by Rebecca York
He stood too, facing her across the table. “I’m sorry if it seems like prying. I’m trying to help you.”
“Are you? Or are you trying to figure out what happened to Lee?”
“Both.”
“Well, I feel like you’ve manipulated me.”
“How?”
“By telling me about your background to get me to cough up information about mine.”
He shrugged.
“Is that a technique you learned in the detective squad? Identify with the suspect to encourage confessions?”
That was exactly the technique he’d been using, but he was damned if he was going to say so. “I thought you’d feel more comfortable talking about your background if you knew mine,” he allowed.
“Right,” she murmured, then picked up her mug and set it down with a thunk in the sink. Without giving him another look, she exited the kitchen.
He watched her leave, feeling a mixture of emotions: regret, anger, self-disgust. He didn’t know if her father was connected to Lee’s disappearance. And he didn’t know how the lowlife guys following her around fit into the equation.
The only thing he was sure of was that he didn’t want her to be a suspect. He wanted her to be totally innocent of any wrongdoing. And at the same time, that desire made him feel edgy. It didn’t matter what he wanted for her. What mattered was finding out what happened to Lee. And if he could solve Sara Delaney’s problems while he was doing it, that would be a bonus.
He carried his own cup to the sink, rinsed them both and set them in the dishwasher. Then he turned off the lights and made a check of the doors and windows, although he already knew they were secure.
He might have gone into his office and started poring over his usual databases—this time looking for information on Reid Delaney. But his arm was starting to throb again, and he knew that despite the magic salve, he’d better give the knife wound a chance to heal.
Silently acknowledging that he was stalling, he stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up and listening. He could hear nothing, which probably meant Sara had already turned in for the night.
Of course, he’d thought she’d turned in earlier.
He didn’t want to picture her lying in the double bed in his guest room. But he couldn’t stop himself from conjuring up an image of her snuggled under the covers, her blond hair spread across the pillow. He’d like to put her in a sexy nightgown, as well. One that exposed a lot of creamy skin and showed the darker circles of her nipples through the cups of the bodice.
When he found himself getting hard again, he cursed under his breath. She was probably still wearing her T-shirt and shorts, in case they ran into each other in the hall at night.
Still, he couldn’t banish the image of the sheer, sexy gown revealing her slender curves.
He gritted his teeth, then climbed the stairs, his arousal increasing the closer he got to her door. He strode past her room and into his. He undressed swiftly, leaving on his briefs. Slipping under the covers, he lay with his hands stacked behind his head, trying to think about Lee Tillman’s disappearance. But the woman down the hall kept working her way to the forefront of his mind.
Was she lying awake, thinking about him?
Yeah, sure. She was probably wishing that she’d kept her mouth shut about her family.
He closed his eyes, then went into a relaxation routine he’d learned from Kathryn Kelley, one of the psychologists at 43 Light Street. In addition to her private practice, Kathryn did special programs for the men and women at Randolph Security, and her techniques had helped him deal with some of the tension that his divorce had created.
It helped tonight, too. One moment he had filled his mind with soft blue clouds; in the next, he had drifted off to a blessedly calm sleep.
The phone woke him around six in the morning just as it had the day before. Hoping it was Lee, he reached for the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Alex, thank God.”
“Who is this?”
“Emmett Bandy.”
The real estate agent’s voice sounded odd, as if he was whispering.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m talking on my cell phone in the bathroom,” the man answered. “You were asking people questions about Lee Tillman yesterday. And I heard through the grapevine that he hired you to protect him. Well, I’m the one who needs protecting. He’s here, in my office, threatening me with a gun. He says I’d better give him his money or else.”
Alex swore. “Your office downtown?”
“Yes. You’ve got to come down here. Otherwise he’s going to do something he’ll regret later.”
Alex weighed his options. He’d seen Lee mad. He knew that the guy had a hair-trigger temper. If he also had a gun, that was bad. “Have you called the police?” he asked.
“No. And don’t you do it!”
“Why not?”
“If you don’t want Lee to get into trouble, you’d better not get the cops involved.”
“I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
“Hurry up. And park in one of the spaces behind the building. The back door’s open.”
While he’d been speaking Alex had been climbing back into his jeans, and pulling on his socks and running shoes. Next, he dragged his T-shirt over his head, then strapped on his shoulder holster and stuffed the Sig inside. After shrugging into a light jacket, he stepped into the hall and found Sara standing beside her door looking uncertainly in his direction. “Alex? Who was that? Was it Lee? Have you located him?”
“Not Lee. But…I’ve got a situation here. That was someone who says he knows where Lee is. I’ve got to go check it out.”
“Now?”
“Yes. You stay here.” After a pause, he asked, “Are you familiar with firearms?”
She nodded. “My dad made sure I could handle a gun.”
He returned to his room and retrieved his Glock model 30. When he handed her the weapon, she held it down toward the floor while she checked to see if it was loaded.
“Don’t open the door to anyone except me or the police.”
“The police?”
“I’m not expecting them.”
“Okay,” she answered, and he wished like hell that he wasn’t running out on her. But he was working for Lee, and if the man was on the verge of doing something stupid—like killing Emmett Bandy—he had to stop him. More than that, this was his chance to find out what the hell had been going on since Lee’s frantic phone call. Maybe he was going to find out that his employer had lost his marbles. At least that was how Bandy was making it sound.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said.
YESTERDAY MORNING when he’d left the house, he’d headed toward Lee’s estate, The Refuge. Now he turned toward town, taking advantage of the sparse traffic to put the accelerator to the floor.
As he drove, he went over the message in his mind. Bandy had said Lee was threatening him but he didn’t want the authorities to know about it. That sounded as if the two men were into some sort of dirty business together. Had Lee gotten angry with his partner?
Alex shook his head. He didn’t like this.
He made it to the restored area in twelve minutes. As instructed, he pulled around back of Bandy’s office and parked beside a car that was already there. It wasn’t one of Lee’s vehicles, as far as he knew. Probably Bandy’s.
Walking around it, he headed toward the back of the building, then tried the door. As promised, it was open.
Alex stepped into the dim interior, expecting to hear angry voices.
Quietly he tiptoed down the dark hall, the silence around him taking on an eerie quality. Reaching under his jacket, he unholstered his Sig and held it down by his right leg as he moved along the wall, alert for trouble.
He found it in Bandy’s office.
The real estate agent was slumped backward in his desk. His left arm was still in a sling, but that wasn’t his most pressing health problem at the moment. Blood had spread from a s
mall hole in his skull, dripping down his face and onto his shirt.
Alex moved forward, touching the man’s neck.
Emmett Bandy was dead.
Alex grimaced as he debated what the hell to do now. Bending again, he examined the entry wound. It was small, like from a twenty-two maybe. He followed the angle of Bandy’s head and found the bullet embedded in the metal door frame in back of the man.
As he looked at the slug, his mind returned to the phone conversation.
Someone had called him. He’d thought it was Bandy. But the voice had been low and distorted. Maybe it was someone who had just killed him and wanted Alex Shane to find the body.
The scenario was disturbing because it would mean that Bandy had already been dead when the call was made. Killed by Lee? Or someone who wanted Alex to think that Lee had done it?
That meant it had to be someone who knew about Lee’s disappearance. His mind immediately flashed to Sara.
Could she have made a phone call while he was asleep and told an accomplice about the case? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure.
He muttered a curse under his breath. He wanted to stop jumping to suspicious conclusions about her, but that didn’t seem possible. Every time he got the chance, he thought the worst of her.
But she wasn’t Cindy, he reminded himself. He couldn’t condemn her because of what his former wife had done to him.
He looked around the office. Maybe there were some clues here that would help sort things out. He’d be careful not to obstruct a police investigation. He just wanted to know what was going on.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it in his hand as he opened the door on the left. It was a closet.
Seconds later, he heard a noise in back of him and whirled, his weapon raised.
Then he saw who was blocking the office doorway.
“Police, freeze.” The order came from Clark Hempstead, who was standing with his own weapon aimed right at Alex.
Chapter Seven
“Put the gun on the table—slowly. Then raise your hands,” Hempstead said.
Knowing that compliance was his only choice, Alex obeyed.
A million thoughts went rapidly through his head as he followed orders, his movements slow and easy. As easy as they could be when he was struggling to keep his hands from shaking.
Lord, he’d been a fool not to get out of here as soon as he’d seen that Emmett Bandy was dead. Maybe he’d been a fool to come down here in the first place. But he’d shown up and he’d stuck around, so he could get caught at a murder scene holding a damn gun. Hempstead had probable cause to believe he’d committed the crime and now he was going to be arrested for a murder he hadn’t committed.
If he didn’t end up with a bullet hole in his own chest. Which was a distinct possibility, because the chief was damn well going to make sure that Alex Shane didn’t shoot him and make his escape.
“Step away from the weapon.”
Alex instantly followed that clipped order, too.
The chief waited until he’d backed off, then reached for the Sig, his own weapon still trained on Alex. Never taking his eyes off the murder suspect, he put the automatic on the desk.
When Alex saw him reach for the pair of handcuffs clipped to his weapon belt, he wanted to scream out a protest of his innocence. But he kept silent.
“You’re under arrest. Hands behind your back,” Hempstead clipped out.
Alex obeyed, his stomach in knots as Hempstead snapped the cuffs into place. The chief sighed, a sad sound that seemed to fill the small room. A sigh of disappointment in Alex Shane.
Alex felt a surge of something sick and tight inside his chest. Slowly he turned to face the man who had arrested him half a dozen times during his wild teenage years. “I know what this looks like. But I didn’t do it,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” Hempstead muttered, then asked, “Any other weapons on you?” Pushing Alex’s legs slightly wider than his shoulders, he began to pat him down.
“No,” Alex answered, thankful he’d left the Glock home with Sara.
Oh God, he thought, suddenly. Sara. He’d told her he’d be back soon. Now…
He was silently cursing as Hempstead whipped out his cell phone and called the state police.
The sick feeling in Alex’s chest increased. The state police. Of course. This wasn’t like the old TV series, Mayberry RFD, where the sheriff handled everything. Hempstead wouldn’t tackle a murder investigation on his own. He didn’t have the resources or the experience.
Alex tried to make himself numb as he listened to the cold, hard description of the crime—the shooting victim and the suspect who had been apprehended with a gun in his hand.
When the chief finished, Alex looked him directly in the eye. “I know it’s hard to believe at the moment, but somebody very carefully set me up.”
“Son, save it for the detectives. They can Mirandize you, since they’re going to do the questioning. Right now I’ve got to inventory the stuff in your pockets and lock you in the back of my car.”
Alex’s temper flared at the man’s patronizing tone. “I think I have a right to talk.”
“You’d be smart to have a lawyer with you.”
“I can do that later. I want you to know what happened. I got a call from Bandy asking me to come down here. Or maybe it was somebody imitating Bandy’s voice. What are you doing here, by the way? Somebody called you with a hot tip, right?”
“Yeah. I got a call,” he allowed, his tone flat.
“From whom?”
He shrugged. “Whoever it was told me to get down here on the double.”
“Someone who killed Bandy a few minutes ago then watched to make sure I arrived on the scene,” Alex added, before continuing quickly. “You can check for powder burns on my hands. You won’t find any. You can check the caliber of my weapon. It’s a Sig .40. I think Bandy was shot with a twenty-two. I found the bullet lodged in the door frame over there.” Since his hands were cuffed behind his back, he nodded his head toward the slug and thanked God that it hadn’t gone out the window and into the night.
For the first time, he saw a flicker of hope on Hempstead’s lined visage. But all he said was, “You can tell all that to the state troopers.”
Alex nodded, wishing again that he’d left Bandy’s office as soon as he’d seen the man was dead.
As he sat in the police car, with Hempstead in the front seat, he thought that at least it was parked behind the building, not in front. And it was early enough in the morning that nobody he knew was likely to come strolling by. The arrest would hit the news soon enough, but the public didn’t have to see him handcuffed and humiliated.
Closing his eyes, he struggled to focus on something else—and dredged up the helpful information that in Maryland you couldn’t get bond on a murder charge. And that there would be no use asking to have ballistics tests expedited. Everybody wanted their tests expedited, and the system was backed up.
He was still contemplating his immediate future when the state police took him into custody twenty minutes later. It didn’t matter that he’d been a detective with the Howard County P.D. He was a murder suspect now. When they arrived at the police barracks, he was booked, photographed and fingerprinted like any other criminal.
But at least he knew the ropes. He made sure they checked for powder burns on his hands. And he also made sure they checked his weapon and noted that it hadn’t been fired recently.
After one of the detectives assigned to the case had read him his rights, he decided that he’d gone it alone long enough and maybe he ought to have a lawyer present before he said anything else.
So he asked to call his attorney and dialed the Randolph Security emergency number.
As per the law, they let him do it in private, in a small, windowless room. He breathed a little sigh of relief when it turned out that Lucas Somerville, one of his friends, was manning the line.
“Problems?” Lucas asked.
&nbs
p; “I’m in a bit of a jam, yeah. Actually, I’ve been arrested for murder, and I need a lawyer.”
He was glad that Lucas didn’t swear, didn’t raise his voice as he asked for details. He gave a few, then Lucas cut in, “Randolph Security will back you all the way on this.”
“I figured you would. But it’s nice to hear it.”
“We’ll have Dan Cassidy down there in the next few hours.”
The name and the time frame sent a wave of relief crashing through Alex.
Dan Cassidy was a good man to have on your side. Until a couple of months ago, he’d been a state’s attorney, the equivalent of a district attorney in other regions of the country. But he’d grown frustrated with the backlog of cases jamming the Baltimore court system and had been looking for a change of pace. Since Dan’s wife, Sabrina, ran the lobby shop at 43 Light Street, he was already hooked into the network of friends who had offices in the building. When he’d put out the word that he was available, Randolph Security, which often worked closely with the Light Street group, hired him immediately.
Alex hung up feeling better than he had a few minutes earlier. It gave him a tremendous boost to know that Lucas believed him, with no questions asked. And he knew that Dan Cassidy was the perfect choice for a defense attorney—a lawyer intimately familiar with the Maryland criminal system.
The sense of relief lasted until he thought about Sara again. She was at his house, probably wondering where he was.
At least, as a former cop, he knew the one phone call rule was just a myth made up by mystery novelists. So he asked to call home. This time, a uniformed officer stood with him while he dialed and waited with his heart pounding as the phone rang—once, twice, three times.
Finally, his answering machine picked up, and he heard his own voice.
“This is Alex Shane. I’m not available to take your call right now, but please leave a message at the sound of the beep.”
Yeah, Alex thought. I’m not available because I’m in the pokey being charged with murder.
The message was short, but he felt his blood pressure climb while he waited for the tone.