by Maggie Price
“Right,” Julia confirmed.
“So how’d she get home?”
“I don’t know. One of the museum staffers saw Vanessa storm out the front entrance. She was alone. The staffer remembers seeing Sloan leave about an hour after Vanessa. Could be, Vanessa had a phone in her purse and called a cab.”
“Or she could have hitched a ride with another guest.”
“I asked for a copy of the guest list. The only way the museum will release it is with a warrant.” Julia shoved her dark hair across her shoulders and leaned in. “The catering employee let it slip that the mayor attended the fund-raiser. We also know about the guests whose pictures showed up in the paper—all of them are high-steppers when it comes to the social scene in this town. This case could turn political fast, Halliday. Before we go for the warrant and start questioning these people, let’s check with the cab companies to see if Vanessa called. If she didn’t, that probably means she hitched a ride with another guest. She was furious. She could have vented her anger on whoever drove her home, told them what happened between her and Sloan.”
Julia paused, took a deep breath, then handed Halliday the leather appointment book. “Check how she spent most of her evenings.”
“‘Dinner with S,’” Halliday read, then turned a page. “‘Drinks with S. Spend night with S.’” He looked up. “So, Remington lied about their relationship.”
“Maybe. A couple of male Remington staffers I interviewed yesterday have the initial S in their name. Don Smithson, for one.”
“What time did Smithson get to work yesterday?”
“Seven-oh-nine,” Julia said after checking the printout. “That’s when he scanned his card at the entrance to the parking garage.”
“Have we confirmed that?”
Julia nodded. “After I finished the staff interviews yesterday, I went to Rick Fox’s office and viewed the tapes.”
Halliday picked up a rubber band, stretched it and relaxed it repeatedly. “I thought the lab confiscated the tapes.”
“The cassettes out of the security cameras,” she confirmed as she held up an evidence envelope. “The cassettes are in here. Rick showed me the master off their network system. The times on the printout agree with what’s on the tapes.”
Halliday’s forehead creased as he worked the rubber band. “Fox said he’s an ex-cop. What’s the story on him?”
“He and Sloan met at college. After graduation, Rick went back home and signed on with the New Orleans PD. After about ten years, a back injury forced him to take a medical retirement. Around that same time, Sloan had an opening for head of security. He offered Rick the job.”
Halliday tossed the rubber band away and prodded his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’ll start the ball rolling on getting a warrant to seize Remington’s .22s. If I keep on top of things, I should have the paperwork this afternoon.”
“Before you start on the warrant, let’s go over what you found at Vanessa’s apartment.”
“Like I said on the phone last night, the word ‘apartment’ doesn’t do the place justice. ‘Suite at the Ritz’ is more like it.” He leaned forward. “The landlord said the rent on a place the size of Vanessa’s starts at fifteen hundred a month. Fifteen hundred. I’m telling you, Cruze, you and I ought to ditch this place and become corporate executives.”
“And give up the glamour of our jobs?” Julia asked, her voice as dry as the Sahara. “How many corporate executives get to view dead bodies on an almost daily basis?”
“There is that,” Halliday said, grinning. “Anyway, we found no signs of forced entry at Vanessa’s place. Nothing disturbed or rummaged through. What Rick Fox said about her living alone rang true. There was no sign of men’s clothing in any of the closets or drawers. The only messages on the answering machine were unimportant, all for Vanessa. The stereo was tuned to the same station as the radio in her Jaguar.” He paused for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “I showed the picture from Vanessa’s personnel file to a few of her neighbors. In the three months she lived there, she’d never spoken a word to any of them, just passed them in the hall without even a glance.”
“Miss Warmth.”
“Yeah. None of the neighbors ever saw her bring anybody into the apartment with her.”
“What about the files you got off her computer?”
Halliday checked the time. “I’ll call Kelly in the lab—he’s the one who copied them. He’s probably got a hard copy of everything for us by now.”
Thoughtfully, Julia tapped an index finger against her coffee mug. “Did he access every program, every file?”
“Everything,” Halliday confirmed. “The computer didn’t even ask once for a password.” He opened a file folder, checked his notes. “Did you get hold of NOK?”
“Yes. Next of kin is Vanessa’s mother. She lives in Houston. I tried to call her yesterday between interviews, finally reached her when I got back here.”
“So, how’d she take the news?”
“Not good. She and her husband, who is Vanessa’s stepfather, are flying in sometime today.”
Halliday nodded. “Well, it looks like we’ve got all the bases covered so far.”
“I’ll check the cab companies,” Julia said, then dug into the evidence envelope for the health food store receipt. “While I’m out, I’ll drop by Here’s to Your Health.”
“Where?”
“The place Vanessa bought the carrot juice she spilled in her Jag. Maybe she stopped there every morning. Maybe she wasn’t always alone.”
Julia stuck the receipt in her portfolio, then rose. “I’ve got a two o’clock appointment to interview Vanessa’s secretary. Call me when you have the warrant for Sloan’s weapons. I’ll meet you at his house.”
“I can handle this,” Halliday said. “It’d be no big deal to take a couple of extra uniforms to help with the search. You don’t have to be there.”
“This is our case, Halliday,” she snapped. “Our case.”
Technically, her partner was right—she didn’t need to be there. But she was lead on the investigation and she had a duty to perform. They needed to search a suspect’s residence, so she’d be there. Period. Just because Sloan’s home held a million memories didn’t mean she’d allow emotion to figure into the equation.
“Get the warrant, Halliday,” she said. “And let me know what time to meet you there.”
Jaw set, Sloan sat on the leather couch in the study, while his anger built. He kept his hot gaze on the massive antique mahogany desk where Julia sat, her efficient fingers searching through a stack of papers she’d pulled from the bottom drawer. Finding nothing of apparent interest, she refiled the papers, closed the drawer, then opened another. On the far side of the paneled, book-filled study, a uniformed officer with a flat, masked expression peered into a brass urn that held an arrangement of dried eucalypti. Finding no murder weapon or other sinister object hidden inside, he moved to the huge, fieldstone fireplace, crouched and aimed the beam of a flashlight up the chimney.
“For crying out loud,” Sloan muttered, and tightened his fingers on the couch’s rolled arm. He looked away, fighting for control. It would do no one any good if he lost his temper.
A flash of movement in the marbled entry hall caught his attention. Through narrowed eyes he watched Julia’s partner confer with a pair of uniformed officers. They nodded in unison at something the sergeant said, then turned and headed up the winding staircase. Sloan’s mood darkened.
He detested this police-sponsored home invasion, resented his lack of control over the situation. He’d tried blocking the search after Halliday appeared at his office. It had taken a brief call to his humorless, dour-faced attorney for Sloan to learn that he was powerless against a properly executed search warrant. So, two hours ago, he’d arrived home to find several patrol cars in his driveway and an outraged Hattie barring the front door. A group of officers bristled with impatience while he tucked his indignant housekeeper into a cab and sent her hom
e. That done, he settled onto the leather couch while the police searched every square inch of his house and grounds.
Rolling his knotted shoulders beneath his starched dress shirt, Sloan reminded himself that having some stranger rifle through his underwear drawer was just a minor annoyance. The police would find nothing, because there was nothing to find. Compared with other events he’d endured, this was small stuff.
Would be small stuff, if not for Julia, he amended, slicing his gaze back to her.
Both the desk and its tufted leather chair in which she sat had a dwarfing effect, as did the man’s tie knotted at her throat and the white shirt tucked into her slim, black skirt. The whole effect seemed childlike, as if a little girl were playing “office” at the big mahogany desk.
Sloan tightened his jaw. In truth, he didn’t give a damn about the rest of the people searching his house, but he minded like hell that Julia was a part of it. It was her presence that coiled his muscles. Her taste he remembered all too well on his tongue. Her he couldn’t forget.
God knows he’d tried.
A thousand times he had attempted to blot out his physical and emotional need for her. His attempts had resulted in utter failure. So he’d continued to torment himself with thoughts of her over days, weeks, months. Years.
Sloan closed his eyes for an instant, then focused his gaze on her hand. The diamond ring glittered in the afternoon sunlight that slanted through the tall windows. Even now, when she so clearly belonged to someone else, he felt a powerful surge of need. To touch. To absorb. To just be with her.
It took a moment for Sloan to realize that all movement on Julia’s part had ceased. She sat as still as stone, staring down into the desk’s lap drawer, her thick lashes black as midnight against cheeks that had gone pale.
He leaned forward, the leather couch cushions shifting with his weight. “Something wrong—”
“Julia, we’re done searching the house and grounds,” Halliday said as he strode through the doorway. “All that’s left is the gun collection.”
Sloan rose, watching as her gaze slowly lifted to meet her partner’s. “Fine.” Emotion flashed in her eyes, but was swiftly controlled.
Halliday sliced Sloan a guarded look, then stepped to Julia’s side. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
He gestured at the open drawer. “Find something?”
“No.” She shoved the drawer shut and stood. Eyes a cool blank, she turned to Sloan. “Please unlock the gun room, Mr. Remington.”
Her cheeks were colorless, her eyes too dark. Tension betrayed itself in the hand she kept fisted against the gold badge and holstered automatic at her waist.
Sloan frowned. He had no idea what was in that drawer, hadn’t looked inside the desk since his return three months ago. What the hell had Hattie put in there?
Shoulders squared, Julia led the way across the study; her heels snapped against the oak floor, then went silent when she stepped onto the thick Oriental rug. She reached a section of polished paneled wall, then paused and turned.
Halliday stopped beside her, looking blank. “The gun room’s around here?” he asked.
She nodded. “In front of you.”
Adjusting his glasses, he peered at the wall. “Fooled. me.” Shrugging, he slid a hand into his suit coat, pulled out a folded paper and looked at Sloan. “According to the inventory your secretary gave us, you own two .22 revolvers. A Smith & Wesson and a Colt.”
“So, someone shot Vanessa with a .22,” Sloan said quietly.
Not waiting for verification, he stepped to the wall and pushed inward. A faint click sounded, then the panel swung outward to reveal a steel door. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the impressed arch of Halliday’s brows.
“Damn,” the man said softly. “Any other hidden rooms around here?”
Sloan’s eyes narrowed when Julia snapped on the tape recorder hooked to her waistband beside the badge. Color had seeped back into her cheeks; hardness had settled in her eyes.
“Sergeant Cruze knows this house,” he said, his voice raised for the tape recorder’s benefit. For some perverse reason that machine riled the hell out of him. “She can verify this is the only hidden room.”
Julia shot him a dark look. “This is the only hidden room I know of.”
Sloan slid a key out of his pocket, made quick work of the dead-bolt lock, then pulled the heavy door open. Movement activated a sensor. Lights winked on, revealing a small room where chrome and blue steel glinted behind glass-fronted cases.
Halliday peered in, remained silent for a moment before checking his list. “You also have three .22 automatics—a High Standard, a Colt and a Baretta.”
Sloan stepped across the threshold onto the uncarpeted floor. Cool, still air settled around him. “The inventory’s correct. I own five .22s. Only five. Do you want them all?”
“Yes,” Julia said. “The lab will check them. We’ll return them in a day or two if they’re not booked into evidence.”
“They won’t be.” Sloan met her gaze. “This is a waste of time, you know.”
“This is a homicide investigation, Mr. Remington. We go by hard evidence, not someone’s opinion.” She turned toward the shoulder-high series of drawers used to hold boxes of shells. “We need all your.22 ammunition.”
“I don’t own any ammo. I gave it all away two years ago.”
She cocked her head. “Mind if we look?”
“You’ve checked every other drawer in the house,” he said evenly. “Why should I care about some empty ones?”
He kept his eyes on Julia while Halliday slid each drawer open, then closed. How could he have forgotten the intriguing quality of the sharp angles and shadows of her face when determination set in?
“Empty,” Halliday confirmed, his knees cracking as he stood.
“What a surprise,” Sloan said mildly. He turned and opened a display case, took out the sleek blue-steel Smith & Wesson, then the Colt. “You should take my word for things.”
Halliday eyed him with silent assessment as he accepted the revolvers. After checking the serial number against the inventory list, the detective slid the weapons into plastic bags he pulled from his suit pocket.
“Take your word for what, Mr. Remington?” Julia asked.
“Those drawers, for example. I told you they were empty, and they are.”
He secured the door, then moved across the room to another glass-fronted case. The High Standard he retrieved felt cool and sturdy against his palm.
Julia stepped to his side. The room’s close confines gathered in the warm scent of Obsession. He thought of long, endless nights of lovemaking when that scent had mixed with the heady fragrance of hot sex. Dammit, it had been two years—why the hell did she have to wear that same perfume?
“What else should we take your word for, Mr. Remington?” she persisted, while her sharp cop’s gaze took in the array of revolvers and automatics inside the case.
“That I haven’t fired these guns recently. But you won’t accept that as truth until the results of your tests prove it.”
“What else?” she prodded.
“I didn’t kill Vanessa.” He handed Halliday the High Standard. The Colt and Baretta soon followed the first automatic into separate plastic bags.
Julia crossed her arms. “At this point, I find it hard to take your word about your relationship with Vanessa.”
“I told you the truth,” Sloan said, securing the door on the weapons remaining in the case.
“Really?” she asked, her voice edged with disbelief. “Every morning for the past three months, Vanessa stopped at Here’s to Your Health. There, she bought one carrot juice and one orange juice, to go. She bought the orange juice for you, didn’t she? She brought it to the gym where you worked out together.”
“It’s an employee gym. We happened to use it at the same time of day, as did several other members of my staff. But you’re not interested in them, are you, Sergeant? You’re wanting to know if my
assistant and I spent our mornings soaking naked in the Jacuzzi. We didn’t.”
“What else didn’t you do?”
“Have a personal relationship. If someone says otherwise, they’re lying.”
“Someone is saying that.”
“Who?” Sloan asked evenly.
“Vanessa. Her appointment book’s filled with all the evenings the two of you had drinks, dinner... spent the night—”
“That’s what she wrote?” he asked taking a step forward. “That she and I did those things?”
Had he not possessed an intimate knowledge of Julia’s every reaction, he’d have missed the quick hesitation in her eyes.
“The information Vanessa entered leads to that conclusion,” she said.
A sardonic smile curved his mouth. “Spare me the police jargon, Jules. It’s obvious something Vanessa wrote has you jumping to conclusions.”
The statement earned him a frigid stare. Sloan knew that look, as well—a touch of defiance, a hint of temper, a dose of annoyance.
“What did you and Vanessa fight about?”
His gut tightened in involuntary response to the question, yet he kept his face expressionless, his voice smooth. “Did we fight?”
“At the museum fund-raiser. Several people overheard you.”
“If that’s the case, you already know what we said.”
“You tell me. That way, I won’t jump to conclusions.”
“We didn’t fight. I made a business decision Vanessa disliked. She chose to air her opinion at the museum.”
“What decision?”
“Remington Aerospace has developed a new wing design. It’s called the HELD—high efficiency, low drag. We use new materials and fabrication techniques that reduce drag by sixty percent with no loss in lifting ability.”
“That’ll reduce fuel consumption,” Halliday commented. “Save the airlines millions.”
“The military, too,” Sloan confirmed. “After the Pentagon reviewed the plans and test results, they kicked in funding on the R and D side to guarantee their access to the design. I hold the patent and reserve the right to sell the wing to the general aviation market. I’m spinning off a new wing company, which will have two divisions, one for GA, one for the military. I’ve held off announcing who I want to head those divisions. Vanessa had made it known that she wanted one of those jobs. She brought the subject up again at the museum. When I told her she wasn’t in the running, she told me what she thought.”
