by Maggie Price
And she could never give herself to him, knowing that someday she might look up unexpectedly and see again that thread of suspicion in his eyes.
She had to keep her distance. Had to throw herself into the search for Ken’s evidence. That, combined with her work on the task force, was more than enough to keep her mind occupied...and her hormones suppressed.
A faint, almost imperceptible noise caught her attention. She turned and saw the silhouette of Michael’s tall, broad-shouldered frame as he stepped through the doorway.
“I got a call from the station,” he said in a hushed voice, advancing toward her with brisk, efficient steps.
In the faint wash of light she saw the intense glint of his eyes, spied the stiff set of his shoulders. The very air around him seemed to hum with urgency.
Her senses went on alert. “What’s going on?”
“We’ll talk in the hall.” He looked toward Emily’s sleeping form. “Is she set for the night? Can you leave?”
“Yes.” A.J.’s gaze skittered to the door. “Where’s Greg?”
Michael’s mouth tightened as he jostled her coat into her arms, then grabbed his own off the chair. “Lawson’s pager went off after we walked out of here. He made a call, said he had some business to take care of, said he’d...”
She frowned when his voice trailed off. “He said what?”
“Nothing important.” Michael clamped his hand on her wrist and headed for the door.
“What’s happened?” A.J. demanded as he propelled her along the hallway Her heart pounded as she double-timed her steps to keep up with his long strides.
He glanced down at her, his expression sharp and intense. “We’ve got a possible suspect in the Westfall murder.”
Chapter 8
“Billy Hollis is a nickel-bag hustler with a rap sheet thicker than a heifer’s butt,” Sam Rogers observed as he leaned his elbows on the conference table and dumped a second packet of sugar into a disposable coffee cup. “A real scum wad.”
“He’s Dianna Westfall’s nephew?” A.J. asked the detective, confirming the information Michael had given her on their drive from the hospital. She pulled off her coat, smoothing the jade bolero jacket where it curved at her waist. Seconds earlier, she and Michael had walked into the brightly lit task force room to find officers and civilians bustling about, the very air humming with anticipation. They had a name. A possible suspect.
As she dropped into the chair beside Sam, A.J. glanced toward the far end of the conference table. Sky Milano and two lab techs already had Michael involved in an intense discussion. A.J. noted that Sam’s partner, Grant Pierce, stood at the edge of the group, his gaze locked on the forensic chemist’s sculpted profile.
“Actually, Billy’s not blood kin.” Sam used his stubby cigar to gesture at Dianna Westfall’s photograph on the bulletin board that spanned one wall. “She has a sister who lives back east. He’s the sister’s adopted kid.”
“What does Hollis’s record look like?”
“He did lots of juvie time for petty stuff, been popped for assault, burglary. Got a couple of drug busts mixed in with everything else.” Sam blew on his coffee. “Two years ago, Billy celebrated his eighteenth birthday by pulling a convenience-store hijacking. Cut a couple of brand-new openings in the clerk.”
“Cut?”
“Cut.” Sam leaned back in his chair and hooked a thumb under one suspender strap. “That got him a year in slam. In every assault he’s gone down on, he’s used a knife as his weapon. Makes you think the kid has an affinity for blades.”
A.J. pursed her lips in thought. “Enough to stab his aunt twenty-one times?”
“Could be. Either way, we’ll find out soon. There’s three good arrest warrants out on him for unpaid traffic tickets. We issued a radiogram to have Hollis picked up. Won’t take the uniforms long to round up a maggot like him.”
“Do we have a picture?”
“You bet.” Sam stabbed his cigar into an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and wadded yellow sticky notes, then reached into his shirt pocket. “I stopped by Records and picked up his latest mug shot. Get a load of him—garden-variety ugly with a fish-belly-white complexion. A cop’ll arrest a guy who looks like that purely on reflex.”
Ignoring the smoky stench of cigar that hung in the air, A.J. looked into the acne-plagued face with eyes that stared out with dark hostility. A dirty, torn T-shirt emphasized the aggressive squareness of Hollis’s shoulders; a tattoo of the Grim Reaper glared from his right bicep.
She returned the mug shot with a skeptical look. “You really think Dianna Westfall took her clothes off for this guy without a struggle?”
“Hold a big enough knife to someone’s throat and he’ll sing the national anthem, if that’s your pleasure.”
“She drank champagne with her killer, Sam. They had sex.”
“Ever hear the term ‘rape?’ And who says he didn’t do most of the drinking after she was dead? Maybe Hollis just made it look like they partied before he did her. That way, we wouldn’t think she’d been forced.”
Shrugging her acquiescence, A.J. glanced up as Helene St. John and Kevin Stoner came through the door. Helene’s face was red from the cold; her platinum hair hung in a windblown tumble down the back of her white wool coat. From where she sat, A.J. could see the strained set of Helene’s mouth as she headed in Michael’s direction. Kevin strolled slowly in his partner’s wake, his eyebrows rising as she stepped around Sky, seemingly interrupting the chemist in midsentence.
A.J. met Sam’s gaze. “Wonder what’s with Helene.”
“Mike’s had St. John and Stoner checking jewelry stores to see if Dianna left her missing diamond ring somewhere for repair,” Sam commented. “Maybe they came up with something.”
“Maybe.”
A.J. watched as Michael shook his head at something Helene said. With that, Helene jerked off her coat, settled at a computer terminal and began pounding on the keyboard.
“A.J., the lab sent this up.”
She jolted at the nearness of Michael’s voice. Looking up, she saw that he now stood beside her chair, a plastic evidence envelope in his hand. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I’ve got the address book Dianna carried in her purse,” he stated. “The names need to be fed into the computer.”
“Fine.”
“We’ll need to do a cross-check to see if any names in this match the ones in the address book from Dianna’s desk.”
“Right.”
She accepted the bag, then shoved her dark hair behind her shoulders as she leaned to dig in her purse for her reading glasses. Michael’s nearness made her nerves shimmer, made her pulse pound. She curled her bottom lip between her teeth, not at all enjoying the emotional effect he had on her. She’d made a decision at the hospital to concentrate on finding Ken’s tape, which in her heart she believed was the key to finding the truth about what he’d been involved in. Right now, there was no room in her thoughts—or her life—for Michael Ryan. He was her boss, she his employee. Period. Problem was, her hormones hadn’t yet gotten that message.
Snapping her glasses open with a resolute flick of her wrist, she shoved them on her nose. Glancing down, she noted that the small book encased in plastic matched the larger one whose contents—over 150 names of individuals and businesses—she’d entered in the computer’s database that morning. As with the large book, a coat of black fingerprint powder covered its smaller twin’s mauve leather cover.
She looked up. “Did the lab get any prints?”
“Just the victim’s,” Michael commented, then turned to Sam.
“Who came up with the lead on Hollis?”
“Gianos and Smith,” the detective said, inclining his head in the direction of the team of detectives Michael had assigned to interview the Westfall family. Sam paused, giving A.J. an assessing look over the rim of his cup. “You got something other than this case on your mind, sweetheart?”
“No,” she answered as heat
crept up her neck.
A smile crinkled Sam’s puffy eyes. “I’ve been a detective nearly thirty years. Not much gets by me. Want to tell old Sam what’s got you preoccupied?”
“What I want is for ‘old Sam’ to tell me how we got the lead on Billy Hollis.”
“One of the people that Gianos and Smith interviewed was Dianna’s brother-in-law, William Westfall. He’s CEO of Westco Industries. Westfall called Gianos this afternoon, saying he all of a sudden remembered Dianna saying something last summer about Hollis calling her. He was hassling her for money, wanting her to put him up at the mansion, things like that. Guess he kept it up because she got an unlisted number a couple of months ago.”
Michael dropped into the chair beside A.J.’s. “Any idea how long Hollis has been in town?”
“About a year, as close as we can figure,” Sam said. “Except for the traffic tickets, the only record he has with OCPD is a possession charge that got dropped on a technicality. You ever hear of Benito Penn?”
“No,” Michael answered.
“He’s a dealer who’s gone from street hustler to major player. According to the Narcotics boys, one of Benito’s men put up Billy’s bail money on the possession arrest. It’s a sure bet he figures somewhere in Benito’s network.”
A.J. cocked her head. “Any idea where Hollis stays?”
“His mama talked to him last week. He mentioned some hotel over on Stiles. Pierce checked to see if anybody’d run across Hollis and filled out a field-interview card that’d give us a firm address. When that came up empty, we issued the radiogram.”
“If it turns out his blood type is AB, maybe we can pack up and go home,” A.J. said almost to herself. If that happened, the task force would end. She would no longer work under Michael’s command. No longer face the prospect of seeing him every day. No longer sit beside him as she did now, her nerves sending flashpoints of heat across her skin.
“Can’t happen too soon for me,” Sam said. He put his palms on the table, then rose, his stomach lapping over the gold badge clipped to his belt.
“Or me,” A.J. added as she ripped the red evidence tape off the plastic bag.
“Meanwhile, we have to follow up leads,” Sam continued. “That means pretty boy and I have a plane to meet.”
“Who’s coming in?” A.J. asked while sliding the address book from the bag.
“The Rawlings couple—Dianna’s across-the-street neighbors. Their house has the best view of her place. They’ve been in London for two weeks so there’s no chance they saw anything the night she died.” Sam shrugged. “But most of the neighbors say nothing happens around there that Pamela Rawlings doesn’t know about. Sounds like she’s the equivalent of the neighborhood snoop. Maybe she can add something about Dianna that nobody else was privy to.”
As she reached to flip on the computer terminal in front of her, A.J.’s palm grazed the folder containing close-ups of Dianna Westfall’s severed, polished finger.
Reentry Red.
She sat as still as stone while something edged its way forward from the back of her mind. In less than a heartbeat, the thought faded into a gray haze. She blew out a breath.
Michael leaned in. “Something wrong?”
She met his gaze. “Let’s suppose Billy Hollis killed his aunt.”
“Okay.”
“What reason would he have had to paint her fingernails after he killed her?”
Sam gave her a sardonic smile as he pulled on his suit coat. “Why the hell do these sons of bitches do anything?” he asked, then strolled away.
“Why, indeed,” A.J. mumbled as she opened the address book and began thumbing through the pages.
Around her, the rapid clicking of keys from a computer terminal across the room drifted on the air. Someone’s pager sounded a dim beep. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the frigid wind howled as the evening gloom set in.
Staring at what she now recognized as Dianna Westfall’s spidery handwriting, A.J.’s eyes grew wider with each page she scanned.
“Dear, Lord.” Without conscious thought, she reached for Michael’s arm as he rose from the chair. “I don’t believe this.”
His gaze dropped to the hand she’d draped across his sleeve. “Neither do I,” he said softly, capturing her gaze with his.
The realization that she’d reached for him put a tightness in her belly. She pulled her hand back, the quickening in her stomach spreading into a slow burn.
Her fingers faltered against the address book. “I...there must be a hundred names in here.”
“I imagine Dianna had lots of friends.” Michael settled back into the chair, watching across A.J.’s shoulder as she continued flipping through the pages.
“There aren’t any full names in here—just first initials followed by a last name. No addresses or telephone numbers...” Her hands stilled. “Look at what Dianna wrote here. ‘W. Kennedy—a double-duty 10. Dining room table.’”
She glanced across at Michael. “Do you think that means what I think it means?”
“I don’t imagine Kennedy is a furniture salesman,” he commented dryly.
“Dianna’s made notes covering every room in the mansion,” A.J. said. “Here’s ‘P. Cowan...major gorgeous—on the washing machine.”’
An embarrassed heat settled in A.J.’s cheeks. She was used to discussing every intimate detail of a sex crime with cops. Male cops. But to her, the man sitting only inches away wasn’t just a cop. He was a man whom she’d lately spent a good deal of time fantasizing about. A man whose kiss had left an indelible mark on her soul. The sudden image of Michael and her... and a dining room table flashed into her mind with shocking clarity.
“Mind if I have a look?” he asked.
“No, I...” She handed him the book, then pulled off her glasses. “I guess this won’t surprise Sam.”
“Why’s that?” Michael asked as he thumbed through the pages.
“It’s a theory of his. He says if you get a good-looking woman for a stiff, just turn her life upside down and shake hard. A bushel of men’ll fall out. Sam says it happens every time.”
“Looks like this case won’t prove him wrong,” Michael said. He closed the book, his mouth grim. “Now, I get to tell Chief McMillan that his wife’s best friend kept records that’d put a prostitute’s trick book to shame.”
Two hours later, the telephone’s persistent ringing pulled A.J. from her intense study of Dianna Westfall’s address book. Sliding off her glasses, she looked around and realized she had the room to herself.
“Task force,” she said into the receiver.
“Hi!” a bright voice said across the line. “Is Lieutenant Michael Ryan there? This is his daughter.”
“Megan...” A.J.’s thoughts immediately went to Michael’s office in Internal Affairs, where the photograph of the preteen girl with the impish, lopsided smile had leaned on the credenza.
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“A.J. Duncan.”
“Do I know you?”
A.J. shook her head, as if the girl were in the room to see her. “No. But your dad’s mentioned you.” A.J.’s forehead furrowed. Now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure she could picture Michael as a father.
“Are you a policewoman?”
“No, a civilian crime analyst.”
“What’s that?”
“I link crimes, do suspect profiles. I try to help the officers get a line on the bad guys.”
“Cool. I’m going to sign up for the OCPD academy the minute I’m old enough.”
“We’ll be glad to have you—”
“My mom doesn’t want me to.”
“It can be a dangerous job.”
“Yeah. I think it’s mainly because she doesn’t want me to follow in my dad’s footsteps.”
A.J. arched a brow at Megan’s candor. “Well...” She let her voice drift off, having no idea how to respond.
“Do you know where my dad is?”
A.J. glanced down the l
ength of the conference table at Michael’s vacant chair. She had no idea how long he’d been gone, where he’d gone or when he’d be back. “Sorry, no. I can have him call you.”
Across the phone line, a muffled voice sounded in the background, then Megan responded in a similar muffled tone. “That’s okay,” she finally said into the receiver. “Mom’s changed her mind. She says we have to leave for the airport now. I just wanted to tell Dad Merry Christmas. I was supposed to spend my break with him, but I’m going with my mom and stepdad to Cancún instead.”
Regret. A.J. pictured the regret she’d seen in Michael’s eyes as he stared at Megan’s photograph. Dark, raw regret.
“Megan, please call again when you get to Mexico. I know your dad will want to talk to you.”
Again, the girl’s voice became muffled as she spoke to someone in the background. “Mom says she’s not sure how good the telephone service is in Cancún.”
“I hear it’s excellent,” A.J. ad-libbed, having no idea why she should feel irritation over a situation that in no way involved her.
Megan related the information. The voice in the background sharpened instantly.
“Got to go,” Megan said. “Tell Dad I love him. Bye.”
“Goodbye—”
A.J.’s throat tightened as she sat with the receiver humming in her ear. She had no idea what the telephone service was like in Cancún, so why had she said that?
Regret. The answer drifted back on the room’s still air. It was an emotion A.J. knew well and understood. An emotion she’d lived with since that rainy night in college when she slid into the driver’s seat beside Casey and half an hour later their car skidded head-on into a massive oak.
She rose, walked to stand before the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and stared out unseeingly into the frozen darkness.
Granted, a dog had dashed onto the road and she’d swerved to miss it. And yes, both the police and insurance company had cleared her of all responsibility. But she’d been so involved with getting her happily inebriated fiancé, who’d aced his final exams, into the car without getting soaked that she’d neglected to check if he’d fastened his seatbelt. Just one little detail. One detail that, if done, might have saved his life when their car crashed into the oak.