with him down at the station.”
Standing behind Sam, Becca studied Ritchie Stark as he sat at the table in an interview room, his dark hair slicked back, his beard cropped close. Thin to the point of almost looking like a scarecrow, he tapped his fingers against the wooden top, his eyes downcast.
“We’ve got you, Ritchie. You disposed of the weapon used to kill O’Brien.” Sam leaned across the table, his eyes pinpoints.
“I found it! I ain’t the violent type, so I thought I should throw it away. Didn’t want no kid gettin’ hold of it.” Stark lifted his pointy chin, the tapping of his fingers increasing.
“Yeah, sure,” Becca said with a humorless laugh. “Your fingerprint was found on one of the bullets still in the gun. Who hired you to kill Neil O’Brien?” She came around her partner to take the chair at the end, close to Stark.
“I ain’t talking. I wanna see a lawyer.”
“If you cooperate, I can convince the D.A. to go easy on you.” Sam pushed to his feet. “If you don’t—” he shrugged “—murdering a prominent city employee won’t sit well with a judge or jury.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. “I knows my rights. I wanna talk to my lawyer!”
Becca rose, too. “Sure, Ritchie. If you want to play it out that way, life in prison with no parole is fitting for you. I personally don’t think we should go easy on you.” She started for the door, glad to get away from Stark’s annoying drumming of his fingers on the table, a sure sign the man was lying. “You deserve to rot in prison.”
While Sam stayed back, Becca left the room and watched through the two-way mirror at her partner and Stark, looking for any signs of the skinny man’s armor cracking. Other than his nervous drumming, he remained tightlipped.
“I have pull with the D.A. I still can put in a good word if you cooperate. You aren’t the one we want. We want the person behind everything,” Sam said in parting.
Stark glared at the door that Sam had left through, his thin face pinched into a scowl.
“We’ll let him stew for a while. Take our time getting him his lawyer.” Sam moved to stand beside Becca.
“I know we cleared Colleen Montgomery of O’Brien’s murder, but now there’s no doubt she’s innocent with this new proof.” Becca thought of Quinn and his deep commitment to his family. She’d have to tell him the good news when she saw him next.
“Now all we have to find out is who was behind the murder and why?”
“Do you think there’s a connection between Neil O’Brien, Baltasar Escalante and Dahlia Sainsbury?” Becca asked, her mind spinning with all the incidents that had occurred over the past few months in Colorado Springs, all wrapped up in the Vance and Montgomery families, who had been instrumental in Escalante’s downfall the year before. But what kind of connection would there be between a fire chief and a drug lord?
After the incident in the tunnels below the museum the week before, she and Sam had learned from Alessandro Donato that Baltasar Escalante had been behind the drugs coming into the city recently, that he’d survived the plane crash last year and had a new face. When she thought of the drug lord, who was also a cold-blooded killer, being alive, she grew chilled. There was no love lost between him and the Montgomery and Vance families.
Again she pictured Quinn Montgomery with his russet hair, chocolate brown eyes and cocky smile that could melt a woman’s heart. He could take care of himself, she was sure, but worry over his safety took hold and she couldn’t shake off her concern. Someone had tried to burn his business down and had nearly succeeded, leaving only his offices intact. What if he had been in the shop or barn when it had been set on fire? The very thought sent another chill through her.
Standing before the full-length mirror on her bedroom door, Becca still couldn’t believe she was wearing a sundress and sandals at home on her day off—her relaxing, lazy day. To make matters even worse she was wearing lipstick—this from a woman who didn’t have time or patience to fool with putting on makeup. But Quinn would be here in a few minutes and for some insane reason she couldn’t put on her usual attire of jean shorts, oversize T-shirt and no shoes. First capris and now a dress!
She heard a truck door slamming. Giving herself a once-over, she smoothed her hair, pleased that it was at least cooperating and turning under. Something else she usually didn’t do was wear her hair down. What was the world coming to? Next she would be decked out in spiked heels, an evening gown and body glitter.
By the time Quinn rang the bell, Becca’s hand was already on the handle. She opened the door for him. His smile of greeting did exactly what she was afraid of—sent a warm, fuzzy feeling zipping through her.
“Hi. You’re right on time.” Becca stepped to the side to allow Quinn into her house.
“I aim to please.”
“That could be a company motto.”
He turned to face her, his head tilted to the side, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You know, you’re right. I may have to steal your idea.”
“No, you don’t. I gladly give it to you.” She headed toward her living room. “Let’s go in here.”
As Becca sat on her beige and navy print couch, Quinn took the seat next to her. This was the largest room in her house and all of a sudden it felt as if it were the size of a closet. With her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, she tried to tamp down the racing of her heart. This was a business meeting, nothing else, and it certainly wasn’t a date—she couldn’t even believe she’d thought the word.
“Well, how bad is it?” Becca asked before the silence became uncomfortable and she started prattling.
“The estimate?” He opened his folder and took out a sheet of paper. “See for yourself. This will take care of the kitchen, the flooring in the attic and the ceiling in the bedroom.”
Before she peered at the paper he held, she quipped, “Since your brother was a cop, you do realize how little we are paid?”
He chuckled. “Yes, you’re definitely underpaid for the work you do. After what happened the other day, I’d double your pay.”
Her gaze lifted to his. Suddenly they were back on the rooftop of the unfinished building, both trying to keep David James from jumping. A bond sparked the air, and Becca felt as if she had known Quinn well for years.
She broke their visual connection and reached for the paper. Her hand quivered as she grasped it and hoped he hadn’t seen her reaction to what had just occurred. She didn’t trust easily, having seen the seamy side of life for too many years. And yet there was something in Quinn that called to her, that urged her to put her trust in him.
After studying the figures, she said, “This is very reasonable. This includes replacing the cabinets in the kitchen?”
He nodded. “I’m going to do some of the work in the kitchen myself.”
“You are? Why?” she asked without really thinking.
“Because I haven’t had a chance to do a project like this in a long time and I’m treating myself. I miss working with my hands. Lately
