Incriminating Passion. Ann Voss Peterson
a breath through pursed lips, creating a soft whistle. Wingate Kirkland. Murdered. So even living in a gated rural estate and having more money than God couldn’t isolate a person from violence and villainy. What else was new? “Why haven’t I heard about this? I would think the news media would be all over Wingate Kirkland’s death.”
She gripped the arms of her chair. “No one knows yet.”
He raised his brows. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
“I don’t know what the beginning is exactly.”
“Then start as close as you can. When was your husband killed?”
“About a week ago, I think.”
“A week ago? You think?” He didn’t even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice. The rich really were a different breed from the rest of the human race. “Glad you could take time out from your busy schedule to finally report it.”
She raised her chin and looked him square in the eye. A show of superiority. An empty show, if her nervous fingers tangling together in her lap were any indication. “I would have reported it, but…”
“But what?”
“But I didn’t remember it until last night.”
“Your husband’s murder just slipped your mind?”
She untwined her fingers and splayed her hands in front of her in a pleading pose. “I must have blocked it. I mean, that happens sometimes, doesn’t it? My mind must have blocked out the murder until I was better able to deal with it.”
Maybe he should have had that belt of Jack before agreeing to talk to this woman. He needed a good buzz in order to swallow this wild tale. “Are you suggesting you had amnesia?”
“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