Prime Suspect

by Maggie Price

  “Anything else?” Ryan asked.

  “I’ve got other hairs—could be the suspect’s, but it’s too early to tell.” Sky leaned and looked down the length of the table at Sam Rogers. “Did the victim have a pet?”

  “A dog,” Grant Pierce interjected from his chair beside his partner. “The maid held it in her lap while I interviewed her. It’s one of those hyper mutts with wiry hair. Looks like a toilet brush with legs.”

  Grant’s description evoked a round of hearty laughter, but A.J. saw that the flashing smile the handsome, blond detective sent Sky’s way was lost on the chemist’s impenetrable facade. “I need samples from the dog,” Sky said impatiently. “There’s bound to be fur in the vacuumings the techs collected. I have to eliminate the animal hair so we won’t go around thinking the Wolf Man’s our guy.”

  “We’ll get it taken care of, Sky,” Ryan said, then glanced at his watch. “The ME won’t have the autopsy done for a few hours, but his prelim report says Dianna had sex with her murderer. At this point, we have no idea if it was forced or consensual.”

  Ryan checked some facts with the fingerprint tech sitting across from Sky, then assigned a team of detectives to interview the Westfall family. He instructed another team to check the suspect’s MO against the known-sex-offender file.

  “Those of you who worked the scene,” Ryan began, “get your reports to me ASAP. Be back here at eight in the morning. There’ll be computers and phones up and running in here by then. Put whatever else you’ve got going on hold. Until we get this guy, days off don’t exist.”

  “Talk to you later, A.J.,” Helene said before she and Kevin joined the stream of people heading for the door.

  Sam Rogers leaned back in his chair, thumbs hooked under the suspenders that outlined his paunch like train tracks skirting a mountain. “Here we go again, sweetheart,” he said and gave A.J. a puffy-eyed wink.

  She smiled. “How many of these have we worked, Sam?”

  “Too many,” he said with a scowl. “Used to be, no one bothered with all this task force rigmarole. We just wore out shoe leather until we made our case. Then you college kids showed up with your computers, and us old guys got the feeling we were lucky to clear a jaywalking, much less a murder.”

  A.J. tweaked his beefy arm. “Admit it, Sam. You don’t like it because in the old days you didn’t have to put anything in writing.”

  “Still don’t,” Sam said, sticking a hitchhikerlike thumb in his partner’s direction. “Pretty boy makes all our reports.”

  Grant Pierce flashed her a dazzling smile. “Looking good, A.J.,” he commented as his gaze swept down the length of her navy wool dress. “When are you going to say yes to my offer to take you out?”

  “About the same time Sky does,” A.J. said dryly. She glanced at the chemist, huddled now at the door with Ryan and a fingerprint tech.

  “Sky?” The detective’s smile melted into a frown. “She’s as stiff as a wooden maiden on the prow of a ship.”

  Sam guffawed and stood. “Sky and A.J. are the only females around this place with sense enough to keep you at arm’s length, pretty boy,” he said around his cigar. “If you’d stop behaving like you wear animal skins, maybe they’d give you a chance.”

  Grant rose, a blank look on his handsome face. “What fun would anybody have if I did that?” he asked as he trailed Sam toward the door.

  Shaking her head, A.J. closed her folder and pushed away from the table.

  “Stay for a minute, A.J.,” Ryan said across his shoulder, then returned his attention to the notes in Sky Milano’s hand.

  Ryan’s firm command jump-started her pulse. Still seated, A.J. stared at his strong, clear-cut profile. She had no choice but to endure this assignment. Endure Ryan’s piercing gaze, his unsettling presence. Her own body’s unwelcome reaction.

  With quiet apprehension she watched Sky and the fingerprint tech close the door behind them, leaving her and Ryan alone.

  He turned, his purposeful steps bringing him along the length of the table. He halted inches from her chair. “Captain Harris said you’re not happy with this assignment.”

  She gave him a cool look. “I doubt that surprised you.”

  “It didn’t,” Ryan said as he slid a hip onto the edge of the table. “A.J., the killer didn’t just end Dianna Westfall’s life. He slaughtered her and may not stop with this one.”

  “I understand that—”

  “I’ve commanded Homicide exactly four days. Four days. I don’t pretend to know the ins and outs of a homicide task force. All I know is that I want the best people I can get working with me. We need a feel for the guy who did this, and you happen to be the top profiler around. It’s as simple as that.”

  “It’s not simple,” she countered. “You ordered me to Internal Affairs and accused my brother and me of illegal activity. Now, you expect me to forget that and work for you.”

  “Point taken,” Ryan acknowledged with a dip of his head. “There’s nothing simple about this. And as for your forgetting about our previous conversations, I doubt you could do it. So that means you should also remember I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt where Ken’s concerned.”

  “But you don’t believe me.” She wasn’t about to admit how much that bothered her. “Not one hundred percent.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “More like ninety-nine.”

  “If the situation were reversed, how thrilled would you be to know that someone even remotely suspected you of committing a crime?”

  “Not very,” he answered. “A.J., we got off to a bad start. You have no idea how much I regret that. We’ve got unfinished business concerning Ken—”

  “Ken and myself, you mean.”

  “For the sake of this task force,” he continued, his eyes locked with hers, “feelings have to be put aside. You don’t have to like working for me. Hell, you don’t even have to like me. All you have to do is your job.”

  She shifted her gaze toward the wall of expansive windows. A flag on the building across the way snapped back and forth in the gray dusk. Ryan was right. The Westfall investigation had nothing to do with the accusations he’d made against Ken and herself. She needed to separate the two. Had to.

  Problem was, she wasn’t sure she could.

  “I’ll do my job,” she said, keeping her gaze on the wind-whipped flag. “Don’t worry about that.”

  Ryan placed his palm on the table and leaned in, forcing her gaze back to his. “I’m not,” he said softly.

  His nearness put knots of tension in her stomach. Her lungs filled with what she now recognized as the warm, musky scent of his aftershave.

  Nerves humming, she pushed out of her chair and walked to the phone at the head of the conference table. “We need the cabinets brought up.”

  “Cabinets?”

  She turned to face him. “Two locked cabinets full of supplies are ready for our use. They’re restocked after each task force ends and stored in the property room.” She raised a shoulder. “We’ll be busy enough without having to scramble for pencils and paper clips.”

  Ryan smiled. “Already I’m learning from you.” He rose from the edge of the table, pulling off his suit coat as he walked toward her.

  A.J. dialed the phone. While she spoke to a property room clerk, she was aware of Ryan draping his jacket across the back of his chair, his long, capable fingers brushing across the gray fabric. It was the same light, sweeping motion they’d made across her cheek in his office at Internal Affairs. The same soft sweep she’d relived time and again during the past week.

  Heat crept up her neck. Snap out of it, she commanded herself and forced her attention to the voice at the other end of the phone. No way was she spending the duration of the task force having hot flashes each time Ryan came near.

  He settled into his chair, one dark eyebrow arching when she hung up the receiver with a thud. “Something wrong?”

  “No. They’ll bring the cabinets up before five.” She expelled a slow breath
. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll go back to my office. I need to clear some work off my desk.”

  “One thing before you go.” Ryan leaned back in his chair and gave her a thoughtful look. “What do you need to start your profile on the killer?”

  “A copy of all reports that come in. I need to know as much background on the victim as possible—her habits, the places she frequented. That might help pinpoint the location where she encountered the suspect. If we know that, it’ll tell us a lot about the type of person he is.” A.J. paused, pursing her lips in thought. “I also need a set of crime scene photos for my own use, if that’s possible.”

  “It is. What else?”

  “It’s not essential, but I’d like to visit the scene. I can sometimes get a better feel for a crime if I do.”

  “I want to get over there, too,” Ryan said, and checked his watch. “Can’t now. I have to meet with the chief in half an hour. We’ll go there together...sometime tomorrow.”

  A.J. bit down on an automatic protest. She’d lost count of the number of crime scenes she’d visited with various officers. It was a part of her job to go to the Westfall mansion. It shouldn’t make a difference whom she went with.

  But it did.

  “Do you have a problem with our going together?” Ryan asked.

  “No.” She retrieved her leather folder off the table, then walked to the door, reaching for the knob with an unsteady hand.

  “See you tonight,” Ryan said.

  She turned. “Tonight?”

  He glanced up from the notes he’d begun jotting on a legal pad. “To go through Ken’s things. After nine.”

  Her hand curled against her thigh. “I thought...”

  “You thought what?”

  “In a few hours you’ll be up to your knees in reports on the Westfall homicide.”

  “And you thought I’d put off investigating Ken until the task force ends?”

  “Yes.”

  “I won’t do that.” He dropped his gaze and resumed writing. “I want to finish this business about Ken. There’s only one way to do it. Get the facts. Uncover the truth.”

  Dread pounded like a sledgehammer at the base of A.J.’s skull. God, she wanted the truth, too. Wanted it, but feared it.

  Saying nothing, she pulled open the door and walked out.

  Chapter 4

  Through the dim glow of streetlights that pierced the cold December night, Michael studied the muted outline of the Victorian brownstone. The house looked to be three stories, but it was hard to tell with no light shining through its windows. The only illumination came from the porch lamp, its beams forming a puddle of eerie amber light that bled over onto A.J.’s red Miata parked in the driveway.

  Settling back into his Bronco’s firm upholstery, Michael shifted his gaze. The neighborhood was one of Oklahoma City’s older ones, the houses built in the ’30s with porches wide enough to roller-skate on and attics accessible by narrow indoor staircases that creaked predictably beneath one’s weight.

  He nudged down the top of his leather glove and checked his watch; its luminous dial glowed nine-fifteen. A.J. wasn’t late—she’d told him she would be home after nine. Michael arched a cynical brow, thinking he should have tied her to a specific time. After all, midnight was after nine. Considering how she felt about him going through her brother’s belongings, he might be looking at a few hours of staring at her dark house like a voyeur waiting for the show to start.

  He hunched his shoulders inside the leather bomber jacket he’d worn since his college days and again glanced at his watch. Why the hell did he care about the time? he wondered after he realized that less than two minutes had passed since he’d last looked. It wasn’t as if he had to be somewhere. Other than the mountain of unread reports on Dianna Westfall’s murder that he’d crammed into his briefcase, there was nothing awaiting him at home as there once had been. No wife keeping dinner warm, no giggling, sparkling-eyed daughter begging a piggyback ride.

  The thought of how much his life had changed in the five years since his divorce sent an ominous silence through him. If it hadn’t been for the large family he called “the crowd” and his friend Tony DiMaiti, Michael knew he’d have never made it after Lauren walked out. She’d spent the first few years of their marriage in total support of his job, then over time began to resent the hours the department demanded, until finally the last thing she wanted to be was a cop’s wife. So she’d left, taking their daughter, Megan, with her. It wasn’t until weeks later that he learned of Lauren’s affair with the neurosurgeon to whom she was now married and in whose southern California estate she was happily ensconced. And now, Megan was far past the age for piggyback rides. She was fifteen. In another year she’d be begging for the keys to the car. And except the few weeks during the summer when she came to visit, Michael’s contact with her consisted of phone calls and E-mail messages.

  His gloved fingers curved against his thighs. it was there, he acknowledged, the dull ache that always settled in his heart at the thought of Megan. Of how he missed her. Of how bitter regret could taste.

  Biting down on a short, pungent oath, he blocked out thoughts that did nothing but put a hollowness inside him and diverted his attention back to the Victorian brownstone. The house looked something akin to a dark mammoth crouching on the frozen lawn. He pictured his parents’ expansive house on the north side of town. If he went there this minute, he knew he’d find every light in the place glowing and at least one of his brothers or sisters, their respective spouses and children settled in front of the TV in the comfortable den. There would be an obstacle course of toys strewn across the polished wood floor and the chaos wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. With the holidays, the place would shimmer with Christmas inside and out, as did many houses on the street where he now sat. In contrast, A.J.’s aunt’s house exhibited nothing but darkness-backed panes of glass. Michael shrugged. He doubted A.J. felt much like decorating; her brother was dead, her aunt in the hospital. From his check into her and Ken’s background, he knew there was no other family.

  Just as he’d decided to turn on the engine and let the heater run, the headlights of a car sliced around the corner and headed his way.

  Narrowing his eyes, Michael watched a sleek white Corvette pull into the driveway behind A.J.’s Miata. After a moment the driver’s door opened. In the porch light’s glow, Michael made out the form of a tall black-coated man. The figure walked to the passenger door and pulled it open. Lawson, Michael decided. Greg Lawson.

  Michael leaned forward in his seat, eyes narrowed. He could barely distinguish A.J.’s shadowy outline as Lawson tucked her beneath his arm and walked her to the porch. There, she turned, looked up and said a few words, her breath a gray cloud on the cold, still air. Lawson nodded, dipped his head and kissed her. A long, slow kiss that twisted Michael’s stomach muscles into a nasty, clenching knot.

  “Damn,” he muttered. If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was jealous. And of what? he asked with derision. Another man’s attention to a woman he barely knew. His fingers curved on the steering wheel. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He barely knew A.J. Duncan, and in this silent introspective pause he admitted the thing that had been plaguing him since the moment he’d met her. He wanted to get to know A.J. better. A hell of a lot better.

  He sat unmoving, weighing that thought. Even if there could be something between them, it wasn’t going to happen now. Couldn’t happen. He was investigating her brother. Hell, officially, he was still investigating her. If that wasn’t enough, she now worked on a task force under his command. A whole mountain of complications to dig through.

  Michael’s lips settled into a sardonic curve. It took two to make a relationship, he reminded himself, and A.J. Duncan wanted nothing to do with him. Matter of fact, she’d probably prefer he disappeared from her life.

  On the porch, A.J. took a jerky step backward, ending the kiss. Michael dragged air into his lungs, and realized he’d been holding his breath since Law
son first locked onto her. With her hand settled on Lawson’s forearm, she shook her head and said something, turned, twisted her key in the lock, then disappeared through the front door.

  Throughout a slow sweep of seconds, Lawson stood motionless on the porch, staring at the door. Finally, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets, left the porch and climbed into his car. When he backed the Corvette out of the driveway and sped, wheels squealing, in the Bronco’s direction, Michael slunk down in his seat.

  Watching through the side mirror, he tracked the Corvette’s taillights until they disappeared around a corner. He waited a few moments in darkness, then climbed out. Slamming the door behind him, he headed across the shadowy street, then up the walk, rolling his shoulders against the knots that had settled there. He’d come here to go through Ken Duncan’s things and that was what he’d do. That was all he’d do. He was close to letting the Duncan investigation get personal, and that was one hell of a big mistake. He was a cop with a job to do, he reminded himself as he jabbed the doorbell with a gloved finger. He had to stay focused. Had to concentrate on the Duncan investigation, not the Duncan woman.

  When the door swung open, Michael’s first thought was that A.J. seemed to have shrunk by three inches. His gaze dropped. She was barefoot, her hose a dark web over red-polished toenails. He let his gaze slide slowly up her stockinged legs, upward to the slim-fitting black dress that began midthigh, curved at her waist and ended in a throat caressing neckline. She wore her dark hair swept off her face and neck, enhancing her high, sculptured cheeks.

  His fingers itched to touch those cheeks. He stifled the thought and kept his hands at his sides.

  “Lieutenant.”

  “A.J.”

  When he came through the door, she took an automatic step backward. Then another. Her eyes flicked across his well-worn bomber jacket and jeans before she turned away.

  “Greg put everything in Aunt Emily’s study,” she said, walking toward an arched doorway. As she moved, light from the vaulted ceiling glinted off the silver clip that held her hair off her neck.