Читать книгу Black Silk - Metsy Hingle - Страница 8

Three

“De Nova, as soon as you process those bedsheets, get back to me,” Vince told the crime-scene tech who had bagged the bed linen to take back to the lab for trace evidence.

“You got it,” the younger man said and gave him a salute that seemed strange coming from a guy with spiked orange hair.

Shaking his head, Vince turned away. A quick once-over revealed that the rest of the crew were wrapping up. Satisfied, he glanced at the young officer who was still standing guard at the door. The kid looked barely old enough to drink, Vince thought. But he was tall. He had a good four inches on his own six feet, Vince estimated. His police uniform was neatly pressed; his shoes looked as if they’d been spit-polished. And he was standing so stiff and straight, it made his own spine ache. But buff and polish and baby face aside, the kid had done a good job securing the scene. He owed him one for stopping the apartment manager and staff from traipsing through the place and making everyone’s job a thousand times more difficult. The kid had a brain and had used it, which in his book was a big plus. He made his way over to him. “Officer Mackenzie, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Andrew Mackenzie, sir.”

“You can relax, Mackenzie.”

“Yes, sir,” he said and shifted his stance so that his feet were separated by a foot instead of a few inches.

Vince bit off a sigh. “Mackenzie, you did a good job here today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“With the murder rate up, we’re a bit shorthanded in Homicide. We could use an extra pair eyes and legs on this case. How would you feel about being assigned to us temporarily?”

“You mean work with you and Detective Le Blanc on a homicide?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” Vince said. “If I can get it cleared with your captain, would you be willing to stay on for a while until we close this case?”

“Yes, sir,” he said enthusiastically. “I’d consider it a privilege, sir. It’s my goal to work in Homicide one day.”

“Then now’s your chance. Who’s your captain?”

“Roussell, sir. Tom Roussell.”

“I know Captain Roussell. He’s a good man.” He had worked under Tom Roussell himself when he’d been a rookie. “I’ll run this by Captain Warren in Homicide and ask him to call and square things with Captain Roussell. In the meantime, I want you to stay posted here and make sure no one enters this place without first talking to me or Detective Le Blanc. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Got it, sir.”

Vince placed a call to his own captain first. He gave him a quick rundown of the situation, then made the request for Mackenzie’s reassignment. The captain didn’t hesitate and said he’d handle the duty change himself. After listening to the captain reiterate the need for them to close this case quickly and quietly, Vince ended the call. He turned back to Mackenzie. “It’s all set, Mackenzie. For now, you belong to Homicide and report to me and Detective Le Blanc.”

“Thank you, sir. I promise I won’t let you down, sir.”

Vince nodded and turned away. God, but the kid made him feel like an old man. Hell, maybe in today’s youth-driven culture, thirty-two was considered old. Or maybe all the years of dealing with the ugly side of humanity had aged him prematurely. Then again, maybe his mother was right and he needed a woman in his life—someone to remind him of the good in the world after dealing with so much of the darkness. Fat chance, he thought. Since his divorce five years ago, his longest relationship had lasted all of three months. And the truth was, that relationship would have hit the skids sooner if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in the case he’d been working on at the time.

That was his problem, Vince decided. Work always came first. It had been one of his ex-wife’s major complaints—he was gone all the time. Of course, she hadn’t liked the size of his paychecks either. She’d given him an ultimatum—find another job or the marriage was over. He’d opted to keep the job. Luckily for both of them, they’d had the sense to call it quits before kids came into the picture. Last he’d heard, his ex had found herself a new husband with a nine-to-five job and a fat paycheck. But he was still a cop, he reminded himself. He was also still alone.

Shoving aside his grim thoughts, Vince went to look for his partner. He found her in the bedroom, staring at the bed where the body had been. Vince frowned. There was an edginess in her stance that worried him. Charlie kept a lot bottled up inside and although she was better than most at hiding her feelings, he knew that every case claimed a piece of her. Some more than others. He knew that scene in the bedroom had hit her hard. He also knew that it had hit much too close to home.

It was what he had been afraid of from the moment he’d arrived on the scene and discovered that single stocking on the bed. He’d worked enough crime scenes to recognize a perp’s signature. Every criminal, whether they were a torcher, a safecracker or a killer, had his or her own signature. The stocking was this guy’s signature. And from the report he’d been able to obtain on Emily Le Blanc’s case, he knew the similarities—death by strangulation and a single black stocking beside the victim—were identical to this one. Though he had attempted to downplay the situation, he knew she hadn’t bought it. The odds that the same man was responsible for both murders was more than good. Which meant Charlie had no business on this case.

But getting her to see that was another story. He knew for a fact that she’d spent countless hours during her off time scrolling through Codis, hoping to find a match in the DNA index system to the DNA recovered from her sister’s crime scene. And each time she’d come up empty. Until now. Convincing her to back away would be next to impossible. But he had to at least try. Walking into the room, he came to a stop beside her. “The techs are finishing up out there. We probably ought to head over to Stratton’s place and give him the news before someone else does.”

She turned to face him. “My car’s out front. You want to take it or follow me in yours?”

“What do you say I work this one solo?”

“Like hell you will,” she snapped.

“Come on, Le Blanc. You’ve got a personal stake in this one. You don’t belong on this case.”

“I’ve been looking for this guy for years. I know more about him than you or anyone else.”

“That might be true. But you also have a major conflict of interest. If the captain knew there was even a possibility that this case is connected to your sister’s murder, he’d pull you off of it in a New York minute.”

“But he doesn’t know. And neither does anyone else.”

“You sure about that?” Vince asked.

“Very few people know I had another sister besides Anne. And the ones who do only know that my sister was murdered while she was attending college in Baton Rouge. It happened years ago, before I even joined the force.”

“And once you tell the captain that the two cases could be related, do you honestly think he’ll let you stay on this one?”

“I don’t intend to tell him,” she informed him.

“And what about me, Charlie? Am I supposed to lie, too?”

“No,” she said more softly. “I’d never ask you to do that. All I’m asking is that you not say anything about my suspicions.”

“You mean you want me to lie by omission,” he said, pointing out the truth of what she was asking of him. Keeping silent would be the same thing in his opinion.

“Only for a few days—just until I have a chance to confirm whether I’m right, whether the guy who murdered the Hill woman is the same one who murdered Emily.” When Vince didn’t respond, she said, “Please, Vince. Just a few days.”

Vince rubbed the back of his neck. “Suppose someone who worked your sister’s case remembers it and sees the similarities? Then what?”

“One of the detectives on Emily’s case retired and the other one took a position out in Texas,” she countered. “Besides, Emily was killed a hundred miles from here, and she and the Hill woman were from two different worlds, and the case has been cold for six years. The police up there have their hands full just like we do. They won’t have time to start looking for a connection between one of their old murder cases and this one. Please, Vince,” she repeated.

Vince sighed. “All right. You just better hope that this doesn’t come back and bite us both in the ass.”

“It won’t. And if it does, I’ll take full responsibility,” she promised. “I’ll tell the captain it was all my doing, that I kept you in the dark.”

“Why don’t we try to keep the lies to a minimum,” he suggested, because there was no way on earth he’d let her take that fall alone. “Now, what do you say we head over to Stratton’s and let the man know that he isn’t going to need his tux after all?”

“What do you think a place like this goes for?” Vince asked sotto voce as the two of them stood in the parlor of J.P. Stratton’s palatial home waiting for the butler to announce them.

“Just the real estate this place is sitting on costs more than you and I will make in a lifetime,” Charlie responded. Half the homes on this stretch of Saint Charles Avenue were more than a century old and had been carved from one-time plantations. A great many of them had been refurbished, the original architecture preserved and they were now designated as historic landmarks. The polished marble floors, sky-high ceilings and the magnificent chandelier were right out of a picture book. They screamed “money.” “You can add another million or two for the house—and that’s without the furnishings.”

Before Vince could respond, the butler reappeared. A dour-looking man in a classic black butler’s suit, the guy could have been anywhere between forty and seventy years old, Charlie thought.

“If you will follow me, Detectives,” he said in a voice that sounded more British than the combination of Brooklyn and the South that typified the speech of most New Orleanians. “Mr. Stratton will see you now.”

Vince exchanged a look with her and she knew he found the exchange as pompous as she had. Silently, they followed the stiff-backed butler down a long hallway with walls that were covered in peach silk fabric and adorned with oil portraits. He stopped near the end of the hall and opened a door for them to enter. Once they were inside, he pulled the door closed in the same quiet manner in which he had walked.

After identifying themselves to Aaron Stratton, they waited while J. P. Stratton barked out instructions to some poor assistant over the phone. “Aaron,” the older man called out.

“Excuse me, Detectives,” he said and went to his father’s side.

While they waited, Charlie used the time to size up J. P. Stratton. Her initial impression was that he was a big man with an even bigger ego. He was also arrogant, chauvinistic and a self-centered ass. She pegged him at about five foot eleven inches, two hundred and ten pounds. He sported a George Hamilton tan that was set off by black hair that a man well past sixty could only have achieved with the help of a hairdresser. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, his nose sharp, his mouth thin. Due to the miracle of Botox or a face-lift or both, his face was completely void of lines. In fact, the bronze skin was so taut, she’d wager a tennis ball could have bounced off it. The suit he wore looked expensive, probably from one of those Italian designers, Charlie thought. He wore a diamond Rolex on his left wrist, cuff links with diamonds set in gold and an onyx-and-diamond ring on his pinkie finger that was so large it could have been used as a weapon. There was a coldness about him that made it easy for her to understand how he had gone through a string of wives. She couldn’t imagine any woman tying herself to such a man.

When he finally ended the call, Charlie introduced herself and Vince. “Mr. Stratton, I’m afraid we have tragic news, sir.”

“If you’re here to tell me that Francesca’s dead, you’re a little late, Detectives,” he said in a deep, blustery voice that he directed at Vince. “When I called to speak with my fiancée, the fool police officer who answered the phone told me she was dead.”

“I’m sorry about that, sir,” Charlie told him.

“You’re going to be even sorrier, Detectives,” he fired back. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with your chief of police and I’ve let him know how incompetent his staff is,” he added, directing his remarks to Vince again and barely glancing at Charlie.

Charlie stepped in front of the man’s line of vision, forcing him to look at her. “The first officer on the scene is a new man, sir,” she explained. “He’ll be apprised of his error in judgment and disciplined, accordingly.”

“He’ll be fired, if I have anything to say about it.”

“Since you’re neither the chief of police nor the officer’s captain, you don’t have anything to say about it,” she said firmly.

Stratton shot to his feet. He moved quickly for a man his age, Charlie thought. She couldn’t help being grateful that she’d been the sister blessed with long legs. With the two inches her boots added to her own five foot seven inches, it made it difficult for Stratton to look down at her.

“Young woman, I—”

“It’s Detective, Mr. Stratton. Detective Le Blanc.”

“Dad,” Aaron said, and stepping forward, he placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “As you can imagine, Detectives, the news about Francesca’s death has devastated my father.”

The son was definitely not a chip off the old block. To begin with he had a good two inches in height on his father, but he weighed at least twenty pounds less. While he had his father’s mouth, his eyes were green, his hair dark blond. His slacks and shirt were well made and tasteful and, from the way they fit him, it was obvious he kept himself in shape. His hands were strong and his grip had been firm when he’d shaken her hand. Charlie guessed him to be in his late twenties. The younger Stratton had a warmth his father lacked. Yet there was also a coolness. An odd combination, she thought.

J. P. Stratton shrugged off his son’s hand. “I don’t need you to make excuses for me, boy. I’m not devastated. I’m furious,” he informed them. “Three hours from now, five hundred people from all across the state will be arriving at the New Orleans Museum of Art to celebrate my wedding,” he told her, with a sweep of his arm. “Do you have any idea the amount of time and money that went into planning that wedding? Or the headaches canceling it is causing me?”

So much for the brokenhearted groom. “I’m sure I can’t imagine, sir,” Charlie told him, not even attempting to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

Vince shot her a reproving look. “We realize this is a difficult time for you, Mr. Stratton, and we’re sorry for your loss,” Vince said. “But I’m afraid we do need to ask you a few questions.”

“Instead of wasting time questioning me, why aren’t out looking for the person who killed Francesca? You probably don’t even have a suspect yet, do you?”

“Not yet, sir. But we’re working on it,” Vince told him. “We’re interviewing Ms. Hill’s neighbors and checking the security tapes from her building. It would help us if you could tell us when you last saw Ms. Hill.”

When Stratton started to object, Aaron said, “They’re just trying to get a time line on when Francesca was killed.”

“Your son’s right, Mr. Stratton,” Vince informed him. “If we can narrow down the last time anyone saw or spoke to her, it would help.”

Stratton sat down and retrieved a cigar from a humidor on the desk, but he didn’t light it. “I saw her at her apartment around nine o’clock last night. We had a rehearsal dinner earlier that evening and Francesca had a bit too much to drink. I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

From the looks of the apartment, Francesca had continued to party after she’d returned home, Charlie thought as she took out her notebook and pen. “Was she okay?” she asked.

“She was fine, just tired from all the excitement.”

“How long did you stay?” Charlie asked him.

“Until around nine-thirty. Francesca wanted to make it an early night so that she would be rested and beautiful for today.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Ms. Hill?” Vince asked.

“There was an ex-boyfriend, some lowlife she was seeing before we met. He wasn’t happy about being dumped and accosted Francesca outside her apartment building a couple of weeks ago. I had Francesca take out a restraining order against him.”

“Does this guy have a name?” Charlie asked.

“Schwitzer. Marcus Schwitzer,” Aaron told her. “I assisted Francesca with the restraining order,” he explained.

Charlie wrote down the information. “Do you know where we can find him?”

“He was working as a bouncer at the Red Slipper Club,” the older man advised her. “But when the club’s owner was made aware that there was a restraining order out on him, his employment was terminated. I suggested he leave town and I believe he took my advice.”

In other words, he’d had the guy canned and railroaded out of town, Charlie surmised. “I don’t imagine he was too happy about that.”

J. P. Stratton gave her a smug look. “Would you be, Detective?”

She didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she asked, “Did this Schwitzer make any threats against Ms. Hill before he left?”

“None that I know of.”

“Can you think of anyone else who might have had a grudge against your fiancée or you?” Vince asked.

“Detective, a man doesn’t get to be in my position without making some enemies along the way,” Stratton told him.

“Any of those enemies hate you enough to kill your fiancée?” Charlie asked.

“You’d have to ask them,” he replied.

“We’ll need a list of their names,” Charlie informed him.

“Aaron can provide you with them. He’s my attorney. He’ll know of any business deals that didn’t sit well with other parties.”

“I’ll get a list to you as soon as possible, Detective,” Aaron replied.

“Thank you,” Charlie told him and directed her attention once more to the father. “What about on a personal level? Was there anyone besides this Schwitzer fellow who was unhappy about the upcoming wedding?”

“Other than my last ex-wife who’s deluded herself for years that I’m going to remarry her, everyone was very happy about the wedding.”

He was lying through his capped teeth, Charlie decided. She hadn’t missed the look exchanged between father and son.

“Is there anything else?” J. P. Stratton asked, clearly annoyed.

“Just one more thing,” Charlie said, following a hunch. “I’d like a list of the guests who attended last night’s dinner party.”

The older man narrowed his eyes, causing his heavy brows to form a dark angry line. “Why would you need to know who my dinner guests were?”

“Because it’s possible one of them saw or heard something that might help us find the killer.”

“I’ve tried to be cooperative, Detectives, but my patience is wearing thin. Instead of wasting time questioning me and my friends, you should be out looking for Schwitzer.”

“I assure you, we’ll find Schwitzer and bring him in for questioning. But I still need that list.” She offered him her card and when he failed to take it, she placed it on the desk.

“I’ll see that you get the list,” Aaron Stratton said. “Let me show you the way out.”

She directed her attention back to the older man. “Once again, we’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Stratton.”

Aaron Stratton hustled them out of the room. “Please excuse my father,” he began, his voice sincere as they stepped into the corridor. “Francesca’s death has hit him harder than he lets on. He truly did love her.”

Right, Charlie thought. And she had a bridge she’d like to sell him, too. “Here’s my card,” Charlie told him. “Just call me when you have that list and I’ll have it picked up.”

“I’ll do that,” he replied, brushing his fingers against hers as he took the card.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Stratton.”

“Aaron,” he corrected, giving her a smile that she suspected was meant to charm before he turned and extended his hand to Vince. “Detective.”

Vince nodded.

“Henry will show you out,” he told them and, like magic, the butler appeared almost instantly.

“This way, please,” he said.

Once they exited the mansion, they remained silent while they negotiated the elaborate walkway. Starting toward the iron-lace gate that led to the street, Vince asked, “What do you think of our grief-stricken groom?”

“I think he’s a pompous ass,” Charlie informed him.

“You buy his story?”

“No. He’s hiding something,” Charlie told him. “And I intend to find out what it is.”

As they neared the gate, Charlie spotted the Channel 4 News truck and one of the station’s reporters with a microphone in hand. “Aw hell,” she muttered, because it wasn’t just any reporter—it was her sister Anne.

* * *

The moment Anne Le Blanc recognized the pair exiting the home of millionaire J. P. Stratton, adrenaline skyrocketed through her system. Her piece for the TV station’s evening broadcast had just gone from lifestyles of the local rich and famous to something a whole lot more serious. “Kevin, set up the camera,” she instructed the cameraman who had accompanied her.

The hastily planned nuptials of one of the city’s wealthiest and most flamboyant businessmen to a much younger former casino hostess had set tongues wagging three weeks ago. The citizens of New Orleans liked nothing better than a juicy scandal, and despite his protests to the contrary, J. P. Stratton seemed to like providing the members of his adopted city with something to talk about. And the former Texan had given them plenty over the years with his business triumphs, lavish lifestyle and string of trophy wives. The man’s exploits read like a soap opera script—lots of money, lots of sex and lots of scandal. So it came as no surprise that the wedding scheduled that evening at the New Orleans Museum of Art with a guest list that read like a who’s who for the state of Louisiana had guaranteed J. P. Stratton another fifteen minutes of fame.

Personally, she didn’t give a fig who the old goat married. But apparently the TV station’s viewers did. And she had been assigned to satisfy the public’s fascination and curiosity by providing them with a peek inside the fairy-tale affair. But when she’d gotten a tip that the wedding was off, she’d hightailed it over to the Stratton mansion, hoping to get the scoop.

According to the rumor mill, the bride-to-be had balked at signing a prenuptial agreement that had been presented to her at the eleventh hour. She didn’t blame the woman. What woman wanted to start off her marriage by planning what her take would be in a divorce? On the other hand, she supposed she could see Stratton’s point. After four ex-wives and several palimony suits, the man had probably forked over a chunk of his fortune. Evidently, he did not intend to do so again. And with no prenuptial, there would be no wedding. Of course, that wouldn’t be the reason given for the cancellation. No, they’d probably spin some tale about a sudden illness or business emergency being the cause for delaying the happy couple’s wedding. At least that’s what she had thought initially, Anne admitted. But the presence of two homicide detectives at the Stratton home told her there was a great deal more than an unsigned prenup behind the canceled wedding.

“Say, isn’t that your sister?” Kevin asked as he aimed the camera on the two people leaving the Stratton house and approaching the gate.

“It sure is,” Anne told him. And the hunk with the sexy swagger at her sister’s side was Detective Vincent Kossak. Her heart beat a little faster as she watched him. Not for the first time, Anne wondered how an innocent kiss under the mistletoe on New Year’s Eve with her sister’s partner had turned into a steamy, curl-your-toes kiss that had sent her hormones into overdrive. Oh, there had always been a little spark there. She’d been intrigued by him. With a nine-year difference in their ages, he was older than most of the men she’d dated, more mature, more serious. There was a confidence about him that she’d found attractive. But he’d never given the slightest indication that he was even remotely interested in her.

Until New Year’s Eve.

That night when she’d seen him standing under the mistletoe looking as if he’d rather be anyplace else than at that party, she had acted on impulse. She’d grabbed him by the tie, pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. And he had kissed her back. But there had been nothing sisterly or playful about that kiss. It had been a no-holds-barred, open-mouthed, hungry kiss. And ever since that night a month ago, she hadn’t been able to get Vince Kossak out of her head.

The gate opened and her sister marched out to the sidewalk with a scowl on her face and a look in her eyes that said “back off.” As the youngest of three girls, Anne had had her share of run-ins with her two older siblings when the three of them had been living under the same roof and sharing one bathroom. With six years between her and Charlie and two years between her and Emily, her sisters had had a treasure trove of grown-up girlie stuff that she couldn’t wait to get into. And she had never allowed a little thing like Charlie threatening to toss her out the window to keep her from those treasures. Some things were simply worth the risk.

Like Detective Vincent Kossak.

Or a hot story. And her journalist’s antenna sensed a hot story now. She had no intention of allowing a little thing like Charlie’s angry expression to keep her from that story. “Detective, does your presence here have anything to do with J.

P. Stratton’s wedding being canceled this evening?” she asked and aimed the microphone at her sister. “Unless you want to eat that thing, I’d suggest you get it out of my face,” Charlie hissed.

“Was that a yes, Detective?”

Her sister practically snarled and brushed past her.

Unfazed, Anne pointed the microphone at Vince. “What about you, Detective Kossak? Can you tell us why you’re here?”

He looked right at her, dropping his gaze to her mouth. For a moment, Anne felt that zap of awareness stretch between them like an electrical wire dangling in a storm. But when he lifted his gaze to meet hers, his eyes were calm, distant. “No comment.”

Shaking off the impact of that initial look, Anne hurried after them. “Keep the camera running,” she told Kevin and followed them down the street as quickly as she could in the three-inch heels that matched her suit. She caught up with them at the corner. “Detective Le Blanc, can you tell us why you were at the home of J. P. Stratton?”

Charlie glared at her and Anne was sure her sister would have given her an earful, were it not for her cell phone ringing. “Le Blanc.” She covered one ear with her hand. “What? I can’t hear you,” she told the party on the other end of the line. “Hang on a second.” Holding the phone to her chest a moment, she said to Vince, “I’m going to see if I can get a better connection. You can get rid of her.”

When her sister walked away, Anne once again shifted the microphone in Vince’s direction. She gave him a challenging look. “If you want to get rid of me, Detective Kossak, all you have to do is tell me why you were at the Stratton home.”

“No comment,” he repeated.

She decided to try another tack. “Are you and Detective Le Blanc working on a homicide case?”

“No comment.”

“Is your case somehow connected to J. P. Stratton?”

“No comment,” he told her and kept his eyes focused in the direction her sister had gone.

Disappointed, Anne knew she wouldn’t get anything more. The man was every bit as stubborn as her sister. Turning to Kevin, she made a slicing motion across her throat, indicating he should shut down the camera. “I’ll meet you back at the truck,” she told him.

He nodded and walked back down the street to where the TV van was parked. Once he was gone, she turned back to Vince. At six feet, he had nearly eight inches on her own five-foot-four-and-a-half-inch frame. So she was glad she had the extra three inches her heels provided. His dark brown hair was thick, his eyes the color of coffee. The sharp cheekbones and square jaw spoke of his Russian ancestry. He wasn’t movie-star handsome, but he was a man that a woman would notice.

She’d noticed. And judging by the way he’d kissed her back, he had noticed her, too. So why hadn’t he done what most red-blooded males did after a kiss that registered on the Richter scale? Why hadn’t he followed through? For a second, she considered the possibility that she had been wrong, that maybe she had only imagined that Vince had felt something, too. No, she hadn’t been wrong. She’d been on the other end of that kiss. And Vincent Kossak had wanted her.

“You’re wasting your time, Anne. Your sister isn’t going to comment on an investigation and neither am I.”

“So there is an investigation,” she said, her journalistic instincts kicking in again.

“No comment.”

A canceled wedding and homicide detectives at the home of the prospective groom. A coincidence? She didn’t think so. In fact, she’d stake her new Louis Vuitton purse on it. “What about off the record? If I promise not to report anything, will you tell me what’s going on?”

He chuckled. “Not a chance.”

“Fine. Since you refuse to discuss police business with me, what about personal business?”

He eyed her warily. “What personal business?”

“Oh, we could start with you explaining why you’ve been avoiding me since New Year’s? Is it because we kissed?”

“No. And I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“Then how come every time I’ve set foot inside the police station during the past two months, you disappear?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Careful, Vince, you keep telling fibs and your nose is going to grow.” She edged a little closer, just enough to get into his personal space. He moved back a step and Anne thought she detected a tinge of red in his cheeks.

“Listen, about that night. I was out of line kissing you and I should have called to apol—”

“Don’t,” she all but growled. “So help me, Vincent Kossak, if you apologize for kissing me, I swear I’ll…I’ll punch you in the nose.”

“All right. I won’t apologize,” he said. “But that kiss should never have happened.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m your sister’s partner.”

“So?”

“So you and me, us…it’s not a good idea,” he said firmly.

“Says who?”

“Says me.” He sighed. “Come on, Anne. I’m almost ten years older than you. I’ve been married and divorced while you’re just getting started with your life. You’re just a kid and I’m practically an old man.”

“I assure you, Detective Kossak, I am not a kid. I am a grown woman and—”

“Kossak, we’ve got to roll,” Charlie called out as she ran back to the car.

“No time to talk,” he told her. And with a swiftness that made her blink, Anne stared dumbfounded as Vince shifted gears, seeming to forget that they were in the midst of a serious discussion, seeming to forget her. Suddenly he was all business. His body tensed, poised for action. And without another word to her, he yanked open the car door and focused all of his attention on his job. “What have we got?” he asked Charlie.

“Not what, who,” Charlie told him as she pulled open the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. “We hit pay dirt with the security discs from the apartment building and—”

Vince pulled his door shut.

But she’d heard enough, Anne thought as she watched the car with Vince and her sister speed off. She raced back to the TV truck. “Let’s go,” she told Kevin.

“We following them?” he asked as he started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

“No. We’re going to the Mill House Apartments,” she told him. And with a little luck she was going to be breaking a big story on the evening news.