Her Deadly Secrets

by Griffin, Laura

  She started to open her door, but Jeremy shot her a look.

  Wait.

  He didn’t have to say it anymore, and she sat patiently as he came around to her side. She stepped onto the sidewalk, wobbly in her heels, and he caught her arm, sending a jolt of heat through her.

  “Thanks,” she said without eye contact.

  She wouldn’t think about that kiss. Or those arms. Or the possessive way he’d slid his hand over her breast. Flashes of memory had slipped through during the funeral, and she hadn’t been able to block them. Jeremy had been stationed by the door at the back of the church, and she could practically feel his gaze on her throughout the service.

  She took her key card from her purse and swiped it through the card reader. The door clicked open, and she stepped inside.

  “I’m on two,” she said, leading him across a small foyer and up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top was another locked door, this one with the WorkWell logo etched across frosted glass.

  “It’s a communal office.” She glanced over her shoulder and caught him looking at her ass. “You ever seen one?”

  “No.”

  She unlocked the door and stepped into the common area, where tall windows facing the street let in a flood of light. It was a large, open space surrounded by small private offices. Clusters of tables—not cubicles—occupied the center to “foster dialogue,” according to the WorkWell brochure. Beanbags filled the room’s corners. At the far end of the space, three young men in jeans and T-shirts were crowded around a computer screen. One glanced up and did a double-take.

  “Hey, Kira.”

  “Hey.”

  All of them were staring at her now, probably because they’d never seen her in a dress before. Or maybe it was Jeremy who had their attention. With his dark suit and holster, he looked like a secret service agent.

  Kira glanced back at him. “I need coffee. You?”

  “I’m good.”

  She led him into the break room, passing the purple hammock dangling from the ceiling. He lifted an eyebrow at it but didn’t comment. She fired up the Keurig and started a cup of Donut Shop Blend, then took a water from the fridge and handed it to him. He liked to stay hydrated, she’d noticed.

  Jeremy twisted off the top, watching her as he took a long pull.

  Kira tried not to shift under his gaze as the coffee maker hissed and gurgled. She poured sugar into her coffee and led him to her office.

  “Well, this is it,” she said, unlocking the door. “It’s small, but it’s plenty of room for me.”

  She flipped the light on and was dismayed to see the mess she’d left when she last visited. Her desk was covered with files and soda cans. A pile of mail occupied her chair as a reminder to catch up on her bills. After her wire transfer from Logan, she’d managed to pay her rent, but she was still late on everything else.

  Jeremy stepped in behind her. The room seemed to shrink with him in it, and she once again marveled at his size. He eased around her without a word and peered through the vertical blinds. Kira had a view of the street—something she’d been proud of when she first signed the lease here. In retrospect, she should have saved the fifty bucks a month and gone with an alley view.

  He looked at her. “Why do you keep an office here?”

  His tone wasn’t judgmental but curious. She found a free space on her desk and set her coffee down.

  “Security reasons.”

  His brow furrowed.

  “I needed a business address different from my home. Early on, I was doing a lot of cheating spouses, and I didn’t want people finding me. This gives me a PO box and a secure server for sensitive files. Plus a conference room for clients who don’t want to meet in public.” She shrugged. “The security thing doesn’t come up that much now that I’m working mostly for lawyers and insurance companies. But I’m used to it.”

  Cheers erupted in the common room, probably over some video-game milestone.

  “And the other tenants?” He nodded toward the door.

  “Two of those guys are app designers, and the other’s some kind of consultant, I think. I don’t actually know what everyone here does, and I kind of like it that way. We stay out of each other’s way.”

  Jeremy watched her silently. It felt strange to see him in her tight little office. It seemed intimate somehow, as though she were letting him into another room of her life. The more time they spent together, the more she let her guard down. And she had to remind herself that to him, this was an assignment. Regardless of what had happened in his truck last night, he was getting paid to be with her, and this was his job.

  Sun streamed through the blinds, catching the dust motes between them, and Kira held his gaze, wishing she could read his thoughts. Something flickered in his eyes, and her pulse sped up. Was he thinking about last night? She’d been drawn to him all day, and she wanted to kiss him again, right here in her messy office. She wanted to tug his tie loose and unbutton that starched shirt.

  He turned to the window. “They just pulled up.”

  Of course. Perfect timing.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. “We’ll meet in the conference room.”

  Kira went down to open the door for Spears and Diaz. The detectives still wore their funeral attire, and Diaz carried a to-go cup from Dairy Queen.

  “Glad you could make it,” Kira said as they followed her up the stairs.

  “No problem at all,” Diaz replied.

  Kira didn’t know whether Spears shared his view that it was no problem to come here. She probably would have preferred to talk at the police station, which was exactly why Kira wanted them here.

  Kira led them into the conference room, and Spears stopped short as she caught sight of the beanbag corner.

  “Interesting work space.” Spears glanced around the conference room, where giant whiteboards covered three of the four walls. She took a leather swivel chair at the head of the table as Kira ducked into her office to grab her coffee and the notebook from her purse.

  Jeremy claimed a chair beside Kira, and she was glad he’d opted to sit in. She wanted his take on the investigation.

  “Anything new since last night?” Kira asked Spears.

  “We’re working on it.” She looked from Kira to Jeremy. “I need to ask if either of you has seen a black BMW around recently.”

  “No,” Kira said.

  “What about in Brock Logan’s neighborhood on the night of the murder?”

  “I don’t remember one. Why?”

  “A witness spotted someone in a gray hoodie getting into a black BMW a few minutes after the shooting.”

  “Where?” Jeremy asked.

  “It was parked on Lark Street, right behind Logan’s house.”

  “So you have another witness?” Kira leaned closer. “Did they give a description?”

  “Not much of one. He saw this person from behind, and he mainly noticed the car.”

  “I haven’t seen a black BMW around.” She thought of her last conversation with Shelly and wished she’d asked about the car Shelly had noticed at the stoplight. “But why hasn’t that detail been released? And what about the suspect sketch?”

  Spears darted a look at Diaz, and Kira sensed she’d hit on a sensitive topic.

  “The department wants to hold off releasing the sketch,” she said.

  “How come?”

  “With the hood and the sunglasses, it’s pretty . . . inconclusive, I think is the term they used.”

  “It’s so generic, they’re worried we’ll be flooded with tips,” Diaz added. “Which means we’d have to devote a lot of time and resources to running them down, when we could be following up on concrete leads.”

  “Until we have something more specific, they want to use the sketch internally,” Spears said.

  Kira glanced at Jeremy, who was watching her closely, probably wondering why she’d called this meeting. Kira flipped open her notebook and unclipped a business card. On the back, she’d written t
wo license-plate numbers and vehicle descriptions. She slid the card across the table to Spears.

  “What’s this?”

  “Two tags.” She’d been up late running them through a database she had access to as a licensed PI. “One comes back to a shell company called FC Incorporated. The other is an individual, Andre Markov. I believe Ollie was watching him in the days before his murder.”

  “Watching him?” Spears asked.

  “Doing a background search, probably some surveillance.” Kira glanced at Diaz. “I don’t think Markov is the gunman. I looked up the guy’s mug shot. He doesn’t look like the man I saw, and his height is wrong.”

  Diaz’s eyebrows arched. “So he has an arrest record?”

  “Yes. But, like I said, he wasn’t the guy at Brock’s house. And I have reason to believe he was in Channelview when Shelly Chandler was killed last night.”

  “Why do you think that?” Diaz asked.

  “Because his car was there. That’s where I got these tags.”

  Spears watched her for a moment, then picked up the business card and studied the info Kira had written down. “So you don’t think Markov is a suspect—”

  “I didn’t say that. I don’t think he’s the shooter,” Kira said. “I do think he’s involved somehow. I thought you could do some background, see what comes up.”

  Spears looked from Kira to Jeremy. “Both of you do background checks, too, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “True,” Kira said. “But you have more tools than I do. You can dig deeper.”

  “Does this Markov have anything to do with the package that Shelly Chandler mailed to Ollie Kovak right before his death?” she asked.

  Kira nodded.

  Diaz crossed his arms. “We’d like you to tell us about that.”

  “Sorry.” Kira smiled thinly. “I would, but that’s confidential.”

  “In other words, it has to do with a legal case you’re working on,” Spears said. “The Quinn case, I assume?”

  “That’s right. My work product is privileged.”

  Spears muttered something about lawyers.

  “We’ll check out Markov,” Diaz said. “But any idea why Kovak would have eyes on this guy?”

  “Ollie was working exclusively on the Quinn case,” Kira said, “so I believe it’s linked to that. Before his death, Ollie was trying to identify Ava Quinn’s real killer.”

  Spears looked annoyed. “Her real one? As opposed to the made-up one we arrested?”

  “Our investigators say her husband did it,” Diaz said.

  “I’m aware,” Kira replied. “And I know a defense attorney who plans to show a jury otherwise.”

  Spears tapped the business card on the table. “Thanks for the vehicle tags. We’ll check these out.”

  She looked at her partner, and they stood to leave. Kira and Jeremy stood, too.

  “Let me know what you find out,” Kira said, although she doubted they would. Kira was holding back info, so why shouldn’t they? Given that she was working for Gavin Quinn’s defense team, her cooperation could only go so far. Still, Kira wanted to help them as much as she could.

  “We’ll be in touch.” Spears looked at Jeremy. “In the meantime, watch your back.” She nodded at Kira. “Hers, too.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  THE BULL pen was nearly empty when Charlotte returned from a grueling three hours at the ME’s office.

  Big surprise. Not many of her coworkers chose to spend a summer weekend holed up in the office. Even Diaz, who was almost as dogged as she was, had knocked off for the day, citing “plans,” which could mean anything from drinks with his cop buddies to a hot date.

  Charlotte had no such diversions in her future—just a long night ahead of her trying to forget the grisly images of a twenty-eight-year-old law student on an autopsy table.

  Charlotte dropped her keys onto her desk and sank into her chair with a sigh. Shelly Chandler’s death had been up close and personal. Very up close, according to the pathologist. It looked like she’d been approached from behind and turned around to find herself face-to-face with her killer, right there at her own back door. Her last moment must have been terrifying, and Charlotte got angry just thinking about it.

  Yet no one—not one of the apartment residents police had interviewed—reported hearing a gunshot, leading investigators to believe the assailant had used a suppressor.

  Just like in the Oliver Kovak case.

  “You’re here.”

  She turned to see Lacey coming from the elevators.

  “I am, unfortunately. Working on the Kovak case. Why are you here?”

  The CSI looked like she’d just come off a baseball field. She wore a dusty blue uniform and a ball cap, and the tops of her cheeks were pink.

  “Got called in for that house fire in Meyerland. Three fatalities.”

  Charlotte cringed. “I heard. Kids?”

  “Yeah, and I’m hearing rumors it was arson.”

  “Damn. That’s awful.”

  Lacey dropped a file onto her desk. The folder had a white envelope paper-clipped to the top. “That’s from Grant.”

  Charlotte brightened. “Already?” Their fingerprint examiner was notoriously backlogged, and she hadn’t expected to hear from him today.

  “He asked me to hand-deliver it. Said you’ve left him about a hundred messages?”

  “I may have left a few.”

  “The envelope’s from me,” Lacey said. “I put the crime-scene video on a flash drive for you. I tweaked the mockup to show where he tears his glove climbing over the fence.”

  Lacey was always thorough, which was why Charlotte liked working with her.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” She sighed. “I’m off to analyze carpet samples for accelerants.”

  “Good luck.”

  Lacey walked away, and Charlotte cleared the clutter off her desk and opened the file from Grant. He’d put a beautiful eight-by-ten glossy of the fingerprint on top.

  Damn, she loved that man. Too bad he was married.

  Grant was a legend in cop circles for his ability to get a print off anything. Fabric. Leather. Human skin. She’d once seen him develop a thumbprint off an electrical cord that had been used to strangle a thirty-year-old mother while her children slept in the next room. The print was only a partial, but it had generated a hit in the system and led police straight to the killer’s door.

  Charlotte studied the photograph. The print was bright yellow against a purple backdrop, suggesting he’d developed it using fluorescent powder and then photographed it with an alternative light source to create maximum contrast. Even from such a small scrap of latex, he’d been able to get an amazing level of detail. It probably helped that people left better prints when they were nervous and sweating, and people fleeing murder scenes tended to be both.

  Charlotte slid the photograph aside and skimmed the report.

  No match with the FBI database, which contained fingerprints from more than seventy million subjects in the criminal master file. Also, no DNA hits.

  Grant had scrawled a handwritten note beneath the typed report. He drew a zero with a line through it and added, “Still trying a few more things. More TK. —G.”

  Charlotte chewed her lip. Grant could get creative. And clearly, her case had his attention, which was good.

  What wasn’t good was that anyone with a record like Andre Markov’s would have his prints in the system, and possibly his DNA, unless the sample hadn’t been entered yet due to bureaucratic logjams—which were known to happen.

  At any rate, the prints would be there, so whoever had murdered Ollie, it wasn’t Andre Markov.

  Kira had essentially told her that already, but Charlotte needed to check. And she had. Markov’s physical description didn’t line up with the eyewitnesses, who had seen an approximately six-foot-tall man at Brock Logan’s residence and fleeing the scene. According to Markov’s booking photo, he was five-three.

&nb
sp; So even if Kira was right and Ollie had been tailing Markov right before his death, and even if Ollie had been trying to pin Ava Quinn’s murder on the guy—which might give Markov motive to want to kill him—Markov hadn’t been the hooded gunman who’d fled the River Oaks murder scene.

  Charlotte recalled Kira’s face as she’d handed over this lead. She recalled the imploring look in her eyes and how convinced she’d been that Markov was somehow involved. Charlotte had a hunch she was right. Kira had sharp instincts, and she would have made a good cop if she hadn’t decided to work in the private sector.

  The elevators dinged, and Charlotte glanced up as two detectives walked into the bull pen. Goldstein and McGrath, sarcastically known as the Twins because of their completely different builds. Goldstein was short and chubby, while McGrath was a beanpole.

  Goldstein ducked into the break room, and McGrath went to his cube. Charlotte got up and strolled over.

  “Hey, Rick.”

  He looked her up and down, lingering on the silky gray blouse she’d worn for the funeral.

  “How’s the Kovak thing coming?” he asked, pushing his chair back to stretch out his long legs. He wore jeans and a navy HPD T-shirt today.

  “Working on it now. I wanted to ask you about something.” She propped her hip on the corner of his desk. “When you were working the Ava Quinn homicide, you ever come across the name Andre Markov?”

  He frowned. “No, why?”

  “Name came up in the Kovak case.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  She crossed her arms, annoyed by his defensiveness. “Well, let’s see. Kovak was working for Brock Logan at the time he was killed. And Brock Logan goes to trial Monday representing Gavin Quinn.” She watched him and waited for a reaction. Every cop in the department knew the details, and Oliver Kovak’s murder had been splashed all over the news for days.

  “We ran a tight case.”

  “No one says you didn’t.”

  “Yeah?” His brow furrowed. “Then how come you’ve been nosing through my murder book.”

  “Your book?”