Incriminating Passion. Ann Voss Peterson
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.
But all he’d done was chase her out of the hotel before she’d told him anything.
Closing the hotel room door behind him, he started down the hall in the direction she’d gone. An elevator door chimed. He lengthened his stride, reaching Andrea’s elevator just as the door closed.
He spotted the red exit sign and yanked open the stairwell door. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, illuminating the stark stairs. He raced down the steps, his footfalls and breathing echoing against concrete. Reaching the bottom, he exploded into the lobby. Scanning the modest space, he spotted Andrea through the glass entry door.
She stood on the sidewalk looking over the nearly deserted parking lot, as if waiting for a ride. Her hair gleamed, clean and shiny, and flowed over her shoulders in a heavy blond wave. A far cry from the straggly mess he’d seen last night. And although the bruises still shadowed her jaw and hairline, the sunlight brought out a peach glow in her skin he’d thought could only be achieved with a cinematographer’s artful lighting or the delicate touch of an airbrush.
Damn, she was an attractive woman. No wonder he’d wanted to believe her. If he had a brain left in his head, he’d turn this case over to Kit Ashner or some other rabid, female ADA in the office and stay as far away from Andrea Kirkland as possible.
Instead he crossed the lobby and pushed through the glass door. “Andrea.”
She didn’t turn around, as if she’d known he was watching her all along. “What do you want now?”
Good damn question. What did he want? For her to be innocent? For her to restore his faith in humanity? His faith in the value of his job? None of those things were going to happen.
Then why was he here? “I want to ask you a few more questions.”
“Why? So you can prove I murdered my husband? So you can throw me in jail?”
“Only if you’re guilty.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Then answer my questions.”
She plunked hands on hips in a show of strength. But despite her bravado, he could see her hands shake. “Maybe I should get myself a lawyer.”
He gestured to the parking lot. “Fine. Do you have one in mind? I’ll give you a ride to his office. It’ll save me a trip later.”
Her bravado faltered, and suddenly she was shaking all over. Tears glittered in the corners of her eyes. She blinked, the moisture spiking her lashes. “Please, leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that.” Oh hell. If there was anything he hated, it was making a woman cry. Especially a woman like Andrea Kirkland. Unless it was all an act, of course. God knew some women could summon crocodile tears every time they needed to weasel out of a speeding ticket. But somehow he couldn’t deny the feeling that Andrea Kirkland wasn’t one of them. “Listen, your husband was a bastard. It sounds like he was asking for whatever he got. Maybe he tried to hit you. Maybe you killed him in self defense.”
“It didn’t happen that way. I was leaving him. I didn’t kill him.”
“Maybe you didn’t do it yourself. Maybe someone else got out of hand. Maybe you never intended for your husband to die.”
She shook her head, her hair sweeping across one eye. “I didn’t kill Wingate. I didn’t help anyone kill Wingate.”
“But you don’t remember. Who’s to say—”
“I don’t need to remember. I never could have hurt Wingate. I never could have hurt anyone.” She closed her eyes. When she opened them, tears spiked her lashes with moisture. “I’m waiting for a cab. Please let me wait in peace.”
He shook his head, a last-ditch effort. “Cabs take forever to arrive in this city. I have a car. Why don’t you let me drive you?”
“I’ll take a bus.” She stepped past him and into the parking lot.
Rubber screeched on pavement. A pickup circled the corner of the hotel. A black Dodge with tinted windows. It accelerated,