Kitabı oku: «Police Business»

Standing outside in the rain with Claire last night, A.J. hadn’t been thinking like a cop…

He hadn’t been thinking of her as a witness who could break a case wide open for him, hadn’t been thinking of her as an heiress who was way out of his league. He hadn’t been thinking of her as a kid who was more than a decade younger than him and twice as innocent about the world.

He’d been thinking of Claire as a woman. A damn sexy, irresistible woman.

And she’d touched him. Those fingers had cupped his face and demanded he notice her.

He had.

Maybe not in the way she’d intended, but he noticed plenty. Clingy, wet silk, slender curves beneath his hands, dewy lips begging to be kissed. She’d asked him in every way without actually saying the words.

And he’d almost done it.

But common sense had prevailed. His training had prevailed.

So, no kiss. But he hadn’t been right since.

Police Business
Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Maxie Fireball Miller, my faithful writing companion. You make me get up and walk, you always tell me when the UPS man is here, you let me know when it’s time to go get the boy after school and you keep life interesting.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

A. J. Rodriguez—A legend in undercover work at KCPD. This son of a custodian used to be the one causing trouble out on the streets. Now he’s the one taking the trouble right to the criminals’ doorsteps. No matter what side of the tracks they live on.

Claire Winthrop—A sheltered society princess who’d like nothing more than to break free of her wealthy father’s overprotective shadow to get a real job and have a real life. But witnessing a murder wasn’t the type of reality she was looking for.

Cain Winthrop—Self-made multimillionaire. His love for his hearing-impaired daughter might get her killed.

Deirdre Gunn-Winthrop—Cain’s second wife. She didn’t marry for love.

Gabriel Gunn—He’s ready to take over his stepfather’s business empire.

Gina Gunn—Claire’s stepsister. Is she on the fast track to earn her own cool million? Or is she after something else?

Marcus Tucker—Chief of Security for Winthrop Enterprises.

Amelia Ward—The office temp.

Peter Landers—An old friend on Winthrop’s board of directors.

Rob Hastings—Executive hotshot with an eye on the boss’s daughter.

Dominic Galvan—He always gets his man—or woman.

Antonio Rodriguez, Sr.—Former custodian at Winthrop Enterprises, whose murder is the only one his son, A.J., has never been able to solve.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Detective A. J. Rodriguez sank low behind the steering wheel of his sleek, black Trans Am and peered over the restored leather dashboard into the neon glare and masking shadows of the drizzly Kansas City night.

He hated stakeouts. His coffee was cold, his bladder was full and his left shoulder ached from sitting still for so long in the damp, chilly air.

But he didn’t complain. He’d given up the luxury of whining about the challenges and discomforts of life almost two decades ago.

Instead, with his endless patience and chameleonlike ability to blend in with his surroundings, he knew he was well-suited to such a job. That patience was a testament to his father’s spirit and sacrifice, while his undercover expertise was a by-product of the years he’d wasted before coming to understand that Antonio Joseph Rodriguez, Sr. was a better man than any of the cool cats or hotshots on the street could ever hope to be.

A.J.’s father had been a better man than he could ever hope to be.

Static buzzed in the tiny earphone he wore beneath the black knit cap that masked his equally dark hair. His slow smile was the only movement giving any indication that his partner, Josh Taylor, was about to speak. “Hey, A.J. You got anything down at your end? This has got to be the slowest damn nightclub I’ve ever seen. I’ve only counted one couple going in during the past hour, and no one’s come out. You think it’s the band or the booze that sucks?”

“I’d say it’s the two hours we’ve been watching the door.”

“I’m supposed to be the comic relief, remember?” Since Josh was hiding out, too, his laugh was barely a whisper in A.J.’s ear. “Our informant said the meeting was at midnight. It’s nearly that now.”

“Give it time, amigo.”

For eight months, they’d had nothing but time, it seemed. Somebody was running drugs out of the Jazz Note, the umpteenth incarnation of a nightclub to occupy the same building in the tony arts and entertainment district of KC known as Westport. And while the club’s current owner seemed legit, KCPD hadn’t been able to pinpoint anyone who frequented the place often enough to make it a profitable distribution hub. The investigation had grown cold.

Until one of the patrons had been found stabbed to death in the men’s room. Not just any patron. But Mort Firth, a two-bit dealer from the seedy KC neighborhood known as no-man’s-land, who’d been infringing on someone else’s territory. Suddenly, a case that had been the drug squad’s purview for so long had been reassigned to homicide. And A.J. and Josh had been called in to investigate.

Mort had been the third small-time dealer taken out in a murder that wasn’t gang-related in as many years. A.J.’s streetwise gut told him that the perp was no vigilante cleaning up the streets of KC. This was something bigger. An unknown scourge was moving in and killing off the competition.

Slowly, subtly taking over.

And it was up to KCPD to stop it. A.J. spared a glance at his watch. Straight-up midnight. Their informant, Edgar Vaughn—Mort’s former business associate—said that turf negotiations were going to take place at midnight at the Jazz Note between a dealer nicknamed Slick and an unknown suspect. All A.J. and Josh had to do was follow Edgar’s dealer inside the club and find out whom he met with. One picture—and maybe a fingerprint and some eaves-dropping—would be worth a thousand words when it came to breaking open the case.

The low-pitched hum of a well-tuned engine passed by and A.J. lifted his gaze in appreciation as much as curiosity. A pricey steel-gray sedan pulled into an empty parking space across from the Jazz Note. The car itself was polished enough to fit in with the neighborhood’s cruise-by clientele of affluent baby boomers, yet nondescript enough to avoid drawing too much attention from the locals.

But the guy who climbed out didn’t fit either category. His dark, pin-striped suit and the silver tie he adjusted as he scanned his surroundings weren’t casual enough for the club. And no way was he one of the working class residents of the area.

Slick. A.J. scooted up in his seat, his blood pumping quicker in even-paced anticipation. “Josh.”

“I see him.”

He didn’t need Edgar to step from an alleyway and follow the dealer in for A.J. to know their man had arrived. With a brief glance up and down the empty street, he got out of the car, straightened his black leather jacket over the bulge of the guns at either side of his waist and strolled toward the front door of the Jazz Note.

“I’ll come in through the alley entrance and try to spot him from that direction.” Josh was moving, too.

Once through the club’s glass door, A.J. paid the cover charge and slipped inside. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dark interior, though the heavy scents of smoke and alcohol were a little harder to get used to. He let the lazy beat of the electric bass onstage set the rhythm of his movements as he followed the suspect at a discreet distance. First, an uneventful trip to the men’s room. Then to the bar.

Slick ordered a double scotch. Neat. His furtive glances over the rim of his glass before he bolted the amber liquid were a dead giveaway to A.J.’s trained eye. The man was nervous. Probably had never been to the Jazz Note before. Maybe had never even met his contact.

His nervous energy put A.J. on guard as he tailed Slick to an empty booth away from the stage.

A.J. found a seat at a table nearby and ordered a beer. With a wink and a decent tip for the waitress, he took an obligatory sip and tapped his foot in time with the soulful, driving music. Josh stood at the end of the bar, using the mirror behind the bartender to keep their man in sight.

A half hour later, the crowd began to thin out.

Slick was on his third scotch. And the mystery guest he was supposed to meet hadn’t showed.

“Edgar’s heading for the door.” Josh’s voice whispered over the radio. “You think we’ve been set up?”

A.J. had memorized the face of every person in the club, from the teenager bussing tables to the blind, balding maestro working magic at the piano. Something deep in his bones was trying to tell him that this didn’t feel right. That there weren’t enough people here for a club that played music this hot. It was as if he were watching a play, and each patron and employee was an actor carefully placed around the stage.

“I think our man’s been set up.” Suffused with an instantly wary energy that didn’t change his outward appearance, A.J. shoved aside his warm beer. He used a subtle nod at the buxom waitress for a fresh drink as an opportunity to scan the room one more time. What he was looking for, he wasn’t sure. Trouble. Someone else keeping a curious eye on their man. He tossed a five onto the table and whispered into his microphone. “You follow Edgar. I’ll stick with Slick.”

In the minutes that followed, the band played its last number and started to pack up. Odd. The lights didn’t come up. There was no announcement about the last call for drinks—as if someone didn’t want the few remaining patrons to move. Slick checked his watch and made a call on his cell phone that was more about cursing than conversation.

After hanging up, Slick downed the last swallow of scotch and shot to his feet. He grabbed his forehead and swayed a couple of steps as the booze hit him hard. Great. He’d fished his keys out of his pocket. Drunk drivers were about as high on A.J.’s list as drug dealers. As Slick staggered past him, he wondered if the waitress or bartender would say something. He wondered if he could stop Slick somehow without giving away his presence.

Hell. A.J. blinked and cast the thoughts aside. This wasn’t about a personal agenda. He had a job to do.

By the time Slick had stumbled through the front door, A.J. was close on his heels. He lingered out of sight beneath the awning over the Jazz Note’s door and kept his man in sight. “He’s outside, Josh. Our boy’s been stood up.”

“I see him.” Josh would be hiding somewhere in the shadows as well. “Edgar grabbed a cab about five minutes ago. He seemed pretty eager to get of here.”

“I don’t blame him. Something’s going down.”

Figure it out, A.J. Figure it out. He scanned every inch of the street, studied empty storefronts, read license plates, shook his head at the drunken man cursing the car that nearly ran him down in the middle of the street.

Slick dropped his keys to the pavement before squeezing them in his grip and unlocking the car door.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Talk to me, A.J.” A.J. left the shadows. He reached for his gun, feeling the threat in the air like a hand at his throat. “We’re gonna lose our guy.”

“A.J.?”

“This is a hit.”

Slick fell in behind the wheel and slammed the door.

“A.J.!”

A light sparked beneath the hood of Slick’s car and the silver sedan exploded in a thunderous crash that slammed A.J. to the sidewalk and rained down a cloud of flying debris and rolling flames.

Chapter One

“Daddy…”

No. Though that had been the pet name Claire Winthrop had called her father all twenty-three years of her life, it wasn’t professional enough for the request she intended to make.

Hearing the ding of the elevator only as a metallic buzz, she watched the lights marking each floor blink on and off above the doors as she rode up to the executive suites on the top floor of Kansas City’s Winthrop Enterprises Building.

She rehearsed the beginning of her well-planned speech, trying to keep the excitement she felt from blurring the careful articulation of her voice. “Dad. The Forsythe School asked if I would be interested in working for them full-time next semester. As a middle school counselor. They’re pleased with my volunteer work with the adolescents.”

Opening her hand, Claire smiled at the proof of her success in her palm. A gold smiley-face pin with Forsythe etched into the back. It was probably gold-plated. Well, maybe just gold-colored since it had been a gift from the students themselves. But it was every bit as precious as her mother’s pearls she wore around her neck.

Claire fastened the pin onto the lapel of her pink silk suit. Her father hadn’t been able to attend the school awards banquet that night; but then, he was such a busy man. That was the excuse she used, at any rate, to take the sting out of his dismissal of her need to work. She lifted her chin again, to watch the floor numbers fly by. She was proud of her paraprofessional and tutoring work with special needs preteens and teenagers. Thrilled to discover she had a knack for listening.

She almost laughed at that one. But her father wouldn’t see the ironic humor. So she went back to practicing what he did understand—facts and numbers and a concise presentation.

Clenching her hands into fists to keep them still at her sides, she continued. “I would need to go back to school to earn my graduate degree, Dad. And take a test to be licensed for therapist’s certification. But they’re willing to pay for my classes. This is an opportunity for me to make a career for myself.”

Too many Rs. Claire puffed out a nervous breath and raked her chin-length swath of hair away from her temples. Just as quickly, she smoothed the straight, champagne-colored strands back into place, covering up the tiny speech processors most people mistook for hearing aids that were hooked behind her ears.

She was always self-conscious when she spoke out loud, knowing her dull R sounds and practiced consonants were a dead giveaway to her hearing loss. But her father didn’t like to sign. He claimed the visual expression only pointed out the shortcomings he already felt so responsible for. And while she could read lips, he needed to hear the actual words in order to communicate clearly with her. Speaking like a normal person would go a long way toward convincing him that she was ready to do more than volunteer part-time at the school.

Claire stretched her neck in the swan-like arch that fifteen years of dance lessons had given her. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, straightening her petite body to its utmost height and easing the tension that had gathered in her muscles.

She could do this. She would do this.

Cain Winthrop might want his daughter to stay at home, host quiet dinner parties and stay out of the limelight until some handsome young man whisked her away to stay at his home to host quiet dinner parties and stay out of the limelight, but Claire had different plans in mind. She had the money, brains and desire to pursue any career she wanted—or ramrod the success of any charity. She could make a difference in the lives of people who needed someone to make a difference.

If her father would let her.

If he’d trust her to make smart decisions.

If he’d believe she could be safe in the world without his well-meaning protection shadowing her every step of the way.

But she had a lot of years of love and ingrained habits to overcome. Cain Winthrop was used to doing things his way. Running his business empire his way. Taking care of his daughter and stepchildren his way.

Claire intended to change that. Just a little. It was time to make a place for herself in the world.

Her way.

Feeling the gentle roll of her stomach that told her the elevator was slowing its ascent, Claire opened her eyes and watched the number 26 light up. She took a deep breath, clutched her purse beneath her arm and fixed a smile on her face. “Okay, Dad.” She crossed her fingers and added a prayer. “Please listen.”

The doors slid open onto the shadows of the twenty-sixth floor. The receptionist’s desk stood empty and the waiting area was dark. Claire stepped out and turned along the plush carpet toward her father’s suite of offices.

Even with the sharp bite of spring air outside to lure him to the family’s cabin and the promise of fishing on Truman Lake, she knew her father would keep late hours until the weekend. She’d purposely waited until after her school dinner to pay him this surprise visit, allowing the office plenty of time to clear out so that they were less likely to get interrupted.

With a fortified sense of purpose, Claire walked past her stepbrother Gabriel’s empty office and its dark interior. She strode past the senior vice-president’s office and saw that Peter Landers had gone as well. Her stepsister Gina’s office was dark. The corporate attorney’s office, dark.

A chilling sense of unease tried to work its way beneath her resolve. She’d never cared much for dark places. She was already at a disadvantage, knowing she couldn’t hear anything or anyone sneaking up on her. Not being able to see an approaching danger, either, could make her doubly paranoid if she allowed her fear to take hold.

As a young girl, trying to adjust to the cochlear implants inside her head, those bumps in the night that startled other children had been real terrors for her as distorted electronic sounds she hadn’t learned to identify shrieked into her ears. It didn’t help that the last actual sounds she’d heard had been her own screams of pain and loss as she battled the tropical fever virus that took 97% of her hearing and killed her mother.

Claire breathed easier as she rounded the corner and a soft glow of light greeted her with reassuring warmth. Beyond a private waiting area, she spotted the boardroom and her father’s offices, all lit up. His faithful executive assistant, Valerie Justice, must still be working late as well, judging by the brightness flooding through her open doorway. Valerie wouldn’t mind giving father and daughter some time alone. For twenty-odd years, she’d been nothing but discreet when it came to taking care of not just the family business, but the family itself.

Here, too, the carpeting gave way to the polished mahogany flooring her father had imported from Venezuela. The decor changed as well, as solid walls gave way to alternating black steel and clear glass panels, giving her glimpses of the interior of each room. A black leather seating group sat in the middle of a central waiting area, adorned by tropical plants, exotic animal prints and a custom-built aquarium nearly twelve feet long that divided the sofa, chairs and coffee table from the circle of private rooms.

Claire repeated the words inside her head, squelching the urge to sign them as well. Dad. I’ve been offered a wonderful chance to—

A bone-deep thud shook the floor beneath her feet and Claire halted in her tracks. She felt another vibration through the soles of her Manolo Blahniks and saw the water in the aquarium ripple against the side of the tank.

“What the…?”

Missouri hadn’t had a big earthquake since the late 1800s, and there wasn’t enough wind outside to make the steel-and-limestone building sway.

She glanced over her shoulder at the tunnel of darkness that filled the hallway behind her. Had a cleaning crew come in? Knocked over a bucket? Slammed a door? Was the security guard making his rounds early?

Had one of those unknown terrors just gone bump in the night?

Claire opened her mouth and turned to call out to her father. But she snapped it shut just as quickly and retreated into the shadows as a tall, black-haired stranger stepped into view beyond the open doorway to her father’s office. The man’s black suit and tie made him appear as little more than a silhouette against the cream-colored walls inside.

But there was no mistaking the gun he held in his black-gloved hands, or the methodic precision with which he unscrewed the long, tubular silencer from its steel tip and slipped both items into the holster beneath his jacket.

Oh, my God.

He’d shot someone!

Claire swung her gaze over to Valerie’s office and back to her father’s. The assistant hadn’t run out to check on the noises. But with a silencer, maybe Valerie hadn’t heard the shots.

Technically, Claire hadn’t heard anything, either. The vibrations she’d felt could have been the concussions of the gun. Or a body hitting the floor. Or the bashing in of someone’s head. Someone being shoved against the wall. A fight—

Stop it!

Tears pricked Claire’s eyes. The breath stopped in her chest. But she forced herself to think rationally, to be aware of the danger at hand. Clutching at the pearls around her neck, she fought to dispel the image of her father, dead in his chair.

Nonchalantly standing there in her father’s office, the man in black stared down at his handiwork with cold, dark eyes. “I’ll come back for the body.”

Claire could read the promise on his lips clear across the waiting room. Body? Someone was dead. The man in black had just killed…

“Daddy?” she whispered the unthinkable thought, squeezing her fist so tightly that her necklace snapped.

A sharp gasp was the only curse she allowed herself as the clasp broke and pearls fell into her hand. She twisted to keep her elbow close to her body to catch the falling strand in the crook of her arm. Tiny knots kept most of the beads together in one string, but she contorted herself to catch two, three…but a fourth hit the floor, bounced off the hard wood and rolled away into the darkness.

To Claire’s ears, there was no sound.

But in her mind, the bounce was deafening.

She whipped her head up to the lighted doorway. How loud was a single pearl? How good was the man in black’s hearing?

How dead would she be if she were caught?

Concern for her father dimmed, and fear for herself blazed through her veins in full force.

Claire dropped to her haunches and crawled toward the aquarium, her instincts warning her to duck behind its thick mahogany base. Or maybe it was the pounding of her racing heart that made her suddenly too light-headed to stand. Daddy! She cried the word inside her head, knowing he wasn’t there to help. She shoved the remains of the traitorous necklace inside her jacket pocket and tucked her legs beneath her, making herself as small as a child, hiding before the man turned and spotted her.

If it wasn’t already too late.

Claire blinked and the tears spilled over to run down her cheeks. But she held her breath and disappeared from view between the jungle-size plants and their low, sheltering branches. She counted the seconds off silently in her head until her lungs burned and forced her to inhale.

With fresh oxygen came a fresh thought. He hadn’t found her. He hadn’t snatched her up by the hair or arm, or put a bullet through her head. She hadn’t felt his footsteps through the floor or smelled him walking past, either.

Feeling safe for the moment, something new—something harder, tougher, angrier—slipped past her fear and grief, clearing her head.

With a bold sense of purpose, Claire scooted to the end of the aquarium and peeked through the camouflage of leaves. From this angle she could see the man with the gun. Above the partition that blocked his lower body from view, she memorized the shape of his face, the cut of his hair and every acne-pocked scar on his deeply tanned cheeks.

She swiped the tears from her cheeks and squinted harder, noting the movements of his long, thin lips. He was talking again. Having a conversation. Though the second person remained hidden from view behind a steel panel, she could interpret his pauses and nods.

At this distance, she couldn’t hear the words. But then, Claire didn’t need to.

“That’s number four on your list,” the man said.

Four dead bodies? He’d killed others? Why? Inching closer, she pressed her shoulder into the aquarium’s base and eavesdropped with her eyes. Who was he?

The man in black frowned. His eyes narrowed as he tilted his chin. “You don’t tell me when or where I do the job. When you hire me, all you have to know is that the job will get done.” He smiled. It was a cold, evil thinning of his lips that twisted Claire’s stomach into knots. “Think of it as insurance for both of us. You know that the people in your way have been disposed of. And I know you won’t turn me in if someone figures out that you’re the one behind all this.”

Another pause. Who was he talking to? Who would want her father dead? Where was Valerie? Claire read the argument on his lips.

“Relax. I’m too good at my job for anyone to find me, much less find out who hired me.” He buttoned his suit coat over his gun. “The last two will be eliminated once I feel the timing is right. In the meantime, I’ll expect another deposit into my account for this one. By ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Or you’ll find your name on my list. No charge.”

His partner must have said something that displeased the man in black. His thready smile became an ugly frown.

“I’m worth every penny you’re paying me. I never miss.” When he leaned toward his unseen partner in crime, Claire backed away, as if the cold-blooded threat in his eyes was intended for her. “If I say I’ll kill someone, they’ll be dead. And I won’t leave a trace.”

Claire’s breath rushed out in a gasp deep enough to stir the leaves of the ficus beside her. Quickly, she slapped her hand over her mouth. Had she made a noise? Had he heard her?

Though he didn’t react as if he suspected he was being watched, when he turned to exit her father’s office, Claire curled into a tiny ball and prayed to God that the aquarium, plants and shadows would keep her hidden from view as he walked past.

The man in black strolled by, his heavy size shaking the floor beneath her knees with every step. She bowed her golden hair out of sight so that she felt, rather than saw, the second person—lighter in weight—hurry behind the hired killer at a faster pace.

Claire held her breath, closed her eyes and prayed. She couldn’t make out the sounds of the elevator at this distance. So she hid there, hunching beside the aquarium, letting terror and grief hold her still long after the vibrations of the footsteps through the floorboards had faded. She waited until her thighs and knees began to cramp. Waited until she sensed that she had been alone for several minutes.

Then she slowly pushed to her feet. Her purse dropped into her shaky grasp as she stared down the long hallway into the darkness. Before fear made her foolish, before grief sent her into shock, Claire turned. On numb feet, she stumbled toward her father’s office, praying for some sort of miracle every step of the way.

“Daddy?”

The steel door frame was as cold beneath her fingertips as the blood flowing through her veins.

Her father’s chair was empty. She stepped inside and summoned her courage to walk around Cain Winthrop’s immaculate desk and take a peek. Claire gripped the edge of the mahogany top, nearly collapsing with relief.

Then shock and compassion pushed aside the traitorous emotion. She wiped away her tears and knelt down as she fully absorbed the awful truth. There was a body on the floor, with two neat bullet holes piercing the heart and forehead.

Her father wasn’t dead.

But Valerie Justice was.

“BUT, DAD, I’m telling you—I saw Valerie murdered!” Claire thrust her right index finger beneath her left palm, furiously signing the word for murder as she spoke. “That man shot her in your office. He had a gun. A silencer. I saw him.”

“Slow down, sweetheart. You’re slurring your words. I thought you said you saw a murder.”

Still breathless from fear, the fastest drive of her life across the city and her run up the front steps of her family’s Mission Hills home, Claire’s frustrated sigh left her light-headed. She shrugged free of Cain Winthrop’s placating grip on her shoulders and signed an emphatic statement. “I did.”

“I thought you were meeting Rob Hastings for drinks tonight. After that school thing you went to.”

Meeting the platonic friend her father had handpicked to become something more than a friend had completely slipped her mind. But, despite the stab of guilt she felt, even standing up a good friend didn’t seem important now. She drew her palm across her forehead and closed her hand into a fist, signing the message, “I forgot.”

“You forgot?” He scratched the top of his snowy white hair and shook his head. “Rob’s a nice boy. I know he’ll do big things with the company. It’s not like you to go off on some wild goose chase when—”

“I went to see you!” Claire tamped down on her impatience and turned away. Sure, her father could communicate with her about manners and dating, but he refused to listen to her account of what she’d seen in his office.

After crouching behind the aquarium for several overwhelming minutes that had dragged on forever, then venturing forth to discover Valerie’s body, Claire had decided to leave the Winthrop Building, risk a speeding ticket and drive home in record time. A regular phone was useless to her, and a cell only good if she could use text messaging. Somehow, she doubted reporting a murder to the police in a cutesy memo would get the immediate response she needed. In fact, she suspected they’d see it as some sort of prank.

She’d needed her TDD phone—Telecommunication Device for the Deaf. One she could speak into or type a message on that would be translated into a computerized voice at the other end of the line. A phone that would print out questions and conversation on a screen she could respond to.

Schooling her patience, Claire turned to face the familiar blue eyes. Urgent and scared hadn’t gotten through to him. She’d try cool and rational. “Dad. Listen…”

She’d given up the whole Daddy thing as soon as she realized he wasn’t taking her story any more seriously than the new guard at the front desk of the Winthrop Building had. And since she hadn’t wanted to take the chance of running into the man in black or his unknown accomplice, searching the darkened hallways for a more familiar—more sympathetic—face to help her didn’t seem like much of an option, either.

I’ll come back for the body. Claire hadn’t waited to witness that, too, or to become one of the well-erased traces he’d bragged about to his unknown comrade.

She articulated her words as succinctly as possible, carefully monitoring her volume and pauses through the speech processors behind her ears. “I know what I saw. I will never forget that man’s face. I won’t forget Valerie’s, either. There was hardly any blood on her face or blouse. But her hair was caked with it in the back. It was pooling on the plastic mat beneath your desk.”

“Please, dear. That’s such a gruesome picture.”

“Yes…it was.” She took a step closer, curled her fingers around his sturdy forearm and begged him to listen. “I came here first to use the TDD phone—and because I knew you’d want to be there when the police arrive.”

Cain Winthrop’s indulgent expression sobered. “You’re calling the police?”

“Yes.” Hadn’t she just signed it out and spoken the words? She’d been panicking in two languages and he still didn’t grasp the urgency of the situation.

Shaking her head, Claire left her father and hurried into the study. She ignored the walls of books she loved and sat behind the walnut writing desk that had once been her mother’s. Claire typed in the request for the police department’s information line and waited for the computer to locate the number and automatically dial it.

The words scrolled across the screen as the operator picked up. “KCPD information hotline. How may—”

Her father pressed a button on the phone and disconnected the call. Claire shot to her feet. “Dad!”

“Don’t call the police.”

She read his lips in disbelief. “We have to. Valerie is dead in your office.”

“Nonsense.”

“Dad—”

“What’s all the commotion in here?”

Claire heard the buzz of a new voice in her ears and groaned. She turned a silent plea to her father as the striking, fifty-year-old woman with frosted brunette hair joined them. If it had been difficult to get her father to believe her, it would be impossible to get any help from her stepmother.

“It’s nothing, Deirdre.” Cain explained away the argument between father and daughter. “Claire went up to the office this evening to surprise me, and I wasn’t there. It’s all a little confusing.”

“I’m not confused. My ears might not work, but I have 20/20 vision. I live by what my eyes tell me. I know what I saw.”

Deirdre signed the question, “I thought you were on a date with Rob Hastings.”

Claire rolled her eyes and turned away. Maybe she should call Rob for help since everyone was so interested in him. “I’m calling the police.”

“The police?”

Ignoring the metallic drone of Deirdre’s shocked voice, Claire reached for the receiver. But her father blocked her path. “Sweetie, I’m only trying to protect you from embarrassing yourself.” He gently pried the phone from her fingers and set it back in its cradle. “Valerie is on vacation in the Bahamas with that gentleman friend she met on her last cruise.”

She watched his lips say the impossible. “No, she’s not. She’s—”

“I gave her a hug before she took off this afternoon. The temp who’s replacing her for a couple of weeks was there when I called for my messages at six.”

“But…” Claire’s lungs deflated, along with her conviction. She sank onto the desk chair’s brocade cushion. How could that be? She hadn’t hallucinated since that fever she’d had as a child. She’d seen that man. Seen that gun.

She’d seen that dead body.

Her father’s executive assistant could have been killed by mistake—a tragic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The man in black and his accomplice might have come looking for her father, but found Valerie puttering about his office instead. The man she hadn’t seen might have been Valerie’s “gentleman friend.” Maybe he’d taken her there on purpose to get rid of her in some kind of twisted love triangle thing. Or maybe Valerie had lied to her father and never really left the building. Maybe she was part of some conspiracy, some plot to take advantage of her father’s wealth and worldwide trade connections, but her partners had betrayed her.

Why wasn’t the great Cain Winthrop concerned about that?

And what about the list? That’s number four.

The thin-lipped man with the pockmarked face didn’t seem to be the sort of person who would make a mistake.

Neither was she.

Trusting instincts that no one else seemed to think she had, Claire pushed to her feet. There was only one way to convince her father that he or his company might still be in grave danger, only one way to convince him to get help. With a resolute sigh, she strode back into the foyer to retrieve her purse. The staccato tapping on the stone tiles beneath her feet told her that her father and stepmother were following her.

“Valerie must have come back for some reason, Dad. Deirdre, would you call Rob and make my apologies for me? I’ll have to take a rain check on drinks.” She turned to her father, ignoring the worry that deepened the creases beside his eyes. “I’m sorry. But we have to go back to your office. Right now. And I want you to call the police on our way over. I won’t let this go until you do. Valerie’s dead.

“I’ll show you.”

Chapter Two

Using the beam of his flashlight to guide his way through the dark offices and hallway, the man with the long fingers paused in his work. Caution, more than curiosity, guided him to the shiny gold disk that had caught his eye. Squatting down beside the potted ficus tree, he picked up a small gold pin. Cheap, by the weight of it. He turned the trinket over in his palm.

Forsythe.

He couldn’t quite place the name, but he’d file it away in the back of his mind until he could.

Before he straightened, he lifted his gaze, studying the view from this vantage point. Interesting. A place to see, but not be seen. If anyone was of the mind to do so.

He’d been assured that the 26th floor would be abandoned after 6:00 p.m. That the cleaning crew wouldn’t arrive until ten o’clock.

Was the pin a result of sloppy housekeeping? Unlikely, given the money and expectations tossed around this place. Was it just coincidence that someone had lost this pin on this night—in this place with a camouflaged view of Cain Winthrop’s office?

In his business, it didn’t pay to count on coincidence. Had there been an uninvited guest at their meeting? A witness who could destroy years of hard work and cost him millions of dollars in potential profit?

His pulse didn’t quicken at the possibility; his heart didn’t leap into his throat. He closed the pin inside his palm and stood. This could be a problem.

The question was, did he tell his partner?

Or did he take care of it himself?

A.J. TUCKED HIS NOTEPAD AND PEN inside his leather jacket and knelt down to brush his fingertips across the polished sheen of the mahogany floor in the executive waiting area. While Josh did what he did best, and handled most of the interview questions, A.J. had taken his time to walk around the top floor and study every posh nook and imported treasure of Cain Winthrop’s state-of-the-art decor.

He wasn’t thrilled with the mix of eagerness and melancholy he felt at returning to the expensively hallowed halls of the Winthrop Enterprises Building. What had he been—seventeen? eighteen?—the last time he’d been here? He’d come in to see his father while Antonio, Sr. worked the night shift, vacuuming carpets and buffing floors, doing the minor repairs that kept the building in working shape.

He’d come here to bum money off the old man. Probably for something stupid, like the cigarettes he used to smoke or gas for the car he drove too fast and wrecked too often.

He splayed his fingers across the cool wood and admired the exotic decor, wondering if any of this was his father’s handiwork. Wondering how many times his father’s footsteps had crossed this floor.

Wondering why he couldn’t have appreciated his father for the man he was until it was too late.

Eighteen years later, A.J. had finally come back.

Not to pay homage to his father, but to investigate a homicide.

Customarily, though, when two detectives were summoned to the scene of a murder, there was usually a dead body involved.

A.J. rolled the kink from his bum shoulder and pushed to his feet, squinching his face against the three itchy stitches that closed the gash along his left cheekbone. If it weren’t for the location, he’d probably appreciate the diversion of a call. Even an apparent wild goose chase like this one was turning out to be. After the week of desk duty he and Josh had been assigned to following the explosion last month in front of the Jazz Note—which had sent him to the E.R. and stalled out their investigation into the drug dealer murders—A.J. was ready for a little action.

But coming to the Winthrop Building after all these years, looking Cain Winthrop in the eye and remembering the last words his father had spoken about the man, left A.J. feeling unsettled rather than relieved to be back in the game.

Despite the hysterical tinge in Claire Winthrop’s distorted voice, she seemed absolutely sure that she’d witnessed a murder here. Both times he’d asked her to relate her story, she’d been clear and vehement about her facts—and unable to explain why Winthrop’s office was spic-and-span tidy, with nary a bullet hole, speck of blood—or a body—in sight.

It wasn’t the first time someone had reported a crime in the Winthrop Building that evidence said hadn’t taken place.

No one had believed his father, either.

Well, one person had. One person believed Antonio Rodriguez’s story enough to kill him.

A.J. lifted his gaze up to the vaulted ceiling and pondered the odds of something like that happening twice in the same location. No wonder he didn’t feel right in his skin on this one.

There were too many secrets in this place. Too many lies. World-class players walked these hallways, as well as invisible men like his father had been. His father deserved better than what he had gotten. He deserved the truth.

So did Claire Winthrop. A.J. could feel something funny going on here all the way down to his bones. He couldn’t put his finger on it yet, but he trusted that instinct more than what his eyes told him.

“I’m gonna make this right,” he whispered out loud. He didn’t know if he was making a promise to his father or Claire Winthrop or to the powers that be.

His determination might not show on the outside, but it was a vow he intended to keep.

“I don’t mean to make light of the situation.” A.J. tuned in to the conversation across the waiting room as Josh followed Cain Winthrop out of his office.

“But could your daughter be mistaken in what she saw? She did leave the alleged crime scene. The guard downstairs said she was the only one who checked in for the 26th floor. Without his pass key to override the lock, no one could take the elevator to the penthouse floor. Maybe she got off on a different floor and we’re in the wrong place.”

The white-haired millionaire shook his head. “Everyone who works on this floor has a pass key. They wouldn’t have to sign in, even after hours. But Claire would. If she said it was the 26th floor where she saw something, then I believe her. She wouldn’t make a mistake about that.”

Josh asked the right question. “Is there something she would make a mistake about? Is it possible this is a cry for some attention? Or the repressed memory of another crime?”

“She’s been known to have an active imagination, if that’s what you’re hinting at, Detective.” Winthrop shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his charcoal wool slacks. When he pulled out his left hand, he was fiddling with something at the end of his key chain. “Claire lost her hearing when she was three. To the same illness that claimed her mother’s life. She had a very lonely childhood. I know she filled her time with books and stories she made up inside her head. Sometimes she’d get so lost in her imaginary world that it was hard to reach her.”

“So you think she’s making this up?” A.J. strolled over and invited himself into the conversation.

Winthrop narrowed his gaze, studying A.J. as intently as he had when they’d first arrived on the scene and introduced themselves. “Are you sure I don’t know you, Rodriguez? You look damn familiar.”

So he was a dead ringer for his father. If the man had a good memory, he might be able to make the connection. But A.J. wasn’t about to give Winthrop any information that might color his answers or affect his cooperation. He came up with an honest response and steered him back to the interview. “No sir, we’ve never met. You were telling us about your daughter?”

The older man shrugged, his expression perplexed. “I can’t imagine why she’d be making up a story like this now. Those episodes were years ago, when she was a child. Tonight she seems so certain. But it’s impossible. Maybe I should have called a doctor instead of—”

A.J. sensed the man striding up behind him and turned before he heard the gruff interruption. “Cain. I should have been notified if there’s a situation.”

“Whoa, buddy. Who are you?” Josh stepped in to deflect the verbal attack with an easy smile.

The man in the corduroy blazer and jeans matched Josh in both height and brawn. But there was nothing easy about the grim set of his pale gray eyes or the blunt cut of his hair. “Marcus Tucker, Chief of Security, Winthrop Enterprises. Who the hell are you?”

A.J. didn’t hesitate to square off against the bigger man. “Rodriguez and Taylor, KCPD.” He flashed his badge and nodded toward the bulge beneath Tucker’s coat at the side of his waist. “You got a permit to carry that weapon, Chief?”

The big man’s cheeks ruddied as he schooled his temper. A.J. braced on the balls of his feet as Tucker wisely pulled open his coat to reveal the Smith & Wesson he carried. At the same time, he slowly reached inside the jacket to pull out his wallet and show his permit and ID.

The man was legit. But A.J. never relaxed his guard and Tucker never answered his question. Instead, the security chief pointed a blunt finger at his employer. “I shouldn’t have to hear about a shooting on the premises from my contact at KCPD.” He thumped his own chest. “I should have been your first call.”

“You have a contact at the department?” A.J. asked.

“I have contacts all over the world, Rodriguez.” Tucker sneered.

Cain Winthrop patted the air with placating hands. “Relax, gentlemen. Marcus, please. There is no situation.” He glanced at Josh and A.J. “More of a misunderstanding, I think.”

The pale eyes narrowed. “Was there or was there not a shooting?”

A.J. answered before Winthrop could discount his daughter’s story again. “That’s yet to be confirmed. But if you really are the top dog in security around here, then I’d start with your man at the desk downstairs. At least three unknown parties made it to the top floor without him being aware of their presence in the building. And when Miss Winthrop asked him to assist her earlier tonight, he refused to leave his post.”

Tucker swung his gaze to Winthrop. “Is that true?”

“That’s what Claire said.”

That seemed to blow a hole in the chief’s malign-the-cops-and-save-the-day routine. “Warren’s new. He’s still green about how we run things here and who we answer to. I’ll take care of him. Miss Winthrop’s okay, right?”

Cain nodded, though he didn’t look entirely convinced.

After what passed for an apology to his boss, Tucker huffed up his chest and pointed another finger at the two cops. “I want to be copied on your report. Anything you find out about crimes on this property or against anyone associated with Winthrop, Inc. comes through me. Understood?”

Idly, A.J. wondered if Tucker would miss that annoying finger if he twisted it off the end of his hand. He’d taken down bigger blowhards before.

Josh grinned and vented the sarcasm that A.J. held in check. “I’ll run your request past Captain Taylor. If he gives the okey-dokey, I’ll trot that report right over to your office myself.”

“Just do your job, Detective. And let me do mine.”

Tucker pulled out his cell phone and stormed back down the hall the way he’d come. No one said goodbye. No one seemed to miss him.

“He’s a charmer,” Josh joked.

“He might be short on personality,” Winthrop apologized, “but he’s well-qualified to safeguard an empire the size of Winthrop Enterprises. I do business on six continents, and he oversees security for all of it.”

Maybe Chief Tucker could handle men across six continents, but he’d done a lousy job making one young, frightened woman feel secure in her father’s own office.

And maybe his father’s death wasn’t the only reason A.J. was still here an hour after finding out there was no crime at the alleged crime scene. Claire Winthrop had reminded him of his youngest sister, Teresa, the night she’d been mugged on her way home from work. That same shock was in her eyes; the fear was in every darting glance over her shoulder. Something had spooked the young lady. No matter what the evidence said, Claire was afraid.

Of what or whom didn’t matter. He supposed it was the big brother instincts in him. Or maybe some sort of continual atonement for not being able to prevent or solve his father’s so-called accident. But A.J. wasn’t going to walk away until he was sure that Valerie Justice wasn’t really dead and Claire Winthrop wasn’t in any real danger.

“Do you need anything else from me, Mr. Winthrop?” Pulling on her lightweight trench coat, Valerie Justice’s replacement waltzed out of the office and joined them. She’d introduced herself as Amelia Ward, and Winthrop said she’d come highly recommended from the temp agency from which he’d hired her for two weeks. “I can’t find anything that’s missing in either your office or Ms. Justice’s. The files and the phone logs all seem to be in the same order she showed me this morning. I’ve contacted the airline and the hotel in the Bahamas, as well, asking Ms. Justice to call us as soon as she gets the message.”

The new boss offered her a reassuring smile. “Good thinking, Amelia. I’m sure everything will be fine. I appreciate you coming in so late. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“No problem, sir. I’m going to head back home and finish watching that movie I rented.” She tucked her auburn hair behind her ear and offered Josh a smile that was more than friendly. “Unless the police need me for something else?”

Subtle.

Josh made a point of adjusting the front of his jacket and showing off his wedding ring. “I don’t think so, Miss Ward.”

Rebuffed by the big, blond cop, she turned her hopeful smile on A.J. “Officer Rodriguez?”

Not his type.

“It’s Detective.” He tapped his pocket where he’d stuffed his notepad. “But we’re good. We have your name and number on file, and if we need anything more we’ll give you a call.”

She didn’t quite take the hint. “Please do. Good night, gentlemen.”

With a nod, Amelia sashayed down the hallway. A.J. watched her leave, but he wasn’t noticing the purposeful strut of her hips. Instead, he was marking off the distance in his head because, for several steps before she turned the corner to the elevators, she’d completely disappeared from his line of sight.

I hid behind the trees and aquarium. I could see him, but he couldn’t see me.

Claire Winthrop’s words replayed in his head, fueling his curiosity. Marcus Tucker had been tall enough to remain in view as he walked the length of the hallway. But the top of Claire Winthrop’s head barely cleared A.J.’s shoulder. Was she tiny enough to pull off what she claimed?

Leaving Josh and Winthrop to wrap up their conversation, A.J. drifted back to the doorway of Winthrop’s office. He rose up on tiptoe, trying to make himself as tall as the man in the black suit Claire had described. Nada.

Even looking straight at the circle of pots and furniture, she could have hidden and watched the office without being seen. Why give that sort of accurate detail if she wasn’t telling the truth? Unless she was in the habit of hiding behind potted plants and spying on her father?

Though her handicap and slender, petite build added a delicacy to her appearance, Claire Winthrop didn’t strike A.J. as a woman prone to childish pranks. Maybe it was the designer suit or the careful way she chose and articulated her words that made her seem more grown up.

Or not.

“Miss Winthrop?” His voice fell on empty air as he turned into the interior of Winthrop’s office. Maybe the boss’s daughter did make a habit of playing hide and seek. She was nowhere to be seen inside here, either.

But he could hear her—rummaging around, mumbling to herself—on the other side of Winthrop’s sized-to-intimidate mahogany desk.

Hooking his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, A.J. circled the desk and was greeted by the elegant sway of a pink silk bottom. Bello. His initial amusement at finding the proper, ladylike heiress crawling beneath her father’s desk heated with something decidedly male as he watched the graceful shape bob up and down.

He made no apologies for enjoying the view, but heeded the voice inside his head that reminded him he was here on business. Unlike Amelia Ward’s obvious flirting, this was no practiced seduction meant to entice. It was just a nice butt. Okay, a very nice one. One that moved with an innate sense of rhythm that seemed to match the pulse beating in his veins.

Ignore it, Rodriguez. He blinked and politely looked away. Whatever pleasures he might enjoy with the opposite sex, he knew they wouldn’t be with the daughter of the man his father had once cleaned toilets for.

“Miss?” Despite her assertion that she could hear some sound, thanks to surgery and cochlear implants, A.J. raised his voice. “Miss Winthrop?”

She seemed inordinately engrossed with running her fingers around every inch of the plastic chair mat beneath the desk. Needing her attention, A.J. leaned down and tapped her on the shoulder. “Miss Winthrop?”

As soon as he touched her, she let out a yelp, smacked her head on the desk and muttered something a little less classy than he might have expected from the dainty heiress. She spun around and landed on her bottom in a graceful heap, rubbing at the back of her skull where she’d conked herself.

“Sorry.” He squatted in front of her, bracing one hand on the desk above her head. Her blue eyes looked a bit dazed. Guilt instantly replaced both curiosity and amusement. He gently touched her shoulder, needing to do something to make amends. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you hurt?”

She glanced down at his hand as if the comforting gesture surprised her. When she didn’t pull away or protest, he trailed his fingers up the side of her neck and found skin as soft as the silk she wore and a racing pulse. Or maybe that was his own heart rate speeding up with awareness and concern.

“Do you need to lie down?” Her gaze darted to his lips and searched them as if she couldn’t quite grasp what he was asking. “Miss Winthrop?” he repeated, reminding himself to focus on first aid and not the way her eyes pooled and darkened as if she was having a hard time staying focused herself. “Are you hurt?”

He reached behind her head to probe for any cut or goose egg. As he gently nudged his fingers into her hair, his palm brushed against the small plastic hearing device hooked behind her ear.

The instant he touched the device, she blinked her eyes clear and pushed his hand away. “I’m fine.”

Rightly denied the contact that had slipped beyond professional, A.J. sat back on his haunches. But he never got the chance to apologize.

Instead, Claire Winthrop moved her fingers in a frantic dance that he knew to be sign language, even if he didn’t understand the words. Fortunately, she spoke out loud as she signed. “I think the mats have been switched.”

The discovery seemed to excite her, judging by the flush of color on her cheeks. A.J. grinned in relief and rose to his feet. This woman wasn’t hurt—he’d seen that distant focus dozens of times in his sisters’ eyes. Claire Winthrop was preoccupied. Obsessed, even.

A.J. offered his hand to help her stand. “What makes you say that?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he waited until she looked up into his face and repeated the question.

“This one is worn around the edges and has wheel dents.” She pointed out the damage. “I’m sure my father’s was replaced within the last couple of months when my stepmother remodeled his office. This one should still be smooth.”

Interesting eye for detail.

Seemed he couldn’t help noticing a few details himself.

About his witness.

After a moment’s hesitation, when he thought she might refuse his assistance or continue her explanation, she laid her fingers across his palm, giving him a glimpse of the evocative contrast between her creamy porcelain skin and his callused, olive-tinted hand.

To his surprise, there was nothing weak in her grasp as he provided an anchor for her to pull herself to her feet. The pink suit and delicate features had given him a mistaken impression of fragility. This woman possessed a sinewed strength from the tips of her fingers to the length of her shapely calves.

“Detective…Rodriguez?” She pronounced his name carefully, slurring the Rs with subtle W sounds. And while he mulled over the husky softness of her voice when she wasn’t desperate with confusion or shouting with excitement, she dropped her sky-blue gaze to the clutch of their hands. “Thank you.”

She hadn’t signed, but A.J. understood the prompt and quickly released her. He’d held on a shade too long to be proper; his grip had been a little too snug to be polite.

Bad move, A.J. He shouldn’t be noticing anything about Claire Winthrop except her reliability as a witness—which at this point was, unfortunately, questionable. He shouldn’t care one damn whether the pampered heiress was offended or turned on by holding a working man’s life-scarred hand.

It wasn’t like him to get distracted from his purpose, not by any woman. Certainly not by Cain Winthrop’s daughter. The job didn’t allow it.

He wouldn’t allow it.

He stuffed said workingman’s hands into the pockets of his jacket and told himself he hadn’t noticed the subtle perfume that clung to her hair and emanated from the heat of her skin, either.

Needing his space before his brain got addled with any more pointless impressions, A.J. strolled to the center of the room and placed the desk between them. “So you think the killer—”

“—and his accomplice,” she insisted. A.J. conceded the addition to her scenario. “The killer and his accomplice rolled up the body in the plastic mat and disposed of it? Then they put a new one in its place?”

“Isn’t that a realistic possibility to explain why Valerie’s not here?”

“Assuming Miss Justice is as least as big as you are, how do you smuggle out a body without being seen?”

“It’s a big building. They took the freight elevator or the stairs. Only the security lights are on inside. The sky’s overcast so there’s no moon outside. I don’t know.” Her shrug was an easy enough sign to read. So was the quick snap of her fingers. “But we should be able to check the mats.”

When she breezed past him and headed out the door, A.J. wondered if he was being polite or just plain crazy for following her and joining the search. At Claire’s pace, it didn’t take long to inspect every office on the floor to discover that there were no chair mats missing from beneath any of the desks.

He could almost feel her disappointment at a good idea refusing to pan out. Her frustration was such a tangible thing in the stiff set of her shoulders and crossed arms that he wanted to say he believed her story, even though the possibility of a woman being shot to death in Cain Winthrop’s office seemed more remote by the minute.

“How many offices are in this building?” he asked, knowing he didn’t have enough of a case here to warrant pulling any manpower off the Slick Williams murder and other homicides for an extensive room-to-room search.

“Hundreds.” She tipped the point of her chin at him, her blue eyes blazing. He recognized that look from his sisters, too. “And, yes, I’m sure I have the right room.”

She looked about as dangerous as a kitten, all huffed up and ready to spit in self-defense. A.J. respected her right to a temper, but couldn’t help smiling to himself at the notion she looked more cute than ferocious. “That wasn’t what I was thinking, amiga.”

Tiny fine lines appeared beside her eyes as she frowned. “What?”

She hadn’t understood him. “Amiga?” Reading lips in English was amazing enough. He supposed translating a foreign language on top of that would confuse most people. “It’s Spanish. It means friend.”

“Oh. Amiga.” She said the word again, touched her own lips as she repeated it, giving A.J. the feeling she wasn’t most people. She’d just expanded her vocabulary and wouldn’t miss that word again. “I’m bilingual, too.”

“You seem to communicate just fine.”

Her pale cheeks colored at the compliment. “It helps when someone really listens.”

Meaning there were others who didn’t listen to what she had to say? A.J. raised his guard a notch against his growing admiration for the woman. Maybe she had more of a reputation for making up stories than her father had indicated. Or maybe, like his own father had once told him, Winthrop will ignore the truth if it doesn’t suit his purpose. Or he’ll change things to make them fit his truth.

As a smart-ass teenager, A.J. had asked his father what he was smokin’ to come up with that deep thought. Antonio, Sr. had shoved his only son up against the wall and warned him to watch his mouth. Maybe if he listened a little better, instead of putting so much noise into the world, he could see the truth. If he heard the truth, if he championed it, then men like Cain Winthrop and his compadres at Winthrop, Inc. would lose their power to control and ruin other people’s lives.

His father, who had never once resorted to violence with his children, had been trying to tell him something important. But A.J. shrugged him off, called him loco and worse, ignored his warning and sped away in his muscle car.

It wasn’t the first time his father had tried to teach him how to be a man.

But it was the last time.

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. He wrapped his arm around Claire’s shoulders and hugged her to his side. “Sweetie, everything’s going to be okay. We can go home and forget all about tonight.”

Her complexion blanched to a shade beyond pale as Cain delivered the truth A.J. had been pushing for.

“It’s Valerie. She’s alive and well and calling from Nassau.”

Chapter Three

“Hey, I hear you caused quite a ruckus at the office tonight, Pipsqueak.”

Claire dutifully stopped halfway up the cream-carpeted staircase to endure her stepbrother Gabriel’s teasing. Pipsqueak had never been her first choice in the nickname department, but compared to six feet four inches of tall, dark and daunting, that’s about where she measured up.

She’d always had to make up the difference in attitude. “Bite me, Gabe.”

Clutching her purse and shoes in one hand, she trudged on past him in her stockinged feet. He quickly reversed his descent and backed up the steps ahead of her so she had to crane her neck to read his lips and continue the conversation. “It was that bad?”

Claire puffed out a frustrated breath. “I’ve been completely discredited by KCPD. Dad wants to send me to a spa to rest because he thinks I’m having some kind of breakdown. I broke Mom’s pearl necklace. And Detective Taylor was friendly enough, but Detective Rodriguez…”

Detective Rodriguez what? How had her subconscious mind intended to finish that sentence?

He made her pulse beat a little faster because he always seemed to be watching her with those unique golden-brown eyes? He entranced her with his beautifully sculpted lips, whether arched in friendly amusement, parted with concern or tight with disbelief?

Did the Latin detective linger in her mind because he was an older man? Mature? Experienced in life the way she’d never been allowed to be? Or was it because the jolt she felt at the simple touch of his hand was more intense than even the most passionate kisses she’d tried to share with Rob?

Heck. Rob and intense didn’t even belong in the same sentence together. A. J. Rodriguez was everything Rob Hastings was not. Danger personified, judging by his compact strength and the stitched-up wound beneath his eye. Black leather and cold steel. No wasted movement. Deliberate in his speech.

Was she upset with A. J. Rodriguez for dismissing her claim? Or for revving up her dormant libido before he dismissed her?

“What did the detective do?” Frown lines had formed between Gabe’s dark eyes, as if he was assessing the need to bring a few choice words or even legal action against Detective Rodriguez.

Thinking it best to keep her observations to herself, she stopped beside Gabe on the landing. She had plenty of other things to be upset about tonight. She didn’t need her pseudo-big brother to overreact. “He didn’t do anything. I started the evening on such a high note and then all this mess happened. I was just looking for a scapegoat to pin my frustrations on.”

Her excuse seemed to appease his sense of family honor. He relaxed by straightening his tie against his starched collar. “The good news is that Valerie’s okay, right?”

But Valerie wasn’t okay. Claire raged against the futility of trying to convince anyone to believe the impossible. “If she’s in Nassau, then what did I see in Dad’s office tonight?”

“Apparently, nothing.”

“I want that to be true, Gabe. But I know what I saw.”

He lifted one eyebrow in an arrogant arc and shook his head. Dressed to close a deal, Gabe buttoned the jacket of his pin-striped suit and dismissed her like everyone else had. “You know, Claire, this game you’re playing is probably upsetting to Cain on two levels. He’s not just worried about you, but now he’s got to have some doubts about Valerie’s well-being. She’s been his right hand at the company for a lot of years. Losing her would be like losing a part of himself. So give it a rest, okay?”

Though it clearly wasn’t his intent, something in Gabriel’s words triggered an idea that might help this all make sense. “Did Valerie have access to all of Dad’s files? Did she know about his current negotiations?”

“She does know about them.” Gabriel emphasized the present tense with a nod. “So does the rest of the board. You want to kill us off, too?”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“The hell it isn’t.” Gabe had moved beyond big brother into company man mode. He clutched her shoulders and hunched down to look her in the eye. “You need to forget this fable. We have a business to run. We have deals on the line, new hires to consider. Valerie’s on vacation. She’s safe. Now let it go.”

Valerie knew the company inside and out. She knew her father’s secrets and the family’s history. There had to be a motive in there somewhere for killing her.

“I’m not trying to hurt Dad,” Claire insisted, latching on to Gabe’s wrist and giving it a squeeze. If she didn’t love her father so much, she might have already accepted what everyone else believed. “I’m worried about him. That man said there were other people on his list. What if Dad’s in danger? What if you are?”

Gabe straightened with an exasperated smirk. “First, Valerie’s dead, and now you’re trying to knock off Cain and the rest of the family, too?”

“No—”

“I tried. I give up.” Gabe leaned down and kissed her on the forehead before releasing her. “Goodnight, Pipsqueak. I have a meeting to get to.”

Dismissed. Again.

“At this time of night?”

He was already loping down the stairs. At the bottom, he turned to doff her a salute. “I didn’t say it was a business meeting.”

Ah, yes, the life of one of Kansas City’s most sought-after bachelors. “Have fun.”

“I intend to.”

As he strode out the front door, Claire summoned half a smile and headed for her room. Her stepsister Gina was probably out on the town, too. Seemed Claire was the only Winthrop heir who didn’t have a life. No wonder everyone was so ready to believe she’d make up a horrible story about their dear friend and loyal employee being murdered.

Claire set her purse on the chaise at the foot of the canopy bed, then neatly placed her shoes inside her closet. She’d bet good money that A. J. Rodriguez had a life, too. Between his work and those poet’s eyes—set in the middle of a face carved by classic Mediterranean ancestry and chiseled by real-world experience—his life would definitely be full of interesting adventures and relationships.

Her life wasn’t full of anything.

She unbuttoned her skirt and stepped out of it as it slid to the floor. She tossed her jacket onto the bed, unhooked the shell she wore and slipped it over her head. The hose went next. Then the pearl earrings.

The pearls. “Oh, gosh.”

Claire dashed back to the bed and dug inside her jacket pocket to find the strand of pearls and loose beads she’d managed to retrieve. She felt guilty at seeing the legacy from a mother she barely remembered in such sorry shape.

She pulled a velvet pouch from her jewelry armoire and slipped the pearls inside. Setting the pouch beside her purse she made a mental note to take them to the jeweler’s shop tomorrow after school.

School!

Claire silently cursed the powers that be for ruining the good memories of what had happened earlier that night. In all the chaos, she’d completely forgotten to tell her father about the Forsythe School’s offer to hire her as a full-time counselor. She’d forgotten to tell him about the honor the students had given her, naming her as their favorite paraeducator.

Hoping to recapture even a smidgen of the excitement that had thrilled her so earlier, she picked up her jacket to look at the pin. And frowned.

“Where…?”

She checked both lapels—looked at the material and crunched the pink silk beneath her hands to verify what her eyes were telling her. “Where’s my pin?”

She dug into the pockets, wondering if she’d forgotten that she’d taken it off earlier. Only, Claire didn’t forget things.

“I want to wear it tomorrow to show the kids.”

She dumped out her purse next, checked the bag of pearls. Then she was on her hands and knees, retracing her steps across the plush carpet. She was nearly frantic by the time she pulled a robe on over her slip and ran barefoot through the hallway and down the stairs. She ran past the door to the study where her father would be working or reading at his desk while Deirdre briefed him on the final plans for the party she was hosting tomorrow evening.

Nothing.

Claire rubbed her fingers against her temples, too late putting up a fight against the tension that throbbed inside her head. She didn’t hallucinate murders. She didn’t lose gifts. She didn’t forget things.

Her Volvo.

Cinching the sash of chenille at her waist, Claire darted outside, down the steps misted with rain. The bricks were cold beneath her bare feet as she dashed around to the detached multicar garage beside the house. She punched the entry code into the keypad and hurried inside as soon as the lock released and the door went up. Inside, she switched on the light before closing the door to the night and the rain.

Claire wiped the dampness from her face and hurried past her father’s Range Rover and stepmother’s Lexus. She crossed the empty stalls where Gabe and Gina parked their cars and climbed in behind the wheel of her sensible beige Volvo. She turned on the interior lights and searched it from top to bottom.

“Where are you?” she muttered to herself, feeling her self-assurance spinning beyond her reach. She crawled over the seats into the back and dipped her fingers into the seams between the cushions, checking impossible places for the missing pin she’d worn on her lapel.

Nothing.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes and she gave in to the urge to lay her face in her hands and cry in weary frustration. She mentally retraced her steps from the time she’d signed her thank-yous at the podium during the banquet to the moment she saw that bullet hole in the middle of Valerie’s forehead.

In between, she distinctly remembered pinning that gold medallion onto her lapel. There was no way around it. She’d have to go back to her father’s office and search for the pin. And if she couldn’t find it there, then she didn’t even want to consider the possible explanations for its disappearance.

She didn’t hallucinate. She didn’t forget things.

Claire screamed at the thump on her car window and jumped halfway across the back seat. The flashlight beam shining in her face blinded her to the man outside. She slid her back clear against the opposite side as the door opened and a pair of khaki slacks and a gunbelt came into view.

“Miss Winthrop?” She heard the buzz of sound, but waited for the man to lower the light and for her startled fear to unstop her senses before she could see his lips and decipher his words. “Miss Winthrop? Is something wrong?”

Gradually, the words and the face of the estate’s nighttime security guard came into focus. Claire pressed her palm against her racing heart and released a deep breath of recaptured sanity. “Aaron.” She said the black man’s name, reassuring him that she knew where she was and whom she was with. “You startled me.”

“Sorry about that.” He turned off the flashlight and hooked it back on his utility belt. “What are you doing out here?”

“I lost something. I was looking for it.”

She became aware of the bare skin beneath her palm the same time Aaron’s questioning gaze swept down to the thigh-bearing hem of her crumpled-up robe. Right. She might talk a good game, but sitting there crying, half-dressed in the back seat of her car in the middle of the night wasn’t going to convince anyone that she wasn’t crazy.

Quickly tugging her robe down to her knees and pulling the collar tight around her neck, Claire scrambled out of her side of the car. “I lost a piece of jewelry. A small gold pin.”

He stood and closed the door, speaking to her over the roof of the car. “I haven’t seen anything like that. But I’ll keep my eyes open for it.”

Claire summoned a smile to thank him. “Well, good night.”

She felt the vibration of his footsteps through the concrete floor and knew he was jogging up beside her even before his fingers brushed her elbow. It was just a polite gesture to get her attention, but Claire flinched all the same and spun around.

“Sorry.” He nodded toward her right ear. “I guess you couldn’t hear me.”

Guess she didn’t know how to relax when the only person who might believe she’d witnessed a murder was the murderer himself.

But she felt a twinge of guilt as Aaron tipped the bill of his uniform cap in apology and held both hands where she could see them. “The rain’s coming down a little harder now, miss. Let me grab an umbrella and walk you back to the house.”

“That’s not necessary. I—”

He opened the garage door to a curtain of gentle spring rain. She’d get soaked to the skin wearing what little she had on, and would no doubt have to explain that to her father. He’d be just as worried about her catching cold as he was about her making up gruesome stories of murder and cover-ups.

“Besides,” Aaron explained, “Chief Tucker called and said I should keep an extra close eye on you tonight.”

Security Chief Tucker? Claire frowned. “Why?”

“I didn’t ask. I just obey.”

Had her father ordered his security staff to watch over his handicapped daughter? Didn’t anyone believe she could take care of herself? Think for herself? When would she be old enough for her family and friends and employees to start thinking of her as a capable, competent woman?

Resigned to the practicality of Aaron’s suggestion, Claire linked her arm through his when he offered it and huddled against him beneath the umbrella. She fell into step beside him, her toes splashing through the puddles. “Thanks.”

He said something back to her, but the rain muffled the sound receptors in her ears. She wasn’t paying much attention to Aaron, anyway. Claire was more aware of the uneasy sensation that tickled the back of her neck and raised goose bumps across her skin.

Someone was watching her.

Maybe it was just the hypervigilance of the Winthrop security guard. Maybe it was the metaphoric weight of her family’s smothering protection. Maybe it was the chill of the rain itself.

Aaron walked her up to the front door and stood on the porch until she closed and locked the door behind her. Dutifully deposited back inside her sheltered ivory tower.

Claire shivered as she clutched her robe around her and climbed the stairs.

The feeling of being watched from the darkness never left her.

A.J. IGNORED THE FIRST TWO RINGS of the telephone to finish scrolling down the list of Winthrop Enterprises’ holdings on his computer screen—Australia, Brazil, Italy, Mexico, Japan…

“Maldición.”

He muttered the curse under his breath. Something about last night’s events at the Winthrop Building still didn’t feel right to him. So when he was done typing up the facts in his report, he’d done a little extra poking around. It had become almost a hobby of his over the years—digging up bits of information about Cain Winthrop and his import-export empire. He never knew when some nugget of info would bring him half a step closer to uncovering the truth about his father’s death.

But reading through the corporation’s annual report was turning into information overload. The business paid out a fortune through customs, but apparently took in nearly three times as much in profits. Jewelry, furniture, cars, collectibles—even exotic animals made the list of items the company transported across international trade lines. It was too much to make sense of in one sitting, with one set of eyes.

He’d have to get Banning to take a look at the report to see if Mr. Logic could narrow down the facts and figures into something that might actually prove useful—like a dirty little secret that money, time and power couldn’t quite hide, or the name of a security specialist who terminated employees. Permanently.

But the detailed research would have to wait. Banning had gone to lunch with his wife Kelsey. Funny how newlyweds always seemed to have time for each other, no matter how busy their respective schedules might be.

A.J. looked across to the empty desk facing his. Hell. A man didn’t have to be a newlywed to make time to spend with the woman he loved. His partner, Josh Taylor, had been married two years, had two little girls and still grinned like a lovesick puppy at the mere mention of his wife’s name. He’d left by 11:30 to accompany his wife on some sort of newborn health checkup.

He couldn’t afford to feel envy at his friends’ happiness, though. What would be the point? A.J. didn’t have time for a wife or a girlfriend. He’d date, get a little lovin’ when both parties were willing, but he’d never get serious. His job demanded too much of his time; his work entailed too many risks.

So, while he saved some poor woman from certain heartbreak by remaining unattached, A.J. sat alone in a sea of empty desks.

He’d lost count of the rings and thoroughly depressed himself before he picked up the receiver. “Rodriguez.”

“A.J.” Maggie Wheeler, the desk sergeant with a body like Xena and the face of a farm girl, topped A.J. by two inches and worried him with the shadows in her hollow eyes.

“What’s up?”

“There’s a deaf woman here to see you. I told her you were on your lunch break and she said she’d wait. But she’s pacing the floor by the elevators, so I thought it might be something important.”

A.J. slid his gaze across the floor toward the main desk. Even though his view was blocked by several carpeted partitions, he could picture the petite blonde with the delicate features and surprisingly solid grip wearing a path in the floor on the other side. “Claire Winthrop?”

“Yeah.” Maggie’s surprise was evident. “You expecting her?”

“No. But send her on in.”

“She’s a pretty one, A.J. Is there something you’re not telling—?”

“No.” He cut off the friendly curiosity he heard in her voice and hung up. Maggie wasn’t a gossip, but it would only take an innocent remark and Josh’s sense of humor to create rumors of a whole sordid new love life between the taciturn cop with the stitches on his face and tattoos on his back and the virginal young heiress.

He knew how to put up with the teasing, knew how to put a stop to it if he needed to. But he had a feeling that Claire Winthrop wouldn’t appreciate the joke.

A.J. stood, tucking his black T-shirt into his jeans and combing his fingers through the top of his thick, short hair. Not that he wanted to impress the prim and proper heiress. But it might be nice if he didn’t scare her away.

Maggie appeared beside the partition that separated the elevators and check-in desk from the Fourth Precinct’s Detectives Division offices. She pointed him out, and an instant later a flash of black slacks and gold jewelry hurried around the corner.

What the hell? A.J. shifted onto the balls of his feet, his protective radar buzzing on full alert. Claire’s blue eyes were wide and dark, boring into his. Her mouth was pinched into a thin line. Her fear was a palpable thing, a force he felt clear across the maze of desks between them.

“Claire?” There was no polite Miss Winthrop, no How may I help you? Was she hurt? Had she located a bloody chair mat? “What’s wrong?”