Maybe she’s bored with her big house and charity events.”
Was that the type of person Andrea Kirkland was? Even though John had only just met her, he couldn’t buy it. “And if she is telling the truth? If her husband is dead?”
“Then I doubt we’ll have to look any further than the obvious.”
John had a pretty good idea of where he was leading, but he bit anyway. “What is the obvious?”
“That he was killed for his money. He sure has a lot of it. And rumor has it, Andrea Kirkland is the sole beneficiary of his will.”
The ache returned to John’s gut in force. Andrea was either making up the whole story, or she was the number-one suspect in a murder. Hell of a choice.
The bleat of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. Excusing himself, he slipped out of the police chief’s office, grabbed the phone off his belt and hit the talk button. “Yeah.”
“Ace? It’s Mylinski.”
John grimaced at the nickname. Ever since an article praising his high conviction rate had run in the State Journal, Mylinski had latched onto the name. “Hey, Al.” County Detective Al Mylinski was heading up the search of the Kirkland house. And despite his penchant for assigning stupid nicknames to nearly everyone he worked with, there was no one John trusted more. If there was anything to find, Al would sure as hell find it. “What do you have?”
“The LumaLite put on a really pretty light show.”
John dragged in a deep breath. The LumaLite could show every trace of blood left at a crime scene, even when the blood wasn’t visible to the naked eye. “Where?”
“Under the rug on the study floor.”
“How much is there?”
“If someone cut himself, he needs more than a Band-Aid. There wasn’t a drop on the rug, though. Someone replaced the rug and tried to clean the floor. If it wasn’t for the LumaLite, we wouldn’t have found anything.”
“You didn’t happen to notice a body lying around to make this easier on all of us, did you?”
“Sorry. But judging from the size of this pool of blood, there’s a body out there somewhere. We’ll start with the woods after we’re finished with the house.”
John blew out a gust of breath he didn’t realize he was holding. At least one question was answered. Andrea didn’t invent the story. But she sure as hell seemed to be neck-deep in it. He shouldn’t be surprised. Like Putnam had said, start with the obvious. And the obvious in any murder was always the spouse.
He massaged the back of his neck and tried not to picture the graceful lines of Andrea Kirkland’s face, her slender body, the desperation in her eyes. There was a reason cynicism ran rampant in all areas of law enforcement. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it was warranted. And this case looked to be no different. Even if he wanted it to be.
“Gotta go. I’ll keep my eyes open for that body, Ace.”
“You do that, Al. You do that.” John hit the button to cut off the call and clipped the phone back on his belt. If anyone had to keep his eyes open from here on out, it was him.
ANDREA PULLED OPEN the hotel room door and looked into the brown eyes of John Cohen. Relief eased through her, pushing aside the fear that had kept her wide awake all night.
He’d called her on his cell phone first thing this morning and told her he’d be right over. And even though she’d met the man only yesterday, she’d felt relieved to hear his voice. And to hear he had news about Wingate’s murder, and she hoped the attack on her as well.
She swung the door wide. “Come in.”
He ambled through the door on long legs, but his stride was anything but relaxed. His gaze darted around the room as if he expected to see a dead body secreted behind the Magic Fingers hotel bed or propped on the luggage rack in the closet.
Her mouth went dry. Whatever he’d discovered was worse than she’d feared. “Did you find Win? Is he dead?”
“No, we haven’t found him. At least not yet. And as far as his condition, you’d probably know that better than anyone.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You said you saw your husband’s murder, didn’t you?”
“I was hoping I was wrong. That it was all a bad dream or something.” Her own words rang in her ears. She had been hoping exactly that. That her memories were a mistake. That Win was merely away on an unexpected business trip. That she could leave Wingate Estate and not look back.
But deep down she knew she’d been fooling herself. “Did you find something in the house?”
A muscle twitched along his jaw. “Yes. We did.”
The shiver spread over her skin and settled in her bones. “What did you find?”
Instead of answering, he strode across the room, his long legs eating the distance in three strides. “You said you remembered your husband lying on a Persian rug after he was shot. What room was the rug in?”
She searched her memory. She could see the rug clearly. See Win’s face contorting in pain. See the blood puddle underneath him like liquid tar soaking into silk. But she couldn’t see anything else. “I’m not sure. We have a Persian rug in the dining room, the library and Win’s study.”
“Did you have any of those rugs replaced or cleaned since your husband disappeared?”
“No. They were just cleaned last spring. Why are you asking these things?”
“Because a neighbor of yours told me a man removed a Persian rug from your home and loaded it into a van only a week ago.”
“That must have been him. That must have been the killer.”
“Maybe. But my witness said one more thing.”
“What?”
“That the man wasn’t alone. That you were with him.”
“Me?” Her pulse pounded in her ears. “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t have been.”
He stared at her, his eyes boring past her defenses as if laying bare her jumbled thoughts.
She shuddered. “I didn’t kill Wingate. I wouldn’t. You’ve got to believe me.”
John looked away, but it was too late. She could see the doubt play across his face, as plain as if he’d called her a liar.
He didn’t believe her. The realization slammed into her like a kick to the stomach. She splayed her hands in front of her. “If I’d killed my husband, why would I call the police? Why would I come to you for help? Why would I tell you about the rug in the first place?”
“Questions I’ve been asking myself as well. And believe me, if not for the fact that the evidence fits your story—as far-fetched as that story seems—you’d be
