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Incriminating Passion
“I guess. I don’t know. All I know is that except for some nightmares, I thought my life was business-as-usual up until last night.”
“Except you had no husband. I take it a body hasn’t been found.”
She shook her head.
“Do you know who killed him?”
“No.”
“This sounds more like a missing person’s case than a murder. Have you filled out a report with the police?”
“No.”
“When did you realize he was gone?”
“Just last night. When the memories—”
“When you remembered your husband had been missing for a week.”
She raised her chin at the suspicion in his tone. “I thought he was away on business. His real-estate development company is based in Chicago. He’s down there most of the time.”
Incredible. The woman seemed to have an answer to everything. “Was he often gone for a week at a time without giving you so much as a phone call?”
“We didn’t have the greatest marriage, Mr. Cohen. In fact, we didn’t have much of a marriage at all. He kept me around for show on the rare occasions he needed a trophy wife. And he said he wanted an heir eventually. Otherwise, Win didn’t have a lot of use for me.”
“So why did you marry him?”
“I had my reasons.”
“I’ll bet you had a few million of them.”
Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed to blue bands. “I didn’t marry him for his money, if that’s what you’re implying. Not really.”
“Then why did you really marry him?”
“Listen, I didn’t want to come here. I can take care of myself. I don’t want yours or anyone else’s help. But a man is dead, and I thought you might care to know about that.”
“But you say you can’t tell me much about that, Mrs. Kirkland. So I need to know all you can tell me about your husband. Including what his marriage was like.”
She pushed a defeated breath through tight lips. “Fine. My father left when I was young. Win was a father figure, I guess. He took care of me, offered me security. I was eighteen when I married him. It’s not something I’m proud of.”
“Then why did you stay married to him?”
“Win made it clear he didn’t want me to leave.”
“He threatened you?”
“Yes.”
“With violence?”
“At times.”
John’s gut tightened. So he’d called Andrea Kirkland right after all.
She raised her chin again, a flash of fire smoldering in the depths of her eyes. “I was leaving him anyway. I had made arrangements, set aside money. I was leaving that night—the night I saw him murdered.”
Time for John’s eyes to widen again. “You witnessed the murder?”
“Yes. But I don’t remember much about it. Just the gunshots. And Win’s head resting on the Persian rug. And all the blood….” She dropped her gaze to his desk and studied the wood grain for a full minute. Crossing her arms, she rubbed her hands over them as if she was cold. She looked like that little girl in search of a father figure she’d talked about. Desperate, vulnerable, yet determined to go it on her own.
An ache settled in John’s shoulders. He shouldn’t care about her vulnerability. He shouldn’t care that her husband had used threats of violence to keep her in line. He shouldn’t care at all about her bizarre tale. He should merely do his job and go home to that recliner and stiff drink. “Have you told the police you witnessed a murder?”
She swallowed hard and met his gaze. “I tried.”
“But?”
“I called the Green Valley police station last night, but all the officers were out on a call. I told Ruthie, the woman who answers the phone, the things I remembered and that I was driving in. I didn’t want to stay in that house one more second.” She paused as if hesitant to go on.
“And?”
“On my way a black pickup truck ran me off the road. My car is at the bottom of the Green Valley quarry.”
He crooked a brow. “That old quarry is full of water.”
“Good thing. Otherwise I would have crashed and died. As it was, I only had to worry about drowning.”
Yet another surprise. That old quarry was deep as hell itself. And this time of year it would be bonecold as well. Somehow this petite woman had managed to free herself from certain death. She must be a lot stronger—and even more determined—than she looked.
He took hold of the stirrings of admiration. He couldn’t go there, couldn’t start weaving her into some sort of heroine in his mind. Or some sort of victim in need of his protection. Not unless he wanted to give reality an opening to bite him in the ass like a snarling dog. He reached for the phone. “I’ll call the Green Valley police right now. They can investigate your claims and we’ll see what we can do.”
Her eyes sprang wide. She lunged for his hand. Her fingers clamped down hard, preventing him from lifting the phone out of its cradle. “No police. Please.”
“That’s how cases like this are handled, Mrs. Kirkland. The police investigate the crime. I prosecute the offender.”
Her gaze landed on her hand gripping his. She yanked her hand back as if afraid he would bite. But she didn’t sit back in her chair. She stood at the edge of his desk, every muscle in her body rigid. “You can’t call the Green Valley police.”
He pulled his hand from the phone, leaving the receiver in the cradle. “You’d better give me a good reason.”
“The police were the only ones who knew I remembered what happened to Win. I called the station, then suddenly this truck showed up and tried to kill me.”
“And you think someone in the police department was in that truck?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
She had him there. But where did that leave him? If he couldn’t call the police and have them check out her story, what was he going to do with this woman?
He glanced at his watch. Almost six o’clock. Except for a few assistant district attorneys preparing for court tomorrow morning, the office would be empty. That ruled out foisting this woman off on a junior ADA. “Do you have any family you can stay with until we can figure out what’s going on here?”
“Win has a sister, but we aren’t exactly close.”
“How about friends?”
She shook her head.
The weight dragged him down like a two-ton barbell. Every instinct he had screamed for him to stay as far away from this case—and as far away from this woman—as possible. He’d been through this grind before. A beautiful woman witness to a crime. A sad story. A need for his help. And him racing in on his white steed only to be bucked off. He’d be a fool to subject himself to that kind of torture again.
A fool or a masochist.
As if she could see the path his mind was traveling, she thrust her chin forward. “Listen, I can take care of myself. Just find out who murdered Win. We may not have had much of a relationship, but he was my husband. He deserves justice.”
John pushed back from his desk and rose to his feet. The recliner and belt of Jack would have to wait because it didn’t look like he was going home any time soon. “I’ll look into it. But I’ll need your permission to search the house. I want to bring in the county sheriff and a crime scene unit.”
“Anything. I’ll call Marcella, our housekeeper. She can let you in and give you any help you need.”
“Good.” The ache in his shoulders eased slightly. The evidence. All he had to do was trust the evidence. Trust the facts and leave feeling out of this. “I suggest you check into a hotel. At least until I can figure out what’s going on.”
Her head bobbed in a tight little nod. She was scared. Of that he was sure. And if someone had run her car into the Green Valley quarry as she claimed, she had damn good reason.
“If you let me know where you’re staying, I’ll ask the Madison police to keep an eye out.” He gave her his best attempt at a reassuring smile. “You’ll be okay.”
ANDREA SLID the deadbolt home and followed it with the security chain. She’d been afraid a lot in her twenty-four years, but never as afraid as she was now.
She crossed the no-frills hotel room and lowered herself onto the bed. “Everything is going to be okay,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll survive this. I always do.”
She’d faced the streets of Chicago alone at fifteen years old. She’d faced Wingate’s temper alone. She’d faced the decision to leave him, even if she hadn’t gotten the chance. She’d faced all of it and she’d survived. So far. But she’d never had someone trying to kill her. And worse yet, she’d never faced the loss of her memory—her very mind.
She glanced at the phone sitting on the nightstand. She wasn’t totally alone. At least not as alone as she had been in that car last night. John Cohen had agreed to look into her story. He’d asked the Madison police to drive by the hotel and check on her. He’d promised to call as soon as he found anything.
When she’d first entered his office, she’d thought she was sunk. His dark intense eyes had seemed to drill right through her. His narrow face had seemed to harden against her, icy with cynicism. But as she told her story, she’d seen a transformation in him. Although he might still be skeptical, he’d listened. And when she’d finished explaining the unexplainable, he’d even seemed concerned. Far more than she’d gotten from another person in longer than she could remember.
And she still didn’t know what to make of it.
She slipped her legs under the sheets and blanket and pulled the covers up to her shoulders, hoping the warmth would still the shaking in her bones. She had to keep her wits about her. She had to be strong. Because although John Cohen had offered to help, she knew better than to rely on him. Or anyone. And if an enemy of Wingate’s had now set his sights on her, she might be up against more than she could handle this time.
Chapter Three
John sized up the man on the other side of the handshake. Even if Police Chief Gary Putnam wasn’t dressed in blue, the average neighborhood thug would make him as a cop from a mile away. Close-cropped hair, wide shoulders, and slightly square demeanor, he was the kind of man the public trusted. The kind of cop John loved to put on the witness stand.
Andrea Kirkland’s suspicions about the Green Valley police scrolled through his mind. If he was to pick a dirty cop—one who might want to silence the witness to a murder—Gary Putnam would be one of the last ones on his list.
Chief Putnam released the handshake and gestured John into his office. “Come in. It’s quieter in here. We can talk.”
John glanced over his shoulder at the tiny Green Valley police station. The place wasn’t exactly a hub of activity. A young woman dressed in plain clothes hunched over an old typewriter, employing the hunt-and-peck method. Other than that, the place was quieter than a morgue.
John stepped into the office anyway and settled in a plastic-seated chair.
Not bothering to close the door, the chief sat behind a cheap-looking desk, the office furnishings of a public servant. “You want to know about Andrea Kirkland? Yes, she phoned last night. About dusk.”
“And a woman named Ruth talked to her?”
“Yes. I was out on a call. Ruthie talked to Mrs. Kirkland just before she went home for the night.” He nodded in the direction of the young woman typing. “She radioed me immediately. Mrs. Kirkland said her husband was missing.”
“Did you check out her story?”
“I checked into it this morning. Very interesting situation.”
“How so?”
“Seems no one has seen Wingate Kirkland for a week. Both his office in Madison and his company headquarters in Chicago were under the impression he was spending the time at his estate. Seems he’s an avid deer hunter. The interesting part is that Mrs. Kirkland waited the entire week to report him gone.”
Interesting indeed. Of course, there was a chance she was telling the truth about that, too. John had heard of instances where a person blocked a traumatic event from his or her mind only to have it surface later. “She says she must have blocked his death. That the memory didn’t return until last night.”
“Is that what she says? She had amnesia or some damn thing? That’s a new one. I guess it goes along with what she told Ruthie.”
“What did she tell Ruthie?”
“Ask her yourself.” He glanced in the direction of the woman typing. “What did Andrea Kirkland say to you last night, Ruthie?”
The typewriter quit tapping. John turned in his chair in time to see the young woman cross the office. Her shoulder-length hair was expertly styled. Her skin was flawless. And her clothing, though baggy and a lifeless brown color, was obviously expensive and ultimately tasteful. Ruthie dressed as though she was twenty going on fifty. “She said she heard gunshots and saw Wingate lying on the floor. Anything else, she didn’t remember.”
The chief focused his sharp eyes on Ruthie. “And didn’t she say something about an oriental rug?”
“A Persian rug,” she corrected. “She remembered seeing Mr. Kirkland’s head resting on a Persian rug.”
That also squared with what she had told John. So far, so good.
Ruthie frowned slightly. “The funny thing was, I saw a man loading a rug into a van in front of the Kirkland house about a week ago. I assumed Mrs. Kirkland was redecorating or having it cleaned.”
“When exactly did you see this?”
“Last Monday, I think. I remember because Mrs. Kirkland was outside giving the man directions.”
A pain stabbed John’s gut. The ulcer kicking up again. “Are you sure it was Mrs. Kirkland?”
“I think so. It’s a long driveway. And the gate was closed. But there was a blond woman out there who looked like her. At least the way I remember Andrea Kirkland looking.”
Not the most reliable witness testimony he’d heard. Not by a long shot. “You haven’t seen Mrs. Kirkland in a while?”
“I’m afraid not. Even though I live next door, I haven’t seen her very much. She keeps to herself.”
“You live next door?” John tried to hide his surprise. The Wingate estate, a majestic old home Wingate Kirkland had restored and named after himself, was situated in a very exclusive rural development boasting one of the best views in Dane County. Although Ruthie’s hair was tastefully cut and her wardrobe expensive, if staid, he wouldn’t have pegged her for a member of the Kirkland’s social set.
She dipped her head as if slightly embarrassed. “I still live with my parents. I’m Ruth Banks. My father is Gerald Banks.”
“The judge?”
Ruthie smiled and nodded.
He knew Judge Banks well. The judge was notoriously tough on criminals. “Your father is a good man.”
“Most prosecutors think so.”
He smiled. The young woman was sharp. And the daughter of a judge would make a good witness. But from the sound of it, she didn’t see much. Not enough to prove anything, at any rate. “Do you remember what the van looked like?”
“It was blue. Kind of light blue like a robin’s egg.”
“Did it have a company logo on the side?”
She pursed her lips in thought. “Yeah. I think it was yellow. Or gold. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really pay attention.”
A blue van with yellow or gold logo. At least it was something for the police to follow up. Provided Andrea Kirkland wasn’t inventing the whole thing. A possibility he couldn’t ignore. Not until a body turned up. “Can you think of any reason Andrea Kirkland would tell us her husband was murdered if it isn’t true?”
Ruthie shook her head.
John glanced at Chief Putnam. “Can you, Chief?”
“You mean, why would she make it up?”
“If she did.”
He shrugged his square shoulders. “Attention. Isn’t that usually the thing? Maybe she’s bored with her big house and charity events.”
Was that the type of person Andrea Kirkland was? Even though John had only just met her, he couldn’t buy it. “And if she is telling the truth? If her husband is dead?”
“Then I doubt we’ll have to look any further than the obvious.”
John had a pretty good idea of where he was leading, but he bit anyway. “What is the obvious?”
“That he was killed for his money. He sure has a lot of it. And rumor has it, Andrea Kirkland is the sole beneficiary of his will.”
The ache returned to John’s gut in force. Andrea was either making up the whole story, or she was the number-one suspect in a murder. Hell of a choice.
The bleat of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. Excusing himself, he slipped out of the police chief’s office, grabbed the phone off his belt and hit the talk button. “Yeah.”
“Ace? It’s Mylinski.”
John grimaced at the nickname. Ever since an article praising his high conviction rate had run in the State Journal, Mylinski had latched onto the name. “Hey, Al.” County Detective Al Mylinski was heading up the search of the Kirkland house. And despite his penchant for assigning stupid nicknames to nearly everyone he worked with, there was no one John trusted more. If there was anything to find, Al would sure as hell find it. “What do you have?”
“The LumaLite put on a really pretty light show.”
John dragged in a deep breath. The LumaLite could show every trace of blood left at a crime scene, even when the blood wasn’t visible to the naked eye. “Where?”
“Under the rug on the study floor.”
“How much is there?”
“If someone cut himself, he needs more than a Band-Aid. There wasn’t a drop on the rug, though. Someone replaced the rug and tried to clean the floor. If it wasn’t for the LumaLite, we wouldn’t have found anything.”
“You didn’t happen to notice a body lying around to make this easier on all of us, did you?”
“Sorry. But judging from the size of this pool of blood, there’s a body out there somewhere. We’ll start with the woods after we’re finished with the house.”
John blew out a gust of breath he didn’t realize he was holding. At least one question was answered. Andrea didn’t invent the story. But she sure as hell seemed to be neck-deep in it. He shouldn’t be surprised. Like Putnam had said, start with the obvious. And the obvious in any murder was always the spouse.
He massaged the back of his neck and tried not to picture the graceful lines of Andrea Kirkland’s face, her slender body, the desperation in her eyes. There was a reason cynicism ran rampant in all areas of law enforcement. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it was warranted. And this case looked to be no different. Even if he wanted it to be.
“Gotta go. I’ll keep my eyes open for that body, Ace.”
“You do that, Al. You do that.” John hit the button to cut off the call and clipped the phone back on his belt. If anyone had to keep his eyes open from here on out, it was him.
ANDREA PULLED OPEN the hotel room door and looked into the brown eyes of John Cohen. Relief eased through her, pushing aside the fear that had kept her wide awake all night.
He’d called her on his cell phone first thing this morning and told her he’d be right over. And even though she’d met the man only yesterday, she’d felt relieved to hear his voice. And to hear he had news about Wingate’s murder, and she hoped the attack on her as well.
She swung the door wide. “Come in.”
He ambled through the door on long legs, but his stride was anything but relaxed. His gaze darted around the room as if he expected to see a dead body secreted behind the Magic Fingers hotel bed or propped on the luggage rack in the closet.
Her mouth went dry. Whatever he’d discovered was worse than she’d feared. “Did you find Win? Is he dead?”
“No, we haven’t found him. At least not yet. And as far as his condition, you’d probably know that better than anyone.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You said you saw your husband’s murder, didn’t you?”
“I was hoping I was wrong. That it was all a bad dream or something.” Her own words rang in her ears. She had been hoping exactly that. That her memories were a mistake. That Win was merely away on an unexpected business trip. That she could leave Wingate Estate and not look back.
But deep down she knew she’d been fooling herself. “Did you find something in the house?”
A muscle twitched along his jaw. “Yes. We did.”
The shiver spread over her skin and settled in her bones. “What did you find?”
Instead of answering, he strode across the room, his long legs eating the distance in three strides. “You said you remembered your husband lying on a Persian rug after he was shot. What room was the rug in?”
She searched her memory. She could see the rug clearly. See Win’s face contorting in pain. See the blood puddle underneath him like liquid tar soaking into silk. But she couldn’t see anything else. “I’m not sure. We have a Persian rug in the dining room, the library and Win’s study.”
“Did you have any of those rugs replaced or cleaned since your husband disappeared?”
“No. They were just cleaned last spring. Why are you asking these things?”
“Because a neighbor of yours told me a man removed a Persian rug from your home and loaded it into a van only a week ago.”
“That must have been him. That must have been the killer.”
“Maybe. But my witness said one more thing.”
“What?”
“That the man wasn’t alone. That you were with him.”
“Me?” Her pulse pounded in her ears. “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t have been.”
He stared at her, his eyes boring past her defenses as if laying bare her jumbled thoughts.
She shuddered. “I didn’t kill Wingate. I wouldn’t. You’ve got to believe me.”
John looked away, but it was too late. She could see the doubt play across his face, as plain as if he’d called her a liar.
He didn’t believe her. The realization slammed into her like a kick to the stomach. She splayed her hands in front of her. “If I’d killed my husband, why would I call the police? Why would I come to you for help? Why would I tell you about the rug in the first place?”
“Questions I’ve been asking myself as well. And believe me, if not for the fact that the evidence fits your story—as far-fetched as that story seems—you’d be in custody right now.”
“Custody?” The word chilled her blood like the biting November wind outside. “I’m telling the truth. Someone tried to kill me last night because of what I saw. What I remembered.”
“Ah, yes. There’s that. We have divers in the quarry looking for your car. Can we expect to find it?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Her voice sounded too shrill, too panicked.
A tired look descended into John Cohen’s eyes.
Andrea cringed. This was the reaction he expected from her. Angry. Defensive. As if she was trying to hide something—trying to hide her husband’s murder. She felt sick to her stomach. “Should I hire a lawyer?”
“Do you feel you need one?” His voice was a monotone. So different from the concerned note she’d convinced herself she’d heard yesterday. So different from what she wanted to hear. Needed to hear.
She shook her head. She hadn’t killed Wingate. That was all there was to it. John Cohen’s opinion shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter. “No. I don’t need one. I’m not guilty of anything. But I’m not sticking around for these accusations either.” There was only one thing for her to do. What she’d planned to do all along—before Wingate’s death, before she’d lost her memory, before she’d become the target of a killer in a black truck. She had to leave everything behind and start a new life.
A life where she would rely on no one but herself.
“Goodbye, Mr. Cohen. I should have known I wouldn’t get any help from your office.” Spinning on a heel, she strode from the room.
JOHN WATCHED Andrea retreat down the hotel’s long hallway. Damn. Barely 8:00 a.m. and it had already been one hell of a day.
When he’d decided to come to her hotel, to confront her with what he’d learned, he’d been angry. Angry she’d lied to him. Angry she’d used him. And most of all, angry with himself for wanting to believe her when he knew damn well he’d be disappointed in the end.
But he’d come anyway. For some reason, he’d had to see her face when he confronted her with the story Ruthie Banks had told him. He had to look into her eyes and know she was hiding something. He had to know she was guilty.