“Is that what she says? She had amnesia or some damn thing? That’s a new one. I guess it goes along with what she told Ruthie.”
“What did she tell Ruthie?”
“Ask her yourself.” He glanced in the direction of the woman typing. “What did Andrea Kirkland say to you last night, Ruthie?”
The typewriter quit tapping. John turned in his chair in time to see the young woman cross the office. Her shoulder-length hair was expertly styled. Her skin was flawless. And her clothing, though baggy and a lifeless brown color, was obviously expensive and ultimately tasteful. Ruthie dressed as though she was twenty going on fifty. “She said she heard gunshots and saw Wingate lying on the floor. Anything else, she didn’t remember.”
The chief focused his sharp eyes on Ruthie. “And didn’t she say something about an oriental rug?”
“A Persian rug,” she corrected. “She remembered seeing Mr. Kirkland’s head resting on a Persian rug.”
That also squared with what she had told John. So far, so good.
Ruthie frowned slightly. “The funny thing was, I saw a man loading a rug into a van in front of the Kirkland house about a week ago. I assumed Mrs. Kirkland was redecorating or having it cleaned.”
“When exactly did you see this?”
“Last Monday, I think. I remember because Mrs. Kirkland was outside giving the man directions.”
A pain stabbed John’s gut. The ulcer kicking up again. “Are you sure it was Mrs. Kirkland?”
“I think so. It’s a long driveway. And the gate was closed. But there was a blond woman out there who looked like her. At least the way I remember Andrea Kirkland looking.”
Not the most reliable witness testimony he’d heard. Not by a long shot. “You haven’t seen Mrs. Kirkland in a while?”
“I’m afraid not. Even though I live next door, I haven’t seen her very much. She keeps to herself.”
“You live next door?” John tried to hide his surprise. The Wingate estate, a majestic old home Wingate Kirkland had restored and named after himself, was situated in a very exclusive rural development boasting one of the best views in Dane County. Although Ruthie’s hair was tastefully cut and her wardrobe expensive, if staid, he wouldn’t have pegged her for a member of the Kirkland’s social set.
She dipped her head as if slightly embarrassed. “I still live with my parents. I’m Ruth Banks. My father is Gerald Banks.”
“The judge?”
Ruthie smiled and nodded.
He knew Judge Banks well. The judge was notoriously tough on criminals. “Your father is a good man.”
“Most prosecutors think so.”
He smiled. The young woman was sharp. And the daughter of a judge would make a good witness. But from the sound of it, she didn’t see much. Not enough to prove anything, at any rate. “Do you remember what the van looked like?”
“It was blue. Kind of light blue like a robin’s egg.”
“Did it have a company logo on the side?”
She pursed her lips in thought. “Yeah. I think it was yellow. Or gold. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really pay attention.”
A blue van with yellow or gold logo. At least it was something for the police to follow up. Provided Andrea Kirkland wasn’t inventing the whole thing. A possibility he couldn’t ignore. Not until a body turned up. “Can you think of any reason Andrea Kirkland would tell us her husband was murdered if it isn’t true?”
Ruthie shook her head.
John glanced at Chief Putnam. “Can you, Chief?”
“You mean, why would she make it up?”
“If she did.”
He shrugged his square shoulders. “Attention. Isn’t that usually the thing? Maybe she’s bored with her big house and charity events.”
Was that the type of person Andrea Kirkland was? Even though John had only just met her, he couldn’t buy it. “And if she is telling the truth? If her husband is dead?”
“Then I doubt we’ll have to look any further than the obvious.”
John had a pretty good idea of where he was leading, but he bit anyway. “What is the obvious?”
“That he was killed for his money. He sure has a lot of it. And rumor has it, Andrea Kirkland is the sole beneficiary of his will.”
The ache returned to John’s gut in force. Andrea was either making up the whole story, or she was the number-one suspect in a murder. Hell of a choice.
The bleat of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. Excusing himself, he slipped out of the police chief’s office, grabbed the phone off his belt and hit the talk button. “Yeah.”
“Ace? It’s Mylinski.”
John grimaced at the nickname. Ever since an article praising his high conviction rate had run in the State Journal, Mylinski had latched onto the name. “Hey, Al.” County Detective Al Mylinski was heading up the search of the Kirkland house. And despite his penchant for assigning stupid nicknames to nearly everyone he worked with, there was no one John trusted more. If there was anything to find, Al would sure as hell find it. “What do you have?”
“The LumaLite put on a really pretty light show.”
John dragged in a deep breath. The LumaLite could show every trace of blood left at a crime scene, even when the blood wasn’t visible to the naked eye. “Where?”
“Under the rug on the study floor.”
“How much is there?”
“If someone cut himself, he needs more than a Band-Aid. There wasn’t a drop on the rug, though. Someone replaced the rug and tried to clean the floor. If it wasn’t for the LumaLite, we wouldn’t have found anything.”
“You didn’t happen to notice a body lying around to make this easier on all of us, did you?”
“Sorry. But judging from the size of this pool of blood, there’s a body out there somewhere. We’ll start with the woods after we’re finished with the house.”
John blew out a gust of breath he didn’t realize he was holding. At least one question was answered. Andrea didn’t invent the story. But she sure as hell seemed to be neck-deep in it. He shouldn’t be surprised. Like Putnam had said, start with the obvious. And the obvious in any murder was always the spouse.
He massaged the back of his neck and tried not to picture the graceful lines of Andrea Kirkland’s face, her slender body, the desperation in her eyes. There was a reason cynicism ran rampant in all areas of law enforcement. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it was warranted. And this case looked to be no different. Even if he wanted it to be.
“Gotta go. I’ll keep my eyes open for that body, Ace.”
“You do that, Al. You do that.” John hit the button to cut off the call and clipped the phone back on his belt. If anyone had to keep his eyes open from here on out, it was him.
ANDREA PULLED OPEN the hotel room door and looked into the brown eyes of John Cohen. Relief eased through her, pushing aside the fear that had kept her wide awake all night.
He’d called her on his cell phone first thing this morning and told her he’d be right over. And even though she’d met the man only yesterday, she’d felt relieved to hear his voice. And to hear he had news about Wingate’s murder, and she hoped the attack on her as well.
She swung the door wide. “Come in.”
He ambled through the door on long legs, but his stride was anything but relaxed. His gaze darted around the room as if he expected to see a dead body secreted behind the Magic Fingers hotel bed or propped on the luggage rack in the closet.
Her mouth went dry. Whatever he’d discovered was worse than she’d feared. “Did you find Win? Is he dead?”
“No, we haven’t found him. At least not yet. And as far as his condition, you’d probably know that better than anyone.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You said you saw your husband’s murder, didn’t you?”
“I was hoping I was wrong. That it was all a bad dream or something.” Her own words rang in her ears. She had been hoping exactly that. That her memories were a mistake. That
Win was merely away on an unexpected business trip. That she could leave Wingate Estate and not look back.
But deep down she knew she’d been fooling herself. “Did you find something in the house?”
A muscle twitched along his jaw. “Yes. We did.”
The shiver spread over her skin and settled in her bones. “What did you find?”
Instead of answering, he strode across the room, his long legs eating the distance in three strides. “You said you remembered your husband lying on a Persian rug after he was shot. What room was the rug in?”
She searched her memory. She could see the rug clearly. See Win’s face contorting in pain. See the blood puddle underneath him like liquid tar soaking into silk. But she couldn’t see anything else. “I’m not sure. We have a Persian rug in the dining room, the library and Win’s study.”
“Did you have any of those rugs replaced or cleaned since your husband disappeared?”
“No. They were just cleaned last spring. Why are you asking these things?”
“Because a neighbor of yours told me a man removed a Persian rug from your home and loaded it into a van only a week ago.”
“That must have been him. That must have been the killer.”
“Maybe. But my witness said one more thing.”
“What?”
“That the man wasn’t alone. That you were with him.”
“Me?” Her pulse pounded in her ears. “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t have been.”
He stared at her, his eyes boring past her defenses as if laying bare her jumbled thoughts.
She shuddered. “I didn’t kill Wingate. I wouldn’t. You’ve got to believe me.”
John looked away, but it was too late. She could see the doubt play across his face, as plain as if he’d called her a liar.
He didn’t believe her. The realization slammed into her like a kick to the stomach. She splayed her hands in front of her. “If I’d killed my husband, why would I call the police? Why would I come to you for help? Why would I tell you about the rug in the first place?”
“Questions I’ve been asking myself as well. And believe me, if not for the fact that the evidence fits your story—as far-fetched as that story seems—you’d be in custody right now.”
“Custody?” The word chilled her blood like the biting November wind outside. “I’m telling the truth. Someone tried to kill me last night because of what I saw. What I remembered.”
“Ah, yes. There’s that. We have divers in the quarry looking for your car. Can we expect to find it?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Her voice sounded too shrill, too panicked.
A tired look descended into John Cohen’s eyes.
Andrea cringed. This was the reaction he expected from her. Angry. Defensive. As if she was trying to hide something—trying to hide her husband’s murder. She felt sick to her stomach. “Should I hire a lawyer?”
“Do you feel you need one?” His voice was a monotone. So different from the concerned note she’d convinced herself she’d heard yesterday. So different from what she wanted to hear. Needed to hear.
She shook her head. She hadn’t killed Wingate. That was all there was to it. John Cohen’s opinion shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter. “No. I don’t need one. I’m not guilty of anything. But I’m not sticking around for these accusations either.” There was only one thing for her to do. What she’d planned to do all along—before Wingate’s death, before she’d lost her memory, before she’d become the target of a killer in a black truck. She had to leave everything behind and start a new life.
A life where she would rely on no one but herself.
“Goodbye, Mr. Cohen. I should have known I wouldn’t get any help from your office.” Spinning on a heel, she strode from the room.
JOHN WATCHED Andrea retreat down the hotel’s long hallway. Damn. Barely 8:00 a.m. and it had already been one hell of a day.
When he’d decided to come to her hotel, to confront her with what he’d learned, he’d been angry. Angry she’d lied to him. Angry she’d used him. And most of all, angry with himself for wanting to believe her when he knew damn well he’d be disappointed in the end.
But he’d come anyway. For some reason, he’d had to see her face when he confronted her with the story Ruthie Banks had told him. He had to look into her eyes and know she was hiding something. He had to know she was guilty.
But all he’d done was chase her out of the hotel before she’d told him anything.
Closing the hotel room door behind him, he started down the hall in the direction she’d gone. An elevator door chimed. He lengthened his stride, reaching Andrea’s elevator just as the door closed.
He spotted the red exit sign and yanked open the stairwell door. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, illuminating the stark stairs. He raced down the steps, his footfalls and breathing echoing against concrete. Reaching the bottom, he exploded into the lobby. Scanning the modest space, he spotted Andrea through the glass entry door.
She stood on the sidewalk looking over the nearly deserted parking lot, as if waiting for a ride. Her hair gleamed, clean and shiny, and flowed over her shoulders in a heavy blond wave. A far cry from the straggly mess he’d seen last night. And although the bruises still shadowed her jaw and hairline, the sunlight brought out a peach glow in her skin he’d thought could only be achieved with a cinematographer’s artful lighting or the delicate touch of an airbrush.
Damn, she was an attractive woman. No wonder he’d wanted to believe her. If he had a brain left in his head, he’d turn this case over to Kit Ashner or some other rabid, female ADA in the office and stay as far away from Andrea Kirkland as possible.
Instead he crossed the lobby and pushed through the glass door. “Andrea.”
She didn’t turn around, as if she’d known he was watching her all along. “What do you want now?”
Good damn question. What did he want? For her to be innocent? For her to restore his faith in humanity? His faith in the value of his job? None of those things were going to happen.
Then why was he here? “I want to ask you a few more questions.”
“Why? So you can prove I murdered my husband? So you can throw me in jail?”
“Only if you’re guilty.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Then answer my questions.”
She plunked hands on hips in a show of strength. But despite her bravado, he could see her hands shake. “Maybe I should get myself a lawyer.”
He gestured to the parking lot. “Fine. Do you have one in mind? I’ll give you a ride to his office. It’ll save me a trip later.”
Her bravado faltered, and suddenly she was shaking all over. Tears glittered in the corners of her eyes. She blinked, the moisture spiking her lashes. “Please, leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that.” Oh hell. If there was anything he hated, it was making a woman cry. Especially a woman like Andrea Kirkland. Unless it was all an act, of course. God knew some women could summon crocodile tears every time they needed to weasel out of a speeding ticket. But somehow he couldn’t deny the feeling that Andrea Kirkland wasn’t one of them. “Listen, your husband was a bastard. It sounds like he was asking for whatever he got. Maybe he tried to hit you. Maybe you killed him in self defense.”
“It didn’t happen that way. I was leaving him. I didn’t kill him.”
“Maybe you didn’t do it yourself. Maybe someone else got out of hand. Maybe you never intended for your husband to die.”
She shook her head, her hair sweeping across one eye. “I didn’t kill Wingate. I didn’t help anyone kill Wingate.”
“But you don’t remember. Who’s to say—”
“I don’t need to remember. I never could have hurt Wingate. I never could have hurt anyone.” She closed her eyes. When she opened them, tears spiked her lashes with moisture. “I’m waiting for a cab. Please let me wait in peace.”
He shook his head, a last-ditch effort. “Cabs take forever to arrive in this
city. I have a car. Why don’t you let me drive you?”
“I’ll take a bus.” She stepped past him and into the parking lot.
Rubber screeched on pavement. A pickup circled the corner of the hotel. A black Dodge with tinted windows. It accelerated, its engine roaring.
And shot straight for Andrea.
John raced across the sidewalk and onto the asphalt. Into the truck’s path. “Andrea!”
She turned to the sound of his voice and spotted the truck. Her eyes widened.
The truck closed the distance in a heartbeat.
John lunged for her, lowering his shoulders. He hit her full force, pushing her to the pavement between two cars just as the truck rifled past.
Chapter Four
The roar of the truck’s engine fading, John struggled to catch his breath. There was no doubt in his mind that the driver had been gunning for Andrea. Trying to kill her. He rolled his weight off her. Wiping thick blond hair back from her cheek, he tried to see her face, to make sure she was all right. She had to be all right. “Andrea?”
Her eyes opened. Drawing in a deep breath, she pushed into a sitting position and scraped the remaining strands out of her eyes. Her injured hand left a trail of crimson on one cheek. “The truck— Did you see?” A strangled sound erupted from deep in her throat. The unmistakable sound of fear.
“It almost ran you down.”
“It was the same. The same truck that ran me off the road and into the quarry.”
John gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to wrap her in his arms, to comfort her. There was no time. The truck could be back any moment. And this time he had the feeling the driver would make sure he didn’t miss. He pointed to a full-sized silver van towering above the cars. “My car is just on the other side of that van. Do you think you can make it?”
She swallowed hard, as if pushing down her panic. “I can make it.”
“Good. Lean on me if you need to.” He held out a hand.
She grasped it. Her hand trembled. Her palm was sticky, blood oozing from raw flesh. She pressed her lips together in a determined line and nodded. “Let’s go.”
Incriminating Passion Page 3