a bundle of money.
She lowered herself into one of the chairs in front of his desk.
He sank into his own chair. Gluing his gaze to hers, he waited for her to begin.
“It’s about my husband.”
Damn. Could he call them or what? A leaden weight settled in his gut. He’d been doing this job far too long. He braced himself for the rest of her sad story—a story he likely couldn’t do a damn thing to make end happily. “What about your husband? Is he a ward of the county?”
“What?”
“Is he in jail?”
“Not hardly.” She frowned and drew a slow breath as if to steel herself. “I’m Andrea Kirkland. Wingate Kirkland’s wife.”
John sat forward in his chair. He’d thought he’d run out of surprises during the past few years, but this certainly qualified as a change of pace. “Wingate Kirkland?”
She pursed her lips together and nodded.
Even though John didn’t exactly rub shoulders with the movers and shakers in Dane County, he’d sure as hell heard of Wingate Kirkland. Everyone had heard of Wingate Kirkland. The millionaire and his money were single-handedly responsible for reclaiming countless landmarks in Madison’s historic downtown. Of course, once reclaimed, he turned them into condos and rented them to anyone who could pay. Capitalism in action.
He narrowed his eyes on the woman in front of him. The manicured nails and doe-soft skin fit the image he had of Kirkland’s wife. But the stringy hair, the bruises and the desperate glint in her eyes were another story. “And what is it you want to tell me about your husband?”
“He’s dead. Murdered. And whoever killed him is after me.”
Second shocker in a row. John blew a breath through pursed lips, creating a soft whistle. Wingate Kirkland. Murdered. So even living in a gated rural estate and having more money than God couldn’t isolate a person from violence and villainy. What else was new? “Why haven’t I heard about this? I would think the news media would be all over Wingate Kirkland’s death.”
She gripped the arms of her chair. “No one knows yet.”
He raised his brows. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
“I don’t know what the beginning is exactly.”
“Then start as close as you can. When was your husband killed?”
“About a week ago, I think.”
“A week ago? You think?” He didn’t even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice. The rich really were a different breed from the rest of the human race. “Glad you could take time out from your busy schedule to finally report it.”
She raised her chin and looked him square in the eye. A show of superiority. An empty show, if her nervous fingers tangling together in her lap were any indication. “I would have reported it, but…”
“But what?”
“But I didn’t remember it until last night.”
“Your husband’s murder just slipped your mind?”
She untwined her fingers and splayed her hands in front of her in a pleading pose. “I must have blocked it. I mean, that happens sometimes, doesn’t it? My mind must have blocked out the murder until I was better able to deal with it.”
Maybe he should have had that belt of Jack before agreeing to talk to this woman. He needed a good buzz in order to swallow this wild tale. “Are you suggesting you had amnesia?”
“I guess. I don’t know. All I know is that except for some nightmares, I thought my life was business-as-usual up until last night.”
“Except you had no husband. I take it a body hasn’t been found.”
She shook her head.
“Do you know who killed him?”
“No.”
“This sounds more like a missing person’s case than a murder. Have you filled out a report with the police?”
“No.”
“When did you realize he was gone?”
“Just last night. When the memories—”
“When you remembered your husband had been missing for a week.”
She raised her chin at the suspicion in his tone. “I thought he was away on business. His real-estate development company is based in Chicago. He’s down there most of the time.”
Incredible. The woman seemed to have an answer to everything. “Was he often gone for a week at a time without giving you so much as a phone call?”
“We didn’t have the greatest marriage, Mr. Cohen. In fact, we didn’t have much of a marriage at all. He kept me around for show on the rare occasions he needed a trophy wife. And he said he wanted an heir eventually. Otherwise, Win didn’t have a lot of use for me.”
“So why did you marry him?”
“I had my reasons.”
“I’ll bet you had a few million of them.”
Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed to blue bands. “I didn’t marry him for his money, if that’s what you’re implying. Not really.”
“Then why did you really marry him?”
“Listen, I didn’t want to come here. I can take care of myself. I don’t want yours or anyone else’s help. But a man is dead, and I thought you might care to know about that.”
“But you say you can’t tell me much about that, Mrs. Kirkland. So I need to know all you can tell me about your husband. Including what his marriage was like.”
She pushed a defeated breath through tight lips. “Fine. My father left when I was young. Win was a father figure, I guess. He took care of me, offered me security. I was eighteen when I married him. It’s not something I’m proud of.”
“Then why did you stay married to him?”
“Win made it clear he didn’t want me to leave.”
“He threatened you?”
“Yes.”
“With violence?”
“At times.”
John’s gut tightened. So he’d called Andrea Kirkland right after all.
She raised her chin again, a flash of fire smoldering in the depths of her eyes. “I was leaving him anyway. I had made arrangements, set aside money. I was leaving that night—the night I saw him murdered.”
Time
