by Style, Linda
“Are you my mom’s date?” Chloe asked, as if Jillian hadn’t spoken.
“Chlo-ee,” Jillian said, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. “If I were dating, you’d know it. Now, get ready.”
The detective extended a hand past Jillian to her daughter. “Pleased to meet you, Chloe. I’m Adam and I’m here to see your mom on business.”
Color blossomed on Chloe’s cheeks as she reached out and shook his hand. “My mom didn’t tell me anyone was coming over.” She speared Jillian with an accusing glare.
The detective smiled, another disarming, full-fledged job that made Jillian all too aware of…him. Tall, six-four at least, broad-shouldered and blessed with a thick shock of sun-bleached, sandy-brown hair. Her first impression validated, she didn’t smile back. The guy was a hunk. Too bad he was a frikking cop.
“It was a surprise,” he said. “Your mom didn’t know I was coming.”
“A surprise I really don’t need,” Jillian countered, trying to ignore how nice he was being to Chloe.
“Yeah.” The detective rubbed a hand over his chin. “So, I’ll come back later.”
She could hardly wait. Not wanting to show disrespect in front of Chloe, her response burned on her tongue unsaid.
“Have a great time on your trip, Chloe,” he said with a smile and a wave.
Together Chloe and Jillian watched the detective stride across the street and climb into the car.
“Wow, Mom. He’s cool! I think you should absolutely date him.”
“Thanks for the assessment, Ms. Matchmaker, but if you don’t mind, I’ll pick my own dates. He’s not my type.”
“No one’s your type.” Chloe frowned and pursed her lips, as if her mother’s lack of a social life somehow reflected on her.
“That’s a discussion for another time. Now get the rest of your things.”
Chloe stomped off.
Jillian sighed. These days a discussion with her daughter about anything quickly became a battle Jillian never won. It was too soon for her little girl to go through this preteen stuff!
Five minutes later Jillian was outside giving Chloe a crushing goodbye hug, and then her daughter was off for the next two weeks. Two long weeks.
“Love you,” Jillian called out as she waved goodbye, her words gobbled up in the rumble of the engine. She continued watching until the van disappeared around the corner. She glanced across the street. The car was gone, she wished for good. What could he possibly want to talk to her about if they weren’t any closer to solving her husband’s murder than before? And why had he been following her?
Heaving a sigh, she headed back inside through the door to the kitchen, poured some raspberry iced tea and leaned against the refrigerator, then rolled the icy glass over her forehead. Maybe she should take a real vacation while Chloe was gone. Go to California and visit old friends. Or somewhere different altogether.
She gazed around the old country kitchen, with its worn maple cabinets, the faded Formica countertops and dated black appliances. The place looked awful, but with the move and all she’d had to do after Rob’s death, home improvement hadn’t been high on her list of priorities. Hell, back then she’d barely passed survival on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
She’d been busy getting the first hair salon up and running, and then she’d expanded to two and then three salons, which had taken even more of her time. But now she had no excuses. She had both the time and the money.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized the whole place needed renovating—and it would give her something to do while Chloe was away. But she couldn’t change Chloe’s room unless her daughter was involved in the process.
Jillian smiled. If Chloe was interested, they could redecorate her room as soon as she got home. Something they could do together.
Deciding, she rummaged through the junk drawer for paper and pen, then sat on a stool at the counter to make a list of what needed to be done. She’d prioritize and get started immediately.
After she got rid of Detective Adam Ramsey.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the bell rang. Her insides knotted. He was here to talk about Rob’s murder. Something she didn’t want to talk about. She just wished to hell she hadn’t noticed him at the market and thought him an eligible bachelor when he wasn’t.
Now that she knew who he was, she wouldn’t be interested, anyway. She went to the foyer and pulled open the door.
His smile produced tiny wrinkles near the corners of his eyes. He might be older than she’d thought. Late thirties, maybe.
“You’re early. You said an hour.”
“Right on both counts. Would you like me to leave and come back later?”
She’d like him to leave and never come back. He made her feel…jittery and a little uncertain, when she was not a jittery, uncertain person. A bit scattered sometimes, but that was different.
She motioned him inside and into the living room on her left. “What’s on your mind, Detective?”
“May I sit?” He gestured toward the couch.
“Go ahead.” But don’t get too comfortable.
The taupe faux-suede sofa seemed to diminish in size as he settled. In fact, the whole room felt smaller with him in it, the air thicker, hotter. Instead of sitting herself, she leaned against the side of the easy chair and crossed her arms. She noticed tiny beads of sweat forming on his tanned brow.
“Aren’t you a little warm with that jacket on?”
“I am, but—” he lifted up one side of his jacket “—the gun makes some people nervous.”
“Anything involving the LAPD makes me nervous.”
He frowned, but seconds later his expression softened. “I understand. In your shoes I might feel the same.” He glanced at her feet. “Well…that’s if you were wearing shoes.”
He smiled, then leaned back, one arm slung across the top of the cushion beside him. His easy charm was meant to disarm her, she was sure.
“Sorry to bother you. I’m new on the case, so it’s important to bring myself up to date.”
As he talked, his gaze panned the room. She knew he was studying everything, even her. Just like her father had when she’d finally met him after her mom died.
She hadn’t known her father was a cop, hadn’t known lots of things about him. Her delight at discovering she had a real live father had been squelched as fast as it had come, and the disastrous experience of living with him tainted her perception of any man in the same profession. The treatment she’d received later at the hands of the LAPD hadn’t helped.
The way this detective was looking at her now made her wish she’d worn long pants, instead of skimpy shorts. She let her hands fall to cover her thighs. “Why do you want to bring yourself up to date? Isn’t it too late for that?”
“Too late?”
“Yes. Your department told me if they didn’t have a lead within the first week or so, the likelihood is that the case will never be solved. Four years ago I was told they’d pretty much closed the books on the investigation.”
He nodded. “The part about getting information quickly is true, but my job is to clean up a lot of the old cases and recent forensic advances have allowed us to solve some old cases that we weren’t able to get conclusive evidence on at the time.”
“Don’t you usually have to have some new evidence or something to open a case again?”
“An unsolved homicide is never really closed, Mrs. Sullivan. We work it until all leads are exhausted, then if still unsolved, it becomes a cold case. But now, with the improved methods, we’re getting new leads on old cases. Which is why I’m here.”
Dread ripped through Jillian at the thought of reliving the most horrible time in her life. She took a deep breath. “I don’t understand. I told the police everything four years ago. I’m sure you’d be better off going to your files for the information, because my memory of events is pretty hazy now.”
“The answers to my questions aren’t in the file.”
> She stared at him for a moment. “Such as?”
“How involved were you in your husband’s business? Did you know much about it?”
Her heart sank. He was going to go into it all over again. “Of course I did. I took care of the accounts. But you already know that—your predecessors confiscated our books and never returned them. I had one helluva time trying to get the taxes done that year.” She moved from the chair arm onto the seat.
He looked surprised at the comment but continued, “How about business partners?”
“Rob worked alone. He owned his truck and contracted with several companies. He did regular runs most of the time.”
“And…the night he died?”
“No different from any other. He worked alone,” she repeated. Then added more softly, “And he died alone.” A renewed sense of loss washed over her.
“Maybe you can tell me a little about your husband’s friends, longtime friends he might’ve known before he met you. Friends he might’ve kept in touch with?”
Her nerves twitched. Was he saying Rob might have told a friend something he hadn’t told her? She bolted to her feet and in three seconds was at the door. She turned to face him. “Four years ago, Detective Ramsey, I lost my husband. My daughter lost her father. We’ve finally managed to get on with our lives and we’d like to continue to do so.”
She paused, struggling for self-control as she realized how easily their lives could be turned inside out once more. “I’ve answered all those questions before and frankly, I don’t wish to do it again. The information is already in your records. So unless you can give me a compelling reason to do so, I refuse to put myself or my daughter, especially my daughter, through that pain all over again.”
Ramsey dropped his chin to his chest and ran a hand across the back of his neck, then rose to his feet. She thought he would leave, but instead he stopped right in front of her. He was close enough to alert her senses, make her suddenly, acutely aware of him as a man, just as he had that morning.
Which seemed dangerous somehow. Threatening.
“I’m sorry for your family’s loss, Mrs. Sullivan. I understand how you feel, and I don’t want to cause you any more pain. But I do have a good reason for asking.”
His eyes warmed, and for a second he looked as if he really did know how she felt, as if he, too, knew about loss. Still. “And that reason is?”
He cleared his throat. “I’d like to have your husband’s remains exhumed for further testing. It would speed things up if you gave your permission to do so.”
CHAPTER TWO
ADAM WINCED AT THE shock he saw in the woman’s eyes. Sometimes he just didn’t get the words right. Damn. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you with that.”
Her chest heaved. “Really? What did you expect?”
“Are you okay?” he asked, ignoring her sarcasm.
She took another deep breath and flipped an avalanche of red-gold curls behind her shoulders. “Why didn’t you just say what you wanted in the first place? You could’ve saved us some time.”
She spoke her mind, he had to give her that. “Why don’t we both have a seat again while I explain why I think it’s necessary?”
Her tongue glided over a full bottom lip. Considering the request, he hoped.
After a moment she said, “I don’t want to know why you think it’s necessary. I can tell you right now I won’t agree to it.”
“At least hear me out.”
She was quiet, which he hoped was a good sign. He needed her to agree. If he could get this done swiftly, without having to get a court order, he might be able to prove his theory, and if he proved his theory, he might be able to solve the case—and his partner wouldn’t have died in vain. And maybe, just maybe, he might be able to get his own life and career back on track.
But he couldn’t tell her he had a score to settle. Because there was still the other question—had she been part of her husband’s illegal business? Though now, after meeting her, it seemed unlikely. Still, e had been fooled before.
“Two minutes,” he said. “Give me two minutes, and if your answer is still no, I’ll accept it and go back to L.A.”
Her gaze met his. Her eyelashes were long and dark, her eyebrows almost the same light color as her riot of curly hair. Her eyes bluer than…well, blue. And she was frowning, as if giving him any time at all couldn’t be good.
Hell, how could she refuse a guy two stinking minutes?
She strode back into the living room. Turning toward the window, she clasped both hands behind her neck and tipped her head from side to side, as if working out some kinks. The gesture exposed an inch of creamy skin between her white shorts and red sleeveless top.
Then she lowered her arms and turned to face him. “Okay. Two minutes.”
He didn’t let her see his relief. Now all he had to do was follow through. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his neck.
She surprised him by asking, “Would you like some iced tea?”
Her voice was low and sultry and to his ears, her question about iced tea could’ve been a line from an old Bogart-Bacall flick. If you want me, just whistle.
“Sure, thanks.” An infusion of liquid might keep him from keeling over in heat prostration—and maybe extinguish the flames of testosterone suddenly warring with his rational thought. But he doubted it. He’d been watching her for three days to see if she had any contact with any suspicious characters who were supposed to be dead. He’d wanted to tap her phone, but didn’t have any evidence to do so. But watching her for several days, he knew one thing for sure…he liked what he saw.
He drew a mental breath. No problem there, as long as he kept it in perspective.
Something he hadn’t done with his ex.
As soon as the woman left the room, he yanked off his jacket and adjusted his gun so that it was behind his arm and less visible. He couldn’t do anything about the holster, but if the gun bothered her, he’d take it off rather than put the damned jacket back on. As it was, he could feel the rings of sweat on his shirt under his arms.
“I’m sorry it’s so hot in here,” she said, returning with a tray holding a pitcher of tea and two glasses. She set it on the coffee table. “These old homes don’t have central air, and since we usually only need it for a few weeks during the summer, I couldn’t see the point of converting the whole house.”
She was nervous. He could tell by the way she avoided looking at him. Maybe she did have something to hide. “It’s hot everywhere. Just one of those summers, I guess.”
After filling both glasses, she left the room again and came back with an electric fan. He’d already downed his tea by the time she returned.
She plugged in the unit and adjusted the oscillation. Then she refilled his glass and sat opposite him on the overstuffed ottoman, her posture reminding him of a little kid, her knees together and her bare feet splayed. After a sip of tea, she held the glass in both hands and leaned forward, allowing the fan to blow the hair away from her face.
“Oh, that feels good.”
In that single moment she transformed from a little girl into a woman, and he was mesmerized by the graceful way she moved—drawn not so much by her look as by something intangible.
Oh, she was certainly pretty. But California had an abundance of pretty women, and he was no longer impressed with the flash. Most were about as deep as Norton’s Creek back home, and the older he got, the more he realized looks alone just didn’t cut it.
This woman’s quick, sharp assessments had surprised him, her candor intrigued him. And she moved with a physical ease he found seductive as hell.
And was he concerned about being seduced? Hell no—not as long as it was only in his mind.
Then, remembering something someone had said about great sex beginning in the brain, he knocked back the rest of his tea.
“So, tell me,” Jillian said. “Tell me in two minutes why you think I should allow you to defile my husband’s final resting place.”
He quickly scanned the room, searching for some other hook to get her to agree. The family photos he’d noticed earlier were everywhere. Husband and wife, father and daughter, photos of the three of them.
A happy family, a happy marriage.
An anomaly that didn’t exist in real life. At least not in his. “I’m looking for something that could link your husband’s killer to your husband, some prior association or relationship that might have been overlooked before.”
She arched a brow. “Your department, Detective Ramsey, determined the murder was a random act … that the crash was caused by a sniper since there were empty cartridges found near the scene. Are you saying you don’t think that’s the case? Has something changed?”
“I’m saying that conclusions were drawn from the evidence and the tests available at the time, and that now, with better testing methods, we might be able to draw different conclusions. I think it’s worth a try.”
“But…” Her face went pale. “When the truck went over the cliff, Rob’s body … the explosion destroyed almost everything. Identification was made in other ways.” She stopped, then put her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes. A moment later she asked, “Can you even do DNA testing on what’s left? Wouldn’t they have done it back then if it was possible?”
Seeing her discomfort, he was suddenly sorry he had to press. But it was his job to press, and for the first time since Bryce’s death, he was going to do it right.
“My biggest problem in working this case is that I haven’t been able to locate all the test results done back then. Which leads me to believe some tests weren’t completed.”
“The police collected evidence and preserved it. I know they did. Your department should still have all that. If you need to do new tests, why can’t you do it on the evidence you have?”
