by Sarah Grimm
Her vision blurred and the walls tilted. Reaching out blindly, Paige struggled to keep the room from tilting. A second wave of nausea coursed through her as her vision grayed.
A hand grabbed her upper arm and pushed her into a chair. Another urged her head toward her knees.
“Ms. Conroy?” A voice drifted to her through the fog. “Ms. Conroy, are you all right?”
As her vision began to cleared, she lifted her head. The light-haired one, Sergeant Simmons, stood to her left. Dressed in a gray suit and loafers, he wore his gun on his belt. A wedding ring, a simple gold band, adorned the hand that held a notebook. His pen stilled as he focused on a spot to her right. Paige followed his gaze and turned her head.
Surprise jolted through her and all she could do was stare. The man who’d asked all the questions, squatted next to her. She blinked, unable to think past the strength in the hand still holding her arm, and the unexplainable comfort his touch brought her.
The spicy scent of his cologne curled around her, sending her senses humming faster. Attraction—something she hadn’t felt in years—quickened her pulse and, for a moment, she forgot everything but him. The straight, square cut of his shoulders, the broad expanse of his chest. She let her gaze rise and studied his high-boned face, the cheeks covered in five o’clock shadow, his dark eyes lined with fatigue.
“Ms. Conroy?”
His voice was deep, rich and thick with concern. Paige drew in a shaky breath and fought against the irrational urge to lean into him, to draw from him both the gentleness and strength she sensed in him. To forget the ache that settled just below her heart.
The room snapped back into focus and with it, the reason for her being there. Paige jerked away from his touch and reeled her strayed thoughts back under control. “I’m sorry.”
Sergeant Harrison released her and straightened. He moved a step away and watched her, his handsome face expressionless. “What did you do when you found the body?”
“I checked for a pulse. Then I left the room to call nine-one-one.”
“You touched the body?”
The sergeant’s continual reference to Leroy as the body was unsettling. “Yes. Leroy’s wrist. I would have checked his carotid artery but…”
“I understand. You say you left the room to call? You didn’t use the phone by the bed or touch anything else?”
“No. I know better than to touch anything.”
Sergeant Harrison cocked his head. “Are you sure? You were understandably upset by what you found in that room. You panicked and reached for the telephone next to the bed.”
“No I…” Paige drew a deep breath. She willed her mind to focus as she placed herself back in the room, standing beside the bed and staring down at Leroy. “I touched the nightstand, but not the telephone.”
“Okay.”
“I was startled, sickened by what I saw. I moved too quickly and bumped into the nightstand. I put my hand down to catch my balance.”
“Was there anyone with you in the elevator?” Sergeant Simmons asked.
“No.”
“Did you see anyone in the hallway outside the room?”
“No, just two people in the lobby as I entered. They appeared to be checking out. I saw no one else.”
As Sergeant Harrison spoke again, she returned her attention to him. “Where did you go to make the call for help?”
“I stepped back into the hallway and used my cell phone.”
He eyed her speculatively, his brows drawn together to form a frown. “You seem to know a lot about not disturbing a crime scene.”
What did he mean by that? She’d just admitted to disturbing the scene when she put her hand on the nightstand.
“Do you know if Mr. St. John had any enemies?”
“He was a cop.”
Sergeant Harrison shifted as if suddenly uncomfortable and narrowed his eyes. “Meaning what?”
Paige willed her knees not to shake as she stood and took a step in his direction. “I don’t know. I would think the possibilities are endless with a cop.”
Something flashed in his eyes. His hand lifted to settle on his ribs. “Do you have a problem with people in law enforcement, Ms. Conroy?”
“Of course not.” The pressure of his hand against his ribs increased. Paige stepped closer. A quick, surprising surge of concern filled her and she reached for him. “Sergeant, are you all right?”
He twisted away so quickly that she snatched her hand back. His face as expressionless as granite, he shifted his hand from his ribs to within inches of the grip of his pistol.
She moved just as quickly, stepping back with her palms raised in front of her chest. Suddenly craving distance, she continued to walk backwards, stopping only when the manager’s desk pressed against the back of her thighs.
Paige regretted her show of concern immediately. Before her eyes, Sergeant Harrison underwent a transformation. Not only did his stance change, his spine go rigid and unyielding, but gone was the man she’d caught such a brief glimpse of. His eyes went flat, his mouth thinned, and he became all cop.
She studied the line of his body, from the polished shine of the black Western boots on his feet, up the long length of denim covered legs. Past trim hips, the open front of his leather jacket, only to stop on the hand still positioned near the rich, black handle of his pistol.
Glock, her mind catalogued the gun instinctively. All of her froze.
What in the world was she doing?
A nervous laugh escaped. “I’m afraid you have the wrong idea about me.” Her hands shook. Unease clawed at her. Not from the man’s instinctive reaction, but from the memories that very reaction brought back to her. “I wouldn’t have any idea whether Leroy had enemies or not. We didn’t…I haven’t seen him in over two years.”
“But you talked with him. On the telephone, or through letters.”
“Yes, no.” Paige shook her head to clear it. She wasn’t communicating well at a time when she desperately needed to. He stood before her, his hand now in his front pocket. Doubt colored his features as his piercing gaze sized her up. For what, she didn’t know, but it left her with the knowledge that she needed them to better understand. “Leroy and I barely had contact anymore. When we did, we used e-mail.”
“So until the telephone call early this morning, St. John gave no indication that anything was wrong?”
“That’s correct.”
“You say you rarely had contact with him anymore,” Sergeant Simmons stated. “You’re implying that you used to talk quite frequently?”
“We were friends years ago.” It seemed like a lifetime ago. Long enough ago that she had thought that part of her life far behind her.
The urge to escape flared. Near to breaking, she wanted to run from the room. To give in and allow grief to swallow her whole. She wanted to shout. She wanted to cry. But she didn’t cry in front of people, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to cry in front of these men. It took all her control to stand her ground.
She had no idea who murdered Leroy and no amount of digging into her memories was going to help. She did know she had to keep it together long enough to finish answering the detective’s questions. Once she completed that task, she would relinquish the tight hold she held on her emotions. Then, and only then, she would allow herself to feel what at this moment she fought desperately not to.
“Ms. Conroy.” Sergeant Harrison held what appeared to be a photograph, sealed in plastic, before him. “Can you identify the man in this picture?”
A gasp broke loose as she caught sight of the man he spoke of. She shifted her right hand to her throat, concentrating on curling her left hand around the edge of the photograph and taking it from him.
It was more than she could handle. The endless hours of restless sleep followed by the shock of finding Lee dead. Yet nothing compared to what he handed her.
Tears stung her eyes. She swallowed once, twice, wishing against hope that she could hold back the memories longer. She’
d built a wall around them, around the pain they brought. A wall she feared was about to crumble. “Yes. I can identify that man.”
“Is he Leroy St. John?”
“Where did you find this? Did Leroy have it?”
“Is Leroy St. John the man in that photograph?”
They had to know it wasn’t. They would have Leroy’s I.D., his driver’s license or something. Wouldn’t they?
The photograph trembled along with her hands as she offered it back to Sergeant Harrison. She waited, silently pleading with him to take it from her. She needed it gone, needed to pull herself back under control.
But even as he removed the photo from her sight, her shaking continued. Suddenly struck by a frightening realization, something she knew the detectives would soon discover, her tremors increased.
“Ms. Conroy, who is the man in the picture?” Sergeant Simmons asked. “Why would this picture be of importance to Detective St. John?”
Sergeant Harrison jumped in. “That is you, is it not?”
Her throat went dry, leaving her unable to form the words. She wished for a glass of water to wet her mouth. She wished for this to be over, for none of it to have happened at all. But even as she wished, she understood just how impossible that would be. Now, the past she worked so hard to forget came crashing back. And no matter the pain, the mind-numbing ache it caused her, it was about to be picked apart and dissected. “Yes, that’s me in the photograph.”
“And who is the man with his arms around you?” Sergeant Harrison asked.
“Rick Preston. He was Leroy’s partner, as well as my fiancé.”
“Was?”
Her voice carefully controlled, Paige answered. “He’s dead, Sergeant. Rick Preston was murdered.”
Chapter Two
Murdered.
Justin’s day slipped from bad to worse. “When?”
“Three years ago. Rick and I had gone out to dinner, a late dinner after his shift.” She spoke in a near monotone, as if the strain of the day had finally broken her down. Glassy eyed, she stared off at a place near the far corner of the room.
“We came out of the restaurant. I waited while Rick went for the car. A man, I could see them from where I stood, he approached Rick and they spoke. Then, he pulled a gun and shot Rick once, in the face.”
“Ms. Conroy.”
She jerked as if slapped and then continued, running her words together as if she would choke on them should she not get them all out at once. “I ran to him, I didn’t know what to do. His eyes, I’ll never forget…” Her eyes slid closed, then opened with a snap. “The people from the restaurant began filing out. The ambulance arrived, along with an incredible number of police. One of them, a uniformed officer, finally called Leroy. He took me to the hospital, stayed with me that first night. He helped me through the line-up, the funeral, and the eventual acceptance that the man who killed Rick would never go to trial.”
Two men. Two partners. Now, two murders.
The connection stood before him wearing a tailor-made suit, the skirt short enough to show off an endless expanse of leg. He didn’t accept what he saw and heard as mere coincidence. It couldn’t be. She’d been present at both murders. No way could he swallow that as accidental. But what was her connection?
She could be the killer.
He glanced from the photograph in his hand to the woman standing before him. He’d made the connection the moment he stepped into the room. The woman from the picture. His eyes narrowed as he took in the familiar chiseled cheekbones, her unpainted lips. The muted-red color of her suit brought out the chestnut highlights in her otherwise brown hair, the vibrant green of her eyes, hidden before by the poor quality of the snapshot. It didn’t please him to recall that upon first seeing her in the flesh, his heart began to gallop and sharp arousal shot through him like gunfire. No more than it pleased him to think she could be a killer. Yet, with nearly thirteen years on the force, nothing would surprise him anymore. It would have to be considered, looked into.
Were she not the killer, as instinct told him, then a game was afoot. A deadly game. The picture found hidden in the newspaper told him that much. Sure, Leroy St. John may have brought the photograph in order to help him remember what Paige Conroy looked like. But who could forget a face like hers? Justin knew he wouldn’t.
It was more likely that the picture was a plant. Which led to why someone would plant it. What could it possibly mean? Left in a dead man’s room, one of the subjects the victim of a three-year-old murder, the other the only witness to both deaths. Two conclusions could be drawn from that, two possible messages someone meant to send. Either Paige Conroy was responsible for the murders...
Or the next victim.
Unease settled between Justin’s shoulders at the thought. He shook it loose, tucking the photograph into his inner-jacket pocket. He straightened and listened with keen interest as Allan began asking questions.
“You said Preston’s killer would never go to trial. What did you mean by that? Is the case still open?”
“No. They caught the man, but he hung himself in his cell. No one ever discovered why he shot Rick.”
“Why do you think he shot him?”
Her gaze slid from Allan to him and back again. A ripple of confusion flashed through her eyes. “I have no idea.”
“No idea?” Disbelief colored Allan’s words. “What did Preston work on before his death? Anything that had him worried? Did he say anything to you about being concerned that something was about to happen? Any cryptic messages like the one St. John delivered over the telephone?”
“No. Rick never shared… He didn’t say anything to me.”
“You had dinner that night. He didn’t seem upset, preoccupied?”
The shaky laugh that slipped from Ms. Conroy surprised them all. Justin noted her unnaturally pale face as she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “He seemed fine.”
She was holding something back. What, he didn’t know, but she no longer looked at him or Allan. Instead, her attention focused just to the right of where he stood. As he studied her—so cool and collected, except for the slight trembling of her body—she pulled her full bottom lip into her mouth and bit down.
Awareness surged, surprising in its intensity. Justin slid his hands into his front pockets and set his jaw against the unwelcome reaction. “Ms. Conroy—”
“What do you want me to say?” she asked with impatience. “That night Rick Preston was attentive and caring. I thought things would turn out differently, but they didn’t.”
“Because someone shot and killed him,” he countered.
“Yes.”
“And then hung himself in his cell before he could stand trial.”
“Yes. Look, I fail to see what any of this has to do with Lee’s murder. It’s been three years since Rick was shot.” Her bright green eyes took on a sudden awareness. “You think that Lee’s death is related to Rick’s.”
“No one is saying that, Ms. Conroy,” Allan said simply.
“Of course you aren’t, but you’re thinking it. Otherwise Rick’s death wouldn’t interest you so much.”
When neither answered, she looked back at him. Her face was set, tension radiated from her like a physical force. Clearly, she wanted this interview over, didn’t appreciate the intrusion into her past. Or the painful memories his questions must have brought her. The misery in her eyes disturbed him more than it should have. He needed to keep things professional, remain objective. The fact that he found it difficult to do was worrisome.
