. But what could it be?

Resisting the morbid lure of the closed door, Cassie glanced around the sunlit anteroom while Luke continued to question Chelsea. The room seemed no different from when she’d first interviewed Wainright. File cabinets still lined one wall, and the clerk’s oak desk sat in exactly the same spot, centered on a carpet of bright crimson, guarding the entrance to the judge’s chambers. Nothing to indicate a violent crime had occurred a few feet away.

“That’s where they found the judge.”

Chelsea’s voice cut through Cassie’s thoughts, making her aware the conversation had stopped. And to make matters worse, she’d been caught staring once more at the very door she’d tried to avoid.

“But then you already know that’s where it happened, don’t you?” Chelsea said, her tone hushed with morbid curiosity.

A lump lodged in Cassie’s throat, making speech impossible. Suddenly fearful the clerk would offer to open the door, she wet her dry lips and resisted an urge to wipe her palms against her cotton skirt. She didn’t want to see the room. Even if it proved to be the only way to remember what had happened, she couldn’t look.

Her overactive imagination, abetted by a year on the police beat, supplied a much-too-vivid picture of what probably lay beyond the closed door. Gaping holes in the carpet where investigators had cut out bloodstains. Empty chalk outlines identifying the original location of possible evidence. A coating of powder on every stick of furniture that might yield fingerprints.

She shuddered. So little to mark the passage of a man’s life.

“Ms. Bowers doesn’t remember.”

The sound of Luke’s voice wrenched Cassie from her grisly thoughts. Startled, she threw a glance over her shoulder. When had he crossed the room to stand vigil behind her chair?

“Not yet.” Luke patted Cassie’s shoulder.

Chelsea’s bright lips formed into a perfect O.

Cassie felt her cheeks flame at Luke’s theatrical gesture. She realized he hoped to keep the killer guessing, but did he have to act so proprietary? If it weren’t for the clerk’s sharp eyes taking in every move, Cassie would have shrugged off his hand.

“How dreadful,” Chelsea commiserated, widening her eyes in elaborate sympathy.

“A temporary condition, I’m sure,” Cassie replied evenly.

“Since I’m through for now, why don’t you go ahead with your questions, Cassandra?” His thumb grazed the nape of her neck as he withdrew his hand.

Heat zinged along her spine.

Startled, she stiffened, fighting the surge of awareness spreading through her body. His touch had lingered just a fraction too long to be accidental, but whatever message he’d intended was lost in her efforts to ignore her tingling nerves.

She wedged herself into the corner of the chair, as far from his wandering hand as possible, but he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he rested his hands on the top of the chair, hovering over her like a tenacious palace guard.

Still much too close. But since she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his presence flustered her, she turned her attention to Chelsea. “I’m sure you were aware Judge Wainright was assisting me with some articles I’m writing for the Denver Tattler.”

“Of course.” She sniffed. “After your interview he ordered transcripts from a long list of trials. He said he wanted to check his facts. It took me two trips to carry them all.”

Since Cassie had hauled her share of records while doing research, she could empathize with the clerk’s vexed air, but Chelsea’s remark raised an interesting possibility. Maybe Judge Wainright had found something Cassie had missed. “I don’t suppose you still have those transcripts?”

“Certainly.” Chelsea motioned toward the steel filing cabinets. “I never throw anything away without express orders.”

Too easy, Cassie thought. “Could I take a look at them?”

Uncertainty flickered across the clerk’s face. “I don’t know. I should probably get approval.” She picked up a pen. “Do you want me to try Judge Kimball?”

“I’d appreciate it. The transcripts might give me a clue to why Judge Wainright called.”

And whether his death had anything to do with me.

While Chelsea wrote herself a note, Cassie fingered the nubby fabric of the armrest and framed her next question with care. “You’re quite certain he didn’t mention anything? Some vague reference to a case, something that puzzled him?”

Chelsea shook her head.

Disappointed, Cassie changed tack, aware that approaching the problem from a different perspective sometimes jarred loose a subject’s memory. “You seem to have been quite close to the judge.”

“I worked with him for two years,” Chelsea informed her stiffly. “He often said I was indispensable.” She raised one brow and lowered her voice as though imparting a secret. “You should have seen the state this office was in when I got here.”

Cassie widened her eyes.

It was all the encouragement Chelsea needed to unbend. “Chaos. Complete chaos. Important papers mixed with department memos, files strewn everywhere. You couldn’t find a pen if your life depended on it.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Sounds like a real challenge.”

“How did you manage?” Luke asked, evidently forgetting it was Cassie’s turn to ask the questions.

Chelsea blinked. “Well,” she said, studying the appointment book in front of her, “I’m nothing if not organized.” She trailed one finger lightly over the book’s embossed surface, a look of genuine regret flickering across her face.

Regret for the job…or for the man? Cassie wondered.

With an impatient movement, Luke straightened and moved toward the file cabinets. His thoughts must have run in a similar vein to hers, for while Cassie fished for a way to tactfully get at the truth, he again butted in. “What can you tell us about his personal affairs?”

“Personal affairs?” Chelsea’s gaze was startled.

“Yes. Friends, people he socialized with, anyone he might have had disagreements with—things like that.”

“I only handled official engagements. Receptions, public appearances. You’ll have to ask his wife about his personal life.”

Cassie would have loved to explore the reason for the bitter twist of Chelsea’s lips as she pronounced the word wife, but the gleam of interest in Luke’s eye warned her she had to act fast if she didn’t want to lose control of the interview completely. Filing the clerk’s reaction away for later consideration, she asked the first thing that came to her mind. “What about enemies? Someone with a grudge?”

“Judge Wainright didn’t have enemies.”

“No enemies?” Luke asked in exaggerated surprise. “Odd. Most men accumulate one or two on their way up the ladder, and a man in Wainright’s profession…”

With startling clarity, Cassie saw where Luke was headed. He was deliberately provoking the clerk, hoping anger would force her to drop some useful piece of information. Unfortunately, in the process, he would ruin any chance for Cassie to gain the cooperation she needed.

In an effort to avert disaster, Cassie protested. “Detective Sl—”

“Not Thomas,” Chelsea insisted stubbornly, her attention focused entirely on Luke. “Everyone liked him.”

Luke’s uplifted eyebrow conveyed his skepticism more eloquently than words. “Even the people he sentenced?”

“Of course not,” Chelsea snapped. “But I’m sure they realized he was only doing his job.”

As she glanced from Luke’s disbelieving smile to Chelsea’s tightly compressed lips, Cassie heard the toilet flush on her interview. It was evident she’d get no more information from the clerk today, if ever.

Slapping shut her notepad, she stowed her tape recorder in her shoulder bag while Luke gave Chelsea a card and suggested she call if she remembered anything pertinent to the case. Not until Cassie and Luke were safely in the hallway did she vent her frustration.

Hands on hips, she rounded on him. “I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“That you wouldn’t keep our bargain. That you’d mess things up.”

“What did I do?”

His feigned innocence fueled her anger. If it hadn’t been a supremely childish gesture, she would have stamped her foot. “Do? What didn’t you do? We were supposed to take turns.”

“I guess I forgot.”

Forgot! The Luke she knew never forgot anything, nor made a single move without careful, advance consideration. Refusing to honor his bald-faced lie with a rebuttal, she listed the rest of her grievances. “First you act as though I’m an hysterical female about to shatter at the slightest provocation, then you butt into my interview and spoil everything, just when I was getting somewhere.”

His eyebrow shot up. “You were getting nowhere. That inane woman was feeding you a line, and you were taking down every word like it was gospel. All I did was get to the heart of the matter.”

“I didn’t believe her—I was drawing her out. She was about to open up when you had to jump in like a moose in a china shop.”

He grinned. “Bull.”

“What?”

“It’s a bull, not a moose.”

“I don’t care if it’s a ten-foot gorilla. You did it.” She swung away and marched up the hall, propelled by his chuckle at her back.

“Haven’t you ever heard of ‘good cop, bad cop’?”

Cassie planted leather-soled sandals against the marble floor and skidded to a halt. Evidently caught off guard by the abrupt maneuver, Luke bumped into her. An electric current rippled as the full length of his body pressed against her. Disconcerted, she shook off his steadying grasp. “We’re not playing cops and robbers.”

“Aren’t we?”

His familiar masculine scent, mixed with a hint of spicy aftershave, teased her nose. Startled, she met his stare and lost the thread of conversation. He was standing too close. She took a quick step backward and bent down, making a display of adjusting the strap of one sandal, while trying to ignore the heat coiling in her belly.

“Did you catch her slip?”

Cassie straightened, grateful for the excuse to steer her thoughts in a different vein.

“She called him Thomas,” he said.

“Big deal. Lots of secretaries—clerks—use their bosses’ first names. I hardly consider that cause for suspicion.” Except when coupled with obvious bitterness at his married state.

“Anyway,” she continued, picking up the thread of her earlier grievance, “in spite of what you believe, antagonizing people isn’t always the best way to encourage them to spill their guts.”

“It’s a good interrogation technique.” Luke fumbled his notepad from his pocket and flipped back the front cover.

“I was conducting an interview, not an interrogation, and you can’t just jump in every time you decide I’m not handling things right.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, his attention on the first page of notes. “I won’t do it again.”

Cassie’s mouth dropped open. Admitting they were wrong was hard for most men; for the old Luke it was well nigh impossible. What was he up to?

He closed the pad and looked up, his gaze piercing. “Did you remember anything?”

The abrupt question sent a chill up her spine. “No.” She took a step back, shaking her head. “Nothing.”

“It’s all right, slugger,” he assured her, his manner subdued by her obvious discomfort. “From what the doctor says, when your head wound heals completely, your memory will probably return. These things take time.”

Time she didn’t have, not if she intended uncovering a killer. Not if she ever wanted to feel safe again. Still, she managed a lukewarm response that seemed to satisfy Luke.

“I need to check in and see if Haggerty or Jessup have turned up anything on your elusive caller,” he said. “Then let’s see if Judge Kimball’s free this afternoon. He’s on my list, and you can check about those transcripts you want.”

“Good idea.” She started up the hall, her spirits taking an upward swing. “Uncle Harry will be happy to help.”

“Uncle Harry?”

As Luke fell into step beside her, she smiled, taking a measure of satisfaction in throwing him off balance. “Harry Kimball. I’m sure you’ve heard Pop mention him. He’s another old family friend—the one who couldn’t make it to our wedding.”

Old friend hardly described the urbane individual who entered the office where Luke and Cassie waited after lunch. Judge Harold Kimball appeared to be in his early forties, closer in age to Cassie’s brothers than to her father. And the man certainly didn’t treat her like any uncle that Luke had ever known.

“I hope you didn’t have to wait too long, honey,” Kimball said, settling a much-too-affectionate kiss on Cassie’s cheek.

“I’m so sorry about your loss, Uncle Harry,” she said.

“Terrible, terrible. It’s always hard to lose a good friend, but this kind of thing…” Kimball shook his head sadly. “So senseless, so unnecessary. A true tragedy.”

Maybe it was Kimball’s overblown manner or just the intimate way he clasped Cassie’s hands, but Luke couldn’t work up much sympathy for the man. Yet his grief seemed genuine.

“It must have been an awful shock,” Cassie said to him.

“You can’t imagine.” He paused, then seemed to pull himself together. “But what about you? I couldn’t believe when your father told me you’d been attacked. Are you sure you’re not overtaxing yourself?”

Not waiting for an answer, he grasped her chin between thumb and forefinger and tilted her head to inspect her healing wound. To Luke’s amazement, she allowed the familiarity, although she pulled away when the judge raised a finger as if he intended to probe the bruises around her bandage.

“I’m fine, Uncle Harry. Pop always claimed I was hard-headed. I guess I proved him right.”

“Not hard-headed, my girl. Determined.” Kimball patted her cheek and smiled. “There’s a difference, you know. And with Benjamin for a father, I’d say you came by the trait naturally.”

Luke’s lips curled in disgust. If there was one thing he hated, it was hearing someone whitewash the truth to make it more palatable. A spade was a spade whatever you called it, and anyone who knew Cassie knew her stubbornness ran far beyond the bounds of ordinary determination. His estimation of the judge dropped a notch, and he cut in before the man could make an even greater fool of himself. “Excuse me, Judge Kimball, but I’m here on official business.”

One arm draped across Cassie’s shoulders, Kimball turned to Luke while Cassie performed the introductions. “Slater?” He rolled the name across his tongue as though trying to solve a puzzle, although Luke suspected he already knew everything he needed to know about Luke. “Weren’t you and Cassie once…”

“Married? Yes.” It was obvious the judge expected more of an explanation, but Luke refused to elaborate. Uncle or not, it was none of Kimball’s business why Cassie and Luke were together.

Evidently, good manners won out over curiosity, for after a moment’s hesitation, Kimball extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, detective.”

Like most cops, Luke dealt in impressions, and early on he’d learned to draw conclusions about a man based on the way he shook hands. If asked to guess, Luke would have pegged Kimball a political, two-handed shaker, for despite the manicured nails and custom-tailored suit, he wasn’t the least reserved. Unfortunately, Judge Kimball’s generic handshake netted Luke little new about his character.

“How about it? Do you have time for a few questions?”

Tilting his right wrist, Kimball exposed a slim Rolex. “I’m due in court in forty minutes.”

“Plenty of time. Shall we adjourn?” Without waiting for a response, Luke stepped into the judge’s private office.

Seemingly unconcerned by Luke’s presumption, Kimball ushered Cassie through the door. Only a slight tightening of muscles around his mouth betrayed his true feelings. Luke pretended not to notice. This was an investigation, not a cocktail party, and the sooner Kimball cut the social amenities, the sooner they could get down to business.

Attempting to curb his impatience, Luke settled into a chair and mentally inventoried the room. Although not an exact duplicate of Judge Wainright’s chambers, it was similar in size and shape. Cases filled with leather-bound legal references and a few mementos took up most of the open wall space. He focused on a grouping of framed certificates that proclaimed Harold Kimball to be a graduate of Harvard Law School, as well as a member of the Illinois and Colorado Bar Associations.

Money, Luke guessed. Conservative, old money, he added as he noted the lone photograph of a younger Kimball shaking hands with Ronald Reagan in the Oval Office.

Cassie, accompanied by the scent of wildflowers, slipped into the chair next to him. Just as they already had a dozen times today, his thoughts scattered before the tantalizing odor, and his body responded to her nearness. Grimly he squared one leg over the opposite knee, his foot aimed away from her.

Waiting only long enough for Kimball to settle behind the desk, Cassie edged forward on her chair, sending her snug, cotton skirt a few inches up her thigh. “Uncle Harry, I need a favor.”

A person would have to be blind not to notice how Kimball ogled the exposed expanse of tanned leg she was displaying, and Luke wasn’t blind. The fact that he himself hadn’t missed the mouth-watering sight was beside the point.

Oblivious to Luke’s chilling glance, Kimball smiled. “A favor? Name it, sweetheart.”

Kimball’s proprietary air and the syrupy names he called Cassie rubbed Luke the wrong way. Nerves twitching, he wondered how far the judge would like to stretch the tenuous bonds of kinship.

“Judge Wainright ordered some transcripts I’d like to look through. Nothing confidential, but I thought they might provide me with additional information for my series.”

“Say no more.” Kimball lifted a rock paperweight and offered Cassie the single manila folder trapped beneath. “Chelsea called, and when I found you had an appointment scheduled with me after lunch, I decided to save you the trouble of going back. That was the only one Chelsea found.” Taking care not to mar the spotless surface of the desk, he set the rock down, turned it a few degrees, then settled back to admire the effect of the glittering amethyst crystals at its hollowed center. “Now I want to know how you really are. Your father assured me you were doing fine, but I couldn’t believe you’d be out so soon.”

“You don’t need to worry, Uncle Harry. Luke’s looking after me.”

“Not too arduous an undertaking, I trust.”

Figuring the comment was rhetorical, Luke met the judge’s unctuous smile with impassive silence.

Cassie tightened her lips in obvious irritation, but evidently decided her best course of action was to ignore the silent innuendo. “Luke’s a little overcautious. Judge Wainright’s death had nothing to do with me, and as far as I can tell I wasn’t even a witness. But—” she shot Luke a sly glance, “—you know how cops are.”

“As far as you can tell?” Kimball’s brows knit in confusion.

“I don’t remember anything that happened. Blank. Zippo.”

“No?” Kimball gazed thoughtfully at Cassie and rubbed the side of his neck. “Even so, it’s usually better to err on the side of caution.”

Cassie stiffened. “Not you too, Uncle Harry.”

“I just wonder if it might not be best for you to— What’s the term?” He glanced toward Luke for help, then supplied the answer himself. “‘Lay low.’ Until the police have cleared up this matter.”

The murderous look Cassie threw Luke told him she suspected him of collusion, but he was too surprised at the judge’s unexpected support to do more than shrug.

“I have work to do,” Cassie insisted.

“I’m not suggesting you abdicate your responsibilities, merely that you table them until the police have done their job. Until it’s safe for you to be out and about.”

“And how long will that be? A week, months? What if they never solve the case?” Cassie was indignant. “No. I have a deadline, and I’m going to meet it whether you help me or not.”

Luke’s heart warmed to see someone besides himself provoking Cassie to rebellion. For a split second he nearly felt sorry for Harry Kimball.

“Now don’t get yourself worked up. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help.” It was apparent from his placating tone that Kimball had dealt with Cassie’s stubbornness in the past. “I just haven’t had a lot of dealings with drug cases. It’s why I referred you to Thomas in the first place.” He paused, then added hopefully, “Surely by now you’ve collected enough material…”

“I thought so until Friday, when Judge Wainright called,” she admitted. “But now my instincts tell me he had something more—something important. I have to find out what.”

“Knowing Thomas, he was probably making sure he wouldn’t be misquoted.” When his attempt at levity fell flat, the smile faded from Kimball’s face. Frowning, he stared at Cassie for several moments before picking up a pen from the desk blotter. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”

Cassie waited, her expression wary, as Kimball rolled the pen between his palms.

“Go through the papers.” He nodded toward the file in her lap. “I’ll see what I can find out. We’ll give it—say, three days. Then, if nothing new shows up, you write the articles with what you already have. Deal?” His hands halted their restless movement while he waited for Cassie to respond.

Luke didn’t have time to wait. Each second that ticked away was one less question he could ask, one less answer to analyze. In a few minutes Kimball was due back in court, and Luke still hadn’t gotten in word one. It was time to take matters into his own hands. “Sounds like a good idea to me, Cassie,” he said with only a hint of impatience. “Why don’t you think about it while Judge Kimball and I talk?”

Then, before she could voice an objection, he began his questions.

Leaving the chilled building half an hour later felt like stepping into a sauna. Hot, dry and sweat-popping. By the time they’d crossed to the parking lot, Luke was longing for nothing more than a cold shower and a frosty mug of beer.

Cassie hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left Kimball’s office, not even after Luke called the station again. He’d expected her to be as frustrated as he over the delay in tracing yesterday’s call, but she’d brushed aside his explanations with an irritated wave of her hand.

He glanced sideways. Bright spots of color stained her cheekbones. She was angry all right, but not over having to wait for a subpoena of the cellular company’s records.

“I’ll drive,” he offered when they reached her car.

Grabbing a folded paper from beneath her windshield, she unlocked the passenger door, then silently handed over the key.

“What is it?” Luke indicated the paper in her hand.

“Advertising,” she answered curtly and ducked into the car.

Whistling tunelessly, he circled to unlock the driver’s side. If he’d had as much sense as God gave mud, he realized, he’d have kept his mouth closed when they left Kimball’s office. Only, the judge’s condescending responses to Luke’s questions had left him feeling like a cat whose fur had been rubbed against the grain.