Colby Rebuilt

by Debra Webb

  The words were spoken carefully, as if he’d meticulously chosen each one. The grave expression that tightened his face told far more than his words. There was an ugly history between those two.

  “Will anything about your past relationship with Mitchell cause any difficulties conducting this investigation?” She needed to know that up front. Solving the ambiguity of Rebecca’s murder was far too important to take chances with an investigator who had an ax to grind. She would go straight back to Victoria Colby-Camp with her reservations if necessary.

  “No.”

  She might have had doubts for a second or two, but the sheer determination in those dark eyes proved immensely persuasive and seriously unnerving.

  “Okay. So…” She glanced around the neat living room. “This is Rebecca’s place. What would you like to see first?”

  Allen didn’t immediately respond to her question. He walked around the cozy living room with its all-white furnishings and sleek fireplace. Rebecca’s taste had always run to the stark and clean, very contemporary. It still seemed strange to be here without her even after all the time that had passed. Mary Jane knew if she went into the bedroom and opened a dresser drawer she would still be able to smell her sister’s unique scent.

  God, she missed her.

  Don’t think about her…focus on the details. Hoping to accomplish that, before she realized what was happening Mary Jane got caught up in watching the investigator move around the room. He didn’t touch anything, but the way he examined everything with his eyes was so intimate that she found herself fascinated by his movements.

  The dining area to the right of the living space was as colorless as the living room, making all the sleek, black granite and stainless steel of the kitchen a real standout. Allen gave that space the same meticulous consideration as if he were memorizing her sister’s choices in design as well as wines.

  When he moved toward the short hall leading to the bedroom and bath, Mary Jane followed. He visually inspected the single picture hanging on the wall in that cramped hall. A black-and-white print of Rebecca and Mary Jane as young girls. It was the only family photo on display in the entire apartment.

  Rebecca’s bedroom was as spartanly furnished and was draped in the same cool whites as the living and dining rooms. The king-size bed was exactly as Rebecca had left it, the linens smoothed to perfection and the pillows arranged artfully into an inviting mound. Her sister had been obsessive about the details in everything.

  Mary Jane closed her eyes for a moment to block the tide of emotion rising inside her yet again. She couldn’t let the feelings of sorrow and regret overwhelm her. She had to keep her attention fixed on the investigation. Emotions would only get in the way.

  When her lids fluttered open once more, Investigator Shane Allen was watching her.

  “This apartment has been searched repeatedly.”

  She nodded, although she suspected that what he’d said hadn’t been a question.

  “You’ve checked every drawer,” he went on, “every closet, any files and notes.”

  Again, she nodded.

  “I need you to look again,” he said, moving closer, or maybe she just thought he’d moved closer.

  He felt closer. His dark, dangerous demeanor overpowered the room.

  “I’ve already been through everything,” she confirmed. “There’s nothing else to look at. Besides—” she shrugged “—what could I hope to find that the authorities didn’t?” The forensics teams who had scoured her sister’s apartment were trained to find evidence. She wasn’t. She’d tried and found nothing. Looking again would be a wasted effort. He should recognize that as well as she did.

  “This time,” he definitely came closer, “I want you to look through the eyes of your sister, not Mary Jane Brooks. Forget the idea of how hurt or appalled you are about what happened. Look at her things the way you would have when that picture was taken.” He gestured toward the hall where the single photograph hung. “See what she wants you to see.”

  He wasn’t making sense. She and her sister hadn’t shared that kind of relationship since they were kids—ten and twelve—the ages they were in that photograph.

  She couldn’t do this. The concept was ridiculous. “I don’t understand. What’s the point?”

  “She was your sister. You were what, two, two-and-a-half years apart in age?”

  That he stood so close…close enough for her to feel the intensity in his eyes…didn’t help. “You’re confusing me. What am I supposed to be looking for?”

  “Your sister was scared. She knew she was in trouble. She’d stepped up to the plate and gone to the authorities about her boss. She couldn’t share the intimate details with you. It was too dangerous and you were busy. But she knew deep down—” he pressed a hand to his chest “—that she could count on you if she needed you. You were sisters. She trusted you to take care of your parents. She knew you would be there for her no matter what happened. That’s what kept her going.”

  Her heart was pounding. Mary Jane threw her hands up. He was guessing…or maybe it was wishful thinking. “I’m telling you we didn’t have that kind of relationship as adults. We didn’t even talk often anymore. When we did, it was generally about our parents.”

  “But you were her sister.” He surveyed the room once more. “The only tie to family visible in this entire apartment is a picture of the two of you together. Not a colleague or your parents, not a significant other or fiancé. You. Only you and her.”

  He couldn’t be right. Sure, Rebecca had called every week to check on the folks. But in spite of living less than a half hour away, she’d come to visit only every couple of weeks or so. She was too busy.

  “The picture doesn’t mean anything,” Mary Jane argued. He was wrong.

  “In my experience as a U.S. Marshal—” Allen stepped back, giving her space “—a witness, especially a smart one, doesn’t go in to blow the whistle on her boss without some kind of backup. A plan or evidence, maybe both, but proof and/or protection of some sort. Something that backs up what they say, just in case.”

  Mary Jane assumed there was evidence. “Wouldn’t she have turned over any evidence at the beginning?” Wasn’t that the way it worked? Why hadn’t anyone else asked her those questions if what he suggested was so logical?

  “Possibly,” he agreed. “She may have turned over significant evidence. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t leave some kind of insurance behind. Something to cover her just in case things went south.”

  Mary Jane let go a heavy breath. “Okay, tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Think.” He glanced around the room again. “Where would she hide something just for you? Someplace no one else would think to look?”

  Her chest tight, Mary Jane walked around the room. She tried to remember how they’d played together as kids. How Rebecca had always, always beaten her at Monopoly. She’d sworn she was going to be a real estate tycoon or a banker when she grew up. They’d played games that lasted entire weekends, dragging out the inevitable. Rebecca always won at Monopoly or anything else they played.

  “We played games,” Mary Jane said as much to herself as to the man anticipating some results she couldn’t hope to produce. “Oh.” Her heart skipped a beat as she vividly remembered one game they had played. “We told stories at night, in the dark.” Her mind went back two decades. “Whoever told the scariest story won. That was the only game where I could hope to win.” Mary Jane had been a natural-born storyteller. Give her a word or a seed of an idea and she could build a story around it. Not that storytelling was really a game, but they had kind of made it a game.

  “In the dark?”

  There he went, moving closer again.

  Her gaze sought his. “Yes. In bed at night. We’d hide under the sheets with the flashlight.”

  Allen broke the eye contact and moved to the bed. Before she could fathom his intent he’d started tossing aside the mound of pillows.

  Confused even more but
not about to let him see it, she helped. When the bed was free of pillows, he drew back the silk comforter, then the sleek white top sheet.

  Mary Jane’s breath hitched. “What’re you doing?”

  He gestured to the turned-down bed. “Lay your head where she would have. Inhale the scent she left on the sheets. Make yourself remember. Would she have left you something—anything—to help stop the bad guys in the event she wasn’t able to? Did she trust or believe in you that much? She left the care of your parents totally in your hands.”

  The idea was ridiculous. Rebecca had left the care of their parents in Mary Jane’s hands because she was too busy. “This isn’t—”

  “Just try, Mary Jane,” he urged. “I’ll bet your sister had a lot more faith in you than you do.”

  That he called her by her first name rattled her. This was too confusing…too painful.

  But she wanted the truth, didn’t she?

  She climbed onto the sheets and picked up her sister’s pillow. With the cool satin pressed to her face, she inhaled deeply.

  Yes, she could smell her. Mary Jane closed her eyes and let the memories bombard her. The bed was soft and welcoming, like the one they had shared as kids.

  “Think,” he urged softly. “Did she give you anything or tell you anything during those last weeks that might not have meant anything at the time but could now? It could have been related to your childhood.”

  Mary Jane started to say no, but a memory pinged her. The Monopoly card.

  Park Place.

  “Park Place.” Mary Jane opened her eyes but kept the pillow hugged to her chest. “She sent me the Park Place card from a Monopoly game. It was tucked into a Thanksgiving card. I thought she was trying to cheer me up because the holidays were coming and our mother was so sick. There wasn’t going to be the traditional dinner.”

  “Does that location mean anything to you?”

  Her throat felt as dry as sand, but somehow she managed to speak. “It’s one of the top properties on the Monopoly board. It takes a lot of money to buy it.” Lines of concentration nagged at her brow. “There was a note in the card about it. Rebecca said something like, this will be yours one day…it’s everything I have to offer.” Why would her sister leave a message like that? At the time she had been too involved in her mother’s swift deterioration to consider the card at length. She shrugged. “I thought maybe she was planning to try buying me a new house. She always said my place was too small.” Another shrug. “Like I said, I thought it was some kind of overture to cheer me up.”

  “Besides Monopoly and the prospect of a larger home or financial security,” Allen prodded, “does Park Place mean anything else to you?”

  Mary Jane opened her mouth to say no, then she snapped it shut. Park Place Towers. Exclusive condominiums. A fellow teacher at her school had married a man who’d just purchased a home there. Mary Jane didn’t remember mentioning that and she didn’t recall hearing Rebecca comment on the new, exclusive property. The name could be coincidence. This whole exercise Allen had prodded her into could mean nothing. But she couldn’t push the idea aside without ruling out the possibility.

  “There’s one place.” She allowed her eyes to meet his. The impact unsettled her just a little. She’d never met a man quite so intense. The idea that they were focused on the bed and that she sat in the middle of it suddenly felt too intimate. She scooted off and put some distance between her and him. “Park Place Towers,” she said in response to his question, “just off Lakeshore Boulevard. I don’t remember discussing the place.”

  “We’ll start there.” As he made the statement he began to smooth the sheet back into place.

  She started to ask why he would bother, but the probable reason crystalized before she could. To prevent anyone from knowing what they had done. Mary Jane helped him put the bed back to order just as her sister had left it. Nothing out of place meant no questions from the feds. Was that, she wondered, because of the tension between him and Mitchell?

  “Does anything else come to mind? Any other place you might want to look?” he asked as they returned to the main living area.

  “Should we check the back of the photo?” Rebecca could have hidden something in the frame behind the photo. Why was it she hadn’t thought to consider that possibility before? Had she just assumed that the police would do their job and all would be set to rights?

  Yes, she had. But that was before she’d been forced to face the reality that her sister was really dead.

  Murdered.

  “We can,” Allen allowed, “but chances are, the forensics teams that have been through here checked there already.”

  She started to argue the point but he headed her off.

  “Trust me,” he said, “they wouldn’t leave anything to chance. The property card your sister sent you may not mean anything at all. But, on the off chance it does, we’ll check it out. If the place had particular meaning for you, and your sister knew that, then we may have a real lead. Right now, it’s only a hunch. One no one knows about but the two of us.”

  His voice, deep and too intimate, got under her skin way too easily. She pushed the feeling aside. “Okay. So, now we go there?”

  “We go there.”

  When they had locked the apartment, they made their way to the elevators. The silence during the ride down made Mary Jane uncomfortable this time. She thought of at least a dozen questions she wanted to ask but didn’t.

  In the lobby they signed out, and she endured Wallace’s condolences. Evidently one of the marshals had told him that her sister was dead. Mary Jane promised to keep him apprised of the investigation and the memorial service.

  She hadn’t even had time to consider how she was going to handle the latter. It wasn’t like the timing would be difficult. There wasn’t any close family to invite. A few friends, but a scarce few.

  Abruptly she realized what this meant on another level—when she died there wouldn’t be anyone to take care of the arrangements or to attend the service. Her collection of friends was even smaller than her sister’s and was dwindling fast. Sad. So sad.

  How did one reach the age of twenty-nine and be so completely alone?

  It was dark outside. Dark and cold. Mary Jane shivered as the wind cut through her coat. She wished she had remembered to wear a scarf.

  “I’ll follow you,” Allen said as he moved toward his Harley.

  “I’m not certain of the exact address,” she admitted as she skirted the hood of her car. “But it’s a popular high-rise, so it shouldn’t be difficult to locate.”

  She’d clicked the unlock button and reached for the door before she noticed the flat tire. The aluminum wheel on the front driver’s side practically sat on the ground.

  “Oh, hell,” she muttered.

  “You got a spare?”

  She jumped at the question asked over her shoulder.

  Allen held out his hands in a calming motion. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you.”

  He’d moved up behind her as quickly and soundlessly as exactly that—a ghost.

  “Yes.” She took a breath. “I have a spare.”

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a flat tire, but she did know there was a spare in the trunk.

  As he reached for her keys, his fingers brushed hers and she trembled again. The wind, she told herself. It was arctic-cold out, and she was unnerved after being in her sister’s home and climbing into her bed. She’d been shivering and shuddering repeatedly.

  She really needed to pull herself together a little better. Focus. Hold on to proper perspective.

  He’d opened her trunk and removed the necessary implements before she had the presence of mind to ask if she could help.

  “I’ve got it.” He crouched down by the deflated tire and prepared to jack up the car. He inspected the flattened rubber for a moment first. “You have any enemies you know of?” He looked up at her.

  Enemies? She shook her head. “No. Course not. Why would you a
sk that?”

  He scrutinized the tire, then looked back at her once more. “Because someone slashed your tire.”

  Chapter Four

  Park Place Towers was in the vicinity of Lakeshore Boulevard and appeared just as upscale as it sounded. A gleaming high-rise with an exclusive setting amid one of Chicago’s wealthiest and most famous neighborhoods.

  Shane followed as Mary Jane parked her car next to the curb in front of the building’s main entrance. Again, he stationed his Harley behind her vehicle. While he removed his helmet and gloves, she climbed from behind the wheel of her car and studied the spare tire, made for emergencies, not aesthetics.

  Her shock had been palpable when she’d realized that he was right, someone had slashed her tire. He doubted the conservative teacher had ever experienced such an affront against her person or property.

  It was entirely possible that the vandalism had been random, but his instincts were buzzing with the opposite impression. Someone had sent the woman a warning.

  He wondered if she had already been receiving warnings and simply hadn’t recognized them as such. But then, she’d only just learned that her sister was in fact dead this morning. Unless she had been doing some major digging into her sister’s whereabouts or someone suspected her sister had given her information, there would have been no reason for her to have been considered a risk.

  But with her visit to the Colby Agency and being seen with Shane, she was now a definite risk to whomever didn’t want the truth about her sister to come out. That person or persons would assume that she possessed some rationale for pursuing this route. And that could mean only one thing: someone had been watching her in anticipation of exactly this. The feds? Maybe. Until her sister’s death had been confirmed, there was always the chance the woman was alive and might contact her only living relative. Those going into Witness Security sometimes got cold feet. Mary Jane had likely been under surveillance since Rebecca’s disappearance for that reason.

  As they reached the front entrance, she hesitated, let her gaze meet his. “Do you have a suggestion as to how I should approach this?” Her slender throat worked with the difficulty of swallowing. She was nervous. He could understand that. Murder was out of her comfort zone.