Читать книгу Dangerous Liaisons - Maggie Price, Maggie Price - Страница 10

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake said into the phone the following morning as he rocked back in his city-issue desk chair. “Cárdenas’s girlfriend didn’t show last night at that apartment building like you told me she would. You know what that means, Julio?”

“What?”

“You gave me bad information.”

“Look, man—”

“No, you look. Cárdenas shot a seven-year-old boy just for standing on a street corner. His girlfriend can make him for the homicide. I want her.”

“She got wind you’re looking for her, so she’s lying low.”

“Not low enough so you can’t sniff her out,” Jake countered. “I told you, you want my help with that warrant hanging over your head, you’ll get me a line on where I can find her. Tonight.”

Jake slammed down the receiver on a curse. Almost immediately, the phone rang. He snagged it up, checking the clock above the assignment board where grease-penciled letters displayed each homicide team’s working cases. Nine-o-five. He needed to be at Ormiston’s office when it opened at ten, and he hoped this was the call from the M.E. he’d been waiting on.

It was.

“I just finished the autopsy on Phillip Ormiston.” The deep timbre of Dr. John McClandess’s voice boomed across the line. Jake pictured the man eternally garbed in a white lab coat, his gaunt face sharpened to the bone, black eyes vibrant, gray hair combed back from the temples. “My assistant left a note saying you wanted me to call with my preliminary findings.”

“That’s right.” With his desk in its usual state of avalanche, Jake had to dig to unearth a pad and pen. “So, Doc, do we have a healthy man who dropped dead of natural causes?”

“We do not. As you said, the victim was healthy. He didn’t have a heart attack. Didn’t suffer an aneurism or a stroke. I have ruled out natural death as the cause.”

Jake tensed. “Was it something he ate?”

“You’re referring to the muffins, which my assistant mentioned in his report.”

“Right.” Jake pictured again the stunned disbelief that had settled in Nicole’s blue eyes when she realized where his line of questioning about the muffins she’d sent Ormiston was headed. That look had haunted him throughout the night.

“I see in the report that you’ve sent the muffins to Sky Milano in your forensics lab. A chemical analysis needs to be run just to be sure, but I doubt Sky will find anything suspect.”

“Good.” Jake didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the word came out in a hiss. “So, what did kill Ormiston?”

“I found a minute puncture on the right side of his neck,” McClandess answered. “He was given an injection, Sergeant. Of what, we won’t know until the toxicology results come back. Whatever substance he was injected with caused the muscles necessary for respiration to shut down. Official cause of death is respiratory paralysis.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “So, the guy suffocated?”

“Basically, yes.”

“You got any idea what it was someone pumped into Ormiston?”

“It’s conjecture at this point. Certain drugs could bring on that kind of paralysis. A few poisons come to mind, too, all undetectable except by chemical analysis.”

“How fast can you get the tox test results to me?”

“A week.”

“That’s too long, Doc.”

McClandess sighed. “I’ll put a rush on the tests, but I can’t promise anything. Our lab is as backlogged as OCPD’s.”

“Yeah.” While his mind cataloged the steps he needed to take to get the Ormiston investigation rolling, Jake rubbed his gritty eyes, then glanced at the tidy desk that butted against the front of his. Whitney had a few days to go on her honeymoon. He hoped to hell she was enjoying herself.

“Okay, Doc, what’s your best guess on time of death?”

“The air-conditioning in the house was on a low setting. The victim was lying on a marble floor, which cooled his body at a faster rate than normal. I estimate Ormiston had been dead about five hours before he was found, give or take an hour.”

Jake slashed notes across the pad. He knew that establishing time of death was more elusive than most people thought. It couldn’t be pinned down exactly unless the death was witnessed or the victim’s Timex stopped ticking during the crime.

“So, you’re saying the killer showed up at Ormiston’s house between four and six yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes.”

Jake tapped the end of his pen against the notepad. They hadn’t found an appointment book at Ormiston’s house to indicate he had anything scheduled yesterday afternoon. Jake hoped his luck would change when he got to Ormiston’s office.

After checking a few more facts with the M.E., Jake hung up, eased back in his chair and gave an idle glance around the office.

At this time of the morning, most of his co-workers were out on calls, doing follow-ups or cooling their heels in court. Only two other cops—Grant Pierce and his partner, Elizabeth Scott, were at their desks. Scott, an expert on statement analysis, had replaced Pierce’s mentor, Sam Rogers, who’d died of a heart attack. Jake made a mental note to ask Pierce how Scott was working out before he shifted his mind back to his case.

“Respiratory paralysis,” Jake muttered, his gaze settling on the notepad. “By injection.”

Nothing at the crime scene indicated the killer had gained entry other than by knocking on the front door. There had been no sign of a struggle. No defensive wounds on Ormiston’s hands to indicate he’d tried to protect himself. It was logical, then, to go with the assumption that the two knew each other, that Ormiston felt no immediate threat, even trusted his killer to some extent. Could be a family member, Jake mused. A friend. Maybe someone Ormiston knew on a more casual basis. Someone he’d dated?

Last night, the guard at Stonebridge had copied the log of every person and vehicle who’d gained access to the gated community in the past twenty-four hours. The only person logged in to see Ormiston was Nicole Taylor. That didn’t mean a lot, Jake acknowledged. The list didn’t cover people who Ormiston might have buzzed through the gate while the guard wasn’t around. It also didn’t list everyone who lived there, or the yard crews, housekeepers and other service workers who knew that month’s security code. And Jake knew that the killer could have parked his car outside of Stonebridge, scaled the seven-foot brick wall that surrounded the complex, then walked to Ormiston’s house. If that were the case, the killer had to be in good shape.

Maybe someone who owned a gym and played racquet-ball on a regular basis?

He opened his desk’s bottom drawer, hefted out the yellow pages and checked the address for Sebastian’s. Lifting a brow, he realized the gym shared space in the same building with Meet Your Match, Nicole’s dating service.

When Jake caught himself wondering just how chummy Nicole and Sebastian-of-biorhythm-fame were, he scowled. He ought to be entertaining that thought solely because they both had links to a homicide victim, but Jake knew that wasn’t the case. Dammit, he couldn’t get Nicole out of his head. He’d spent most of the night picturing how she’d looked at the crime scene when he first saw her sitting in his cruiser. Her spine had been board-stiff, her face bathed in a mix of thready light and shadow that made her skin look pale. Too pale. Her eyes had been closed, and he could have sworn she’d been doing some sort of deep-breathing exercise. The vulnerability that had seemed to wrap around her had touched off twin urges inside him to take and protect.

He expelled an oath that had both Pierce and Scott swiveling their heads in his direction. Holding up a palm, Jake muttered, “Forget it.” The partners exchanged a look, then shifted their attention back to their own work.

Jake shoved the yellow pages back into the desk and slammed the drawer shut. Where Nicole Taylor was concerned, he wasn’t going to take or protect. She was a material witness in what only minutes ago had turned into an active homicide investigation. Nothing more, nothing less.

During their initial interview he’d gone by the book, treated Nicole like any other witness. He had given her every opportunity to lie to him, yet his sixth sense continued to send the message that she’d told him the truth. Plus, there were logical points in her favor. She’d discovered and immediately reported finding Ormiston’s body. Admitted her connection to the victim. Had no compelling, obvious motive to kill.

When murder was involved, all those things added up.

What didn’t add up was that he couldn’t seem to wipe the woman from his mind. That alone was dangerous. She was a temptation, and he was a man who didn’t want to be tempted.

Right now, what he wanted didn’t matter, Jake reminded himself. The job mattered. Now that he knew for sure her client had been murdered, he had no choice but to pay Nicole a visit.

With the late-morning sun beaming behind him, Jake shoved through a revolving door and stepped into the cool, sumptuous foyer of the sleek office building that lanced upward from a forest of blue and purple hydrangeas. Raking his fingers through his hair, he crossed the wide lobby with its pink marble columns and glossy ornamental trees. He paused near a bank of elevators to check the building’s directory. Names of high-priced boutiques, specialty shops and several cosmetic surgeons were listed. As were a beauty salon and skin-care clinic with French-sounding names. Seconds ticked by while he continued scanning the list of trendy businesses that occupied the building’s ten floors. His gaze paused on the name Sebastian’s. He slid a hand into the pocket of his navy sport coat, fingered the key ring he’d found in Ormiston’s desk drawer when he’d searched the victim’s office. The instant he’d seen Sebastian’s and the number seventy engraved on the key, Jake realized Ormiston had a locker at the gym. He’d called dispatch and had them send a patrol cop to the gym to make sure no one opened the locker. Jake then called Gianos and Smith. Right now, the two detectives were getting a search warrant. While he waited for the paperwork to arrive, Jake figured it would be a good time to see Nicole.

He needed to get a lead on something soon, he thought, punching the elevator’s call button. Except for the key, the office from which Ormiston had operated his funeral home empire had been devoid of clues. There had been nothing on the man’s calendar to show he planned to meet anyone yesterday afternoon. Neither his secretary nor his assistant—or anyone else—knew of anyone who wished Ormiston ill.

Someone did, Jake thought as he stepped into an elevator. Someone thought ill enough of the man to stab a needle into his neck and inject him with something that paralyzed his lungs.

Seconds later, the elevator chimed its arrival at the building’s top floor. The doors glided open; a tall man stalked on, his shoulder ramming into Jake’s.

“Sorry.”

Though the man uttered only one word, Jake registered his thick accent.

“No problem.” As he stepped into the hall Jake’s gaze swept the man’s face. His eyes narrowed while the cop in him cataloged the familiar sharp cheekbones, olive complexion and black mustache over the mouth set in a hard line. Jake made the connection just as the elevator doors slid closed. The Latino.

His thoughts scrolled back to Bill and Whitney’s wedding reception. He’d watched Nicole tuck her business card into the man’s breast pocket while he gazed down at her with simmering desire. Today, it had been anger in the man’s eyes. Jake wondered if Nicole had another unsatisfied customer on her hands. If so, why?

He strode down the quiet, carpeted corridor that led to a waiting area furnished with coral-colored sofas and glass tables. As he approached the desk that rose from a pool of shell-pink carpet, he was aware of the low strains of classical music drifting on the air.

“Welcome to Meet Your Match.” The woman behind the desk was a good-looking brunette with big, wide-set eyes. She wore a trim, midnight-black suit and candy-red lipstick. “Are you interested in speaking with one of our relationship counselors?”

“If your boss is one of the counselors.”

“Do you have an appointment with Miss Taylor, sir?”

“I don’t need one.”

The woman’s perfect mouth thinned a fraction. “I’m sorry, sir, Miss Taylor is unavailable. I’ll be happy to arrange a consultation with one of our other counselors.”

Jake shoved back one flap of his sport coat to reveal the badge hooked to the waistband of his jeans. He was aware that only a few months ago he would have grinned, slid a hip onto the brunette’s desk and charmed his way into her boss’s office. Maybe even invited the receptionist to meet him for a drink after work. If the chemistry was right, finessed her into his bed. Those days were over, he acknowledged with grim acceptance. The I-don’t-give-a-damn lifestyle he’d embarked on after Annie and the twins died had led to the murder of a woman he’d dated and resulted in his being set up to take the fall for eight homicides. If it hadn’t been for Whitney’s dogged belief in his innocence, he’d probably be locked in a cell right now.

Those sobering experiences had opened his eyes, made him realize he had to face the pain of losing his family and live with the hand fate had dealt him. Fine, he was working on that. What he didn’t have to do was leave himself open to having his heart ripped apart again.

“Sergeant Jake Ford,” he said while the brunette’s gaze scanned his badge. “Please ring Miss Taylor’s office. Now.”

“Of course.” Nerves had the woman’s hand shaking as she snatched up the phone.

Seconds later, she shook her head, replaced the receiver and rose. “Mel—Miss Taylor’s assistant—isn’t at his desk. I’ll need to escort…” Her voice drifted off when the phone trilled.

“Better answer that.” Jake pointed toward a softly lit hallway behind the reception desk. “Her office that way?”

Lifting the receiver, the woman moistened her red-glossed lips. “Yes, but you can’t—”

“I can.” Letting the flap of his jacket fall back into place, he stepped around the desk and headed down the hallway.

The next waiting area was cozier, its pale upholstered chairs, polished tables and soft watercolors lending a more personal atmosphere. An oak desk with a computer and empty swivel chair sat to one side of a door marked Private. A nameplate at the desk’s front edge read Mel Hall.

Because his natural inquisitiveness had paid off more times than he could count during past homicide investigations, Jake strolled to the desk where a single file folder lay. Using a fingertip, he turned the file his way, read the label. DeSoto Villanova. Jake lifted the file’s cover. The Latino’s smiling face stared back at him in vivid color, which emphasized the man’s swarthy good looks. Clipped on the opposite side of the file was a form titled Confidential Questionnaire with all the blanks neatly filled in. Pursing his lips, Jake closed the file, wondering again what had riled Villanova.

Turning from the desk, Jake neared the closed door. What he now recognized as Nicole’s just-under-the-smoldering-point scent settled around him. Without any effort, he again felt her soft flesh beneath his palm as their bodies swayed to the pianist’s love song. He clenched his teeth. Never before had he known a woman who could haunt and inflame.

Annie, his first love, his only love, had been comfortable, solid, a part of his soul. Nicole made him feel as if a flare had ignited inside him.

The knowledge of how just her scent affected him hitched his irritation level up a notch. He rapped once on the door; without waiting for an answer, he shoved it open, then froze. All of his senses zeroed in on the compelling sight of a barefoot Nicole bent nearly double in front of her desk, her trim, skirt-clad bottom tilted upward. Her hands were clamped onto the desk’s front edge, and for a split second Jake wondered if she was trying to shove the solid piece of mahogany toward the far wall where a floor-to-ceiling window gave an impressive view of the Oklahoma City skyline.

He might have sworn off women, but the hot ball of lust that lodged in his gut sent the message he was far from dead. Slanting one shoulder against the doorjamb, he crossed his arms over his chest and enjoyed the enticing view of woman. Seconds later, Nicole’s hips did a quick, enthusiastic twitch and he swallowed back a whistle. After it appeared she might wiggle indefinitely, he figured he’d better make his presence known.

“Waiting on a date, Taylor, or will you take pot luck?”

At the sound of his voice, she bolted upright and whirled to face him. “What are…?” Color flared across her cheeks as she raised a hand to smooth her sleek French twist. “Sergeant Ford, usually visitors don’t just barge into my office.”

Last night, she’d turned an oversize shirt, leggings, white socks and workout shoes into a fashion statement. Now she looked incredibly polished in a trim, traffic-stopping red suit. It occurred to Jake the woman could wear a gunnysack and look good.

“I knocked,” he said, angling his head toward the reception area. “Your secretary’s not around.”

“My assistant, Melvin…Mel, is in the kitchen making tea. I always have tea after my daily yoga session.”

“Yoga? Is that what that was?” Pushing away from the door, Jake roamed into the office, cataloging the chairs and sofas upholstered in peach, gleaming wood tables and glowing brass lamps, all arranged against a background of soft tan walls. “I thought yoga was where you sit on the floor with your legs crossed and your palms up.”

“That’s a different discipline. I study under Sebastian.”

“Under?”

Her chin lifted. “He’s my instructor. Sebastian says the best positions are those that put you into the moment.”

Jake paused inches from her. The smoldering scent that had settled around him in the outer room now snaked into his lungs. He felt the quick, helpless pull of need, and damned both himself and her for it. “Sebastian has a point,” he agreed. “That position certainly put me into the moment.”

Nicole could feel the hammer of her heart against her ribs as she gazed up into Jake’s dark eyes. His black hair skimmed the collar of the white dress shirt he wore beneath a blue sport coat. A bright paisley tie hung down the front of the shirt; his faded jeans accentuated his lean, muscular thighs and rangy build. He looked, she thought as her stomach muscles knotted, irresistibly handsome.

The spicy male tang of his cologne drifted around her, conjuring up the heady moments she’d spent dancing in his arms.

He’s not what you want, she reminded herself, and took a step backward.

“Can I help you with something?” As she spoke, she slid her feet into the pair of spiky red heels she’d toed off earlier.

“Yeah—” Obviously aware of movement behind him, Jake turned.

Nicole watched his sharp cop’s eyes narrow as they took in the man who’d stepped through the door carrying a small tray. Her assistant was tall with dark blond hair, blue eyes and a square jaw. Today, Mel was dressed in neat slacks and a white shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders. In the four months he’d worked for her, Mel’s efficient, friendly demeanor had won her undying gratitude. Her decision to help pay for his college tuition had garnered her assistant’s total devotion.

“Oh, sorry, boss,” he said with an easy smile. “Didn’t realize you were with a client.”

“It’s all right.” Glad for an excuse to distance herself from Jake, Nicole moved to the seating area in one corner of the office. “Sergeant Ford isn’t a client.”

A thought had her hesitating when she reached the coffee table around which a love seat and two wing chairs were grouped. She gave Jake a look across her shoulder. “Unless you’re here because you’ve decided to go out with the gorgeous doctor?”

“I’m here about Ormiston.”

The tightness she’d felt in her chest since she found Phillip’s body intensified. She’d lain awake all night, haunted by images of her client collapsed on the marble floor at the base of the staircase, of his glassy, sightless eyes….

“I need to look at his file,” Jake said.

“Of course.” She nudged a few magazines to one side of the table. When a gold pen rolled across the table’s polished surface and onto the toe of her shoe, she frowned.

“Something wrong, boss?” Mel asked.

“No.” Realizing who the pen belonged to, she slid it into her suit pocket, then swept a hand at the table. “Just put the tray here, Mel. And please bring in Mr. Ormiston’s file.”

“Sure.”

She met Jake’s gaze. Because she wanted to maintain as much distance from him as possible, she gestured toward one of the wing chairs. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked, settling onto the love seat.

“No, thanks.”

“The tea’s Siberian ginseng,” Mel pointed out.

Despite the tenseness that gripped her, Nicole fought a smile at her assistant’s expectant look. Not in any circumstance could she picture Jake Ford sipping tea out of a china cup.

“I’ll pass.”

With a shrug, Mel settled the tray holding her favorite china teapot and matching cup and saucer on the table.

“How about some coffee instead?” Mel asked. “We have several blends. Or maybe you’d prefer an espresso or latte?”

“Just the file.”

“Sparkling water?” Mel persisted.

Jake raised a dark eyebrow. “The file.”

“I’ll bring it right in.”

While Mel headed toward the door, Nicole picked up the teapot. She felt the intensity of Jake’s gaze on her while she filled her cup.

“Siberian ginseng?” he asked. “That one of Sebastian’s brews?”

“No, Mel blends all of our teas. He gets the ingredients from his uncle Zebulon, who cultivates fresh herbs as a hobby.”

Jake leaned forward, propping his elbows on his thighs. “Tell me something. Do you know any normal people?”

She blinked. “Normal?”

“Somebody who doesn’t know what the hell a biorhythm or yoga discipline is? One person who doesn’t give a damn if their capillaries breathe because they’re too busy loading their system with fried food and black coffee? Someone who can find a date on their own without paying to get fixed up?”

Raising the china cup to her mouth, Nicole forced herself to project an outward calm. She took pride in her work and her lifestyle, and she did not appreciate the man’s cynical attitude. However much she’d like to smash her teacup over his head, she wouldn’t do it.

“You, Sergeant,” she said coolly. “From seeing the fast-food sacks in the back of your car, I’d say you’re overly normal. Probably veering toward average. Perhaps even on the dull side.”

The instant narrowing of his eyes gave her some small sense of satisfaction. It also reminded her of how irresistibly drawn she was to his intense, dark looks…and how intrigued she was by the man.

He sat back in the chair, raised a hand. “Look, I didn’t mean—”

Whether he was about to apologize she would never know because Mel chose that moment to whisk back through the door.

“Need anything else, boss?” He gave her his usual warm smile while handing her Phillip Ormiston’s file.

“Not right now. Thank you.”

A faint beep sounded. Mel angled his left wrist, pushed a button on his watch. “I’ll need to leave in fifteen minutes.” He slid Jake a look before his gaze resettled on Nicole. “I could reschedule the appointment if you need me here.”

“Nonsense,” she stated. “Edna needs to see her doctor. In fact, why don’t you leave now so you won’t be rushed?”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Leave the tray. I’ll deal with it in the morning.”

Jake waited until Mel closed the door behind him, then said, “My bet is your eager-as-a-puppy assistant is on the sunny side of twenty.”

“He turns twenty-one next month,” Nicole replied. “Mel’s two semesters from getting a degree in marketing. He works here full-time and takes care of his mother—she has severe diabetes and arthritis. Her prognosis isn’t good,” Nicole added, feeling a tug of worry over the increasingly frail woman. “Mel has a lot of responsibility, but he never complains. He does a wonderful job and he isn’t afraid of long hours. I consider the day he answered my ad for help one of the luckiest in my life.”

“Well, there’s a glowing recommendation.”

“Trust me, Sergeant, Mel has earned every word.”

Jake’s gaze dropped to the file she’d placed on her lap. “The M.E. called this morning with a cause of death on Ormiston.”

With the change of subject, her hands became so unsteady that she replaced the china cup on its saucer. “It wasn’t a heart attack, was it?”

“No. Someone gave your client an injection that paralyzed his lungs. He basically suffocated to death.”

“Poor Phillip.” She spoke quietly, feeling the blood drain from her face when a dizzying realization set in. “It wasn’t something in the muffins, then?”

Jake angled his head. “They’re at our lab for analysis. But, no, the M.E. doesn’t think the muffins had anything to do with Ormiston’s death. Even if they did, the bakery verifies your story. Mel called and placed the order, had the muffins delivered to Ormiston’s office.”

She nodded slowly. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t inject Phillip with whatever it was that killed him.”

One corner of Jake’s mouth lifted. “Here’s a tip. Don’t point out things like that to a homicide cop.”

She gave him a thin smile. “I’m sure you’ve already thought of that.”

“Everyone’s a potential suspect, until I can prove them innocent. In fact, why don’t you tell me where you were yesterday afternoon so we can get that out of the way?”

Nicole shifted on the love seat’s cushions. Logically, she understood why Jake had to ask the question. Still, that didn’t stop a little ball of discomfort from wedging in her stomach.

“I attended a benefit luncheon at the Overholser Mansion,” she began. “After that, I drove downtown and met with my attorney about the prospect of franchising my company.”

“Met with him until when?”

“About four. I drove to my decorator’s shop where I spent an hour or so selecting fabric for drapes I’m having done.”

“Then?”

“I came back here, worked out at Sebastian’s and drove to Phillip’s house. You know the rest.”

Jake’s gaze returned to the file in her lap. “I need the names of the women you fixed Ormiston up with.”

When she hesitated, he added, “I can have a subpoena here within the hour if you have a problem giving me the information.”

“No.” She slicked her tongue over her lips. “It’s just that I promise my clients privacy. Confidentiality.”

“You promised that to Ormiston, too. If someone he met through this dating service killed him, they gave up all right to privacy.”

“Yes.” She stared at the fingers she’d linked together. “It’s my company’s responsibility to make matchmaking a safe process. We do an intensive screen on all of our clients. Conduct background checks. Credit history. Psychological and personality tests. What if we missed something?”