Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2)

by Colleen Connally

  Kincaid shook his head and took her hand. “You can’t argue with a drunk. There is nothing more you can do. I’ll take you home.”

  Something in his voice made her draw back slightly. She saw it in his eyes. Doubts. Suddenly she wanted to be anywhere but near him.

  She had told herself not to get emotionally involved with the man beside her. She told herself that she would take it for what it was. She had lied.

  Unprepared for the realization, she tried to choose her next words carefully. “I’ll go. You can return to the party. I don’t want you to miss this opportunity. You already seemed to have broken the ice with Vivian. Imagine what else you can discover.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” His eyes narrowing, he went on. “One of the things I admire about you is your bluntness. If you have something to say, say it.”

  “I don’t think I have to. I can see it in your eyes; hear it in your voice. I don’t have to guess. I saw you talking with Vivian.”

  “Does my opinion matter to you?”

  Looking back over Kincaid’s shoulder, she saw Dennis leaning against the wall, waiting. Lord, why couldn’t he have left me alone!

  Her breathing shallow, she tried to inflect a casual tone. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe lover boy over there.”

  “Vivian told you about Dennis.” She said the words as a statement. She didn’t want an answer. She knew it.

  “She told me a lot of things. Don’t look at me with wide-eyed innocence. I need the truth…to get to the answers you said you wanted.” His agitation apparent.

  She frowned and fought back tears. “I can’t get into this now.”

  Nodding, he took in a deep breath. “You’re right. You’re right,” he repeated, looking back at Dennis, who hadn’t moved. Pressing his lips together, he said in a low voice, “We need to talk, but not here. Let’s go down and call for a taxi.”

  Riley made no protest, resisting the urge to run. Kincaid was right. She needed to get a grip on her flaring emotions. She couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

  Not daring to look Kincaid in his eyes, she wondered whether he had been a mistake.

  Since her father’s death, she felt so alone. But loneliness was no excuse. Too much was riding on this to ruin it all by a brief moment of pleasure. For no matter how much she wanted it to be different, it was all it could ever be.

  A temporary release from the pain.

  She had mistakenly believed this night would be memorable. Despite everything that had happened between her family and herself, she still craved to be a part of the night. She loved her nana.

  Admitting defeat, she lowered her head. “There’s nothing here for me.”

  “Riley.” Dennis rushed forward. “Let me take you home.”

  She paused. He looked so handsome. He always had, but she hadn’t lied to Olivia. Dennis did nothing for her anymore. Her heart didn’t flutter with his touch. Whatever they had had died a long time ago.

  “Don’t, Dennis. Go back and see to Olivia. She needs you. I don’t.”

  He shook his head. “You know Olivia well enough to know she loves drama. She was striking out at me.”

  “Dennis, I’m not your concern.”

  For a moment, Riley thought Dennis was going to force her to go with him, but Kincaid had hold of her arm, looking perturbed. Dennis took a step back.

  “But you are,” Dennis insisted. “I talked to Dad this afternoon. He said to tell you to get your butt down to Charleston. Now. Enough is enough. It’s too dangerous here in Boston. He will take it from here—…”

  Immediately, Riley shot him a look to shut up. The fool!

  “I’ll call Clayton.”

  “You said that this afternoon. You didn’t. Hence, me.”

  Once again, Riley frowned. “You delivered your message. Now go away.”

  Dennis opened his mouth, but Kincaid was quicker. “You heard the lady.”

  Kincaid gave Riley no choice, but led her to the elevator. She didn’t look back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kincaid was furious…beyond furious. What had he allowed himself to be dragged into?

  Getting off the elevator, he watched Riley. She remained silent, but her face betrayed her emotions.

  He let her pass him, and then asked, “What game are you playing?”

  She stopped, but didn’t turn. “I believe the question is what do you want from me?”

  He reached out, grasped hold of her arm and turned her around to face him. “The truth,” he said bluntly. “I thought we were in this together. Now, I find out that you are keeping secrets.”

  “Secrets?”

  “Secrets.” He clenched his jaw. “Are you using me to get your inheritance?”

  He had her attention. She looked him squarely in the eyes. “No. Should it not be me who should be worried that you are using me?”

  The lines about his lips tightened. He pressed again. “Are you using me to get your inheritance?”

  “You believe that I used you to find the will?” She forced a laugh and shook her head. “I told you everything I know about that will. Remember, I questioned it as well? I know…I know that Grandfather left a different will, but it seems strange that it turns up like it has.

  “Time and time again, I have been betrayed by my family. Now, Walter has been crying about a forgery and then this will ends up in my hands. Don’t you know I fear I’ve been set up? That I’ll be accused of having the forgery made. Why do you think I kept it hidden?”

  He couldn’t disagree. It had been his thought until now, but he wasn’t a fool. “Then tell me what you are keeping from me. Don’t play me. I may not have known that Dennis had been your lover, but I do know who he is and his father.”

  Riley eyed him warily and murmured, “Clayton Edmunds was my daddy’s law partner in Charleston.”

  “A man I have a meeting with next week when I go down there…with you.”

  She said nothing and turned her head. He wouldn’t have it.

  “Tell me, Riley. Tell me what it is you are hiding from me.”

  From the corner of his eyes, he saw movement. Guests were filtering into the museum. For a moment, he had forgotten they weren’t alone but in a public place…in the middle of a gala. He released her.

  “We’re not done,” Kincaid stated. “Let’s go.”

  His hand grasped hold of her elbow. She sidestepped him.

  “I don’t want to go out the front. Reporters could be out front. We can use the side door.” She pointed toward an exit sign. “Nana and I used it all the time. Go call for a taxi. I’ll be here.”

  Unsure whether to trust her, he hesitated, but he had no choice. “I’ll be right back.”

  Walking down the corridor, he reluctantly admitted he needed to get away from her. He made the frightening discovery that he couldn’t think clearly when he was near her.

  The woman was insufferable!

  He glanced back at her; she stood with her chin up and shoulders back. Defiant.

  Lord, what was he going to— He stopped mid-thought. Stepping off the elevator was that damn cousin of hers. Olivia.

  He reacted to his first instinct—protect Riley. He turned back around.

  * * * *

  Riley watched Kincaid walk away. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Her heart sank. She had been foolish…so foolish…to come. The night had been a complete disaster.

  From behind Riley, a voice called out.

  Recognizing the voice, she turned slowly and faced Olivia. Her cousin looked horrible.

  A wave of pity surged through Riley, which suppressed the urge to bolt. Surprise, too.

  Never had she seen this side of Olivia. Her hair was a mess; her mascara ran down her cheek. Her reddened eyes betrayed she had been crying.

  Where was Aunt Cora? How had Olivia escaped from her family? The last Riley had seen of them, Walter and Cora were circling their daughter, away from prying eyes.

 
“Riley…I need to talk to you,” Olivia cried. Suddenly, she grabbed hold of Riley’s hand, tightly. “Don’t do this to me. I love him. For God’s sake, think of Chloe…” Her words faded.

  Looking around, Riley felt the eyes of guests filtering in for the gala on the two of them. Mortified, Riley pulled back her hands and replied coolly, “Olivia, please get a hold of yourself! If you are having trouble in your marriage, it has nothing to do with me.”

  Pivoting on her heels, Riley headed for the side exit. One of the security guards stood in front of the exit.

  “Can I please leave?” Riley tried to hide her growing irritation with everyone.

  “I’m sorry—”

  Riley cut him off. “Let me introduce myself. Riley Ashcroft. Now, please get out of my way.”

  “Miss Ashcroft, may I see…” the guard began, but Riley had already pressed against the door.

  The guard clicked on his walkie-talkie. Riley ignored him. She had had enough.

  She needed air.

  Stepping out into the cool night, she breathed in deeply. She needed this…to get away from every last one of her family.

  Behind her, the door burst back open. Olivia rushed out and lunged at her, knocking Riley off balance.

  Suddenly a sensation overcame her. Something bad. A strange noise whizzed by and Olivia fell to the ground. Her once bright-blue eyes opened wide, staring eerily at Riley, but there was no movement.

  Olivia lay on the ground; blood seeped out from behind her body. She was dead…dead?

  “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!” Riley’s voice sounded unnatural.

  Surreal. She froze, desperately gulping for air. What was happening? Her eyes swam; her thoughts disoriented.

  Over the mad drumming of her heart, screams emerged. Noises blended together. Did the security guard shout for everyone to stay back?

  Something was wrong…terribly wrong.

  Looking up, she saw Kincaid rush out the door. The look of pure terror scared the hell out of her.

  “Shit!” he cried and dove at her.

  Suddenly, two strong arms captured her and jerked her down. Another shot rang out.

  She felt herself roll against him on the ground. Pain thundered through her head; her entire body hurt. But she clung to him, not daring to let go.

  Flashing lights. Sirens. Wheels squealing. The police converged on the scene. One squad car positioned itself in front of them.

  For what seemed an eternity, Riley lay in Kincaid’s arms in silence.

  Finally, Kincaid moved, keeping hold of her trembling body. He whispered, “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  “Because of you,” she murmured, before she submitted to tears.

  Riley allowed him to help her stand. In disbelief, she saw Olivia lying where she fell.

  She turned her head into Kincaid’s shoulder…and felt a warm wetness. She reached up and placed her hand gently on his arm. Pulling back, she stared at the blood that covered her hand and back up at her rescuer.

  Kincaid had been shot.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Watching the ambulance race away, Brophy crushed out his cigarette on the sidewalk. Concerned about Kincaid’s condition, Cruz had accompanied a couple of other detectives, Logan and McGuire, down to the hospital.

  Cruz gave her word she would not interfere with the investigation. More importantly, she assured him that she would relay any relevant information to him.

  This killer had to be brought down.

  The area had been barricaded by several police cars. Yellow crime-scene tape had been roped around the initial spot.

  Uniformed cops were posted all around the museum. Guests to the gala had been turned away. The guests inside weren’t allowed out.

  Damn! Damn! Damn! He had only been around the corner, sitting in his car…sitting in his fucking car while a young woman was shot dead and another wounded. Damn!

  “Detective.”

  “Got something?” Brophy growled, turning to the uniformed officer.

  “Maybe.” The officer pointed to Museum Road. “Have a couple of witnesses who saw an old blue Buick with shaded windows drive off shortly after the shooting. Caught their eye because the car almost hit them coming out of its parking spot. Witness saw a man in a knit cap and sunglasses driving. Cut off a car getting onto Fenway.”

  Brophy listened as another van from one of the local television stations rolled up. A local reporter and his cameraman spilled out of a white van.

  “Thanks,” he acknowledged. “Ask them nicely to stay put. I’ll want to talk to them.” Then he pointed to the news reporters. “Make sure none of those vultures get in.”

  “You got it.” The young cop took the order seriously, walking immediately over to where the van parked.

  Brophy crossed back over to where the body lay in a puddle of blood. His gut clenched at the sight of the woman sprawled against the cold, hard asphalt, fallen where she was hit.

  Jesus Christ, it was his fault. He had been the one to call out the killer. Challenged him. The killer had answered.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He had been so damn confident that once the new will had been exposed, the target would have been removed from Riley Ashcroft’s back.

  Who was he dealing with? What killer changed his MO with each kill? It made no sense.

  The ME, Thaddeus Szarek, had arrived and had proceeded to look over the victim. The scene was being processed—pictures taken, videos made.

  Brophy was already well aware that there wasn’t going to be a lot of forensic evidence. From his initial observation, he had surmised the killer had used a high power rifle.

  He looked back over his shoulder. There wasn’t a lot of places the shot could have come from, not from this angle…not the way the building was placed.

  The entrance sat back, indented into the museum, most of the time used for large groups. With the way the parking garage was set, it made it impossible to take a shot from the Huntington Avenue side.

  He stared across the street, toward Fenway. The shot had to come from there. He looked back at the body. “What do you think, Szarek?”

  “At first glance, high power rifle. I will have to do a complete autopsy first, but the bullet went right through the heart. Poor thing hadn’t a chance,” Szarek stated, still kneeling by the body.

  “We’ll have to find the bullet for ballistics. Going to be hard in the dark.” He moved over to where the victim lay. Standing like she must have been before the shot was fired, he stared back at the building. “But if I’m right about the projectile of the gun, it should be in the wall behind us.”

  Szarek squinted and stood. “Not so sure about that. Where could the shooter get off a shot from at that angle without everyone seeing?”

  “Do you think he could have got it off from a car?”

  “Without being seen? Doubtful. The whole area was crowded with people.” Szarek shook his head and pointed to the building across the road. “My guess would be a shot from one of those windows.”

  “Maybe, but do you remember the Beltway sniper?”

  “The guy who killed random people down DC way?”

  “Yeah. I’m wondering if maybe our killer used the same technique as the Beltway sniper, where they shot from their car,” Brophy suggested. “Have a witness say that they saw a car speed away in a suspicious manner. I’m thinking that the killer lay in wait over there on the street where he could get a clear shot.”

  Looking skeptical, Szarek shrugged. “I guess. I’m not a detective, but wouldn’t that leave a lot of variables to chance?”

  Brophy narrowed his eyes in the night. “That’s why I need all the help I can get here, Szarek. I have three different murders. Three different MOs. I know they are connected.”

  “Then let me do my job. I’ll tell you how they died. If the murders were done by the same person, then you will have to find the link that connects them.”

  Not saying anything else, Brophy set back to work. He had a
lot to do before he set off to the hospital.

  * * * *

  The morning sun eased over the city’s skyline. The streets were empty and calm. Soon, the city would wake. A peaceful Sunday morning.

  No one rising would ever imagine the turmoil of the night.

  Brophy grimaced. Nothing more could be done at the scene. The last witness had been interviewed. The story seemed to be consistent.

  Olivia Edmunds was angry at her cousin. The two had an encounter, which led to Riley Ashcroft leaving the party. Olivia followed and confronted her cousin one last time. The question became who was the shooter after—Olivia, Riley, or both?

  From the initial observation, a high power rifle had been the murder weapon. Already the criminologists had combed the area once. One bullet had been found in the wall behind the victim. With the morning light, the team would continue the search for more evidence.

  Looking over what the museum’s camera caught, the suspicious car had been the one where the fatal shot was fired. Tinted windows on a late model Buick. Stolen plates.

  The driver had taken measures not to be recognized. Beard. Sunglasses. Knitted cap. No hair color. No height. No eye color. All that could be given was the man was Caucasian.

  Brophy had spent the last hour going over every detail with Captain Centrello….his very angry captain. Captain Centrello had come down to the scene to inform Brophy that a joint task team was going to be formed, headed by the FBI.

  Technically, the three murders were the department’s, but there was more going on besides the killings. At least, that was what the FBI had informed the captain, without sharing any information—which only served to irritated Centrello more.

  The mayor wanted the murders solved. The home invasion murders were bad enough. Now, a sniper had killed a prominent member of the Ashcroft family. The high-profile case had all eyes on the department, with pressure to form a joint task force with the FBI.

  The FBI hadn’t shared the particulars, but Brophy had his suspicions when he saw Matthew O’Keefe down at the scene. O’Keefe had been with the Organized Crime Unit for the last three years.