Police Business. Julie Miller
Though A.J. knew his father’s car, even as a burnt-out skeleton in the police impound lot, the coroner had needed dental records to identify his father’s remains. His mother had needed a sedative, his sisters had needed a shoulder to cry on and he had needed to grow up and become the man his father wanted him to be.
He was still working on that last one.
With little more than a blink to betray the depth of guilt and hurt he buried inside him, A.J. shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and tried to hear Claire Winthrop’s truth.
“Your father doesn’t listen to you?” he asked.
Claire’s cheeks paled again, giving him the real answer. “So what were you thinking, Detective? About the offices?” she asked, defending her father by refusing to condemn him.
A little spark of anger kindled deep inside A.J., disrupting the Zen-like sense of calm that kept his temper in check, his priorities straight and his desires under control. How could a father ignore his own child? Dismiss her when she needed his support? Antonio, Sr. never had.
But he was years beyond giving vent to angry words. His personal opinions were irrelevant to the investigation, anyway. So he did what he did best. He played it cool and let the witness and the facts take the investigation where it needed to go.
He shrugged off any awareness that he’d gotten too personal with his questions. “I was thinking more along the lines that your killers stashed the body somewhere else until they could come back and move it later.”
Her eyes followed the movement of his lips, then lit with hope. “The supply closet.”
He’d checked the supply closet earlier. No dead assistant.
But she was already hurrying across the reception area to a black steel door. A.J. followed at a more deliberate pace. Claire Winthrop wasn’t looking for bodies. She was back to finding what she thought was the missing chair mat.
A.J. turned on the light for her and helped her move some chairs to uncover two plastic mats stacked on their sides against the wall. Her toes tapped an impatient rhythm as she tried to transform the items into a clue.
He tried to help. “Any idea how many are supposed to be in here?”
When she didn’t answer, he realized she had her back to him and hadn’t heard the question. As soon as he touched her shoulder, she spun around. Oh man, this was killing her. He could see the frustration carving squint lines beside her eyes. He could read what it was costing her to keep from screaming out loud in the tight set of her mouth.
“Who would know how many mats are supposed to be in here?” he asked.
He was fascinated with the way her eyes followed his lips whenever he spoke. It was an intimate connection that made him want to keep talking, that made him want to study her lips with equal thoroughness.
But Claire Winthrop was all about finding answers, not making a play for a world-weary homicide detective.
“Valerie would know. Or the chief maintenance engineer.”
Bam. Finally, the wake-up call he needed. Maintenance engineer. No matter how she sugarcoated the term, Claire Winthrop was the daughter of a multimillionaire while he was the custodian’s son. He had real crimes to solve, real victims to protect. A real world to live in.
He was done playing. It was late, he was tired and he was a damn lonely son of a gun for wasting even one moment feeling whatever the hell he was feeling for Claire Winthrop.
A.J. drew back the front of his jacket and hooked his thumbs into his belt, giving Claire a clear look at his guns, his badge and the seriousness of making a false report to the police. He needed the truth from her and he needed it now.
“How long were you gone tonight, Miss Winthrop? From the time you allegedly saw the murder to the time you returned to the 26th floor with your father?”
“I didn’t allegedly see anything.” Her temper spiked, then dissipated just as quickly. “I don’t know. I didn’t check my watch until I got home. Maybe two hours. Maybe less.”
Was that enough time to completely erase a crime scene? Or just enough time for a needy young woman to perfect an elaborate lie?
He waited for her to turn off the light and close the closet door behind her. “Since there’s no body for us to look at, maybe you could tell me more about this man with the gun you saw?”
“I’ve already given a physical description to you and Detective Taylor.”
“Tell me again.”
“So you can catch me in a lie?” she challenged. Her probing eyes locked onto his.
Definitely not as fragile as she looked. A.J. pulled out his notepad and pen to add credence to his request. “So I can find some truth to back up your claim.”
Her defensive posture sagged on a weary breath.
“All right. One more time.” He fell into step beside her and went back to Winthrop’s office. “How tall are you, Detective?” she asked, turning to face him inside the doorway.
“Five-ten.”
“Then I’d say this man was about six-one or six-two. He had hair as black as yours, longer, combed back. But his skin was pale. Almost sallow-looking. And there was acne scarring all over it.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if replaying the scene in her mind…or reviewing the details of her story. When her eyes sprang open, he was reminded again of just how blue they were—like a clear spring sky. “His suit and shirt were black, and his clothes fit as if they had been personally tailored for him. The man had money. But then I suppose professional hit men make—”
“Hit men?” A.J. slapped his notepad shut. His attention flashed back to the murder of Ray “Slick” Williams at the Jazz Note. That had been a professional job, not the work of some penny-ante thug guarding his territory. KCPD had even issued a profile on the type of man they were looking for.
Tall. Well-dressed. Probably wearing dark clothes to blend in with the shadows. Armed and extremely dangerous.
Hell. Had she read about Slick’s death in the papers? Had he been about ready to buy into a crime because her story reminded him of his father’s claim? Because her pretty blue eyes and articulate mouth stirred up a few hormones?
Being played for a fool didn’t ruffle his feathers. Feeling any kind of attraction to the woman playing him did. “What do you know about hit men, Miss Winthrop?”
He wondered if she could pick up subtle nuances in vocal tones, or if he’d revealed something in his expression. Her shoulders went back and she crossed her arms in a classic defensive posture. “You don’t believe me.”
“There’s nothing here to corroborate your story.” This woman needed some help. But not the kind a cop could give her. “There’s no sign of forced entry. No sign of struggle. No blood. No body.”
But she wouldn’t let the damn farce die. She paced the room, still searching for a way to make her story stick as she began to speak and sign again. “I could go down to your office to look through some mug-shot books. Or talk to a sketch artist. I have classes in the morning, but I could come in right after that.”
Sure. Waste some more of his time.
But the taunt never left his lips. Instead, the phone on Winthrop’s desk rang. On the second ring, Claire touched the receiver, as though using the vibrations to verify whatever sound she must have heard. “Daddy?”
It rang again before Cain Winthrop dashed in and picked up the receiver. “Winthrop here.” His blue eyes nailed Claire’s, warning her to pay attention. “Yes. I’ll accept the charges.”
The older man reached out for his daughter. He smoothed the hair across her crown, practically patting her on the head as if she was still a child. Then he smiled. “Thank God,” he said into the phone.