Prime Suspect

by Maggie Price

  But her pulse remained steady; no twist of dark desire warmed her flesh. With silent self-recrimination, she reminded herself she would never have gotten through the past weeks without Greg’s support.

  She hadn’t known him before he and Ken paired up, and only slightly after that. On the night Ken died, Greg stayed at the hospital long enough to have his forehead stitched, then left against doctor’s orders. He’d arrived at her house on the police chaplain’s heels. Stunned with grief, she’d gratefully accepted Greg’s support. He’d been at her side when she told Aunt Emily about Ken, and he’d handled all the awful details after that.

  Although he hadn’t spoken about it, A.J. sensed the guilt Greg felt over Ken’s death. Guilt at having allowed a burglar to render him unconscious in an alley while Ken circled the warehouse and crept through the front door into the sights of a second burglar’s automatic.

  This man who now smiled down at her had taken care of her when she’d been beyond comfort, and A.J. wanted to repay his kindness. Needed to. But since her summons to Internal Affairs, she’d allowed caution to temper her feelings, had built an emotional barrier around herself.

  Slipping her hand from his, she made a pretense of straightening the clutter on her desk. “I need to ask you about Ken’s belongings,” she began, her nervous fingers clumsily shuffling a stack of file folders.

  “What about them?”

  A.J. glanced up. “I was in a haze when you closed Ken’s apartment. I don’t know what happened to his things.”

  “I took his clothes and dishes to a charity like your aunt asked.” Greg shifted his weight, his Sam Browne belt and holster groaning a leathery protest. “I hope she hasn’t changed her mind about wanting that stuff.”

  “No. What I’m interested in are receipts...Ken’s car title, bank statements. Things like that.” A.J. shrugged. “I’m executor of Ken’s estate, and I have to file a final tax form. I’d like to get it done before Aunt Emily comes home from the hospital.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s weak. Sick from the chemo most of the time. I talked to her doctor last night. Depending on her response, the treatments may last about three weeks. She might get to come home for a day or two in between, but that depends on how her immune system holds up. If the numbers go too low, he’ll keep her there until her resistance levels build up.”

  Greg nodded. “Think I’ll drop by and see her on my way home.”

  “She’ll like that.” A.J. took a deep breath. “About Ken’s things?”

  “I packed everything in boxes and stacked them in my garage. I didn’t want to bother you or, your aunt about where to store them.” Greg shrugged. “If you want, I’ll load everything in my car and bring it over tonight when I pick you up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It hasn’t been that long, A.J.,” he added quietly. “If you’re not up to this, I can go through the boxes, pull out what you need.”

  “I appreciate it, but no. It’s something I need to do.”

  “All right.”

  A.J. dropped her contrite gaze. Greg’s unconcerned demeanor had no effort behind it; nothing flashed in his eyes to indicate that he knew about the unexplained deposits she’d find in at least one of Ken’s bank statements. Paranoia at its fullest. Thank you, Michael Ryan.

  Greg idly fingered the cut along his forehead, wincing at one point. “Have you heard about the Westfall woman?”

  “Westfall?” A.J. frowned. “Why do I know that name?”

  “She’s the widow of that famous heart specialist.”

  A.J. nodded. “Right. Her picture’s on the society page about once a week. What about her?”

  “Somebody sliced her up last night. She lives... lived in the biggest mansion in Quail Creek. Homicide’s there now.”

  “Any idea who did it?”

  Greg eased off the desk. “Don’t know. And luckily, that isn’t my problem.”

  After plucking a file folder off her credenza, A.J. rose. “That reminds me, I finished reviewing this case. I need to drop the file off at Homicide. I’ll walk you out.”

  Greg arched a brow. “I doubt anyone’s there. Every last one of them is probably at the Westfall crime scene.”

  “I imagine so,” A.J. murmured as she walked out the door.

  Cradling the case file on a murdered female jogger in the crook of her arm, A.J. wound her way through Homicide’s rows of battered desks and dreary grayness. A flash of red from the assignment board caught her attention. Someone had scribbled the greeting: Welcome to OCPD Homicide. When your days end, our day begins.

  Her mouth curved. Nothing in the world like cop humor.

  Det. Richard Warren was the only person in sight. He had a dry-looking doughnut in one hand, a phone in the other and a harried look on his face. A.J. raised the file and pointed to a door at the back of the office. Warren waved her on with the doughnut.

  She let the door to the small file room swing shut behind her. The smell of stale, aging paper hung in the uncirculated air. A small table stood in the middle of the room; side-by-side cabinets full of nightmarish hell lined the dingy walls.

  With the ease of familiarity, she walked to a dented file cabinet at the far end of the room and pulled open a drawer labelled Unsolved in vivid red slashes. Shifting through a maze of yellowing folders, she nudged the jogger’s thick case file into place in the crowded drawer.

  After prodding the dented drawer closed, she turned and froze in her tracks. The sight of Michael Ryan leaning against the closed door, every athletic inch of him blocking her retreat sent a jolt of wariness up her spine.

  He looked like pure efficiency in his white starched shirt and charcoal slacks, his dark hair smooth and neat. His crimson tie displayed a perfect knot; a blue steel automatic nestled in the shoulder holster molded against his ribs.

  “Good to see you, A.J.,” he said, his voice casual and warm.

  Running into Ryan had been inevitable, she’d known that. In her mind she had formulated a script that told her how to act, what to say. But it didn’t tell her what to do about a stomach clenched so tight she could hardly breathe.

  “I returned a file,” she said and took an expectant step forward.

  Ryan didn’t budge, just nodded toward the drawer she’d closed. “Giving us a hand with a case?”

  “Yes. Trying, anyway,” she amended.

  “Which case?”

  She took a deep breath. “The jogger homicide.”

  “I’m not familiar with that one.” He glanced around the room, his mouth kicking up at one corner. “Afraid I’m not familiar with any of these cases. Yet.”

  A.J. checked her watch. “I have to go—”

  “What’s happening with the jogger case?”

  The distinct, unsettling feeling of Michael Ryan having her trapped in this small, airless room made her knees weak.

  “Jim Cook’s the lead detective on the case. He should brief you.”

  Ryan crossed his arms over his chest. “Detective Cook is on leave. Why don’t you give me an overview?”

  She moistened her lips, determined not to let her disquiet show. Ryan might have the ability to stretch her nerves to tautness, but she wasn’t about to let him know. “A female jogger was stabbed to death in August. There’re no witnesses, little evidence. No suspects. Before his transfer, Lieutenant Barber asked me to look at the file. He thought a suspect profile might help turn some new leads.”

  Ryan cocked his head. “That’s right. You’re the resident expert on suspect profiling. I remember a story in the paper a couple of years ago when the department got the grant for your training at Quantico.”

  More of Ryan’s homework, A.J. thought and shifted her weight.

  When she made no comment, he raised his palm. “So?”

  “So...what?”

  “Do you think a profile will help?”

  “You’ll have my report on your desk by five.”

  “Good. I’ll read it tonight.”
>
  “You might have your hands full reviewing reports on the Westfall murder.”

  “Word travels fast,” he said, and shrugged. “And you might be right about the paperwork. I’m waiting for Sam Rogers to call from the scene to let me know what we’ve got.”

  “Then I won’t keep you.”

  Ryan continued leaning against the door, his cool blue eyes taking on a sudden awareness. “That’s why you brought the jogger file back now, isn’t it? You thought I’d be at the Westfall crime scene.”

  “This was a convenient time—”

  “A.J.” His voice softened. “Don’t be afraid of me.”

  Everything inside her went still. “I’m not.”

  “I told you, I’m inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt—”

  “But not Ken,” she blurted, then immediately wished she could pull the words back. She didn’t want to discuss her brother with Ryan. Didn’t want to discuss anything with this man.

  “A lot of things point to his guilt,” he said simply.

  She clenched her jaw. “That’s what happens when someone is set up, Lieutenant. The evidence points to them.”

  “A.J.—”

  “Then again, it doesn’t matter what you think, does it?” she asked, feeling the slow heat of anger starting to build. “You’re out of Internal Affairs. What Ken did or didn’t do is no longer your concern.”

  “But it is,” Ryan said, keeping his eyes steady on hers. “I’m seeing this case through to the end.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “Why? It belongs in Internal Affairs.”

  “I have my reasons.” He moved away from the door and walked toward her. “Have you found out what Greg Lawson did with Ken’s things?”

  “I...yes. Greg just got back into town.”

  Ryan halted inches from her. His wide shoulders and formidable height gave her the impression that the small room had suddenly gotten smaller. And hotter. He was standing so close that she could feel the warmth of his body, felt her own flesh heat.

  “And?” he persisted.

  She took a step back, wanting, needing to put distance between herself and this man who evoked such disturbing responses within her. “Everything’s in boxes in Greg’s garage.”

  Ryan nodded imperceptively. “Do I need to get a search warrant?”

  “No. Greg’s bringing everything over tonight.”

  “Were you planning on telling me about this?”

  “Yes.”

  His blue eyes rested on her face with an unreadable intensity. “When?”

  She raised her chin. “I’m telling you now.”

  “So you are,” he said, his lips forming a sardonic curve. “I’d like to take a look through-the boxes. Tonight.”

  “Tonight’s not convenient. I’m going out. I won’t be home until after nine—”

  “I’ll come by then.”

  Her fingers curled in, fisted. She’d wanted to go through Ken’s things before Ryan. Wanted the chance to find out on her own if Ken’s evidence was something that would exonerate him or have merely allowed her brother to pleabargain.

  “Ken is dead,” she said, her voice trembling. “Can’t you just forget about whatever went on?”

  “Whoever murdered him is still out there. I have no intention of forgetting that.” Ryan reached out, closed his hand on her wrist. “I’ll find out, A.J.,” he said, his eyes steady on hers. “I’ll find out who killed Ken. You have my word.”

  Ryan’s touch made her nerves sizzle. The room was suddenly devoid of air. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

  “I’ll...hold you to that,” she managed.

  Ryan nodded, then loosened his grip on her wrist. “I’ll see you tonight...after nine.” He turned and walked away, the door whooshing closed behind him.

  A.J. stood motionless, her palms damp, her legs feeling like glass, ready to shatter. She let out a pent-up breath and shifted her gaze to the wall-to-wall cabinets, knowing full well their grisly contents had nothing to do with the trembling in her bones.

  Chapter 3

  “I want A.J.”

  That said, Michael slid a hand into the pocket of his trousers and shifted his gaze out the floor-to-ceiling window of the chief’s office. Outside, a solid bank of gray clouds obscured the noonday sun, giving the city’s granite skyscrapers the look of tombstones jutting from the depths of a fog-laden cemetery.

  “Any progress on the Duncan investigation since last time we talked?”

  Michael glanced across the spacious office at the man sitting behind the polished mahogany desk. “I’m going to A.J.’s tonight to look through the things from Ken’s apartment. It’s a long shot, but maybe the evidence he mentioned in his phone message will turn up.”

  “So, A.J. is continuing to cooperate?”

  Michael looked back out the window. His brow furrowed with the memory of the wariness he’d seen in A.J.’s face barely two hours ago in Homicide’s dim, musty file room. He wouldn’t exactly call her behavior cooperative. More like forced. More like it would take a crowbar to get anything about Ken out of her. Michael narrowed his eyes. If he hadn’t asked, how long would she have waited to let him know she’d gotten her hands on Ken’s belongings? A day? A week? Never?

  He had meant what he’d said to her—his cop’s instinct told him she was telling the truth. She just wasn’t telling him everything, he was sure of it. Still, he acknowledged a grudging understanding of the loyalty that drove her to protect a brother far past protecting. But that didn’t mean he’d back off. Loyalty be damned, he’d find out what the hell it was A.J. Duncan knew.

  Turning from the window, Michael walked across an expanse of footstep-muffling sand-colored carpet and settled into a leather chair in front of the desk.

  “Yes, Chief. A.J.’s cooperating.”

  Brian McMillan leaned back in his chair, peering at Michael through wire-rimmed glasses. “Is it still your opinion she’s clean?”

  Sleet covered the sidewalks, yet the chief’s skin hinted at a tan. During the past week, McMillan’s thick, iron gray hair had taken on a stylist’s touch. Michael kept his expression impassive as confirmation clicked in his mind that McMillan was planning a run for the mayor’s job in the spring.

  “Yes, A.J.’s clean.”

  “But you still don’t have proof of that?”

  “Just what my gut tells me.”

  “Your gut’s the only reason I haven’t put her on administrative suspension. Don’t forget, Lieutenant, there’ll be hell to pay around here if it turns out she was in on something with her brother.”

  “I got that message loud and clear the first time you sent it, Chief,” Michael answered mildly. Now that McMillan was jumping into the mayor’s race, he couldn’t afford any ripples in the department. If word got out that a cop and his civilian sister had possibly sold sensitive information on the street, a major tidal wave would hit the department. McMillan’s political career would end before it started. And guilty or not, A.J. would be the one who paid. Michael almost regretted now that he’d brought the matter of Ken Duncan to McMillan’s attention when he did.

  Department policy dictated that the chief be informed of any evidence of wrongdoing by commissioned or civilian employees. After opening Ken Duncan’s locker, the first thing Michael had done was report what he’d found to McMillan. The chief had been ready to suspend A.J. on the spot. Michael had talked him into waiting, at least until he’d called her to Internal Affairs and given her a chance to have her say.

  That meeting, Michael thought. Dammit, since then he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. He could still feel her slight, trembling body beneath his hands. The warm softness of her skin. He’d left his office that evening, gone straight to McMillan and convinced him to hold off instituting disciplinary action against her. He’d even put his neck on the block and assured the chief that he would be personally responsible if his hunch about her innocence was wrong.

  Michael shoved a hand
through his hair. He’d always gone by the book. He respected the laws he’d sworn to uphold, had never found it necessary to test the boundaries of the rules. A person was either right or wrong; he either screwed up or he didn’t. Where the job was concerned, gray areas didn’t exist.

  All it had taken was fire sparking in a pair of eyes the color of moist earth for him to want to bend what he’d always considered unbendable.

  “Has the DEA come up with anything on Snowman?” McMillan asked.

  “They’ve drawn a blank so far.”

  McMillan reached for a pen, the gold cuff links that secured his French cuffs sparking beneath the fluorescent lights. He glanced down at the pad in front of him. “All right, Lieutenant, you want A.J. on the task force, you’ve got her.” McMillan read off the list of names they’d compiled when Michael first got to the office, then set the paper aside.”

  “Mike, we’ve got a lot of pressure coming down to get this one solved fast. Dianna Westfall was fixed politically. She was a major contributor to the governor’s campaign chest. He’s already called to check on the status of the investigation.” McMillan shook his head. “Dianna was my wife’s best friend. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. You want anyone else working on this task force, say the word. You need more equipment, ask. Just make sure you catch the bastard who did this.”

  “We’ll find him, Chief.”

  McMillan scanned the list another time. “Half these people work in the investigations division. John Harris sure as hell isn’t going to like this drain on his manpower.” McMillan punched a button on his intercom.

  “Yes, Chief?” The secretary’s southern accent twanged like a banjo across the line.

  “Get Captain Harris in here. If he’s out to lunch, have him paged.”

  “Consider it done.”

  McMillan met Michael’s gaze across the vast desk. “With you still investigating Ken Duncan, how’s his sister going to take it when she hears she’s working for you?”

  Although that was a question he’d had trouble with himself, Michael raised a shoulder and said, “A.J.’s a pro. She’ll do fine.”