“Good God,” Nash muttered. He flipped through the file, nodding. “Excellent work. Excellent.” She smiled brightly.
He thumbed through the files and called her back over. “Where’s the one on Winfield?”
“I thought you only wanted suspects.”
“The victim gives me the suspects, Officer. I need Winfield’s. I needed it yesterday.”
“Yes, sir.” She snapped to attention. “Do you want what I have already?”
Nash nodded and she trotted to her cubicle, then rushed back with a file. “It’s surface stuff, sir—credit reports, a few newspaper clippings, marriage license, job reevaluations.”
It was more than he had, Nash thought as he thanked her and left the office. He was climbing into his car, intent on checking on Lisa before calling it a day, when his cell phone rang.
“You were right. I owe you twenty bucks,” Detective Rhinehart said.
“The password worked?” Nash said, grinning. Eternally Yours.
“Yeah, now ask me what we found.”
Nash listened, smiling. “I want to interview Carl Forsythe and Catherine Delan.”
“I’ve already brought them in and questioned them, but I figured you’d want a crack at it. Before you ask, neither has a solid alibi for the time of the attack on Lisa. They insist they were in traffic from the funeral. Oh, yeah, the forensics are in on Winfield’s apartment before it was ransacked.”
“Let me guess—you found hair, bleached or dyed?”
Rhinehart was silent for a second. “Yes, in the drains and in the bed. It will take another day to confirm gender and if it is actually dyed.”
“Science is too slow for me right now, and by the way, Lisa Bracket Winfield is a natural redhead.”
“And you can confirm this?”
Nash heard the implications in the other detective’s voice and felt heat creep up from his neck. “Yeah, I can.”
Rhinehart chuckled. “I knew you two were friends.”
“How so?”
“A man doesn’t look at a stranger the way you did.”
Nash cut the connection, tapping the phone against his chin. He didn’t look at anyone the way he did Lisa. Because she was the one he wanted. Bad. Acknowledging that didn’t put him any further away from his plan to let her go, he thought wryly. And though he wanted to see her and at least bring her an update, he didn’t have time. He’d leave the officer watching her place and pray she was safe for the night.
He dialed the airlines.
LISA STIRRED, at once aware of the fog the painkillers left behind and that a noise had woken her. She lay still on the sofa, her gaze scanning the darkened room. She didn’t need the grandfather clock in the hall to tell her that it was late. Past nine at least, she thought. Why didn’t Kate leave some lights on? Even she knew better than to leave the lights off around the garden and shop at the west side of the house to deter break-ins.
She heard it then, clearer, the creak that could be a number of things, feet on her heart pine floors, a door opening, the house settling. She twisted from her prone position on the sofa and put her feet on the floor, ignoring the dull throb in her head and sliding her hand across the coffee table to the decorative iron rooster. She rose slowly, her gaze adjusting to the dark, the moonlight casting faint shadows of long-legged creatures on the walls. The little dot on the alarm didn’t blink its usual glowing green. Damn. Why hadn’t Kate set it when she left for the night?
Lisa walked slowly through the house, pausing to listen, then moved toward the shop. She hefted the rooster, aching to pay someone back and get in a good clobber. The noise came again. Once, twice. And behind her. She shifted away from the door to the shop, then down the back hall toward the kitchen. She switched sides, avoiding the beams from the oven light and the shadows she’d make.
Oh, jeez, someone’s in my kitchen.
She inched around the doorjamb and saw a figure at the counter. The shadows and low light kept their identity hidden. With the rooster poised to strike, Lisa stepped inside and flicked on the light.
Kate whirled around, wide-eyed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Lisa demanded, not lowering the rooster.
“My God, Lisa, you scared me to death!”
“I should have—you’re in my house after hours. What are you doing here?”
Kate stepped to the side and showed the plate of food and a teacup on a perfectly set tray. “I was leaving you something to eat for when you woke up.”
Lisa kept staring and Kate babbled.
“I’m sorry, Lisa, please don’t fire me. I was closing up and you were still asleep, but all the lights were off. I didn’t want you to wake up in the dark, so I was going to fix you something and then turn on a couple lights before I set the alarm. I was just trying to help. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Lisa simply stared, the rooster dangling at her side.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Kate asked.
Lisa blinked. “Sorry, my heart is somewhere in my larynx, I think. You should have closed up three hours ago.”
“I did, but I forgot to shut off the sprinkler system and came back. When I saw you still weren’t awake, I thought of fixing this. There’s herb tea on the stove.”
Lisa glanced at the saucepan simmering the herbs. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Lisa let out a long breath and set the iron rooster on the island counter. She and Kate were not great friends yet, but Kate hadn’t been working at the shop that long. The younger woman didn’t care much for working with plants and preferred working the counter and shop, which was fine with Lisa. She’d rather be outside, anyway.
“It’s okay. You can go home now. I’ll lock up.”
“You sure? You don’t look so good.”
Lisa shoved her fingers through her hair. She hadn’t showered since the morning of the funeral, and she was still wearing the same bloodstained clothes from the attack. “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
Lisa knew she wasn’t being very cordial but seeing Kate in her house at this hour told her she wasn’t watching her own back.
Kate grabbed her purse, told Lisa she’d shut off the sprinkler system and left. But not before pleading her case again. When Kate finally left, Lisa had convinced her she still had a job. Lisa reminded herself to get a separate lock for the door between the house and the shop. Her employees, no matter how much she trusted them, didn’t need a key to her house.
She moved to the counter, peeling up the sandwich bread to see what lay beneath. Fat-free mayo, turkey and bean sprouts. How revoltingly healthy, Lisa thought, reaching for the cookie jar.
“WHAT IS THIS about, Detective?” Carl Forsythe picked at lint on his jacket sleeve, then looked up. He wore a bored look.
“I’ll get to that in a second. How about some coffee? They have vanilla.” Nash offered his best smile, holding up the pot. When the man nodded, Nash poured Forsythe a cup of coffee, asking if he wanted cream.
Forsythe shook his head and sipped from the paper cup. Nash grabbed a chair, swung it around backward and straddled it. “So, Mr. Forsythe, where were you after Winfield’s funeral?”
“Directly after? I was stuck in traffic.”
Nash made a note. “Where exactly were you stuck?”
“Forty-second and Broadway for the most part.”
Nash made another note, well aware that there hadn’t been a traffic jam then. And it was less than six blocks to Winfield’s apartment. “Thank you,” Nash said, laying down the pen before looking at Forsythe. “So…you and Peter Winfield had been doing business for how long?”
“Several years.”
“Successfully?”
“Yes, quite. Peter was a market wizard.”
“Really? Then how come he wasn’t swimming in cash?”
“He was a wizard for his clients. Insider trading is illegal.”
“Yeah, I know that. So—”
Forsythe glanced at his watch. “I really need to go, Detective. Could
you get to the reason for dragging me in here?”
“Sure, in a sec.” Nash put up a hand, took a sip of coffee, then said, “What did he have that you wanted?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Nash made a show of looking at his notes. “Mrs. Winfield stated that at the funeral service you asked her if she was to inherit the victim’s personal and business files.”
“And your point is?”
“Why would you want them? Now correct me if I’m wrong, sir, but a good businessman makes copies of all transactions.”
“I simply wanted to compare the accounting.”
“You think the victim cheated you?”
“No, but I don’t trust a man who lies about his marriage.”
“Well now, that’s a little strange since you didn’t know about the state of the victim’s marriage till you spoke with Mrs. Winfield at the funeral and she told you herself.”
“Yes, I did speak with her. And no, I did not know they were estranged.”
“Try divorced. Now tell me again why you wanted those files enough to confront the widow at a funeral?”
Forsythe was silent.
“Sir? Were you afraid he’d show them to someone? Did you want your hands on them first?”
“If Winfield was doing anything illegal, then I didn’t know about it.”
“Okay, you can plead that you had no knowledge of the crime, but I gotta tell you, Mr. Forsythe, it’s not looking good. Mr. Winfield kept excellent records.”
Forsythe’s gaze narrowed. “Did he?” His lips were pressed thin with anger.
Nash flipped open a file and scanned it, though he knew it by heart already. “They were hidden pretty deep in his home PC, but once we got the code… I see that you two corresponded on several occasions about buying MMG? Now what’s that?”
“It’s a plastics company.”
“Hmm.” Nash sipped his coffee. “That’s why you wanted his files, isn’t it, sir? To check up on the victim.”
“Yes.”
“You’d been working together in an effort to buy stock?”
“Yes.”
“Then all this tells me it was an illegal transaction, Mr. Forsythe. Because the information Winfield had was insider trading within the company, using a fake corporation that was nothing more than a post office box.”
Forsythe shut up, glanced at the two-way glass, then down at his coffee. He reached for it, but his hand shook and it never met the mark. “I want to call my lawyer.”
“Certainly.” Nash whipped out his cell phone and handed it over.
Forsythe used it, speaking hurriedly into the phone, then looking at Nash.
“I’ll leave you alone,” Nash said.
He left the room and went into the next, standing with Rhinehart. The interrogation room speaker was turned off. Nash watched Forsythe through the glass window.
“He’s sweating,” Nash said.
Rhinehart nodded. “He wouldn’t tell us anything before, but then, we didn’t know what to ask.”
“You want a crack at him?” Nash offered.
“Nah, I like watching you pull out that ‘I’m dumb as dirt’ Southern charm.”
Nash lifted a brow.
“Comes in handy, I’ll bet, all that patience, slow talking. I’d be hounding him for answers.”
“I’ll teach you Southern speak if you like…suh.”
Nash glanced at Forsythe, then stepped back into the room.
“Your lawyer going to join us?”
Forsythe looked up, paler than a moment before. “No, he wouldn’t.”
CATHERINE DELAN was flirting with Nash.
At least she was trying. She sat in the NYPD interrogation room, and crossed her long legs. Nash didn’t bother to look, the woman was, if anything, obvious. Rhinehart watched them from the adjoining room.
“How long did you know Peter Winfield?”
“Five years.”
“And your relationship with him was strictly business?”
“At first.”
“Please go on,” Nash said, leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest.
“He and I became lovers.”
“Before or after he was married?”
“After.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Ms. Delan, Mrs. Winfield said you confronted her after the funeral service.” He knew there was more than Lisa was telling him, and he figured she was just hiding her own humiliation.
“I didn’t know he was separated from his wife.”
“But that didn’t matter to you. You continued to see him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I liked him.”
“And how long did this go on?”
“It never really ended.”
While he was asking his wife not to divorce him, Peter was sleeping with Delan. Talk about having his cake and eating it, too, Nash thought. “What did you do after you left Mrs. Winfield at the funeral?”
“I drove to the burial, then home.”
“There wasn’t a burial. Ms. Delan—it was Mr. Winfield’s final request. Try again.”
Catherine Delan’s face flushed, then went pale and slack. She looked down at her nails, perfectly polished and shaped, as she spoke. “I drove around for a bit. I was very upset.”
“Why?”
“Because Peter was dead!”
Grief or worry? he wondered. “What did you say to Mrs. Winfield?”
“I told her the truth.”
“About what?”
“That Peter only wanted her as a trophy and that I slept with him.”
“Why bother, Ms. Delan? She’d been separated from Winfield for nearly three years.”
“She wasn’t when she found us together.”
Catherine’s expression told him she hadn’t meant to say that, and Nash kept his features blank. “Go on.”
“Perhaps you should ask Mrs. Winfield.”
“I’m asking you. Now.”
“She came back from a trip early and found us.”
Oh, God. Lisa. She was still married at the time. “So you confronted the widow on the day of her husband’s funeral and reminded her that her husband had been unfaithful.”
“She wasn’t the widow.”
“You didn’t know that. As far as you were concerned, Lisa and Peter were still married. But that didn’t matter to you.”
Her hands clenched on her lap. “I suppose it was mean.”
“What was your point in doing that, Ms. Delan?”
“She had it all.”
“And you thought you could take it by sleeping with her husband?”
“No. And Peter came to me, Detective, not the other way around.”
Nash pushed away from the wall and leaned his rear on the table, casual, but hovering over her. “Keep going.”
“What? There’s nothing to tell.”
“You were having an affair with a married man and now that man is dead. Murdered.”
Catherine Delan looked up, only half-stunned. “Murdered. And you think I had something to do with it?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Ms. Delan, I’m only trying to get at the truth.”
She reached for her bag, pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“No smoking.”
She shoved them back into her bag. “Yes, she found us, but he didn’t break it off with me. I thought she’d taken him back, that she was still around, being the perfect wife—because he never let her out to play, you know. Before then, whenever I did see her, she was dressed to the nines, dripping in jewels, and he stayed very close to her.”
“And?”
“I thought she was still around, of course. Her things were in the apartment.”
“You had sex with him in his own apartment, believing that he was still married and that was her home.”
Catherine Delan looked ill.
“Did you love Peter Winfield?”
&nbs
p; “Not really.”
“Either you did or did not.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Then why the affair? To hurt someone you didn’t know? Because Mrs. Winfield had married him?”
“No. I just…”
“Yes?”
“I had other reasons. I can’t tell you.”
“Ms. Delan, a man has been murdered and you were the last one to have intimate contact with him. That makes you a suspect. A prime one.”
She paled further. “But I was sleeping with him to get the chance to search his files!”
Why didn’t this surprise Nash? “What for?”
“Peter had damaging information on a friend of mine—a good friend.”
“You were sleeping with him for nearly three years and hadn’t gotten hold of the files in all that time?” Nash tried to keep the disgust out of his voice and failed. “What was Winfield doing with this information?”
“Holding it over my friend, what else?” Words died when she realized she’d implicated herself.
“Who’s your friend?”
“I can’t say.”
Nash moved to the door.
“I haven’t done anything illegal,” she cried. “You can’t hold me.”
“Blackmail is a crime, Ms. Delan. So is knowing about it and not bringing it to the attention of the authorities. It’s called ‘intent to conceal a criminal act.’ And I can hold you for twenty-four hours. There’s meat loaf on the jail’s menu tonight. Hope you have the stomach for it.”
Nash called for a uniformed officer. When the man appeared, Nash spoke to him in hushed tones with his back to Catherine Delan. The cop looked past him to the woman.
“Okay, fine,” Catherine said. “I can’t tell you the name, but Peter was blackmailing this person. He had evidence about some trouble from a couple years ago and this person wanted it back.”
“Not good enough. I need a name, and yours will do for the prosecuting attorney,” Nash said.
She looked at him, her eyes sparking with fury, then she snapped, “Chartres. John Chartres.”
Chapter Eight
“Don’t listen to a thing that man says, Lisa. I knew him when he was wearing diapers.”
Under His Protection Page 10
