Cold Case Cop. Mary Burton
go into his room, but had lingered several feet back. The doctor had said that the injury would have killed most.
Now, despite the July heat, the memory still had the power to send chills down Tara’s spine.
With an effort, she tried to focus on the fact that he looked good now. His tall, lean frame remained taught and muscular. Time in the sun had left his skin tanned and his newly cut brown hair a shade lighter. He looked good. Real good.
She parallel-parked her beat-up white Toyota on the exclusive, tree-lined Beacon Hill side street. This exclusive area of Boston screamed old money and privilege. And it set her nerves on edge.
She shut off the car engine. She didn’t do well with snobby, rich people. They made her feel awkward and somehow less because she didn’t have blue blood in her veins. Intellectually, she understood this was stupid, a reaction to a sad episode in her past, but no amount of inner pep talks quite erased her feeling of inferiority.
Skimming fingers over her ponytail, she reminded herself that she’d been a reporter for nine years and had interviewed some of the most powerful and dangerous people in Washington, D.C. and Boston. She’d written about politicians, murderers, arsonists and sophisticated white-collar crooks. An old rich guy living on Beacon Hill wasn’t going to throw her off her game.
Tara pocketed her keys and grabbed her briefcase, slid out of the car and closed the door. Halfway down the block her cell phone rang. She dug the phone out of her purse. Caller ID confirmed it was her editor, Miriam Spangler.
Tara flipped the phone open. “I am on my way to Landover’s as we speak, Miriam.”
“Remember, don’t piss him off.” Miriam’s voice was gruff, a product of thirty years of chain smoking. “His family is as powerful as the Kennedy clan. Rile him up and there could be hell to pay.”
That comment irritated Tara. “I can handle myself, Miriam.”
“You do have a temper, sweetie. It’s why you left D.C.”
“It’s one of the reasons I left D.C. And I’ve learned my lesson.”
As if she hadn’t spoken, Miriam said, “Don’t push this too hard. If Landover says to drop it, drop it.”
Tara’s blood shot past the boiling point in a second. “Yesterday you were salivating when I showed you the mock-up of the article and pitched the idea.”
Miriam blew smoke into the receiver. “I had all night and most of this morning to conjure a thousand devastating scenarios in my head. Most of them included me without a job or a pension. If and when this article runs, it’s going to be dicey.”
Tara muttered a few choice words. “When did you get to be so timid?”
“Since I realized I’m two years away from collecting a full pension.”
Frustration fueled Tara’s anger. “My readership has been growing steadily, and this is the kind of story that will hit home with them. Remember, you gave me the go-ahead to look into Kit Westgate Landover’s case.”
“I know. I know.”
“Think about it, Miriam. This is the stuff of Pulitzers. Network news coverage. Book deals. When I go to the top I’ll be telling everyone you were the star editor behind me. I will make you famous and position you for your own book deal.”
Miriam sighed. “We both know I didn’t want to fade quietly into retirement.”
She smiled, knowing she’d hit all Miriam’s hot buttons. “Exactly.”
“All right. Go for it. But please just be careful, Tara.”
“I will be fine.” Tara closed her cell and shoved it in her briefcase as she reached Landover’s house. Standing on the sidewalk, she stared up at the corner-lot mansion. The home had been built in the seventeen hundreds and was steeped in history. This had always been an exclusive pricey area of Boston, but in today’s market this place was worth a king’s ransom.
She climbed the stone steps to the black, lacquered front door. A pineapple brass door knocker hung in the door’s center.
Tara rapped the knocker twice against the massive door. The sound echoed inside the house. She moistened her lips and stood a little straighter.
Miriam’s and Kirkland’s words nagged her as she tried not to fidget. They were right. She had a hot head. Back in D.C., she probably shouldn’t have called that senator an idiot. But she was smart enough to learn from her mistakes. She could handle Pierce Landover if she could get in to see him.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway inside. If her luck held, she’d get Landover’s maid, or someone else who didn’t know her. She then might be able to get into the house and maybe see Landover. There’d been times in the past when she’d talked her way into situations and gotten great quotes.
But there’d also been times when she’d been tossed out and threatened with legal action.
That could be today’s scenario if Cecilia Reston, Landover’s personal assistant for the last twenty-five years, answered the door. Reston protected her employer with the ferocity of a bulldog. And she’d have no trouble reporting Tara to the cops.
Tara glanced at her black flats and, seeing dust on them, quickly rubbed them against the panty hose under her pant leg.
The door opened to a very young woman dressed in a maid’s outfit. She had dark, straight hair pulled back with a rubber band and big brown eyes that telegraphed naïveté. “Yes?”
Tara smiled brightly. “I’m Tara Mackey. I have an appointment with Mr. Landover.”
The young maid frowned as if confused. “I didn’t realize he was seeing people today. Are you here about the clothes he’s giving away?”
Tara wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “Clothes?”
“His wife’s clothes. He’s giving all her gowns away to charity.”
“Ah, yes. She had such stunning gowns. We have a ten-thirty appointment to discuss the gowns,” she said without blinking.
The maid nodded and stepped aside. “If you’ll wait here.”
Tara’s heart jumped, but she kept her cool as she stepped inside. “Thank you.”
So Landover was giving away Kit’s dresses. Was it a sign that the old man was moving on with his life?
The maid hurried up the carpeted spiral staircase and down the upstairs hallway. Her footsteps faded away. Tara was left alone in the foyer.
She studied the marbled foyer’s black-and-white polished floor. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and caught the morning sunlight, which streamed in through a transom above the door. Across from the door stood an antique Chippendale table pushed against the wall. On the table sat a Chinese vase filled with fragrant, freshly cut roses. The understated decor was all very elegant and expensive and not to her taste at all. She liked simple and unpretentious pieces that were often used and had a quirky history.
To her left, a set of tall mahogany doors stood ajar, giving her a peek into the receiving parlor. Unable to resist, she moved to the open door and looked inside. Immediately her gaze was drawn to the huge painting of Kit that hung over the brick fireplace. In the portrait, Kit wore a soft pink strapless dress that cloaked her lithe body like a second skin. Her blond hair was swept up into a chignon, and a stunning diamond pendant necklace dipped into her full cleavage. Teardrop gems dangled from her ears, and a thick diamond bracelet circled her wrist. Tara recognized the gems in the portrait. They were the ones Kit had been wearing on her wedding day—the ones that had vanished with her and were reported to be worth fifteen million dollars.
Tara glanced up the staircase to see if anyone could see her. Satisfied that she was alone, she pulled out her cell phone, quickly snapped a picture.
The sound of footsteps on the landing had her stepping