by Adrianne Lee
He curbed the urge even to mention it, knowing she’d likely dig her heels in deeper out of sheer orneriness. Maybe he was getting upset about nothing. Maybe his distress stemmed from their new knowledge about this case. He rubbed his bristled jaw with the palm of his hand. Her new role in his life.
Or was it related to what they’d shared last night? No. No way. That had been sex. Just sex. She’d made that clear enough. Too bad he couldn’t brush it off as lightly. But how did he really feel about her? Hell he didn’t want to examine that. “Mike Springer gets my vote. What have you got on him?”
Cage tapped the tablet with the pen. “Nothing that fits the profile we’ve worked up with Dante Casale at the head of this.”
“Why not?” Roman frowned.
“Because Springer does check out,” Kerrie said. “He’s a CPA who has lived in this state since he was a teenager. And he lives with his father.”
Roman arched a dark brow. “His birth father?”
Kerrie and Cage exchanged glances, instantly recogniz-. ing what Roman was getting at. She shrugged. He shook his head. “Have to admit, I don’t know. Yet.” He wrote himself a note.
Kerrie tilted her head sideways and studied Roman. “Why do you favor Springer?”
“Because the creep tried getting you to leave McRory’s with him almost from the moment he arrived.”
His answer surprised Kerrie. She could have sworn he sounded. jealous? No. She was hearing intonations where none existed. If she didn’t curb all hope of Roman ever loving her, she’d have no one to blame but herself when she got hurt again. She lifted her chin. “That’s hardly grounds for arresting the man. Surely you have a better reason than that.”
Better reason? Roman narrowed his eyes. Because Springer had a boyish charm that appealed to you, Irish. Because my gut instinct told me so. Because…I don’t know, just because. “Because…he had time to get to your house ahead of me last night.”
This reason sounded ridiculous even to Roman. He glanced at Cage, avoiding the certain mockery he knew would be in Kerrie’s emerald eyes.
Cage stopped tapping the pen. “Why are you so certain he broke into Muldoon’s house before you got there?”
“Well, I, ah.” He started to tell them about his instincts, then reconsidered. “I guess I don’t know why, I just do.”
“That famous instinct again?” Cage chuckled derisively.
“This is so lame,” Kerrie said, before Roman could reply. “His instincts, indeed.” She glared at Roman. “What makes you think your instincts are any better or any more seasoned than ours? I wasn’t aware you had psychic powers.”
“I don’t,” Roman defended, but he had to admit she was right. He hadn’t given Cage and her much credit. Had thought he alone could figure out who Loverboy was. He grinned wryly. “Touche, Irish.”
Kerrie’s scowl deepened. “Are you working with us or against us on this?”
He sobered. “With you, of course.”
“Then let’s deal with facts and not instincts.” She nodded at Cage to continue. He looked concerned. He’d talked the lieutenant into letting Roman participate in this investigation. Their boss had agreed only if Cage accepted full responsibility for all screwups. Roman’s ego might cause a major one.
Cage said, “My money’s on Dane. He’s told us one lie after another—starting with where he lives.”
Roman wanted to ask why a tail hadn’t been put on Dane any of the times he’d shown up at McRory’s, but knew it would sound like criticism and, at the moment, he’d bruised enough sensitivities.
The mention of Jeremy Dane brought the hair prickling on the back of Kerrie’s neck. “He’s obsessively neat and we can’t discount his East Coast accent.”
“Given that criteria,” Cage said, in his most pronounced New Jersey voice. “Then even I’m suspect” Smirking at her, he extended his arms, wrists together, as though she might want to cuff him.
“Careful, she might take you up on it.” Roman teased, his smile warming her insides.
Kerrie smiled, too, glad that her partner had found a way to lighten the tension Roman and she generated. “I’d say arresting you would fall into the ‘guilty by being the least suspicious’ mind-set I’d rather stick with the lying Mr. Dane.”
“You’re a hard woman, Muldoon.” Cage chuckled. “But we don’t know anything about the man.”
“How about fingerprints?” Roman asked.
Cage shook his head. “Not in the national computer.”
“But,” Kerrie added, “on the plus side, he is the age indicated in the ad.”
Roman’s golden eyes gleamed with purpose. “There must be some way to get a lead on him.”
Cage scratched something on the tablet and stood. “I’m going to log-in some computer time and see if I can’t do just that.”
Kerrie reached for her purse and shoved out of her chair. “Meanwhile, I’m going to take a drive to Ballard and have a little chat with Mike Springer.”
Roman leaped to his feet. “I’ll go with Irish.”
She donned her jacket “I don’t need a bodyguard Donnello.”
“Well, I do. You’re not the only gift on Casale’s wish list, you know.” Roman retrieved his own coat. It was time she learned she hadn’t cornered the market on stubbornness. He followed her out of the office and fell into step beside her. “I still say something about Springer is cockeyed-maybe even dangerous.”
Kerrie rolled her eyes and shoved open the door to the stairwell, starting down ahead of him. “If you’re trying to scare me—save your breath. I’m the one who’s armed and dangerous.”
Roman hastened down the stairs right on her heels. Damned woman was too obdurate to admit she had a vulnerable bone in her sexy little body. If she wouldn’t watch out for herself, he would. He wasn’t about to let a man like Springer anywhere near the mother of his children. The wayward thought surprised him. He didn’t want to think about Irish as the mother of his children. That implied something tender and precious, two words that did not apply to his feelings for Kerrie Muldoon.
KERRIE PULLED THE MAMDA to a stop in front of a shabby, two-story house in one of the older neighborhoods in Ballard, a bustling community in northwest Seattle. The house, likely built in the forties, had gray shingled siding and white-trimmed windows, all in dire need of paint. A detached garage, that had been converted into an office, sat at street level.
Roman and she got out of the car and approached the makeshift office. A sign hung above the door. Michael C. Springer, CPA. But butcher paper with red poster paint lettering covered the windows, announcing that the accountant had moved to better digs.
Kerrie was writing down the new address and telephone number when the front door of the house opened.
“Hey, you there, whatcha want?” A man in his late sixties stood in the doorway.
Roman and she skirted the garage and climbed the concrete stairs to the porch.
The man had a stooped body and thinning gray hair combed over from a side part. Eyes the color of tarnished pennies peered suspiciously at them from behind thick glasses. He wore an old cardigan with leather patches on the elbows and rumpled slacks. “If you’re looking for Mike, he’s at his new place.”
Kerrie crossed the porch, reaching into her purse for her ID. “Are you his father?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m with the Seattle PD.” Kerrie showed him her ID. “Agent Donnello and I just wanted to ask him a couple of questions.”
The man’s eyes rounded behind the glasses. “Mike in trouble with the IRS?”
“What?” Kerrie frowned, wondering how the IRS had suddenly become involved in her murder case.
The man pointed to Roman. “You said that fellow was an agent.”
Kerrie glanced at Roman, taking in his mussed black hair, his whiskered face, his black leather jacket and tight jeans, his scuffed cowboy boots. An IRS agent? Not unless the agency had changed its dress code to biker casual. She bit back a grin
. “I said, I’m with the Seattle PD.”
“Yeah, I know what you said”
The man apparently didn’t believe her, even though she’d shown him her ID. Her humor departed. Why was Donnello always a complication? A thorn in her side? If only she didn’t need him on this case. The thought stopped her silent tirade. She did need Roman, in fact, though she’d never tell him, having him near lessened her fear of Loverboy.
“She called me agent out of respect,” Roman said, stepping up beside Kerrie. “I’m a former FBI.”
Kerrie couldn’t hide her surprise at the lie.
The man noticed and nodded warily at Roman. “If you say so.”
Kerrie pressed on. “Could we get back to Mike, Mr….?”
“Springer, Joe Springer.”
Roman butted in. “Are you Mike’s natural father?”
Joe swallowed as if an egg were stuck in his throat. “What’s it to you?”
“Maybe nothing,” Roman said pointedly. “Which is it?”
“Mike’s my stepson.” Joe’s hand started to tremble. “I met his ma when I was working back east. Mike was ten when we married.”
Roman smirked and winked at Kerrie, excitement dancing in his eyes. She wanted to remind him this bit of information might be nothing. It was only a crumb. They needed the whole cookie. But her own pulse had kicked up a beat and she couldn’t keep the hope from her eyes, couldn’t keep from returning his grin.
Joe’s face turned an unhealthy red. Maybe he had high blood pressure. She strove to calm him. “Mr. Springer, we just want to ask Mike some questions in connection with a case we’re working on. Nothing for you to worry about”
This seemed only to frighten him more. He shook his head and clutched the doorjamb with one hand “Oh, Lordy, Lordy. I warned Mike there was something fishy about that man. No one pays a CPA that much dough for crunching a few numbers. Had to be mob money.”
Chapter Eleven
“Mob money?” Roman repeated.
Joe Springer clamped his liver-spotted left hand over his mouth. Obviously he had said more than he’d meant to. “Are you gonna arrest my boy?”
Kerrie didn’t like the color of his complexion. She shook her head. “No, Mr. Springer.” At least not today.
“She only wants to talk to him.” Roman gripped her arm. “Come on, Irish. The afternoon isn’t getting any younger.”
Joe stepped back into his house and slammed the door.
Roman started to hustle her down the porch stairs.
Halfway down, Kerrie twisted free of his grip. “Why are you in such an almighty hurry?”
Roman stared dumbfounded at her. “Are you kidding? Joe there just confirmed his stepson’s association to Casale—and you can’t figure out why I’m anxious to question the jerk?”
She laughed and continued down the stairs. “That’s the swiftest conclusion-jumping I’ve witnessed in ages.”
“I’m not jumping to any—” He broke off. “Oh, all right, I may have made a couple of fast connections, but don’t tell me you didn’t.”
“Well,” she conceded, opening her car door. “Okay, maybe one or two connections clicked, but this is all speculation. We haven’t got anything concrete.”
“Yet.” Roman got in on the passenger side.
As she drove away from the curb, he gazed at her intense expression. “How do you want to play this?”
“Play what?”
“Questioning Springer.”
“Play it?” She peered over at him quizzically, but as their gazes met the fervor he exuded stole her very breath. She was suddenly too aware of the short span of space between them, too aware of the magnetic pull between them.
She forced herself to concentrate on her driving. “Mike Springer may have been bribed by Casale to play a deadly game with us, but all my chips are turned in. All I want is to fold the board and put the game away.”
“Precisely. But I think we should have a plan before we get there.”
“Why am I sure you already have a plan?” Why was she sure she wasn’t going to like his plan?
“Guess you’re starting to understand me.”
“That’s a scary thought.” She sighed. “I’m listening.”
“It’s simple. Just let me do the talking.”
Kerrie chuckled. “Have you forgotten that you’re not on this investigation in any official capacity? That you’re only involved by the special circumstances? By the good graces of my boss?”
“I haven’t forgotten. But what Springer can tell us may lock up this case.”
“That’s right So, my plan is that I’ll question him.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
Nothing. But she knew that was something Roman Donnello could never manage. “Keep your eyes and ears open and take down his answers for me.”
Roman arched an eyebrow and the corners of his mouth tipped slightly upward. He scooted down in the seat, leaned back on the headrest and closed his eyes. “Sure, Irish. Whatever you say.”
Kerrie shook her head. The man was impossible.
Almost as impossible as the traffic on 1-5. Rush hour was in full swing and immediately after merging onto the freeway, they became one of the multitude traveling at a stop-and-go pace.
Kerrie tried to keep her mind off the man beside her. There was something so infinitely sexy about the way his ebony lashes brushed his olive skin, something compelling about his expression, something she didn’t want to notice, something that wouldn’t be ignored. If traffic were moving at normal or even half its normal speed, she would have been occupied with driving.
But she was preoccupied…with Roman. Traitorous images filled her head, stirring remembered sensations, arousing new longings. The drive was sheer torture. Try as she might to direct her thoughts to the case they remained stubbornly on the man beside her—until Kerrie exited the freeway forty-five minutes later.
“We’re nearly there,” she said, just as she located the street they sought. It was an older Mercer Island neighborhood, and although none of the houses were new, all had trim lawns and fresh paint. Many had views of Lake Washington. Many did not. Mike Springer’s fell into the latter category.
The house sprawled on a corner lot. It was a brickfronted rambler with another converted garage, this one attached to the house at one end. Roman unlatched his seat belt. “It’s nothing to jump hoops over, but definitely a rung or two up the old ladder from his stepfather’s place.”
“According to his financial records there is no way he can afford this house.” Kerrie parked and got out of the car. She took stock of the neighboring houses, instinctively checking the peripherals for anything or anyone suspicious. “Do you think the man Joe Springer spoke of—the one who gave Mike all that money for crunching a few numbers—is Loverboy?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out.”
They strode to the converted garage, that had apparently been used as a family room or den and was now metamorphosing into an office. The door was glass paneled with Springer’s name and occupation in tiny gold leaf letters printed at eye level. Closed miniblinds covered all the windows. The door was locked and a Sorry sign pressed against one pane.
Roman rapped on the glass panel.
A red sports car pulled behind the Mazda and a shapely young brunette emerged carrying a fast-food bag. She was two inches taller than Kerrie’s own five-seven. A brown sweater covered her narrow hips and tan stretch pants her slender legs. She hurried toward them with the grace and surefootedness of a trained runner.
Her dark brown hair was cut short around her face. She wore too much makeup for afternoon, causing her sable brown eyes to stand out disproportionately to the rest of her features, which were bold in their own right Something about her was familiar to Kerrie. The woman asked, “May I help you?”
“We need to speak to Mike Springer.” Kerrie stepped toward her. “Is he around?”
“Oh, well, we’re not open for business yet,” the woman explain
ed. “I’m Cindy Faber, his assistant. If you want to leave your name and number?”
“We need to see him now,” Roman said.
“Okay.” Cindy eyed him warily. “May I ask why?”
Kerrie showed her ID. “Police business.”
Cindy blanched.
“Is Mr. Springer here?” Kerrie tried again.
Cindy blinked, color returning to her cheeks, but confusion and alarm were evident in her jerky movements. “Oh, you mean because the blinds are closed? We’re just setting up the office. Mike’s here. That’s his BMW over there.” She pointed across the street. “Come in.”
She reached for the doorknob. Amazement registered in her brown eyes when she found it locked. “That’s weird. I just left a short while ago.” She shook the fast-food sack at them and giggled self-consciously. “We’re working through lunch.”
Cindy knocked on the door, and called Mike’s name. When he didn’t answer after three tries, she said, “He must have gone back into the house for some reason and can’t hear. I’ve got a key.” She dug into her purse.
Kerrie’s mind raced. Maybe Mike Springer’s dad had called and warned him. Maybe he’d seen them drive up, recognized them from the other night at McRory’s and knew they were on to him. He might have ducked out the back way. That would explain his car still being -here.
As though his mind had traveled the same path, Roman said, “I’ll check the back of the house.”
Kerrie nodded and withdrew her gun from her purse. Cindy unlocked the door, then turned, saw the.45 Magnum and let out a startled yelp.
Kerrie shushed her. “You stay out here until I tell you otherwise. Understand?”
Cindy swallowed and nodded. She edged away from the house.
Kerrie shoved the door open. She swept inside, holding her gun readied. Overhead lights blared. Her eyes widened. The office looked like a cyclone had blown through it. Upended boxes, emptied folders and papers of every imaginable shape, size and color littered the desk, the two barrel chairs, and the carpeted floor.
