Читать книгу Cold Case Cop - Mary Burton - Страница 6

Monday, July 14, 10:05 a.m.

Tara hadn’t figured that Alex Kirkland would give a quote on this case. He was too good a cop to let his cards show. But she had got a sense of his frustration. It did bother him that Kit’s case had never been solved.

And she couldn’t resist seeing for herself that he was truly on the mend. She’d kept tabs on him while he was in the hospital recovering from the shooting that had shocked everyone.

Kirkland had been shot during a routine investigation. He and Detective Matthew Brady had gone to the home of a wealthy doctor to ask him questions about his wife’s suspicious death. The doctor had answered the front door armed with a loaded shotgun. According to Brady, Kirkland had reacted instantly. He’d pushed Brady out of harm’s way as he’d drawn his own gun. The doctor had fired, hitting Kirkland in the chest and thigh. The buckshot had nicked the femoral artery in his leg and punctured his lung. Kirkland had fallen to the ground but had fired his own weapon. The single shot had killed the doctor.

The entire exchange had happened in a split second, but Brady recognized that Kirkland was in bad shape. He was still conscious but in terrible pain and bleeding badly. Kirkland had nearly bled out before the paramedics got him to the hospital.

Three days after Kirkland’s shooting, Tara had snuck onto the ICU floor at Boston General. She’d told the doctors she’d been checking on Kirkland’s progress for a follow-up article on the shooting. They’d allowed her to peer through the glass walls of his room.

What she saw nearly took her breath away. He’d been lying in the hospital bed, as pale as his sheets and barely conscious. There’d been so many wires hooked up to him. The sight had shocked her. She’d not had the nerve to go into his room, but had lingered several feet back. The doctor had said that the injury would have killed most.

Now, despite the July heat, the memory still had the power to send chills down Tara’s spine.

With an effort, she tried to focus on the fact that he looked good now. His tall, lean frame remained taught and muscular. Time in the sun had left his skin tanned and his newly cut brown hair a shade lighter. He looked good. Real good.

She parallel-parked her beat-up white Toyota on the exclusive, tree-lined Beacon Hill side street. This exclusive area of Boston screamed old money and privilege. And it set her nerves on edge.

She shut off the car engine. She didn’t do well with snobby, rich people. They made her feel awkward and somehow less because she didn’t have blue blood in her veins. Intellectually, she understood this was stupid, a reaction to a sad episode in her past, but no amount of inner pep talks quite erased her feeling of inferiority.

Skimming fingers over her ponytail, she reminded herself that she’d been a reporter for nine years and had interviewed some of the most powerful and dangerous people in Washington, D.C. and Boston. She’d written about politicians, murderers, arsonists and sophisticated white-collar crooks. An old rich guy living on Beacon Hill wasn’t going to throw her off her game.

Tara pocketed her keys and grabbed her briefcase, slid out of the car and closed the door. Halfway down the block her cell phone rang. She dug the phone out of her purse. Caller ID confirmed it was her editor, Miriam Spangler.

Tara flipped the phone open. “I am on my way to Landover’s as we speak, Miriam.”

“Remember, don’t piss him off.” Miriam’s voice was gruff, a product of thirty years of chain smoking. “His family is as powerful as the Kennedy clan. Rile him up and there could be hell to pay.”

That comment irritated Tara. “I can handle myself, Miriam.”

“You do have a temper, sweetie. It’s why you left D.C.”

“It’s one of the reasons I left D.C. And I’ve learned my lesson.”

As if she hadn’t spoken, Miriam said, “Don’t push this too hard. If Landover says to drop it, drop it.”

Tara’s blood shot past the boiling point in a second. “Yesterday you were salivating when I showed you the mock-up of the article and pitched the idea.”

Miriam blew smoke into the receiver. “I had all night and most of this morning to conjure a thousand devastating scenarios in my head. Most of them included me without a job or a pension. If and when this article runs, it’s going to be dicey.”

Tara muttered a few choice words. “When did you get to be so timid?”

“Since I realized I’m two years away from collecting a full pension.”

Frustration fueled Tara’s anger. “My readership has been growing steadily, and this is the kind of story that will hit home with them. Remember, you gave me the go-ahead to look into Kit Westgate Landover’s case.”

“I know. I know.”

“Think about it, Miriam. This is the stuff of Pulitzers. Network news coverage. Book deals. When I go to the top I’ll be telling everyone you were the star editor behind me. I will make you famous and position you for your own book deal.”

Miriam sighed. “We both know I didn’t want to fade quietly into retirement.”

She smiled, knowing she’d hit all Miriam’s hot buttons. “Exactly.”

“All right. Go for it. But please just be careful, Tara.”

“I will be fine.” Tara closed her cell and shoved it in her briefcase as she reached Landover’s house. Standing on the sidewalk, she stared up at the corner-lot mansion. The home had been built in the seventeen hundreds and was steeped in history. This had always been an exclusive pricey area of Boston, but in today’s market this place was worth a king’s ransom.

She climbed the stone steps to the black, lacquered front door. A pineapple brass door knocker hung in the door’s center.

Tara rapped the knocker twice against the massive door. The sound echoed inside the house. She moistened her lips and stood a little straighter.

Miriam’s and Kirkland’s words nagged her as she tried not to fidget. They were right. She had a hot head. Back in D.C., she probably shouldn’t have called that senator an idiot. But she was smart enough to learn from her mistakes. She could handle Pierce Landover if she could get in to see him.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway inside. If her luck held, she’d get Landover’s maid, or someone else who didn’t know her. She then might be able to get into the house and maybe see Landover. There’d been times in the past when she’d talked her way into situations and gotten great quotes.

But there’d also been times when she’d been tossed out and threatened with legal action.

That could be today’s scenario if Cecilia Reston, Landover’s personal assistant for the last twenty-five years, answered the door. Reston protected her employer with the ferocity of a bulldog. And she’d have no trouble reporting Tara to the cops.

Tara glanced at her black flats and, seeing dust on them, quickly rubbed them against the panty hose under her pant leg.

The door opened to a very young woman dressed in a maid’s outfit. She had dark, straight hair pulled back with a rubber band and big brown eyes that telegraphed naïveté. “Yes?”

Tara smiled brightly. “I’m Tara Mackey. I have an appointment with Mr. Landover.”

The young maid frowned as if confused. “I didn’t realize he was seeing people today. Are you here about the clothes he’s giving away?”

Tara wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “Clothes?”

“His wife’s clothes. He’s giving all her gowns away to charity.”

“Ah, yes. She had such stunning gowns. We have a ten-thirty appointment to discuss the gowns,” she said without blinking.

The maid nodded and stepped aside. “If you’ll wait here.”

Tara’s heart jumped, but she kept her cool as she stepped inside. “Thank you.”

So Landover was giving away Kit’s dresses. Was it a sign that the old man was moving on with his life?

The maid hurried up the carpeted spiral staircase and down the upstairs hallway. Her footsteps faded away. Tara was left alone in the foyer.

She studied the marbled foyer’s black-and-white polished floor. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and caught the morning sunlight, which streamed in through a transom above the door. Across from the door stood an antique Chippendale table pushed against the wall. On the table sat a Chinese vase filled with fragrant, freshly cut roses. The understated decor was all very elegant and expensive and not to her taste at all. She liked simple and unpretentious pieces that were often used and had a quirky history.

To her left, a set of tall mahogany doors stood ajar, giving her a peek into the receiving parlor. Unable to resist, she moved to the open door and looked inside. Immediately her gaze was drawn to the huge painting of Kit that hung over the brick fireplace. In the portrait, Kit wore a soft pink strapless dress that cloaked her lithe body like a second skin. Her blond hair was swept up into a chignon, and a stunning diamond pendant necklace dipped into her full cleavage. Teardrop gems dangled from her ears, and a thick diamond bracelet circled her wrist. Tara recognized the gems in the portrait. They were the ones Kit had been wearing on her wedding day—the ones that had vanished with her and were reported to be worth fifteen million dollars.

Tara glanced up the staircase to see if anyone could see her. Satisfied that she was alone, she pulled out her cell phone, quickly snapped a picture.

The sound of footsteps on the landing had her stepping back into the foyer. She jammed her cell phone into her briefcase.

“May I help you?”

Tara turned to find a stern-looking woman descending the stairs. Dark brown hair was swept tightly back and accentuated sharp brown eyes. She wore a silk blouse, linen pants and high-heeled shoes.

“That’s a stunning portrait of Mrs. Landover,” Tara said. There was no sense hiding the fact that she’d been caught peeking.

The woman lifted a thin eyebrow as if she did not approve. “My name is Mrs. Reston. What can I do for you?”

Tara mentally regrouped. So much for getting in to see the old man today. “I’m Tara Mackey. I’m with the Globe. I spoke to you earlier about an appointment with Mr. Landover.”

Mrs. Reston’s lips flattened into a thin line. “I told you on the phone that Mr. Landover doesn’t speak with reporters.”

Tara smiled, trying not to look the least bit deterred. “I would only need about five or ten minutes of his time.”

Mrs. Reston quickly slid a bony finger under her pearl necklace. “No.”

“The one-year anniversary of his wife’s disappearance is coming up next week.” From her briefcase she pulled out the mock-up of her article. “The Globe is going to do a story about Kit Westgate. The hope is to spark the public’s interest. Maybe someone will come forward with new information about what happened to Kit. Either way, we’d love Mr. Landover’s comments for the piece.”

Thin lips dipped into a frown as Reston stared at the glowing picture of Kit. Jealousy burned in her eyes. Reston had clearly hated Kit. “No reporter has cared a wit for Mr. Landover or all the good works he’s done since Kit Westgate came into his life. Everyone just cared about her. Why can’t your type leave him alone?”

The your type comment had Tara bristling, but she kept her cool. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions. I only need a few minutes of his time.”

“I know Kit Westgate is just a story to you, but she devastated Mr. Landover’s life. The woman was in league with the devil as far as I’m concerned. And frankly, I don’t care if we ever find out what happened to her. Drop this story.”

The show of emotion interested Tara. “You really hated her, didn’t you?”

Mrs. Reston hesitated, realizing she’d let too much of her emotions show through her stoic Boston reserve. “Leave this house before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing. And don’t ever come back here or try to speak to Mr. Landover again.”

Tara could just imagine Miriam’s and Kirkland’s expressions when word reached them that she’d been arrested for harassing Mrs. Reston. Kirkland’s dark gaze was the hardest to banish.

Tara crossed the threshold to the front stoop. She turned. “Mrs. Reston, when was the last time you actually saw Kit?”

Mrs. Reston slammed the door in her face.

For a moment, Tara stood there, staring at the polished brass knocker just inches from her nose.

It wasn’t even noon, and Kirkland, her editor and Landover’s personal assistant had warned her off this story.

Why didn’t they want the case reopened? Solving it would be a huge coup for the police and the paper. And it would bring resolution to Kit’s family.

Tara shoved the newspaper into her briefcase and started toward her car. Her body tingled like it did when she felt as if she’d hit upon a great story.

She sensed that if she kept showing her mock-up around Boston she was going to coax a few hidden facts out of someone.

Smiling, Tara started to whistle as she slid behind the wheel and fired up the engine. She turned on the radio and cranked it loud. “There’s no doubt about it. I’m on the right track.”