by Maggie Price
“Evening, Sergeant.”
Jake turned, relieved to have his attention pulled from Nicole to the female officer who approached him. She looked on the official side with her blond hair pulled back from her earnest face and a silver clipboard in one hand.
“Evening.” The first time he’d worked with the patrol officer was at a scene a couple of weeks ago, and her name had slipped his mind. He checked the brass tag above the right pocket of her gray uniform shirt: C. O. Jones.
“Jones,” he added. With more than a little effort, he kept his gaze off the scout car where Nicole sat. “You responded to the initial call, right?” he asked, remembering that it had been a female officer who’d called in the Signal 7.
“Affirmative.” The red-blue lights from the scout car winked in rhythm as she jotted his name on the crime scene log.
“Who’s the victim?”
“Man by the name of Phillip Ormiston.”
Jake arched a brow. “Of Ormiston Funeral Home fame?”
“The same. He owns the entire chain.”
“Any idea yet on cause of death?”
“The M.E.’s assistant is inside checking the body, but I haven’t heard anything for sure. To me, it looked like Ormiston just dropped dead in his entry hall. No blood, no sign of trauma that I could see. According to one of the neigh bors, Ormiston was into fitness. He jogged around the neighborhood and played racquetball a couple nights a week at a gym called Sebastian’s.”
“Maybe Ormiston’s biorhythms took a dive into a negative zone,” Jake muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” He moved his gaze to the scout car. Nicole’s back was to him now, her gaze glued to the house’s open front door. While he watched her, she raised her left hand and slowly curled her fingers through the metal security screen that kept the person in the back seat separated from the officer in front. For some reason he could not fathom, Jake’s chest tightened at the thought of her being caged inside the black-and-white.
“That’s who found Ormiston’s body,” Jones said, her gaze following his. “Her name’s Taylor. Nicole Taylor.”
“Yeah.” He remet the officer’s gaze. Jones had done things by the book—she’d checked the scene, secured it, then put the person who discovered the body in her scout car while she advised dispatch to contact Homicide.
He also had procedure to follow, Jake reminded himself when he again felt the pull to walk over and open the car’s back door. Right now, it was his job to find out what Nicole had already told the officer on the scene.
He nodded in the direction of a sleek red Jaguar parked in the circular drive. “Is that Miss Taylor’s?”
“Yes. The registration checks to her.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That Ormiston is a widower and a client of the dating service she owns.” As she spoke, Jones pulled a business card off her clipboard and handed it to Jake. He glanced down, saw it was identical to the card Nicole had tried to slide into his pocket while they danced. The remembered feel of her warm flesh beneath his palm rose in his brain like a seductive phantom.
“Can you imagine a man with Ormiston’s money needing to hire somebody to find him a date?” Jones asked.
Frowning, Jake jabbed the card into his shirt pocket while picturing again the way Nicole had worked the crowd at the wedding. It wouldn’t surprise him to find out that some of the men who signed with her company hoped to get a date with her.
“What does she say about her relationship with Ormiston?”
“She claims their association was purely business.”
When Jake realized he felt stupidly pleased, he scowled. Any other woman, he thought, shoving his fingers through his hair. Why the hell couldn’t it have been anyone else on earth sitting in the back of that scout car instead of the woman who’d crowded his thoughts for days? And nights. At this point, the best he could hope for was that Phillip Ormiston had dropped dead from a nice, tidy aneurism.
“What reason did Miss Taylor give for being here?” he asked.
“She said Ormiston didn’t phone her with a report on the last date he’d had through her service. That’s apparently a standard thing for clients to do. He also hadn’t shown up tonight at the gym for his scheduled racquetball game. When he didn’t answer his phone, Taylor says she got worried and decided to stop on her way home to check on him. She referred to it as an extension of the customer service she offers her clients.”
Jake looped his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “How did she get in the house?”
“She said she didn’t realize the front door was only partially closed until she knocked. When she did, it swung open. She walked in, saw Ormiston lying on the far side of the entry.” Jones paused. “She touched the body.”
Jake expelled a muffled curse. “Why?”
“She said she thought he’d maybe fallen and hit his head, that he was unconscious.” Jones glanced toward the house. “The way he’s lying there, I can see how she’d think that.”
“If Ormiston was dead, he couldn’t have buzzed her through the security gate. Did she say how she got in?”
“No. If you need me to, I can check with the guard to see if he let her in. And if so, why he did without authorization from the person she was visiting.”
“Do that. Also find out if Ormiston had any other visitors tonight. Any idea who the victim’s next of kin is?”
“Ormiston’s a widower, with one son who lives a couple of miles from here. The neighbor I talked to is getting his address so we can make the death notification.” Jones angled her chin. “You want me to do that, or will you?”
“I’ll do it after I’m through here.” Jake looked back at the scout car. Nicole’s gaze had not moved from the house’s front door; her fingers were still threaded through the security screen. His stomach tightened. Dammit, she wasn’t under arrest, he knew that. She wasn’t a suspect. She was a witness, waiting to be interviewed. Maybe, he thought ruthlessly, his reaction to seeing her caged was because it hadn’t been that long since he’d been locked in a cell, charged with eight counts of murder.
“I need to have a look at the body,” he grated. Turning, he stalked across the pristine lawn toward the house while Jones took two strides to his one to keep up. “While I’m inside, Jones, I want you to do something.”
“What’s that, Sergeant?”
Jake paused at the brick steps that led up to a porch lined by tall, fluted columns. “Move Miss Taylor to my cruiser.”
“To your cruiser?”
He wanted Nicole out of that cage; he wasn’t going to waste breath trying to explain why when he didn’t understand it himself. “That’s right, Jones, to my cruiser. Think you can handle that?”
“Sure thing, Sergeant.”
“Tell her I’ll talk to her as soon as I get done inside.”
Jake took the steps two at a time. As he strode across the porch, he toyed with the seeds of suspicion that, when it came to Nicole Taylor, he was destined to act like an idiot.
When he walked through the wide front door, he saw the usual contingent of forensic people milling in the foyer. Opposite the door, a curving staircase of gleaming oak swept up to the second floor. The sight of Phillip Ormiston’s body lying facedown at the base of the staircase centered Jake’s thoughts on business.
He recognized the man crouched beside the body as Zack Upchurch, the M.E.’s assistant.
“Evening, Zack. What can you tell me?”
“Evening, Sarge.” The man used his tongue to nudge a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Not a whole lot at this point.”
Jake nodded. No matter what time of the day or night he ran into Upchurch, the man’s brown hair was always standing in spikes, as if he’d come to whatever scene he’d been called to directly from bed.
“Any idea of time of death?” Jake persisted.
“Twelve hours, give or take.” The surgeon’s gloves Up-church wore gave his hands
a grayish hue that matched the dead man’s face. “Have to wait until we get him on the table to give you a better idea.”
A flash of light to his left had Jake turning his head. Beyond an arched doorway, a lab tech wearing a blue jumpsuit snapped pictures in a living room with paneled walls, acres of matching upholstered furniture and a shiny hardwood floor.
Detective Wes Gianos, a tall, swarthy man, stood near the room’s green marble fireplace, talking into a cell phone. When he saw Jake, he raised a hand.
“Ford just got here,” Gianos said into the phone as he walked across the expansive tapestry rug toward the entryway. “Smith and I will head there in a few minutes.”
“Got another call?” Jake asked as Gianos clicked off his phone and slid it into the pocket of his suit coat.
“This one’s on the east side. Got two DRTs,” he said, using cop shorthand for victims who were dead right there. “One shot, one stabbed. Sounds like the Gun and Knife Club is hard at work.” Gianos nodded toward the staircase. “Meet Phillip Ormiston. Did the uniform outside bring you up to speed?”
“Yes. Any sign of a struggle in the house?”
“No. Smith and I also checked for signs of forced entry on the doors and windows. Didn’t find anything.”
“Any drugs around?”
“Negative.”
Jake stepped forward. Leaning in, he examined the body, making sure not to touch anything that would get the forensic types all bent out of shape.
Dressed in a tan linen shirt, dark slacks and leather loafers, Ormiston looked as though he’d lain down on the marble floor to take a nap. His dark hair, fading to gray at the temples, lay sleek against his head. Beneath the spill of light from a crystal chandelier, a diamond winked from the ring on his left pinkie finger; a thick gold bracelet circled his wrist.
Jake figured he could mark robbery off the list of motives if it turned out someone had killed the man.
He met Upchurch’s gaze. “Any sign of trauma?”
“None that I’ve seen so far. Nothing visible on his neck. No defense wounds on either hand. This guy’s big and has the look of someone who works out, so it’s not like he couldn’t have fought back.” The M.E.’s assistant rose. “I’ll get a sheet from my station wagon, then turn him over. Maybe we’ll find something on the front of him, but I’m not wagering money on that.”
Gianos waited until Upchurch went out the front door, then looked at Jake. “Since Ryan wants you on this case, I didn’t question Nicole Taylor. Figured you ought to handle that.”
“Not a problem.”
“There’s something you need to check in the kitchen before you talk to her.” As he spoke, Gianos aimed his thumb across one shoulder in the direction of a brightly lit hallway that led toward the rear of the house.
“What’s that?”
“There’s a basket from a bakery on the counter, partially filled with muffins. A couple of empty wrappers are inside, so you’ve got to figure Ormiston sampled a few.”
Jake furrowed his brow while his mind fell into sync with Gianos’s thoughts. They had a healthy-looking man with no sign of trauma who seemed to have dropped dead while walking across his entry hall. “You saying you think he was poisoned?”
“I think I don’t know what to think.” Gianos shrugged. “Look, I know Nicole Taylor is Whitney’s new sister-in-law and her brother Bill is the number two man in the D.A.’s office.”
Mentally, Jake missed a step. “What’s that got to do with Ormiston maybe getting poisoned?”
“Could mean nothing…or something. All I know is there’s a card with Nicole Taylor’s name on it tied to the muffin basket.”
Jake felt his spine stiffen. “What does the card say?”
“‘Phillip, we’ve only just begun. Yours, Nicole.”’ Gianos shook his head. “The patrol cop mentioned that when she questioned Taylor, she claimed her association with Ormiston was purely business.”
“Yeah, that’s what Jones told me.”
“Maybe that’s true,” Gianos observed. “All I know is if a woman sent me a basket of goodies with a note like that, I’d get the idea her interest in me went beyond business. If the woman looked as good as Nicole Taylor, I’d welcome that interest.”
“Holy hell,” Jake muttered.
Gianos and Smith headed out the door just as Upchurch returned with a sheet. The M.E.’s assistant and one of the lab techs rolled Ormiston’s body onto the sheet.
The toothpick in the side of Upchurch’s mouth seesawed as he inspected the front of the dead man. “No sign of trauma on his neck, no blood visible.” Upchurch raised a shoulder. “Too early to tell, Sarge, but this death might be a natural.”
“And it might not be,” Jake countered.
“Might not.”
Jake knew that Gianos had been on target to turn a suspicious eye toward the muffins. At a death scene, you looked at everything that way.
Staring down at Ormiston’s body, Jake expelled a slow breath while his mind worked. Muffins were mostly carbohydrates, which the body digested faster than fats and proteins.
“Upchurch, I need a quick autopsy,” he began. “The M.E. needs to pay close attention to the stomach contents, the degree of digestion. Make sure he knows I want a tox screen on body fluids for poisons, both for time of death and cause of death.”
Upchurch cocked an eyebrow. “Poison, huh?”
“It’s possible,” Jake said, then headed for the kitchen.
She’d had to keep busy, or go crazy.
Gnawing her bottom lip, Nicole stared down at the folded sacks, empty foam containers and cups she’d aligned beside her on the back seat of Jake’s car. Now that she’d finished the task and had nothing to occupy her mind, she was again conscious of the clutching nervousness in the pit of her stomach.
At least she felt a little more calm in the back of Jake’s car with its windows rolled down than she had in the police car with its cagelike effect.
In an unconscious gesture, she flipped her thick blond braid behind her shoulder, then twisted her fingers together while she gazed out the open window at the massive brick house. She had found Phillip’s body nearly two hours ago, and her hands had yet to stop trembling. Except for attendance at an occasional funeral, she had never gotten close to a dead body. Certainly had never discovered one. Or touched one.
She’d done all three tonight.
Closing her eyes, she fought back a wave of unsteadiness. She concentrated on taking deep, controlled breaths, tried to remember the breathing exercises Sebastian had taught her to battle stress. The only thing closing her eyes did was bring a clear picture of Jake into her awareness.
He had looked grim, rugged and all-business when he’d climbed out of his car, this car, and headed across the lawn toward Phillip’s house.
She had thought constantly about him since her brother’s wedding. Crazy thoughts, she acknowledged. Thoughts she should have easily discarded because she knew the type of man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, and she was certain Jake Ford wasn’t even close. Still, she hadn’t managed to rid her mind of him. Not since they’d danced…
The next instant the door beside her swung open, snapping her eyes open.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
In the wash of light from the street lamps, Jake’s eyes looked almost black as he leaned through the open door. “Uh…waiting for you. The female officer told me to stay—”
“The trash, Nicole,” he stated through his teeth. “What the hell did you do to my trash?”
“Oh.” Her gaze dropped to the sacks and empty containers sitting in rows beside her. “When I get nervous, I have to have something to keep me busy. To keep my mind focused.”
His gaze stayed on her face, frank and assessing, as he propped a forearm along the top of the car’s open door. “Sorting trash gets your mind focused?”
“It helps.” No way was she going to admit that all she’d gotten from sitting in his car and organizing fast-f
ood sacks were thoughts that had focused on him.
He swung the door open wider. “I need to talk to you. It’d be easier if we both sit in the front seat.”
“Okay.” She had answered what seemed like a million of the uniformed officer’s questions, and she doubted she could give Jake any more information. On a sigh, she slid out of the car into the warm night air. When she turned to face him, she discovered that, without the strappy heels she’d worn while they danced, she was a full head shorter than he.
His eyes were cool, very cool, as they inched down her body, taking in her white, oversize dress shirt, navy leggings, thick socks and workout shoes. His slow, measured assessment filled her with unease. She wasn’t sure if it was the man or the cop—or both—who made her feel as if she were not being looked at, but into.
The sound of muted conversation pulled her attention toward the sprawling brick house. The wheels of a stretcher holding a black body bag clattered as two men rolled it over the doorstep and onto the porch.
Her throat tightened. “He must have had a heart attack.”
Jake closed the car’s back door with a quiet snap, then turned. His handsome face held no expression. “What makes you think that?”
“Phillip confided in me that he’d had a heart attack a few years ago. It was a mild one, but enough to have him start working out and eating right.”
“Phillip,” Jake echoed. A muscle in his cheek jerked, but his eyes stayed level on hers. “Right now his death is unexplained. That’s how I’m investigating it.”
He leaned around her and pulled open the front passenger door. The movement brought him close enough for her to catch his warm, musky scent. For a mindless moment, they were back on that dance floor, their bodies swaying in slow, seductive unison. As if feeling again the heady sensation of his thumb against her wrist, she curled her fingers over her palms.
