only witness to a murder. Hypnosis introduces questions about which memories are real and which are planted. Once you go under hypnosis your testimony is worthless in a court of law.”
“So what do I do?” She swallowed, trying to keep the panic at bay. She could make a run for it, but somehow the image of her dashing down the hall with John Cohen on her heels was too ridiculous to contemplate. Judging from his runner’s physique, he’d probably catch her before she made it to the office door.
He let out a long, defeated sigh. “You mean, what do we do?”
She looked at him hard. “We?”
“If you think I’m going to have a relaxing weekend chugging beer, watching football and waiting to read about your death in Sunday’s State Journal, guess again.”
A chill prickled over her skin. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you’re stuck with me. Until we get some answers about this case or I can convince the police to spring for an officer to keep an eye on you, I’m your bodyguard. And your personal memory coach.”
“Oh no, you’re not.”
“Do you have any other ideas?”
“Yes. You find out who killed Wingate and I leave.”
“Try again.”
“I’ll go someplace safe and give you a number where I can be reached.”
He shook his head. “You’re either my key witness or my prime suspect. Either way, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
She glanced at the door. Maybe she should reconsider running for it, just throw open the door and dash down the hall. Maybe it was her only chance to get out of this mess.
Ridiculous.
But equally ridiculous was the idea of John as her bodyguard. No, not ridiculous. Dangerous. Because even now, with his questions and threats still ringing in her ears, she could hear the loneliness in his voice. And she could feel her heart respond.
“You can wipe that scared rabbit look off your face. I’m not going to hurt you, for God’s sake. I’m going to keep you safe.”
She didn’t know if he intended to hurt her or not, but she did know that being around him certainly wouldn’t keep her safe. “And what can I say to change your mind?”
“Nothing. But there’s something you can do.”
“What?”
“If you didn’t murder your husband, prove it. Help me find who did.”
She gnawed on the inside of her cheek until she raised a sore. If they found the real murderer, if they put him behind bars, she would be safe. Both from the killer trying to prevent her from remembering and from the police trying to pin Win’s murder on her. All she had to do was stay strong a little longer. Because a little longer and she’d be away from John Cohen for good. “What do you want me to do?”
“You can start by going with me to see a man about a rug.”
JOHN GLANCED at Andrea standing next to him in the showroom of Ryman International Rugs and took a deep breath. A light scent tickled his nose. Floral and feminine. The kind of scent that caused a man to lose his mind.
Too late for him. He’d obviously already lost what little gray matter he’d had rattling in his skull. That was the only explanation for what he was doing, playing bodyguard to a woman who could be a murderess. And, even worse, playing Holmes to her Watson.
He massaged the aching muscles in his neck while pretending to examine the multi-colored silk of one of the elaborate Persian rugs hanging from the ceiling. On the drive across town, he’d told himself he was just doing his job, just trying to keep her safe. Well, she might be safe, but he sure wasn’t sane. Not around her. Her body had him as hot and humid as a Wisconsin July. And every time she looked at him with those bruised eyes of hers, he had the feeling he had the power to make things better.
Or at least he’d go down trying.
He needed to get the hell away from her. And he needed to start by finding some answers about who killed Wingate Kirkland. And whether the woman beside him was a suspect or a witness.
“Hello there. I’m Oscar Ryman. Can I help you find a certain type of rug?”
John spun around and looked into the man’s be-speckled eyes. He’d tracked the blue van with the gold logo to Ryman International Rugs, a small rug shop on Madison’s upscale west side. Oscar Ryman must be the owner. He held his identification out for the man to examine. “I’m with the district attorney’s office, and I need to ask you a few questions about a rug.”
“The district attorney’s office, huh? Is this about a crime?” Tall and wire-thin, Ryman nearly quivered with excitement. Apparently the rug business lacked drama. If he only knew the reality of life in the district attorney’s office, he’d see what a real lack of drama was like.
John fixed him with his best all-business stare. If this guy wanted to pretend he was a bit player on “Law and Order,” John had no problem going along. Especially since guys like this were willing to turn themselves inside out to provide information. “A week ago, one of your trucks picked up a rug at Wingate Estate—”
“Out in Green Valley, right? A Persian. Top-of-the-line. But you’re mistaken. We didn’t pick it up. We delivered it.”
“You delivered a new rug and picked up a stained one?”
He tilted his head to one side as if doing so would connect normally unused synapses. “I don’t think there was a pick-up with that order.”
“Can you check?”
“Certainly.” He spun around and almost skipped to the tall desk looming in the center of the sales floor. At least John didn’t have to worry about this one hiding anything from him. On the contrary, this guy would probably be calling him all next week with meaningless details he remembered about the transaction.
John followed him. Once he had been that eager to prosecute the bad guys and lock them behind bars, that eager to make a difference in the world. Ages had passed since then.
Andrea stepped up next to him at the desk and leaned close, trying to see the manager’s computer screen.
Awareness prickled John’s skin like static electricity. Forcing himself to step a safe distance away, he peered over the manager’s shoulder. Dates, numbers and names were arranged in neat columns on the computer screen.
“Here it is,” the man pointed at the screen. “Wingate Kirkland, delivery. If there had been a pick-up, it would be noted here.”
Maybe Ruthie Banks was mistaken. Maybe she hadn’t seen Ryman’s delivery van hauling away a rug. Maybe she’d seen them delivering it.
Or maybe the computer wasn’t telling the whole story. “Who was the employee who delivered the rug?”
The manager squinted down at the screen. “Sutcliffe. Hank Sutcliffe.”
“Where
