by Lyn Stone
What did that say about him, that he was getting so wrapped up in her this quickly? His objectivity was shot to pieces, had been since the minute she turned those baby blues on him in that bedroom at the crime scene. He needed to get a grip. Problem was, he wanted to get a grip on her.
That ol’ bugaboo, sexual attraction, of course. It had never hit him quite this square in the gut, however, and he was having trouble straightening up. The blow to the ribs he’d taken in the diner didn’t even compare. He pressed on the injury just to make it hurt, just to feel something that would counteract what she was making him feel.
Her hand covered his. “Broken?” she asked with a look of tender concern. The touch of her hand on his set his nerve endings jangling.
“Nah. Just bruised. You should see the other guy,” he quipped.
Her breath huffed out and she removed her hand. “I hope I never do! Do you really think they’ll try again? If it is the disk they were after?”
Mitch shrugged, relieved that they were on less intimate ground. “Could be. You don’t have to worry about that right now. No one knows where we’re going except the chief, and we aren’t being followed.”
She swiveled and glanced out the back window. “You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
A few moments later she had leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. It was all he could do not to pull the car over just so he could sit there and watch her sleep for a while.
Mitch sat up straighter behind the wheel and clutched it tighter than necessary, reminding himself that Robin Andrews was still the primary suspect in a murder case. Not only should he avoid getting involved with her on any level other than making sure she didn’t skip town, he should not let her bravery back there at the diner impress him so much.
So she had a healthy sense of self-preservation. So what?
He drove on, deliberately listing all the reasons Robin might have had to shoot that man she had married.
Had Andrews cheated on her? For whatever reason, he’d left her there in New York to fend for herself. And he might have gotten her mixed up in something shady by asking her to bring him that disk. The murderer had been looking for something in that apartment, something not found yet. And those guys who attacked them in Dylan’s were definitely after whatever Robin had. Maybe she knew more about that than she admitted.
Surely she wasn’t capable of murder. But she sure hadn’t hesitated to plant that fork in the perp’s hand tonight. Maybe she hadn’t hesitated to plant a bullet in James Andrews’s brain a little earlier in the evening.
The best he could do was keep an eye on her, get to know her as well as he could and try to determine the extent of her guilt. Or, best case, prove she was innocent.
“Well, this is it,” the detective told her as Robin became aware of their surroundings.
Streetlights cast their glow over shadowy houses with gingerbread trim. They stood like a double row of old-fashioned sisters, each unique yet bearing a family resemblance. Some were spruced up beautifully, but a few carried the marks of age and neglect. Ancient oaks spread their branches over small, neat yards as well as most of the street. “Peaceful,” she muttered.
“Quiet, anyway,” he agreed, opening his door and getting out. He came around and opened hers.
A gentleman to the bone, she thought, wondering what kind of cop that made him. Other than the intensity of those eyes, he seemed almost too deferential to be true. He frightened her with all of this courtesy.
Robin tried to shake off the fear, chalking it up to watching too much television and its stereotyping of lawmen from the South. Good ol’boys who had laws of their own. God, she hoped that had no basis in fact.
She took the hand he offered to help her out of the Bronco. It was warm and strong, his touch too casual to signify anything other than a gesture of assistance. But Robin felt the power of it, nonetheless, the tingling awareness that this man could destroy her if he wished.
He had given her fair warning. She would never make the mistake of underestimating Detective Mitch Winton.
There was no concrete reason to believe his attitude was a deception. If he was trying to lure her into trusting him enough to confess she’d killed James, he’d have a long damned wait for either her trust or an admission of guilt.
She knew she should have gone to a hotel. He’d said he lived near here, hadn’t he? What had she been thinking? Her brain was so foggy from stress and lack of sleep, she hadn’t been thinking at all. First thing in the morning she would find another place to stay. She would call a taxi and have it take her downtown.
Depending on the very person who had nearly arrested her for murder—and still might do so—was worse than absurd. Yet she couldn’t afford to alienate him completely. Making him angry was the last thing she should do.
He led her up the walkway and the brick steps of the house. The wide front porch with its draping ferns and off-white wicker rocking chairs seemed to welcome her.
Fishing his key ring out of his pocket, he unlocked the door and entered before her. When he had switched on the lights, Robin stepped inside, taking in the gaudy floral wallpaper and large, gold-leaf mirror hanging over a marble-topped rose-wood hall table. He immediately ushered her toward a sturdy, curved staircase. “Second floor.”
She made a note to examine the small paintings hanging in the stairwell later when she could focus properly. They appeared to be very old pastoral scenes. Everything looked old. Ancient.
Again he unlocked a door and turned on the lights.
“Make yourself at home. There’s the bedroom through there. Since she took practically everything but the kitchen sink with her, Sandra’s things shouldn’t get in your way. I expect there are some nonperishables left in the kitchen, but we’ll get you supplied with whatever you like later today.”
He glanced at his watch as if he had somewhere else to be, but she didn’t want him to go yet.
“Exactly who is Sandra?” Robin thought he’d said a friend, another policeman, rented this place. She’d erroneously assumed it was a man.
“Sandra Cunningham,” he explained. “She’s at the FBI academy for a training course.”
He sounded terribly proud of this person. Robin made herself smile at him. “Are you sure this friend won’t object to my invading her space while she’s away?”
“Positive she won’t, but I’ll call her and let her know.” He backed out of the door. “Speaking of calls, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make some. I’ll do it from my place.”
“You live close by?”
“Just next door.” He looked at his watch again. “Try to get some sleep this morning and I’ll check back with you around noon.”
Robin turned the dead bolt after the door closed and leaned against the solid panel. She listened for his footsteps on the stairs, but didn’t hear them. He must move like a cat.
She looked at the phone on the table by the window, then decided it might be best to wait until after she had slept to call her mother. Dealing with her would take energy Robin didn’t have at the moment. Exhausted beyond bearing, she went straight to the bedroom and stretched out across the big brass bed.
Usually she preferred being by herself, but now almost wished Mitch Winton had stayed. She suddenly felt too alone.
Chapter 4
Mitch cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder while he shucked his shorts. He turned the taps on the old clawfoot tub and adjusted the temperature of the water, wishing he had one of those whirlpool thingamajigs attached. His muscles felt kinked and his brain was fuzzy from sleeping in the daytime.
He had gone directly to bed after leaving Robin in the next apartment and slept a good half day uninterrupted. Now his internal clock was screwed. He had to get back on track.
First he needed to find out what was going on with the case. Then he would go over and see how his houseguest was holding up.
Kick answered his cell phone on the fifth ring.
“What you got so far, Kick?” Mitch asked.
“A headache for one thing,” Taylor declared, sounding like he was in a real snit. “Hunford tells me you took the suspect home with you. What the hell are you thinking?”
Mitch grunted. “The boss thought it was a good idea.”
“You should have put her up in a hotel or something. Do that today,” he snapped.
“Soon as you make captain and start calling the shots,” Mitch replied easily.
He stepped into the tub and lowered himself into the steaming water, holding on to the phone so he wouldn’t douse it. “Anything new turn up after I left?”
Kick pouted for a few seconds before sharing. “Forensics found some red dirt stains on the rug. Hardly noticeable, but they could be important. We might want to check the lady’s shoes. Victim’s were clean, every pair he had.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. His cleaning lady was in there yesterday afternoon. I found her in the address book and called to see when she’d done the place last. I guess Andrews was getting things polished up, expecting his wife. We’re trying to find out if anyone else was seen coming in after the floor was vacuumed.” Kick was silent for a minute. “You keeping her in your apartment?”
“The cleaning lady? No—”
“Mitch, I’m not in the mood!”
Mitch smiled to himself, enjoying the yank on Kick’s chain. “She’s in Sandy’s apartment, across the hall.”
“Taking her to your own house is not wise and you know it.”
“Don’t worry. I’m just keeping an eye on her,” Mitch explained patiently. “And I figured Sandy’s was a good place to do that. She wanted me to sublet for her if I could.”
“Listen, Mitch,” Kick said, sounding calmer, though his voice held a warning, “everything we’ve got so far points directly at Robin Andrews. Blood on her hands, prints on the weapon, sound motive—he wanted the divorce, she didn’t. Or vice versa. And that ain’t all—”
Mitch scoffed. “That’s not enough to stand up. Way too circumstantial. Hunford even said so. She could never have brought the weapon in on that plane and didn’t have time to get one after she arrived.”
“The Beretta belonged to Andrews,” Kick said. “Registered and licensed. Already there.”
“Notice the results from the paraffin tests?” Mitch asked.
“She could have worn gloves.”
“Then what did she do with them?”
“We’re still looking.”
“Why are her prints on the gun if she wore gloves?”
Kick missed a beat, then picked it up. “Touched it later. Good move. Threw you off, didn’t it?”
“She’s innocent,” Mitch declared. “Look somewhere else.”
“All right, then, how about this?” Kick asked, deadly calm now and all business. “We found a life insurance policy in the desk. The Mrs. is about to be a hundred thousand richer than she was yesterday. Is that enough?”
“Not much insurance, is it? Peanuts for a guy who’s in the business.” Mitch sank deeper into the hot water, closed his eyes and rested his chin on his chest. “Let me call you back, Kick. I’ll check her shoes.”
“You bring her shoes in, Mitch. That’s how it’s done.”
“Giving me orders again, hotshot?”
He heard Kick sigh. “No, just reminding you to think with the big head and not the little one.”
An hour later Mitch was back at the precinct.
“She could have scrubbed them,” Kick said, staring through the plastic bag at the classic pumps with their three-inch heels. “I really think she’s guilty.”
“Yeah, I know. You keep saying that. Just run tests for residue.” Mitch had elected to bring the shoes straight to Taylor immediately and turn them over expressly for that purpose. He wondered what Robin would do when she woke up and found herself barefoot. “Bet you my next paycheck you don’t find any red dirt.”
Kick scoffed. “If you live to get a next paycheck. It’s mighty risky taking a murder suspect under your wing. Besides, you’re on suspension.”
“I got the okay to do this, Kick. Look, I need to get back home. You want anything else, give me a buzz.” Then he remembered the computer. “By the way, I need to pick up Ms. Andrews’s suitcase and laptop. Are they here?”
Kick frowned. “Where did she leave them?”
“Right by the front door, she said.” He felt his heart jump when he noted Kick’s tightened lips. “What?”
“I went over everything in that apartment, Mitch. No computer. No bag.”
They stared at each other for a minute. “Either somebody on the investigating team has sticky fingers, which we know is not likely, or…the killer was still in the apartment when she arrived and took her stuff with him after she went into the bedroom,” Mitch said.
“That’s crazy,” Kick said. “Maybe she’s making them up. Ever think about that?”
“Maybe not. We know the shooter was after something,” Mitch said. “Could be he thought Robin Andrews might have brought whatever it was with her.”
Kick’s eyes narrowed, but he had nothing to say. Mitch didn’t mention the disk then. It seemed best at the moment to keep it to himself. Until he found out what was on the damned thing and if it was enough to kill someone over, he was not turning the disk over to Kick.
“Catch you later,” he said as he turned to leave.
“Hey, wait a minute! Let’s talk about this.”
But Mitch didn’t have time to waste arguing. Whoever took Robin’s things must have realized pretty soon that they didn’t have everything she’d brought with her to Nashville. The attack in the diner, the object of it being Robin’s purse, meant just what he’d thought it meant.
Whoever was looking for the disk wouldn’t have any idea where to find Robin at the moment. Hardly anyone knew where he lived. That was a closely kept secret, since he had made a few enemies during his time on the force. He had sent quite a few guys up the proverbial river who might paddle back down to find him after they’d served time.
Mitch was sure no one had trailed them to the neighborhood this morning. He had been alert to a possible tail after what had happened at Dylan’s.
This suspension of his was coming at the worst possible time. Mitch needed to be on the Andrews case officially, where he could get things done without first having to run everything by Kick.
Going to bat for Robin against his own partner could produce some serious questions about Mitch’s abilities as a detective.
For his sake, as well as her own, Robin Andrews had better be totally innocent and he’d better be able to prove it. This new development was another solid indication that she was. Somebody had stolen her computer and her suitcase.
Unless Kick was right and she hadn’t brought either with her in the first place. Was she going a roundabout route to convince him someone else had been in that apartment besides her and the dead man?
Robin awoke, looked around the unfamiliar room and then squinted at her watch. It was afternoon, close to four o’clock. She felt as if someone had beaten her with a very large stick.
She got up, straightened her clothing the best she could and found the bathroom. Straight out of Country Homes, she thought. Ruffles and roses. Wine red and dark green on cream. Vanilla potpourri emanated from a small porcelain flower on the shelf below the mirror. Her reflection made her groan.
The makeup was history. Her hair was lank and in need of shampoo. The syrupy breakfast she’d ingested after the confrontation at Dylan’s Diner had made her feel queasy and she wasn’t hungry now. She figured she might as well do as Mitch Winton advised and make herself at home, at least temporarily. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do since he hadn’t returned.
After a long, relaxing bubble bath, she dried off, combed her wet hair into place and put back on her wrinkled clothing.
She was searching for her shoes when she heard the squeak of the doorknob as someone o
utside turned it. Again it turned slowly but firmly in both directions. The door was locked. It must be Mitch.
She padded to the door. There was no peephole to look through. “Yes? Who is it?”
Again the doorknob turned, sharply back and forth, this time without stealth. The door shook with the violent attempts to open it.
“I have a gun,” she cried as loudly and menacingly as she could, quickly scouting the living room for anything she could use to defend herself. “And I will shoot!” There. She had sounded determined. Forceful.
Silence. Then the wooden stairs creaked twice.
Robin waited, ear to the door, listening, but heard nothing further. No closing of doors, no hurried footsteps, no sound of a car engine outside. Just the silence peculiar to a quiet neighborhood with all the children at school and their parents away at work.
She dashed to the phone on the table beside the rear window to call the police. No dial tone. It was dead. Had the cop who lived here had the phone disconnected before she left?
Robin huddled in the corner, the dead receiver clutched to her chest. Her heart pounded so loudly she doubted she could hear anyone breaking through the door with an ax.
If she were at home, there would be a solid steel door, not that lovely six-panel one, hung in a century-old door frame. The whole thing would probably collapse inward with one good body slam.
At her own apartment, this scare would never have happened. Building security was so efficient, whoever tried to get inside would never have made it to the elevator.
“Stupid!” she thought suddenly, replacing the receiver. That incident at the diner had made her paranoid.
Some friend had probably come to see the woman who normally lived here, that was all. When Robin had answered instead, they became concerned someone was in here who shouldn’t be. Now they had gone to notify the police that a stranger with a gun was in Sandra Cunningham’s apartment. Yes, that made sense. That was it. That was what she would do. She looked at the phone again, knowing she was grasping at straws.