He zipped the bag closed and set it on the vanity. A little drive in the country later today, with a brief stop on a bridge over the Meramec River, would take care of the evidence of his morning outing. Unzip the bag, shake it over the water, and the episode would be history. He’d toss the clothes in the Goodwill bin on his return trip.
But first he needed to get rid of the gray hair.
As he flipped on the shower and adjusted the water temperature, he thought back over the groundwork he’d laid last night and the steps he’d taken this morning. As far as he could see, the operation had been flawless. He hoped Kelly was dead, but even if she’d survived, her near brush with death should distract her from raising dangerous questions about her father’s death.
A tiny twinge of regret pricked at his conscience as he stepped into the shower and lathered his hair, then began scrubbing out the gray. Disposing of her had been different than killing her father. John Warren had been on his last legs, anyway. What was the harm in hurrying the process along a little? Especially for such a big payoff. And the man hadn’t suffered. It had been a painless, peaceful way to die.
Kelly, however, had been young. Healthy. Talented. Cutting short a life like that didn’t feel right.
Soap washed into his eye, and he blinked against the sting, groping for the towel he’d draped over the shower door. He rubbed his face, doing his best to wipe out the irritant, but he couldn’t get rid of it.
Kind of like his guilt about Kelly.
But what else could he have done? She’d become a threat to him—and to his plans. She’d sealed her own fate by being too persistent.
He threw the towel back over the door and resumed scrubbing his hair, trying to muffle the little voice that said he’d overreacted. That she might have backed off on her own if she didn’t find anything in her father’s house.
But what if she had found something?
That was the problem.
When you played for high stakes, you couldn’t take chances. All the loose ends had to be tied up. And she’d been a loose end.
A big one.
He shut off the water, toweled himself dry, then checked out his hair in the mirror. Not one speck of gray remained. No one would ever be able to connect him to Kelly’s allergy attack . . . and perhaps her death.
But you didn’t have to kill her. At least, not yet.
He frowned as he stared at his reflection. It wasn’t like him to second-guess. He was thorough. Professional. Dispassionate. He did his job, whatever it was, and did it well. Sometimes people died. It happened. But he’d never let it bother him before.
This time, though, he had a personal stake in the outcome. A big one. And maybe . . . okay, probably . . . panic had affected his judgment. The truth was, he could have watched and waited.
Irritated, he ran a comb through his hair. He wasn’t going to belabor this. It was too late for regrets, and the operation had been clean. Once he disposed of his disguise, there would be nothing to tie him to today’s incident. Worst case, even if Kelly Warren did continue to search her father’s house, he would just be back to where he’d been a few days ago. If she did happen to find something that raised questions, he’d deal with it.
Things would turn out fine.
Yet as he pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed his car keys, and prepared to make a pizza run, he couldn’t shake the niggling doubt that he’d made a mistake today.
One that could very well come back to haunt him.
6
Kelly reached for the phone next to her easel. Dropped her hand. Reached for it again. Hesitated.
Annoyed, she huffed out a breath. How hard was it to pick up the phone, dial Cole Taylor’s number, and pass on the information she’d gotten from Lauren about the injector?
It should be a piece of cake.
And it would be—if she wasn’t also thinking about offering to take him to lunch as a thank-you for his help on Saturday. She just wasn’t used to asking guys out. Especially tall, dark, and handsome guys.
Rubbing her damp palms on the oversized shirt that served as a smock, she told herself she was being foolish. She owed the man for giving up a big part of his weekend for her, and a mere thank-you note didn’t cut it. A meal seemed like a reasonable alternative. And it wasn’t like she was inviting him out for an intimate dinner. Lunch was casual. Low-key. Nonthreatening. What was the worst that could happen? He’d say no.
But that was the scariest part of all. However, putting off the call wasn’t going to change the outcome.
Summoning up her courage, she picked up the phone and tapped in his office number rather than his cell. That felt more official. Less risky.
He answered on the first ring. A clipped, no-nonsense greeting. “Taylor.”
Her fingers tightened on the phone and she took a deep breath, striving for a pleasant, conversational tone. “Cole, it’s Kelly Warren. Is this a good time?”
Though he again responded with a single word, the transformation in his voice from brusque to gracious eased the tension in her shoulders.
“Always.”
Kelly shifted away from her easel and looked out the window. The day might be gray and dreary, but her heart suddenly felt lighter. “I wanted to let you know I asked Lauren your question, about whether there was any liquid in the carrying case. She wasn’t 100 percent certain, but she does remember tipping the case to slide the injector out, so if there’d been any liquid inside, it would have spilled. And she doesn’t recall that happening.”
“Okay. That’s one more piece of information to file away. How are you feeling? Any aftereffects?”
“No. Dangerous as anaphylactic shock is, recovery is quick if you catch it fast enough.” She moistened her lips and plunged in. “Besides passing on the information from Lauren, I did have another reason for calling. I was wondering if you’d let me treat you to lunch one day this week as a thank-you for Saturday.”
Silence.
Her stomach clenched and she closed her eyes, stifling her disappointment. At least she’d tried. “Look, I know you’re busy. I totally understand if—”
“Whoa! No retracting allowed. I never turn down a free lunch. You just took me by surprise. When would you like to go?”
Her heart gave a little flutter. “Does Wednesday at twelve-thirty work for you?”
“Perfect.”
His response was so quick she wondered how he’d had a chance to check his calendar. “Okay. What’s your favorite kind of food? And please don’t say Mexican.”
“You’re not a fan of refried beans?”
At his teasing tone, she smiled. “No. Nor guacamole, jalapenos, chipotle . . .”
“I get the picture.” His husky chuckle came over the line, setting off a pleasant quiver in her nerve endings. “How about Italian?”
“That I can do. Do you like Maggiano’s? It’s about halfway between us, and their menu has safe items for me.”
“Sounds great. I’ll look forward to it. Thanks, Kelly.”
“Same here. See you then.”
As the line went dead, a smile teased her lips. Somewhere along the way they’d slipped into first names. And it felt good.
Cole’s warm reception to her invitation also felt good.
Picking up her brush, Kelly considered her palette, then swirled the tip in spring green and tried to focus on the whimsical woodland scene that would soon illustrate a children’s book about a gnome with the magical power to grant wishes.
But it was difficult to think about fairy tales in books when wishes were coming true in real life.
Leaning back in his chair, Cole linked his fingers behind his head, grinning like an idiot. But who cared? The woman who’d dominated his thoughts from the moment he’d caught sight of her on an ambulance stretcher in the ER had invited him to lunch.
Talk about a great way to start a Monday.
“You look happy.”
At the comment, Cole swiveled in his chair to find Alan wa
tching him from a few feet away. He didn’t bother to tone down his grin. “Guilty as charged.”
Alan strolled over and settled a hip on his desk. “I heard you mention Kelly. That wasn’t by any chance Kelly Warren on the phone, was it?”
Unlinking his fingers, Cole rocked back in his chair. “As a matter of fact, it was.”
“Why am I thinking this wasn’t a business call?” One side of Alan’s mouth twitched.
“Because you’re a decent detective?”
“I happen to be a great detective. But even a rank amateur would notice your goofy grin. It’s pretty convincing circumstantial evidence. When did you two connect, anyway?”
Some of Cole’s good humor faded. “Over the weekend. She was in the ER while I was there interviewing a witness in an armed robbery. She almost died.”
Twin furrows appeared on Alan’s brow, and he dropped his gaze to the injector lying on the desk. “I noticed that as I was walking by. She has a peanut allergy, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“She mentioned it during the investigation of her father’s death.” He gestured to the injector. “Is that hers?”
“Yes, but it didn’t work. Apparently the medication had leaked out.”
“That happened to Cindy once, but she discovered the leak and replaced it. She was allergic to bee stings, so she carried one of these too.” Alan picked up the injector and examined it. “I did see Kelly drop one of these once. It fell out of her purse when she opened it to get a tissue. Hit the floor pretty hard. I’m assuming she ate some peanuts?”
“Yes, but we can’t pinpoint the source.” Cole filled Alan in on what had happened, as well as his suspicions. “And here’s another odd thing. She doesn’t think there was any liquid in the carrying case when her friend opened it.”
Alan regarded the injector. “And you’re wondering why there wasn’t, if the medication leaked out.” He cocked his head. “I see your point. But why would anyone target her? It’s not as if she’s found anything that would make us reopen the case.”
“Maybe someone is afraid she will. Or knows she will if she keeps looking.”
“So are you buying into her theory now? That her father’s death was a homicide, not a suicide?”
Cole picked up a pen and twirled it in his fingers. Alison was always ragging on him about his lack of tact, and this situation demanded it. He needed to come up with a diplomatic response that didn’t impugn the integrity of Alan’s investigation. Especially since his own review of the case hadn’t raised any red flags, either. “Let’s just say I’m keeping an open mind. Too many little things aren’t adding up. What do you think?”
The other man nodded. “I agree. But we have no solid evidence that merits reopening the case.”
“I know, but we might eventually get some. Kelly’s more determined than ever to go through her father’s house with a fine-tooth comb.”
Alan set the injector back on the desk and rose. “Well, she knows where to find us if she comes up with anything. I called her last week too, and assured her I’m more than happy to investigate any new leads she might stumble across.”
Though his colleague’s tone was casual, Cole didn’t miss the man’s slight emphasis on I. He was defending his turf, and Cole couldn’t blame him. He was the case detective, unless or until he was reassigned. If the situation were reversed, Cole knew he’d be laying down some boundaries too—and with far less finesse.
“I told her the same thing and assured her you were excellent at your job.”
That appeared to mollify his co-worker. “Thanks for the endorsement. And look at it this way. If you leave the official business to me, you can focus on a personal investigation of Ms. Warren instead.” With a grin, the man exited.
Cole watched him leave, conceding the man’s point. He would prefer to leave the official stuff to Alan. But as he slid his chair under his desk and picked up the injector, the analytical side of his brain refused to disengage.
According to Alan, Kelly had dropped the injector a few months ago. No surprise she’d forgotten that, in the midst of all her trauma. That may have been when it had begun to leak. But surely she would have noticed liquid collecting in the carrying case sometime in the past four months. And even if she hadn’t, it should have been in there on Saturday. Where had it gone?
Then there was the older man who’d taken her drink at the coffee shop. Cole’s instincts told him the confused customer was the key to Kelly’s allergic reaction. Tough to prove, though, even if they could locate the guy.
Nevertheless, identifying him would be a first step. Perhaps he’d been caught on a security video somewhere near the coffee shop.
Cole thought about suggesting that angle to Alan, but he hated to waste the man’s time on what would probably turn out to be a wild-goose chase. Why not make a few phone calls on his own? Do a little digging? If he did manage to find anything interesting, he’d pass it on to his colleague. If he didn’t, the only thing lost would be his time.
Leaning forward, Cole reached for his phone.
She should be at home, painting. Her deadlines were piling up, and she was behind. But ever since her allergy attack four days ago, Kelly had felt compelled to put in extra hours searching her father’s house—all the while praying that if she did find something important, she’d recognize its significance.
But a quick check of her watch told her she couldn’t afford to spend more than a few more minutes on her quest today. Not unless she wanted to be late for her lunch with Cole.
And she definitely didn’t!
Hand resting on the chest of drawers, she surveyed the bedroom her parents had shared for the sixteen years they’d been married, and which her father had occupied alone for the remaining twenty-one years of his life. By choice. A man as kind, handsome, and intelligent as her dad could have remarried, but when she’d broached the subject once, he’d told her he was happy with his memories. That he’d already been blessed with his once-in-a-lifetime love.
Kelly looked at the wedding photo of her parents that had always graced the top of the chest, wishing she could remember more about the woman her father had adored. More than that, though, she wished a congenital heart defect hadn’t cut her life so short. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, the medical examiner had ruled. One minute she’d been playing tennis, seemingly in the peak of health. Seconds later she’d been dead.
Even now, from the distance of two decades, that whole period of Kelly’s life had a surreal quality to it.
Just as the weeks surrounding her father’s death did.
But dwelling on the past wasn’t going to bring her parents back. Or help her find justice for her father.
Shutting off the memories, she got down on her knees to tackle the bottom drawer in the chest before leaving to meet Cole.
When it didn’t budge after a firm tug on the handles, she tightened her grip, repositioned herself for better leverage, and tried again. Inch by inch, she was able to work it open despite the squeaks of protest. Obviously, this was not a drawer her dad had used very often.
A cursory inspection told her it was a junk repository. But she wasn’t leaving any stone unturned.
Sifting through the jumbled contents, she found a wadded-up T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the girls’ softball team her father had coached when she was eleven; two used tennis balls that had lost most of their bounce; a transistor radio that might have antique value by now; a 1982 St. Louis Cardinals World Series cap; a forty-year-old accounting manual; and various other dog-eared tomes, pieces of worn clothing, and the detritus of someone who’d lived almost seven decades.
All of it, though, was ancient history. And unlikely to have any bearing on recent events.
Just as she was about to close the drawer, the scuffed corner of a wallet peeking out from the clutter caught her eye. A rush of memories swept over her of the beloved Sunday morning ritual of her childhood, and she tugged the wallet free, cradling the sca
rred leather in her hands. While her mother would finish getting ready for church, she and her father would go to the convenience store at the corner to buy a newspaper. That weekly excursion with her dad—and the glazed donut he always bought her—had been one of the highlights of her week.
But what she’d loved most was how he’d let her hold his wallet. Even before she’d understood the value of money, she’d known this wallet was important to her dad. He never left home without it. Yet he’d trusted her with it every Sunday morning.
John Warren had always known how to make people feel important—and valued.
Kelly blinked back the sudden tears that blurred her vision and stroked the worn leather, now cracked in a few places. It was stiff when she tried to bend it, like an arthritic knee, and empty when she opened it. The photos of her and her mom were gone, the plastic holders bare and cracked, and the window that had once protected her dad’s driver’s license had yellowed.
She bowed the compartment for bills, where her dad had always kept his singles, fives, and twenties lined up in military precision, all facing the same direction, each denomination together—the very same way she did it now. That, too, was empty.
Except . . . what was the small whitish triangle sticking out near the bottom, in the corner?
Curious, Kelly worked her finger into the space. It felt like the corner of a piece of paper. She ran her finger over the leather, detecting a vertical crack—or slit. By inserting her fingernail, she was able to create an opening large enough to ease out the small slip of paper.
Once she had it in hand, she set the wallet aside. The soiled, yellowed paper was folded in half, and she opened it carefully. Despite the grime, she could make out a sequence of digits.
It was a telephone number.
Kelly frowned and picked up the wallet again, scooting beside the window to let the light shine into the dark corner where the paper had been hidden. Although the leather was cracked in a few places from age, the slit that had given her access to the phone number seemed too precise—too deliberate—to be a random split.
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