Cold Case Cop. Mary Burton
stories, the brass and Kit’s new husband, Pierce Landover, had screamed for the cops to find Kit and to make an arrest. Kirkland and a half-dozen other cops had worked nonstop for months. But there’d been no sign of Kit or her killer. “Pierce Landover won’t appreciate this.”
If she were concerned, she didn’t show it. “I can handle him.”
Kirkland shook his head. “Landover went to the mayor and then to the governor to have me fired when I couldn’t crack the case. My arrest record and a few connections of my own barely saved my ass.”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Can you confirm that you think that Kit’s dead?”
He drummed his fingers on his desk. “I didn’t say that. We never did determine what happened to Mrs. Landover.” And that fact still bothered him. He hated unsolved cases. “Look, Mackey, the Boston Police Department has a dozen homicides pending right now—cases with bodies. If you want to play Nancy Drew cover one of them.”
She ignored him. “Care to have a peek at a mock-up of next week’s Metro section?”
Alex watched as she dipped long fingers into her briefcase. “Why do I have the feeling I won’t like this?”
“You may really love it.” Her voice had a throaty quality that had him wondering what else she might love. “My articles have helped you solve cases before.”
“Let’s have it.”
She laid the Metro section in front of him. “This is how I envision the story laying out. A friend of mine in production did it for me.”
Above the fold was a full-color picture of Kit Landover. The woman was stunning. In her late twenties, she had that magical combination of womanly confidence and flawless looks. Her hypnotic gaze stared at the camera lens as if she knew a secret that everyone else wanted to know.
It had been two years since he’d seen Kit in the flesh. She’d arrived at a gallery opening on Pierce Landover’s arm, and had immediately stopped conversation. An indigo silk halter dress had clung to her high, full breasts, small waist and sizzling, tight body. Rich blond curls, parted on the side, had accentuated seductively high cheekbones and enhanced violet eyes.
Every man in the room had entertained erotic fantasies. Every woman in the room had oozed resentment.
Alex flipped the paper over and read the bold headline just below the fold. It read Socialite’s Disappearance Still Unsolved After One Year—Paper Seeking Tips. He shoved out a breath. “You’re opening a hornets’ nest, Mackey.”
Two slim gold bracelets jangled on her wrist as she ran a hand over her ponytail. “That was the idea. Anniversaries have a way of stirring things up, and I’m hoping this mock-up shakes people up and gets them talking to me. After a year, I’m banking on the fact that someone will remember something about Kit they hadn’t shared a year ago.”
He laid the paper down. “Do yourself a favor and drop this case.”
The glint in Mackey’s eyes told him his warning had fallen on deaf ears. “Do you have any theories on what happened to Kit?”
Tension rippled through his muscles. “I don’t comment on open cases.”
“Murder. Killing. Open. It’s not like you to be so unguarded, Kirkland. You must have a theory on this case.”
He didn’t usually make rookie mistakes around reporters. He stiffened and frowned. “Don’t use my words against me.”
She leaned forward, matching his glare. “There is more to this story, Kirkland. I can feel it.”
If he dropped his gaze a fraction he’d have a clear view of her cleavage. “What made you choose this story?”
She shrugged and glanced at her mock-up. “I’ve had the idea to do a cold-case article for a while. And the Kit Westgate case seemed the perfect choice.”
His gaze dropped to her breasts. Nice. He moved his gaze to her pale face and the faint sprinkle of freckles on her nose. “Find another case.”
She straightened. “No can do, Sergeant.”
“I’ve given you a friendly warning. Stay out of this.” But she was right. There was more to Kit’s disappearance, only he hadn’t been able to figure out what it had been.
She grinned. “Kirkland, please. Since when have I ever listened to your warnings?”
He almost laughed at that one. “Never.”
“Exactly.”
Mackey possessed a spark—a vitality—that made other women uninteresting. “Whoever was involved in Kit’s murder or disappearance covered their tracks carefully. You’re not going to shake anyone up with a mock-up.”
She rose as if sensing she’d get nothing more out of him. She picked up her briefcase. Her fingers were long, but her nails were neatly trimmed, unpolished and not fussy. “We’ll see. I’m betting something does happen.”
Rising, Alex ran his hand down his tie. “You’re a good, solid reporter, Mackey. Why stoop to a sensational case like this one?”
She frowned. “Regardless of her social standing, something bad happened to Kit Westgate Landover. And she deserves justice.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Come on, this isn’t really about justice. This is about headlines and advancing your career.”
She leaned forward, giving him a better view of her breasts. “Sure. I won’t lie. The headlines are a definite advantage. But I also want to know what happened to Kit.”
“This is still an open investigation. If you find something, bring it to me. And if I find out you’re holding back information, there’s going to be trouble.”
She smiled, moved toward his office door and rested her hand on the doorknob. “I would never hold back on you, Kirkland.”
“That’s a load of bull, and we both know it.”
She laughed and opened the door.
He watched her walk toward the elevator and muttered an oath. Damn, but he did admire the way her hips swayed.
Alex had the feeling that all hell was about to break loose.
Chapter 2
Monday, July 14, 10:05 a.m.
Tara hadn’t figured that Alex Kirkland would give a quote on this case. He was too good a cop to let his cards show. But she had got a sense of his frustration. It did bother him that Kit’s case had never been solved.
And she couldn’t resist seeing for herself that he was truly on the mend. She’d kept tabs on him while he was in the hospital recovering from the shooting that had shocked everyone.
Kirkland had been shot during a routine investigation. He and Detective Matthew Brady had gone to the home of a wealthy doctor to ask him questions about his wife’s suspicious death. The doctor had answered the front door armed with a loaded shotgun. According to Brady, Kirkland had reacted instantly. He’d pushed Brady out of harm’s way as he’d drawn his own gun. The doctor had fired, hitting Kirkland in the chest and thigh. The buckshot had nicked the femoral artery in his leg and punctured his lung. Kirkland had fallen to the ground but had fired his own weapon. The single shot had killed the doctor.
The entire exchange had happened in a split second, but Brady recognized that Kirkland was in bad shape. He was still conscious but in terrible pain and bleeding badly. Kirkland had nearly bled out before the paramedics got him to the hospital.
Three days after Kirkland’s shooting, Tara had snuck onto the ICU floor at Boston General. She’d told the doctors she’d been checking on Kirkland’s progress for a follow-up article on the shooting. They’d allowed her to peer through the glass walls of his room.
What she saw