by Jillian Hart
Key Witness
Terri Reed
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Excerpt
Chapter One
“Evening, Miss Conrad.”
Don’t look back.
She flew down the stairs to the lobby level. She burst through the door screaming, “Call 911!”
Her frantic gaze sought some way to bar the exit. Nothing was in reach. She flattened her back against the door, prepared to at least slow the killer down when he tried to exit.
But no one came through the door.
* * *
NYPD Homicide Detective Andy Howell surveyed the interior of the small apartment, mentally cataloging the scene. Loose papers, couch ripped to shreds, furniture broken. Clues amid chaos. He shifted aside so his partner, Paul Wallace, could take a look.
Andy turned to the first officer at the scene. “What’ve we got?”
Officer Florez consulted his notes. “One female victim—the apartment’s occupant, Sue Hyong, a reporter for the Village Voice. DOA at the scene. Looks like blunt force trauma, but won’t know for sure until the ME arrives.”
A reporter. The computer and layer of papers littering the apartment made sense.
“Murder weapon?”
Florez pointed toward a lamp lying near the victim's body. “Maybe that. Forensics is on their way.”
“Witnesses?”
“One. A neighbor, Kristin Conrad.”
“Did she hear a commotion?”
“No. Says she walked in and saw a man standing over the dead body. The perp then chased her down the emergency stairs to the lobby.”
“So the doorman got a look at him, too?”
Florez shook his head. “Nope. Perp never came out of the stairwell.”
Andy’s pulse kicked into high gear. The murderer was still in the building?
Chapter Two
Andy’s heart pounded against his ribs as the threat of danger to their witness revved his senses to high alert. If the perp was still in the building, they had to secure the witness. “Where’s the witness?”
Officer Florez gestured with his hand. “Next apartment over. I have a man stationed with her. But we’ve already combed the building and came up with nothing. We’re widening the search now.”
Relieved that the witness was in protective custody, Andy’s heart rate slowed. He pulled the center of his attention back to the crime scene. Was this a B&E gone bad, or was this an assassination?
Paul clapped him on the back. “I’ll go help search. You do the interview.”
“Fine,” Andy replied.
But first, he wanted a better look at the crime scene. Taking out his notebook, he recorded his observations. From the amount of damage, the perp had to have been searching for something. Had the victim come home to find him in the apartment, or was she here when he invaded?
He bent closer to the woman on the floor. His cursory inspection showed defensive wounds. She’d fought her attacker. Good for her. Skin under her nails would provide evidence once they caught the guy. If there was skin...
The ME arrived and Andy moved to the apartment next door to interview the witness. After identifying himself to the officer standing guard, he entered the apartment. Comfortable furniture and splashes of color made the small space cozy and welcoming. Artwork decorated the walls. He glanced around, noting no personal photos.
In the living room, a young woman sat on the overstuffed couch hugging her knees to her chest. Though her arms were bare, her striped skirt covered everything else but the tips of her pink-polished toes. The vulnerability of the pose twisted in his gut, triggering a terrifying memory of his sister the day he’d failed to protect her. For a moment the simple act of breathing was torture to his lungs. He coughed into his hand, forcing the images away. Mentally refocusing, he stepped closer to the woman.
With her head bent forward, all Andy could see was a veil of thick blond hair. “Miss Conrad?”
She lifted her head. Her pale, oval face had dark streaks showing the lines of her tears. Her pink lips trembled. His protective instincts roared to life. “Yes?”
Struck by the vivid color of her bright green eyes, so wide and sad, Andy noted the pupils were dilated with shock. Empathy bounced in his chest like a super ball. “I’m Detective Howell.”
She nodded and reached for his outstretched hand.
His fingers closed over her smaller ones, their palms met. Her hand fit snugly within his grasp. Warmth shimmied up his arm. She tugged her hand back, making him aware he’d held on longer than he’d meant to. Reluctantly, he let go.
“I need to ask you some questions,” Andy said.
Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and lowered her feet to the floor. With graceful movements, she smoothed out her skirt. He noted no rings on her fingers. Was there a boyfriend that needed to be called?
He frowned.
Now why did he hope there wasn’t?
Chapter Three
Wanting to put her at ease so he could get the answers he needed, Andy moved to sit beside her on the couch, but left enough of a gap not to crowd her. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Her voice shook as she spoke. “I was leaving the store where I work when Sue texted me. She wanted me to bring home a package she’d asked me to hold for her. When I arrived at her apartment the door was open...and this man was standing over...her body. He chased me down the emergency stairs.”
Her panicked gaze shifted from him to the door and back again. “He must still be in the building!”
The need to reassure her rose sharply. “We’ve searched the building—don’t worry, you’re safe. Right now we’re combing the neighborhood. If he’s here, we’ll find him.”
Though the worry didn’t leave her pretty eyes, her shoulders relaxed slightly.
“Sue’s dead, right?”
He nodded.
She closed her eyes tight. Tears streamed down her face. She made no effort to wipe them away.
Her grief touched him, made him want to offer her comfort, but that wasn’t his job. His job was to solve a murder. So he forced himself to concentrate on the facts. “Do you still have this package?”
She nodded and pointed to the dining table. On top of the round pine table sat a small box wrapped in brown paper.
“You have no idea what’s inside?”
“No. Sue said it was a gift for her grandmother in Seoul. Do you think the box has something to do with her murder?”
“Could be. Do you know what Miss Hyong was working on at the paper?”
“No. I’m sorry. She wouldn’t talk about her articles.” She hiccupped with a sob. “If only I’d arrived sooner so I could have helped her.”
More tears spilled over her long lashes and Andy’s gut clenched. The sorrow of others didn’t usually bother him so strongly—he had enough of his own grief to deal with. But this woman’s pain affected him. Maybe the guilt and grief filling her big green eyes reminded him too much of his own.
He forced himself to stay focused. “Would you be willing to come to the station and look throug
h some mug shots and work with our sketch artist?”
“Yes, of course.” She rose, her skirt fluttering about her slender ankles. She was taller than he’d first thought, maybe only a couple inches shorter than his six-three frame. Attraction flared—it wasn’t every day he met a woman tall enough to spark his interest.
But there was no place for sparks at a crime scene. Annoyed with himself, he turned his attention back to the box.
Andy carried it with him as he escorted Kristin out of the building where they met up with Paul. “The guy broke into an apartment on the second floor and used the fire escape. But there’s no trace of him now. Doesn’t look like he stuck around.”
“Make sure a patrol is left to keep it that way,” Andy said.
He helped Kristin into the back of an awaiting police cruiser and rode with her to the station, making small talk in an attempt to keep her from dwelling on the murder. Though he doubted that would be possible.
Once at the station, he set her up in a room with a cup of coffee and a stack of photo albums containing the mug shots of New York’s criminals, the latest and the greatest.
Andy left her there and joined Paul at his desk. “Anything?”
Paul looked at his notes. “Hyong’s editor at the Village Voice said she’d been working on a story that she was really hush-hush about.”
“Seems Miss Hyong was a secretive person,” Andy said. He undid the wrapping on the package he’d taken from Kristin. Inside, nestled among cotton batting, lay a small key, like the type used to open a safe deposit box.
So Grandmother was getting this for a present? Interesting. And curious.
What did the key open and who wanted it?
Chapter Four
Kristin’s eyes blurred. She rubbed at her eyes to wipe away the fatigue from looking at so many pictures. It didn’t work. She’d been at it for an hour, looking at page after page of photos, and still hadn’t found the man who had been in Sue’s apartment.
Sue. Tears welled in Kristin’s eyes. Her temples throbbed. She dropped her face into her hands and tried not to think of the gruesome scene. But the horror of seeing that man bent over Sue’s body wouldn’t release its ferocious grip.
Kristin did her best to banish the image—that wouldn’t help find her friend’s killer. The best way for her to be of any use was to keep looking. She dropped her hands back to the book in front of her and resumed searching the photos.
The door opened and Detective Howell walked in. Kristin straightened slightly, embarrassed to be caught slouching in the chair. Her mother hadn’t been big on etiquette, but one thing she’d always hated was when Kristin slouched.
Kristin’s gaze raked over the detective. She couldn’t help but notice that he was tall, broad-shouldered and attractive, even if his suit was ill-fitting and made of cheap fabric. But more than his physical appearance, she’d appreciated the way he’d tried to put her at ease from the moment he’d entered her apartment. He’d been gentle and kind. Even asking if there was a boyfriend or some family member he could call for her. Unfortunately, there wasn’t.
She noticed a slight limp on his left leg when he walked. Had he been injured in the line of duty? Was he in pain with every step? A ribbon of sympathy wound around her, making her already tender emotions ache all the more.
The detective smiled, showing straight white teeth. His kind smile softened the prominence of his nose and relieved the hardness of his jaw. He had a face a girl could get used to seeing every day. Heat climbed up her neck. Where had that thought come from?
“Any luck?” he asked.
She dropped her gaze to the book lying in front of her. “No, not yet.” She gestured toward the stack of albums to her right. “I still have these five books to go through, though.”
“Can I get you some more coffee or hot chocolate?”
“No, thank you, Detective,” she replied, appreciating his gracious and generous treatment. “Did you open the package?”
At his nod, she asked, “What was inside?”
He took the seat opposite of her. “A key to a safe deposit box. Any idea where Miss Hyong banked?”
His use of the past tense squeezed at her chest, making her heart throb. She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
He leaned across the table and covered her hand with his. Warmth enveloped her and curled around her heart like a salve to the bruises there.
“And I’m sorry you have to go through this,” he said, his midnight-colored eyes tender.
“I just hope you catch that guy.” She tried to ignore the way her heart thumped in her chest at his touch.
Something about this man called to her lonely heart in a way no one had in a very long time. She appreciated that he took time—time to listen to her, time to comfort her, time to touch her....
He sat back, leaving a warm spot where his hand had been. “We’ll do our best.”
“And I better do mine.” She pulled another book in front of her and began flipping through the pages. A face jumped out at her.
Fear slammed into her chest. Her breath caught and held as she stared into the eyes of the man who’d killed Sue.
Chapter Five
“Him,” Kristin whispered.
“Show me.”
She pointed to the image on the page. The man’s face would be forever burned in her mind. She shuddered.
Detective Howell pulled the book toward him. “You’re sure?”
“One hundred percent sure.”
He smiled with approval as he rose. “Good. I’ll have an officer escort you home and stay with you until we catch the guy.”
Grateful for his consideration, she rose and came around the table. Unable to resist, she placed her hand on his arm. “Thank you for everything.”
He placed his hand over hers once again and gave a gentle squeeze. “Just doing my job.”
His job. A job full of uncertainty and danger—the opposite of what she craved in her own life. She’d spent too many years never knowing what was coming or where she’d end up from one day to the next. She’d worked hard to put down roots. She couldn’t deny her attraction to the detective, but pursuing it made little sense. All she wanted in her life was stability and security—neither of which this man’s job could offer if something were to develop between them.
It was a good thing they wouldn’t ever see each other again.
* * *
As Kristin left the station, Andy felt like a part of him was going with her. Odd. He’d never had such a reaction to anyone before. Let alone a witness. He was usually good about compartmentalizing his emotions and reactions. But not so with Miss Conrad.
He wouldn’t be a red-blooded male if he denied she was easy on the eyes. But her looks alone were not what made her special. She’d somehow gotten under his skin with her vulnerability and her willingness to help catch the bad guy.
He shrugged off the sentimental nonsense. He had a job to do. He turned his mind to finding the man she’d identified—Charlie Linder. A two-bit drug dealer with a history—which dated back to his teens—of breaking the law.
Which meant that with a quick computer search, Andy would know the thug’s last known address. Just shy of an hour later, Andy and his partner, Paul, stood in front of the Brooklyn Flats apartment building where Charlie Linder resided.
They climbed the stairs to the third floor. A foul odor, like raw sewage, permeated the stifling late summer air and filled the hallway to gagging proportions. The whir of fans echoed off the dank walls. Andy rapped his knuckles hard against Charlie’s dark green door.
“It’s the police. Open up, Charlie,” Paul yelled.
Andy pressed his ear to the door but heard nothing. “Let’s get the super.”
A few minutes later, the
building superintendent—a squat man with a balding head, shiny with sweat—used his master key to open the door.
The smell was stronger in the apartment. Covering his mouth and nose with a hand, Andy entered the living room. On the floor a pile of garbage spilled out of an overturned trash can.
Andy looked up.
Charlie Linder swung from a knotted rope tied to the living room light fixture.
Chapter Six
The super threw up all over Andy’s shoes. Sympathy for the guy twisted in his gut. Seeing a guy hanging from a light wasn’t something one saw every day. This was probably only the third such death Andy had seen in his ten years on the force.
Paul hustled the man out. Andy called in for the crime scene techs.
“Looks like suicide,” Paul said as he reentered.
“Yeah, looks like. But it’s too much of a coincidence. Why would Linder kill himself?” Andy slipped on a pair of gloves.
Paul shrugged. “Remorse for killing the Hyong woman?”
“Doubtful.” Andy moved toward the hall. “I’ll take the bedroom.”
“Kitchen,” Paul said and put on a pair of gloves as well.
A few minutes later, Paul yelled for Andy.
Leaving the dismal mess of Charlie’s bedroom, Andy hurried to the kitchen where Paul stood in front of the refrigerator.
“Look what we have here.” Paul pointed to the interior of the top-door freezer.
Stacks of bound money flanked two large plastic bags of white powder. Andy did a quick calculation—the street value of the stash equaled more than Andy’s and Paul’s salaries combined.
“Drugs and murder. The two always seem to go together,” Andy remarked dryly.
But just how did Sue Hyong fit into the equation?
* * *
The killer was dead. Kristin had no reason to be afraid anymore. Except she was still scared. The senseless violence had rocked her illusion of safety. Living in a secure building, knowing her neighbors and being alert to her surroundings couldn’t guarantee her well-being. Even the extra locks she’d had installed yesterday at home and at the store didn’t bring her a greater sense of security. Yes, she’d made a stable life for herself, one where she felt comfortable, but comfort wasn’t protection.
