“Seems a lot alike to me. Ask a bunch of questions. Wade through a ton of paperwork. Write up reports. Same thing.”
Except for the whole “dead” part.
“What is it you’d like my insights about this time?” Her tone was saccharine sweet.
His good cop, charm-the-idiots-into-implicating-themselves persona vanished. His tone and eyes hardened. “Do you ever stop asking questions and just answer them?”
She gave him an exasperated glare. “Ignoring the little detail about you treating me like a suspect, unless you plan to share what you’ve learned about Marcy, I told you what I knew yesterday. I have a job and responsibilities, too.” She pointed at the crowded schedule visible on Outlook.
He ignored her computer. “I have questions. Questions about the victim.”
With a resigned sigh, she stuffed the files into her briefcase and dropped it beside her desk.
He shifted in his seat. In spite of the hard, uncomfortable chair, he looked completely at home.
Damn, he was like a dog, practically marking whatever territory he occupied.
“What do you want to know?” she asked impatiently. “That I haven’t already told you. Twice.”
He pulled his pen from his jacket pocket and gave her another assessing glance. He opened his folio, made a notation at the top of the page. “I checked. You moved here nearly five months ago.”
You never looked me up hung in the air unspoken.
“And your point is?”
His features settled into hard planes. He thumbed through the pages of his notebook.
JC didn’t need her for his investigation. Clearly she didn’t know enough about Marcy’s personal life to point him toward a suspect. During her sleepless night, she’d realized nothing had changed. JC was still making the rules—trying to, anyway—and bending them for his own purposes. Letting her go home, and then showing up at her house. Coming to her office, and acting…how? Almost as though he wanted to start something again. But then he’d zing her, or go into cop mode, which made her wonder if it was all a ploy. If he still suspected her of being involved—allegedly involved—in Marcy’s death.
She wanted to rub her temples. The whole mess was giving her a massive headache.
“This is pointless.” In one smooth move, she rose from her desk, slung her purse over her shoulder, and grabbed her briefcase.
“What are you doing? I’m not finished.”
“Then walk and talk. I have a meeting.”
His foot hit the floor with a responding thud. “I have an investigation.”
“And I have responsibilities to other people. I’ve already told you everything I know about Marcy.” She stepped around the end of her desk. “So either arrest me, or start walking.”
JC stood, blocking her escape route. “I want to know about Tim Stevens’s business.”
“You know damned well I can’t discuss client business.” She glared at him. “The basics of Tim’s company are in the public domain. Go look them up yourself.”
“You could give me that insight you’re so famous for.”
With a snort of impatience, she shifted the briefcase to her other hand. “Tim’s a developer. He contracts some projects, builds them for other people. He owns and leases other ones, like the new office complex he’s building near Southridge.”
She sidestepped JC while he scribbled a note.
He followed her into the hallway. “I need a list of the properties he owns and financial information on each one. And the latest statements for Alejandro Montoya’s restaurant.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you crazy? I can’t give you that.”
“Why not?” He returned her incredulous stare. “You’re not a lawyer. It’s not privileged information.”
“You and I both know it’s privileged. The ethics requirements of my license are very clear. No unauthorized disclosure of financial information.”
He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “I work corporate mergers and acquisitions in Seattle. Breathing a word about the transaction won’t just bring the deal to a screeching halt, it could bring the Securities and Exchange Commission down on me like the proverbial ton of bricks.”
She waved her free hand, indicating the entire office. “The same rules apply at Desert Accounting. And in case you missed the point, that means don’t bother asking anyone else here because they won’t tell you, either.”
“I’m trying to catch a murderer, not coddle a—” He bit off the remaining words.
She slammed a fist onto her hip. “A what? A bean counter?”
“Most people want to help the police.” Every line of his body reflected frustration. “I thought you wanted to find Marcy’s killer.”
“Wait a minute.” She punctuated her words with a pointed finger. “Are you saying Tim and Alex are officially suspects now? That’s insane.”
“If you think they’re so innocent, you shouldn’t mind giving me the financial information. If it clears them, I can move on.”
Everything JC did—showing up, the Spudnuts, playing nice—had just been a ploy to soften her up and get her talking, so he could slide in questions about Tim and Alex. Damn, but the man was infuriating. “How is their financial information remotely related to Marcy’s murder?”
“I need the information.” JC sounded impatient.
She turned and stalked toward the lobby. “You can move on to another suspect. Alex and Tim didn’t have anything to do with Marcy’s death.”
JC trailed her down the hallway. “What makes you so sure?”
“What makes you so sure they were involved?”
“What are you hiding?”
She glared at him over her shoulder. “Give me a freaking break. Tim and Alex aren’t like that. They couldn’t have killed her.”
“Not even to save their own asses?”
Shocked, she studied his face, but he’d gone to complete cop mode. His hard expression revealed nothing. “From what? As far as I know, the only laws Tim and Alex have ever broken involve speeding tickets.”
“At this stage of an investigation, the more innocent someone seems, the more suspicious I am.”
She turned and faced him. “First honest statement I’ve heard from you. Does that blanket condemnation include me?”
He didn’t move an eyelash.
Raising her chin, she kept her tone and gaze level, rigid self-control containing the seething inside her. “If you have evidence they’re involved in Marcy’s murder and have a financial motive, you’ll have no problem getting a judge to sign off on a warrant.”
Chapter Seven
Holly stormed into Desert Accounting’s lobby with JC right on her heels. The tension between them was as thick and impenetrable as the walls of Fort Knox. She made it three steps into the reception area before she patted her jacket pocket and stopped in her tracks.
He did a quick sidestep around her. “What are you doing now?”
“Damn it, JC. You made me forget my phone.”
Before he could say another word, she marched back to her office. She snatched up her cell and turned, ready to stomp back into the lobby.
Her common sense kicked in. Whoa. Chill out. Get your act together.
She took a deep breath and braced her palms against the desk. Letting JC see how much he upset her would be a major strategic error.
In his current mood, he’d probably interpret it as a guilty conscience.
For whatever reason, he seemed determined to pin Marcy’s murder on her, Tim, or Alex. And even if he wasn’t doing something that ridiculous, as far as she could tell, he was headed down the wrong path.
Clearly, he wasn’t going to tell her anything about the investigation, so she’d have to figure out herself what he knew—or thought he knew. Which meant talking to the people he should’ve talked to. And since Tim Stevens was her client—as JC kept harping on—she had every reason in the world to stop in and talk to him.
So there, Mr. Super Sleuth Junior
Cluemaster Detective.
She felt better already.
The detective in question was doing his charming guy impression when she returned to the lobby. He leaned against the reception desk, flashing those damned dimples at Tracey. Normally the receptionist was the office mom—appointment-taker and excuse-maker. Tracey remembered the client’s names—and those of their spouses, children, grandchildren, and favorite hunting dog. Right now, she looked as if she’d climb over the counter separating her desk from the waiting area if JC merely crooked his finger in her direction. Phones were ringing, all the lines lit up, but Tracey looked like she’d never heard the phrase, Answer the phone.
JC’s body tightened enough for Holly to know he’d noticed her, but Tracey was still gazing longingly at the man, eating up the attention like she was seventeen instead of forty-seven.
Holly’s gaze drifted to JC’s long, lean body. What had six years’ worth of experience done for him? He’d been her first love, but she wasn’t a kid any longer. Had it all been hormones and young lust? Before she could wonder what he looked like without the tailored shirt, she sent her drooling inner teenager to her room and locked the door.
“If I can interrupt?” she asked.
JC’s lips twitched at her ironic tone.
Tracey blinked. “What? Oh, Holly, are you leaving now?”
What gave her away? The briefcase or the coat? She nodded, ignoring JC. Slim hips resting against Tracey’s desk, he was giving Holly a slow inspection that seemed to remove her clothing piece by piece.
He was just doing it because he knew it irritated her.
“Have you seen my mother this morning?” she asked Tracey.
“Donna’s still at the Chamber of Commerce breakfast.”
JC’s dimples reappeared. “I can’t believe you’re back in Richland, working for your mom.”
Something she’d sworn she’d never do. She gave him a withering look. “A temporary arrangement.”
She hadn’t asked about his mother, a woman she’d adored during their college years, because it seemed hypocritical to mention Antheia when she was no longer involved with her son.
No, that wasn’t right. She wasn’t going to talk about Antheia because JC was using her mother as a putdown and she refused to use his mother that way.
The front door opened, saving Holly from round four with JC. Nicole Stevens entered and flashed a thousand-watt smile. “G’morning.”
“Hello, Nicole.” Tracey turned her attention from the detective to the swing-top floating around the petite blonde’s killer body. “That’s a darling outfit.”
“You like it? It’s a Lilly P.” Nicole beamed with pleasure. From her Manolo Blahnik shoes to her diamond-studded ears, Tim’s wife as usual projected an image of leisure and wealth. Extravagance seemed to be Nicole’s middle name. Holly was relieved she didn’t have to pay off the woman’s charge cards.
Nicole executed a model-worthy pivot on her stiletto heels, and set the blouse’s fabric in motion. “What do you think, Holly? Does it make me look big?”
Holly took in the innocent face Nicole presented. The comment felt like another of the woman’s subtle digs. Her size four, perfectly proportioned body always made Holly feel like an awkward giant. “You look lovely.”
Nicole focused on the purse hanging from Holly’s shoulder. “Is that a Borgedorf?”
She instantly forgave Nicole for the “big” comment and swiveled the zebra-striped hobo so all three women could appreciate the details. “Isn’t it great? I found it last weekend.”
She left out the half-price detail.
“It’s modern and retro at the same time,” Tracey said approvingly.
JC rolled his eyes.
What did a guy know?
Finger tapping her tiny, pointed chin, Nicole studied the bag. “Isn’t that last year’s design?”
Way to kill the moment.
Nicole turned back to Tracey. Usually, Nicole looked like she belonged at a 1950s Junior League function, but from the current expression on her face, Desperate Housewives might be more appropriate. “Is Tim here?”
“I haven’t seen him,” Tracey said.
Strange. Tim’s Mercedes was in their shared parking lot.
“Isn’t he in his office?” Holly asked.
Nicole’s glow dimmed. “I can’t find him anywhere.”
From the corner of her eye, Holly saw JC lock onto Tim Stevens’s wife like Alex’s bird dog after a pheasant.
Good.
She wasn’t exactly throwing the woman under the bus, but if JC focused on Nicole, he might get off Holly’s back about providing client financial information. As a bonus, talking to JC would keep Nicole out of the Stevens Ventures office long enough for Holly to talk to Tim—or at least to ask Brea where he was today.
“I’m headed over to Tri-Ag,” Holly told Tracey. “I probably won’t make it back before my two o’clock meeting. Please ask my mother to call me.”
JC coughed, as though covering a laugh. He pushed away from Tracey’s desk. “Could I have a word with you, Mrs. Stevens?”
Holly kept the smile off her face. Could she call them or what?
Most likely Nicole didn’t know enough about Tim’s business to tell JC anything, but he could have fun trying.
Of course, he ought to be out looking for the real killer.
Chapter Eight
Holly pushed through Desert Accounting’s front door, crossed the atrium, and entered the Stevens Ventures office. The Western men’s club motif Tim had chosen always annoyed her, as if he’d missed the last forty years of women’s achievements. Masculine, desert-hued colors, leather and heavy oak furniture—it was all part of the über-conservative, wife-belongs-at-home nonsense she constantly battled on the east side of the Cascades.
The reception desk, which usually blocked access to the office interior, sat vacant. A light blinked on the phone console, but the office was strangely quiet.
“Brea?”
No answer.
The sensible thing to do was to walk back to Tim’s office. High heels muffled by the thick carpet, she strode down the hall. She rounded the corner and ran smack into Lillian.
The payroll clerk rocked backward. Short, curly brown hair framed an expressive face, which quickly transformed from surprise to recognition. Lillian’s left hand extended, palm up. She brushed bent fingertips across the palm, saying, “Excuse me” in sign language.
“Sorry.” Holly brought her palm to her chest, moved it in small circles.
“I didn’t hear you,” Lillian signed. A smile smoothed the remaining tension from her face.
Holly rolled her eyes at the pun. “I’m glad I ran into you.”
Since Lillian shared an office with Marcy, she might actually be a better person to start the investigation with than Tim. Even if she couldn’t hear, Lillian was bound to know a lot about Marcy’s routine. Holly signed, “Do you have time to talk about Marcy?”
The brunette stiffened, then subtly leaned away, as if distancing herself from the question.
The renewed tension surprised Holly. She thought the two women had gotten along. Before she could ask what was wrong, Lillian gestured at her watch and signed, “I have an appointment. We can talk later.”
She watched the payroll clerk walk away, shrugged, and entered Tim’s office. Drawn blinds left the room shadowed. The conversation area and conference table were vacant, but a man leaned against the massive desk. Clothes disheveled, hair wild, he turned when she flicked on the lights.
“Ugh.” He closed his eyes in a tight squint, stumbled to remain upright.
“Tim?” What the hell?
His hands rose and pushed through his already spiky hair.
A dozen possible business disasters cycled through her head. “What’s wrong?”
“Holly? What…?” His voice trailed off in a confusion of whiskey fumes. He splayed a hand on the desk and peered around the room, checking its contents. “Is this…your office?”
>
“It’s yours, Tim.” She dumped her briefcase in the closest chair. “Did something happen with Southridge?”
He collapsed against the desk. He tilted so badly the furniture barely held him upright. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”
“Marcy?” Holly studied his ravaged face. He looked worse than she felt, and she’d seen the body. “I know you worked together, but I didn’t realize you were that close.”
An unwanted thought intruded. How close were they? More than friends?
No way. Tim gave every indication he was happily married. Even if Nicole played the bitch in helpless waif clothing routine, Tim doted on her. Still, his reaction seemed out of proportion for someone who was only an employee.
“She was a friend—a good friend.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “She listened. Nobody does that. She deserved more than the crap Alders put her through. More than…”
“Who’s Alders? What crap?”
“God, I hate that guy.” Tim jerked upright. His hands closed into fists.
He stopped as abruptly as he’d moved. Wavering on unsteady feet, his lower lip trembled and his jaw worked.
Still trying to catch up, Holly watched his emotional crumbling. Good grief. When was the last time she’d seen a guy cry? Besides over a stupid football game?
“She’s dead.” He lunged forward and enveloped Holly is a sweaty hug. Booze seeped through his pores, mingled with stale perspiration.
Yuck.
Wracking sobs shook his body. She didn’t know whether to be concerned, horrified, or embarrassed. Instinct took over and she patted his shoulder as if he were a child. “It’ll be okay.”
He clenched her tighter and blubbered loudly against her neck.
Oh, jeez.
She turned her head, wrinkling her nose at the stench, and glanced at the door. Where was Brea when she needed her? “Shhh…”
Renewed sobs answered her.
Confused snippets of their conversation rotated through her mind, but she kept coming back to, Why is he drunk? Why is he so upset?
Finally, his tears subsided to shuddering breaths, and she wondered what to say that wouldn’t embarrass both of them. She eased him away from her chest. “Nicole’s in my office. Why don’t you let her take you home?”
For Love of Money Page 6
