by Mallory Kane
It was a waste of breath to expect that she’d do what he said. “Listen to me, Anna. I know you’ve covered murders and rapes and traffic accidents. But this is your mother. I don’t think you want to see the crime scene photos and the record of the autopsy.”
Her mouth turned white at the corners. “I saw my sister. What do you suggest I do? Sit here and do my nails or read a fashion magazine? I need to help. I need to find out who did this.” She eyed the boxes. “Everything’s labeled, right? I’ll just—” she swallowed “—avoid the graphic details.”
He shoved Lou Ann’s box toward her and stared at the tumble of golden-brown hair that fell across her face as she leaned over to take off the top.
His cell phone rang. It was Deputy Spinoza.
“What did you find out? Did you pick up the flowers?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Warren, the owner of the florist shop, says that around here roses dry out in a couple of weeks. He says these dried out in the vase, because the heads have dropped.”
“Okay. Good.” Zane made a note on his PDA. “What about the purchase records?”
“He went back six months. That includes Valentine’s Day. There were thirty-three purchases of red roses.”
“And our short list?”
Zane heard paper rustling as Spinoza looked through his notes. “Valentine’s Day—Leland Hendricks, Jim McKinney, and Rosa Ramirez purchased red roses. Other than that, Stella McKinney bought two dozen on March thirteenth—”
Her birthday.
“—and Hendricks made one other purchase, in April. McKinney bought a dozen roses in late May.”
“What about Donna Hendricks?”
“No, sir. Not in the past six months.”
“Find out who those purchases went to, then get your report written up and have Lottie transcribe it.” Zane pocketed his cell phone and pulled out the note. He glanced at Anna, but she was bent over the box, inventorying the contents.
Using a pen and a letter opener, Zane spread the note open. As he reached for a plastic bag from his coat pocket, his eyes skimmed the printed letters.
Tell me what you know, Anna, or you will find dead roses on your grave.
The childlike printing was probably unidentifiable, but the message was all too clear.
A hand on his shoulder and a tiny gasp told him Anna was standing looking over his shoulder. She’d read the message.
“Where did you get that? From those roses on my mother’s grave?”
He carefully slid the note into the plastic bag. “You saw them?”
“First thing, but I didn’t see a note.” She leaned down, her head almost touching his as she studied the note more closely. “It’s dry.”
He nodded, impressed, then immediately regretted it when his movement dislodged her hair, and it slid forward, skimming across his cheek.
His body betrayed him by springing to hard, hot life at the remembered feel of her silky hair floating over her naked shoulders as he’d brought her to climax with his thumbs.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed away from her. He picked up the bag. “And it rained last night, as we know. That means the killer left the note there this morning, before the funeral.”
“He’s arrogant.”
“Or desperate.” Zane stood and crossed his arms, glaring down at her.
“So, Anna, what does the killer want from you that’s so important he’s willing to risk exposure to find out? So important that he’s willing to kill you to get it? And why is he so sure that you haven’t already told me what it is?”
Chapter Ten
Anna tried her best not to look guilty, but she failed. She knew it by the spark in Zane’s eyes. He saw right through her and she hated that. How did he read her so easily? As soon as she asked herself that question, she knew how silly it was. The answer was obvious. Because he’d been in her bed. He’d been in her. And despite the fact that he wasn’t her first lover, he’d coaxed from her what no other man ever had—he’d laid her open.
Anything he’d wanted to know had been right there. Her mind, her heart, as exposed as her body.
But it was over now, and if she knew him at all, he’d already sworn to himself that it would never happen again. He’d even stopped calling her Annie. Still, what gave him the right to be so sexy and so confident and so—so right?
She raked her upper teeth across her bottom lip and lifted her chin. “You want to know why he’s sure I haven’t told you? Because he’s finally figured out that I don’t know what Sarah knew—”
His gaze didn’t waver, but he raised his brows.
She swallowed. “Yet.”
Zane nodded once and pressed his lips together in a thin line. His accusing gaze grew sharp and hot as a predator’s. “But you know where to find it.”
Embarrassment burned her cheeks. Fear clutched at her insides. She had to tell him, but how could she? Her heart was torn in so many pieces. If Lou Ann had named her killer—Sarah’s killer—then the evidence was in Lou Ann’s suitcase. And as badly as Anna wanted to know who it was, as much as she wanted to put the tragedy behind her and get back to her safe lonely life, she was terrified of the answer.
She understood Zane’s drive to get at the truth, but she also understood the shadow that sometimes haunted his smoky eyes. Funny thing—they were both afraid of the same thing.
What if his father had murdered her mother and sister?
Guilt flared up in her heart, not quite overwhelming the fear. “I should have told you—”
He sat up. “Damn right you should have. Annie, we already know this person is willing to hurt or to even kill to get hold of what Sarah knew.”
“Do you have Sarah’s suitcase?”
“Her suitcase?” His palm hit the desktop. “I should have known.” He vaulted up out of the chair and crossed the room in two long strides and disappeared through the door.
Anna glanced down at her mother’s evidence box. It was marked Unsolved. An ache of loneliness pulsed through her as she picked up the item on top—a makeup case. She smiled sadly and lay it aside. Several folders, some thick, some thin, were stacked on top of other bulky objects.
She rummaged around for a couple of seconds, then came up with a videocassette labeled Evidence: Hendricks #4 and the date.
Just then Zane returned with her sister’s old hard-sided suitcase. It was a dingy tan color, with brown leather trim. He set the case on the edge of the desk and thumbed the latches open. As he lifted the lid, Anna’s eyes stung.
He stepped back and gestured for her to take over.
“Deputy Burns went through everything. So did I. I also examined the case itself closely.”
She stood. “You ripped the lining.”
“Of course.”
She nodded. Of course. He’d been searching for clues, for evidence. She was surprised that he hadn’t dismantled it, torn it off its hinges. If he had, he’d have found the false bottom.
“Come on, Anna. You asked for Sarah’s suitcase. Here it is. What did I miss?”
She ran her fingers along the leather trim. “Actually, it was my mother’s.”
Zane’s pulse sped up, despite his skepticism. He’d told her the truth. He’d gone over the damned case with the proverbial fine-toothed comb, and found nothing. Its exterior was too textured to yield a print, and the leather trim wasn’t any better.
He should have taken it apart piece by piece.
He cursed himself silently. The only reason he hadn’t was Anna’s quiet, grief-stricken plea to get it back. He’d been suspicious of her reason for wanting it, but ultimately, she’d suckered him with those olive-green eyes. So he’d avoided tearing the case up looking for evidence.
“Your mother’s,” he said. “And somewhere in here is the key to her murder?” He laughed shortly. “You actually had me believing you wanted it to remember your sister by.”
Anna’s gaze shot to his. But almost before he registered the hurt that glistened in her eyes like tears, she�
��d turned her attention back to the brown case.
It was unremarkable, except for its age. It measured twenty inches by twenty-four, and thirteen inches deep. Two metal latches with spring locks kept it closed.
“See this scratch?” she asked. “Sarah and I were trying to put our cat inside it.” Her mouth turned up in a little smile as she traced the jagged mar.
“And this?” She pointed at a pencil scribbling. “I remember wanting to write Las Vegas, but I was too little. I didn’t know how to write. Mom used to point out all the stickers to us—Paris, New York—” She touched them. “I wanted my city to be on it, too.”
“Anna, enough with the trip down memory lane.” Zane felt mean, but this was a murder investigation, damn it. And it was fast spiraling out of his control.
She nodded, the movement dislodging a tear that carved a damp path down her cheek. “All right, Lieutenant. Watch closely.”
Her slender fingers slid along the bottom inside edge of the case. Zane followed her every movement intently. At evenly spaced intervals were tiny brads. After a few seconds, Anna slid a fingernail under a brad and lifted. He heard a barely discernible click. Then she slid her fingers farther along, stopped and lifted another brad, then a second or two later, a third.
He watched in fascination as the bottom of the case popped up by a fraction of an inch. Fishing out his pocketknife, he slid the point under the edge, gaining enough traction to pry the piece of fabric-covered cardboard up.
“A false bottom,” he muttered. And not a clunky deep one that would be obvious on close examination. This space was barely deep enough to hide a couple of sheets of paper. And that’s exactly what it did. “I’ll be damned. Where did Sarah get this suitcase?”
“I told you. It was my mother’s. A magician she dated for a while gave it to her.”
That explained it.
Anna made a sound—barely audible yet filled with grief. Zane knew how she felt. Whatever Sarah had known about her mother’s killer was right in front of them.
His fingers itched to grab the paper, but that ridiculously unprofessional part of him—the part that empathized with Anna’s conflicting feelings—held back. The slip of paper was evidence, but it was also the only thing she had of her mother and sister.
Anna reached for it, then paused and glanced at him, a question in her gaze.
He nodded slightly, berating himself for a sentimental fool.
She picked it up. The cream-colored sheet fluttered in her unsteady hand.
His entire body screamed with impatience as she bit her lip and blinked several times. Her other hand went to her mouth, muffling a small sob.
Just when Zane thought he couldn’t wait another second, she spoke.
“It’s a note to me,” she said, her voice choked with strain. She raised her head and met his gaze. “On Matheson Inn stationery.”
“What?” Zane stood and looked over her shoulder.
“She wrote this while she was waiting for me.” She took a deep shaky breath.
“‘Anna-banana, I’m so sorry I left you. I hope you can forgive me. I want us to get past Mom’s death and be a family. We can drink a toast—a non-alcoholic toast—to new beginnings.’”
Anna’s voice gave out and she sank back down onto the chair. She dropped the paper to her lap and pressed both fists against her mouth. Her shoulders shook.
Zane gingerly picked up the piece of paper and read the last three lines to himself.
“‘But just in case, I want you to remember one thing. Never forget what Mom always said about secrets.’”
“‘Hey, Anna-banana, I’m so sorry I left you. I hope you can forgive me.’”
He couldn’t contain his sigh of mixed relief and frustration. He was so afraid he’d see his father’s name written in Sarah’s neat rounded hand. If he had…well, it would have proven that his suspicions, his fears, were right.
But the note didn’t implicate anyone. For the first time, he believed that Anna really didn’t know anything. Not a comforting thought since he’d been pinning his hopes of wrapping up this case on the secret he’d known she was hiding.
He stepped over to the desk and pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag and slid the single sheet of paper into it. No sense in taking any chances. The paper might have trace evidence on it.
Then he turned to the suitcase. His gaze met Anna’s.
“Sorry,” he said as he lifted the piece of covered cardboard that formed the false bottom and ripped it out.
Retrieving his pocketknife, he slit the board then broke it in two. Nothing. He peeled the fabric from the cardboard. Still nothing.
He examined the tear where he’d ripped the board out. Nothing there, either.
Behind him, he heard Anna’s sobs. Her grief called to him. He wanted desperately to pull her into his arms and comfort her. But he couldn’t. He’d already wasted too much time on useless, reckless self-indulgence. If a Ranger under his charge had done the things he’d done, he’d bring them up on Conduct Unbecoming.
No more.
From now on, he was Lieutenant McKinney, chief in vestigator on this case, and Anna was nothing more than his prime witness.
“Okay,” he said crisply, ignoring the little jerk that told him he’d startled her out of her grief-soaked haze. “Explain the note to me. What’s this about secrets?”
Zane’s voice buzzed in Anna’s ears. She tried to pull herself back into the present, but it was a long way up from her valley of grief and loss.
Then his warm strong hand gripped her shoulder gently, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Annie?”
She straightened her back and wiped her fingers across her damp cheeks.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” Tears were still there, lurking close to the surface, but she compressed her lips and managed to deter them, at least for a while.
“I asked what Sarah was referring to when she mentioned secrets.”
Secrets? “I don’t know. We used to play a game called Secrets but it was just a child’s game, kind of like Gossip.”
“Think, Annie. Are you sure there’s nothing else? If Sarah told you she had proof that would convict your mother’s killer, where is it?” His impatience and frustration were palpable. It thrummed between them just like their dangerous attraction to each other.
“I don’t know!”
“Could she have witnessed the killing? Could her proof be her eyewitness account of the murder?”
“No! If she’d seen the person who killed our mother, she’d have testified back then.”
“Not if she was scared. Maybe the killer knew she’d seen him.”
Anna shook her head. What Zane was suggesting was worse than anything she’d imagined. “If she’d known who the killer was, why would she have left me here alone?”
Zane’s eyes went from stormy to soft heather-blue. “I’m sure she wouldn’t have,” he said. “But where’s the proof? That note, that reference to your mother’s secrets, is a clue. What did your mother say about secrets?”
Anna clasped her hands together and swore to herself that she wouldn’t break down. “I don’t remember. All I can think of is—” she stopped and swallowed “—is Sarah in that room writing me a note.”
She looked deeply into his eyes. “She knew, didn’t she? She knew someone was going to kill her.”
His face was still, carefully blank, yet she could read his thoughts clearly. He thought Sarah had written the note out of guilt.
“You think she told me she had proof just to get me to meet her here so she could tell me about her baby. But you’re wrong. She knew there was a chance she’d run into the killer if she came here.”
“So she hid the proof somewhere. We’ve taken that room apart. So where is it?”
“What about her car? What about somewhere else in the hotel?”
“I’ll reinterview the desk clerk. Make sure we know every step she took that evening.”
Anna nodded. “And I’ll try to f
igure out what Sarah’s note means.” She looked down at the evidence box. “Maybe if I go through all this, it’ll trigger a memory.”
She picked up the videocassette.
“What’s that?” He took it from her.
“It was in Lou Ann’s box.”
“An evidence tape,” he muttered as he read the label.
Just then the desk phone rang. Zane picked up the handset. “McKinney.”
Anna watched his face. She didn’t even pretend not to listen.
He nodded. “Yeah, Sloan, I’m okay, and no I haven’t gone by the parents’ house.” He paused.
“Good. It’s about time you got your butt over here. Why wait? Why not tomorrow, or better yet, tonight?” He flopped into the desk chair and raked his fingers through his hair.
“Well, fine, big shot. You have your meeting with the commissioner. Then maybe you could start wandering over this way.” He started to press the disconnect button, but Sloan obviously said something.
“No,” he snapped. “I haven’t. He doesn’t have a credible alibi, and Mom’s about to lose it. She defends him one minute and acts like she knows he’s guilty the next. Well, come on down. Maybe you can sort it all out.”
He slammed the handset back onto its base and sucked in a deep breath.
Anna saw his grief and worry etched in the faint lines around his eyes and the pinched corners of his mouth. He wiped his face with one hand and erased the emotion.
“Zane, do you want to watch the videotape?”
He leveled a scathing gaze at her. “I’ll be going through the entire contents of the box.” Glancing at his watch, he stood.
“It’s late. After eight. You need to get back to your room. I’ll walk you over there. We can run by the diner first if you want to pick up something to eat.”
So he was dismissing her. The thought of going back to her room, where her bedclothes lay wrinkled and tangled and the decorative pillows were tossed haphazardly onto the floor, filled her with apprehension.
She didn’t want to have to see the reminders of their lovemaking. She didn’t want to get into that bed where the masculine woodsy scent of him clung to the sheets. An aching sense of regret washed through her.
