Kansas City Secrets

by Julie Miller

  She swatted his hand away. “No.”

  His resentment of Richard Bratcher quickly gave way to a lopsided grin. “Told you there was fire in there.”

  And then he thought of the real reason she wore those high-necked dresses and his mood shifted again, raising her concern. “What is it?”

  “Those scars are badges of honor. You survived. That takes real strength.” Jimmy Stecher’s worst wounds were far less visible. “I’d bet money you’ve got some form of PTSD, just like Jimmy did. I think of all the pain and guilt and fear Jimmy kept locked up inside him. Maybe if he hadn’t believed he was all alone...if he’d known he could rail at me or talk or whatever he needed, I’d have been there for him. He shouldn’t have tried to control every little thing. Clearly, he couldn’t handle the pressure. No one can.”

  “Max. I’m not going to kill myself.” Her soft voice pierced the heavy thoughts that had blurred his vision. She brushed her fingers against his, down at his thigh. “I’ve seen a therapist. I’m coping. Besides, I’m not alone. You’re with me.”

  He turned his hand and captured hers in a solid grip. “Good. You’re growing on me, Rosie. I’d hate to finally figure you out one day and then lose...”

  Ah, hell. Max’s thoughts all rolled together in a jumble. Lose what? Her? After just a few days, he wouldn’t do anything so dumb as...anything that felt so right as... He’d fallen for Rosie March.

  Max pulled his hand away and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. Well, of course he had. When had he ever done anything the easy way? This was sure to come back and bite him in the butt. Because Rosie March probably had no plans to ever fall in love again, and certainly not with a boorish, potty-mouthed tough guy like him.

  Perhaps mistaking the source of his uncomfortable silence, Rosie changed the conversation to a more neutral topic. She pointed to the white-haired man in the painting. “Who do you think this is?”

  The tapping of high heels on the marble flooring thankfully interrupted them. Dr. Hillary Wells walked up. “That is Dr. Lloyd Endicott. The founder of our company.” Although Max recognized the older woman from the computer screen at the Cold Case Squad meeting, she was taller than he’d imagined. Her short, dark hair and high cheekbones were even more striking in person. She wore a pricey skirt and blouse beneath her stark white lab coat and, as Max remembered the preferential treatment from the meeting, he wasn’t surprised that she extended her hand to Rosie first. “Hi. I’m Dr. Hillary Wells. You’re here for an appointment?”

  “Yes,” Rosie answered.

  He flashed his badge before shaking her hand. “Max Krolikowski, KCPD. This is my associate, Miss March.”

  Hillary gestured to the double doors behind the receptionist’s desk, and they fell into step beside her. “Come into my office. I apologize for running late. Even though I’m overseeing the entire company now, I still like to keep my hand in the lab where I started—before Dr. Endicott discovered my talents and promoted me. Keeps a girl humble, you know. I was following up on some experiment results. If I’m recommending to the board that they up funding for a new product line, I want to make sure I know what I’m talking about.”

  After ordering coffee from her assistant and showing Rosie and Max to two guest chairs, she hung up her lab coat and pulled on a jacket that matched her skirt, instantly switching from scientist to CEO. She came back to her desk and opened a tub of hand cream. As she rubbed the cream into her skin, she pointed to the door, indicating the portrait of the distinguished gentleman Rosemary had asked about. “Lloyd started his research in a small lab not far from our location. Brilliant man. He developed a viable oral chemotherapy treatment with minimal side effects. A dozen patents later, he had multiple labs doing the research for him, he was building production facilities around the world, and Endicott Global went public.” She sat in her chair behind the desk, her tone growing wistful. “The man died a billionaire, but he was always happiest puttering around in the lab.”

  “He sounds like a father figure to you,” Rosie suggested.

  “Very much so,” Hillary agreed. “He was certainly a mentor of mine. We worked closely together for a number of years. I suppose that’s why he handpicked me to succeed him. He had no children of his own and had been a widower for some time.”

  “I was close to my father, too. You must miss him.”

  “I do. Lloyd was an elderly man, but he was always young at heart.” Her assistant brought them each a coffee and slipped out as quietly as he’d come in. Dr. Wells took a few moments to drink a sip and compose herself. “He was taken from us far too soon. Terrible car accident.”

  Rosie cradled her mug in her lap, probably feeling real empathy for the other woman, or maybe just thinking about how much she missed her own dad. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.” Hillary swallowed another sip, then set her mug aside. She grew more businesslike and turned her attention to Max. “Now. How may I help you, Detective? You’re following up on the report KCPD sent me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hopefully, he’d be able to uncover a more useful puzzle piece here. “The Richard Bratcher case? The ME found a toxic amount of RUD-317, a drug your company produces, in his system. Can you tell us about it?”

  Dr. Wells picked up a pair of reading glasses and opened a folder on her desk to skim the file. “Ah, yes. After reading your ME’s report, I asked my assistant to pull the pharmaceutical file. So what are your questions about the drug?”

  Rosie moved to the edge of her seat and set her coffee mug on the desk. “You keep calling it a drug. But it poisoned Richard. Surely, it’s not still on the market.”

  “RUD-317 is used for the treatment of certain cancers. It targets and reduces malignant tumor growth. In some applications it eradicates the cancerous growth completely. In others, it contains the malignancy.” Dr. Wells thumbed through her file and pulled out a thick set of papers stapled together. “Six years ago it was brand-new on the market. These are the drug trials immediately preceding that time to tell us who had access to RUD-317 outside of the lab. Our staff, of course, is all bonded, with signed confidentiality agreements. It would be impossible for one of them to get the drug out of the lab. Every shift goes through a security check when they leave.”

  Max bit down on the urge to argue her point. Nothing was impossible if you knew the right person and had the right leverage.

  “Richard was never sick a day in his life. If he had cancer, he never told me.” Was that distress he heard in Rosie’s voice? Did she really care that that monster might have been battling cancer?

  “You knew Mr. Bratcher personally?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not every patient chooses to share with his loved ones when he has a serious illness.”

  Rosie sank back in her chair, her confusion and unease with this conversation making her press her pretty mouth into a grim line and her eye focus drop to that self-conscious, don’t-notice-me level she used as a defense mechanism.

  Max reached across the space between their chairs to squeeze her hand. When that gray gaze darted over to meet his, he winked, silently encouraging her not to give up the fight. Then he released her and turned his attention back to Dr. Wells. “If you read the ME’s report again, Doctor, you’ll see he wasn’t being treated with the drug. Bratcher wasn’t sick.” Not physically sick, at any rate. “Either he had access to the drug himself, or someone on your list there had a motive for killing him.”

  The dark-haired CEO sat up ramrod straight, clearly displeased with him questioning her authority. She held up the packet of paper. “All I can tell you is that there is a Bratcher in this study. He could have been part of the placebo group, or he could have been a legitimate patient who was cured and continued to use the drug against our advisement.”

  Dr. Wells set the packet down, rested her elbows on top of it and steepled her fing
ers. Here it came. The lecture telling Max that he, the Cold Case Squad and ME’s office had to be wrong. Because Dr. High-and-Mighty there was always right.

  “Our report, in conjunction with the ME’s autopsy, indicates that your Mr. Bratcher had consumed a far bigger dose than recommended, or multiple doses over a short period of time. There was a huge quantity of RUD-317 in his system. More than enough to trigger the convulsions, aspiration of stomach contents and suffocation that led to his death.” She sat back in her chair, blithely unaware or uncaring of how the gruesome details surrounding Bratcher’s death made Rosie go pale. “If Mr. Bratcher was murdered, then you have to prove how all that medication got into his system. Someone could have opened the capsules and slipped the RUD-317 into his food or drink, or replaced some other medication he regularly took without his knowledge. But unless you can prove any of that, all you have is a drug overdose, and Endicott Global is not responsible.”

  Max pushed to his feet. This interview was done. Dr. Wells had gone CEO on them, more interested in protecting her company and its profits from a potential lawsuit than in helping them solve a murder.

  Max thanked her for the coffee and little else. “I’ll need a list of all the patients in that clinical trial, and any staff, researchers or salespeople who would have had access to the drug six years ago. Maybe one of them had a grudge against Bratcher. It could be a disgruntled client, or somebody he took for a lot of money.”

  Dr. Wells closed the file and stood, also. “I’ll have my assistant forward the staff contacts later today. Patient names are confidential, however. You’ll need a warrant for me to share that.”

  “My lieutenant’s already working on it.”

  “Then as soon as my office receives it, I’ll get you a list of everyone who had contact with the drug.”

  Max was ready to leave, but Rosie was a class act all the way. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Wells.”

  “Glad to help.” The CEO followed Max and Rosie to the door. “Detective Krolikowski, I can’t believe that anyone employed by Endicott Global or its affiliates would abuse our drugs and knowingly hurt someone. We take too much pride in our work, in our mission to save lives.”

  “Nonetheless, I want that list.”

  “Very well.” She caught the door before Max could close it behind them and extended her hand to Rosie again. “Rosemary? Perhaps I’ll see you at one of the museum’s upcoming fund-raisers. I sit on the city’s cultural arts board. We’re always looking for new donors to support the arts in Kansas City.”

  Rosie shook the doctor’s hand and nodded her thanks to the invitation. But when he would have expected her to quickly pull away, Rosie continued to hold on for an awkward length of time. What was that redhead up to?

  “Dr. Wells, did you have access to RUD-317 six years ago?”

  The two women locked gazes. To her brave credit, Rosie wasn’t the first one to look away. Hillary ended the handshake and gave the door a nudge, herding them out. “Of course I did. I helped Lloyd create it. But I never even met your Mr. Bratcher. Why on earth would I want to kill him?”

  The door snapped firmly shut in their faces. Suddenly, Dr. Wells’s assistant was there to walk them to the elevator. Max glanced down at Rosie. “I guess our meeting’s over.”

  Once the elevator doors closed behind them and they were alone, Max sat back against the railing and asked, “What was that handshake thing about?”

  “I can’t be certain. Maybe it’s a woman’s intuition, or perhaps an old memory is trying to surface.”

  “I need a little more to follow what you’re getting at.”

  She thrust her right hand at his face. “Smell that.”

  “Whoa.” Max grinned and ducked to one side to avoid an accidental punch to the chin. But he caught a whiff of what Rosie was talking about. He laced his fingers together with hers and drew her hand to his nose again. He breathed in the floral scent of Hillary Wells’s hand cream. “You said you smelled perfume on the sheets in Bratcher’s hotel room that day.”

  Rosie nodded. “I just assumed it was Charleen Grimes who’d spent the night with Richard. But maybe there was someone else there, a different woman.” She pulled her hand away and wrapped it around the strap of her purse. She leaned against the back wall beside him. “Six years is a long time to try to pinpoint an exact scent, and it’s probably not anything that could help you make an arrest—”

  “But it’s another potential piece of the puzzle.”

  Chapter Ten

  Rosemary followed Max off the elevator onto the top floor that housed the office suites of Howard’s law firm. The day had been a long one. She was hungry for dinner. She’d love a long swim to ease the tension from her muscles. Duchess and Trixie were probably dancing around the house to be let out to do their business. She was done talking to people who wouldn’t give her straight answers.

  And ever since the idea of Otis Dinkle spying on her had been put into her head, she’d felt as though someone had been following her all day as Max carted her from interview to interview—keeping her in sight, keeping her safe. Max assured her they were gathering useful clues, expanding KCPD’s list of suspects and crossing others off the list who either had an alibi or lacked a motive to kill Richard and threaten her.

  More than anything, she wanted to go home to her quiet little house and be surrounded by her parents’ things and her beloved pets. Maybe she and Max would get to talk. Maybe he’d see the chance to steal another kiss and take it. And maybe, if her scars and the self-confidence that sometimes failed her hadn’t been too much of a turnoff, he’d offer another night in his sheltering arms and she’d know a second night of blissful sleep. He’d said she had to be bold and ask for what she wanted—that he was no good at reading between the lines and guessing. Well, what she wanted was to go home. With him.

  But when she opened her mouth to say as much, Charleen Grimes unfolded her long legs from the couch in the center of the room and crossed the floor in her three-inch heels.

  “That’s Charleen Grimes,” she whispered, instead.

  “The mistress?” Max clarified. Rosemary would have turned around, gone back downstairs and walked home if Max’s hand hadn’t been at her back, drawing her forward beside him. He dipped his face beside her ear and whispered, “The woman needs some meat on her bones. Your ex must have had a thing for making love to sticks.” He turned his fingers to pat the swell of Rosie’s hip. “I’ll take a real woman any day.”

  “Bless you, Max.” Rosie’s chin lifted a little higher at the praise. “Good evening, Charleen.”

  “Well, if it isn’t the little murderess herself.”

  Howard stepped out of his office at the end of the hallway and hurried to join them. “Charleen, you are way out of line.” He snapped his fingers to the receptionist for her to notify Mr. Austin that his client had arrived for her KCPD interview. “Remember our conversation about slandering my client.”

  “I’m out of line?” She ran her painted nails along the lapel of her blue silk jacket. “Which one of us is here to be questioned as a murder suspect?” Charleen’s blue eyes narrowed. “You and your nine million dollars took Richard from me. I will never forgive you.”

  A sad realization washed over Rosemary. “You really loved him, didn’t you?”

  “A lot more than you ever did.”

  Most certainly. “Did you love him so much that you’d rather see him dead than with anybody else?”

  “How dare you, you little mouse. I’m the only one who wants justice for Richard. All you’re concerned about is saving your own skin.”

  “Justice?” Rosie’s blood turned to ice in her veins. How many of those crude threats had mentioned justice for Richard? Were Charleen’s words a horrid coincidence? A slip of the tongue? Or was there something much more ominous and far too familiar in the accusation?<
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  Charleen took another step and Max’s hand shot between them to keep the woman from coming any closer. “Stay with me, Rosie.” His blue eyes met hers with a pinpoint focus, probably checking to make sure she didn’t slip into another one of those trancelike states where she was paralyzed with fear. She blinked, nodded, silently reassured him she wasn’t so upset by the other woman’s words that she couldn’t function. “Maybe I’d better handle this interview on my own,” he suggested.

  Howard was instantly at Rosemary’s side. “Perhaps so, Detective. I don’t know why you have her out doing your job.”

  Max’s shoulders came back at the irritation in Howard’s voice. Thankfully, he didn’t take the bait and continue the argument. “Just get her someplace safe for twenty or thirty minutes, okay?”

  “My pleasure.” Howard’s cool hand cupped her elbow, pulling her away from Max. “You’re welcome to wait in my office while your friend conducts his business.”

  “Thanks.” While Howard tucked Rosemary’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her to his back corner office, Max escorted Charleen in the opposite direction to Mr. Austin’s suite at the end of the hallway. “What’s that perfume you’re wearing?” he asked. “It’s sexy as all get-out.”

  “Don’t try to charm me, Detective Krolikowski. You haven’t got the chops for it.”

  The man wasn’t as clueless as he pretended to be. “So I can’t buy that scent for my girlfriend?”

  Charleen stopped and leveled a glare at Rosemary. “No.”

  Girlfriend? Was that part of his investigative bag of tricks to get a suspect talking—using her as the proverbial burr that could get Charleen agitated underneath her saddle? Or could there be a grain of truth in that one word? Rosemary’s pulse did a funny little pitter-patter at the hope that he might be halfway serious about claiming her as his.

  But Charleen’s hateful gaze was a painful reminder that Rosemary needed this part of her life to be over. Charleen pouted her ruby-red lips into a smile and linked her arm through Max’s, figuratively taking from Rosemary what Charleen claimed Rosemary had taken from her. The tall blonde sashayed her hip into Max’s as their voices faded down the long hallway, and Rosie’s nostrils flared with an emotion that was far closer to feeling possessive about Max than feeling inadequate lined up next to a woman whose beauty she couldn’t match. “It’s a personal scent, designed especially for me. Back in my modeling days—”