The Shelter of His Arms (Harlequin Heartwarming) Page 3

  When they reached Saban’s cubbyhole of an office, the man was on the phone. He waved them in and cut his call short, then flipped open a folder, muttering, “Let’s see, what have I got for you so far?”

  Once he’d glanced at the notes, he focused on them.

  “Okay, we lasered the vic for prints and fibers but came up empty. The door handles were nothing but smudges. There were a couple of prints other than Parker’s in the kitchen, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. My read is that the shooter came in, did his thing and left. Didn’t stay a second longer than he had to.

  “We bagged a fair amount of trace evidence from the apartment—including a few hairs that obviously weren’t the vic’s. Plus, there’s everything we vacuumed up. I’ve sent it all for analysis, so now it’s a question of waiting to see what the lab boys make of it.”

  “What color are those hairs?” Hank asked.

  “Blond.”

  “How long?”

  Saban glanced at his notes again. “Four to five inches.”

  “Longer than your average male’s,” Hank said.

  “Uh-huh. And the angles said the perp wasn’t real tall. So maybe the he was a she. You’ve got a female suspect?”

  “Two possibles.”

  Two. Then Hank did seriously think Celeste might have done it.

  Travis checked his watch, telling himself that could well change when they talked to Jill Flores. Hey, maybe they’d really luck out. Maybe, when they told her why they’d come to see her, she’d admit she was their killer.

  Of course, that was way too much to realistically hope for. But he and Hank were so overdue for a gimme of a case that you never knew.

  * * *

  CELESTE SPOONED OUT Snoops’s dinner, then stood gazing into the open fridge, trying to decide what she’d make for herself.

  She really had no appetite, but—

  Her phone began to ring, delaying the need for a decision. When she picked up, Bryce’s voice greeted her.

  She swallowed hard. She had no appetite for talking to him, either.

  “Celeste, Nancy called to tell me about Steve. And I just wanted you to know how sorry I am.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured, guiltily thinking she should have called him herself. But when Aunt Nancy had offered to do it, she’d gratefully accepted.

  She didn’t like phoning Bryce at his office, because since they’d separated, his assistant always managed to make her feel as if she’d picked the worst possible moment.

  And she liked calling him at home even less. The few times she’d had to—for one reason or another—his live-in girlfriend had answered.

  “You’ve been having a bad time of it lately,” he said.

  “It hasn’t been the greatest, but I’m coping.”

  “Good. You know...I hadn’t talked to Steve since your mother’s service. And, of course, we were never close. But...something really strange happened on Saturday evening.”

  When Bryce paused, she gave him the “Oh?” he was waiting for.

  “Donna’s in a play, so she was at the theater,” he continued. “And I was home alone, catching up on some work. And...I got this feeling I just couldn’t shake. One of those vague feelings that something’s wrong, you know?”

  “Uh-huh.” Bryce was prone to vague feelings about all sorts of things.

  “And something certainly was wrong.”

  She realized he expected a comment about his being psychic, but she simply wasn’t in the mood to humor him any further.

  “So,” he continued when she said nothing, “you’ll let me know when the service will be?”

  “Bryce, you don’t have to come.”

  “I feel I should. Unless it would upset you to see me.”

  “No, it wouldn’t upset me, but—”

  “Good. Then let me know. And if there’s anything I can do in the meantime...”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think there will be. I made most of the arrangements today, so it’s just a question of how soon the...”

  “Autopsy?” he said.

  “Yes,” she murmured, certain she’d never hear that word again without thinking of Steve.

  * * *

  AS THEY NEARED Jill Flores’s door, Travis suggested that Hank do the talking.

  It was easier to concentrate on reactions and body language when you didn’t have to think about the questions you were asking. And if Flores turned out to be blond, he didn’t want to miss a thing.

  Hank knocked. A few seconds later, a woman inside the apartment said, “Yes?”

  “Ms. Flores? Police detectives.” Hank held his ID up to the peephole.

  The door opened—and Travis wondered if they would be lucky this time around.

  She was closer to forty than thirty. But their witness had only seen the back of the woman in the hall. And Flores was “stylish,” with short blond hair that was a shade or two darker than Celeste’s.

  “May we come in and talk to you?” Hank asked.

  “What about?”

  “It would be better if we came inside,” he said.

  The woman was clearly uneasy, but most people were when a couple of detectives appeared at the door. After another look at Hank’s ID, she led them into the living room.

  “We’re here about Steve Parker,” Hank began after they sat down. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he was murdered on Saturday evening.”

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  Her eyes grew misty as Hank elaborated. When he was done, she murmured, “That’s so awful. Sometimes I wonder why people live in this city.”

  After giving her a minute, he took his notebook from his pocket and said, “I’m afraid we have to ask you some questions.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “How long had you been seeing Dr. Parker?”

  She hesitated briefly. “You aren’t under the impression that I’ve seen him recently, are you?”

  “We’re only aware that you dated him.”

  “Yes, I did. But it was from early June until about a month ago. Then we decided things just weren’t working out.”

  “I see. And have you had contact with him since?”

  “No. We...well, we didn’t see any sense in pretending we were going to remain friends when we wouldn’t. So the end was the end.”

  Hank nodded. “What about enemies? Do you know if he had any?”

  “If he did, he didn’t tell me about them.”

  “And when the two of you called it quits? Did that have anything to do with another woman?”

  “No, it was...basically, we’d just come to realize that we didn’t have much in common.”

  “And what about another woman since? Were you aware that he was seeing anyone?”

  Flores hesitated again before saying, “No. As I told you, there’s been no contact. Not even a phone call.”

  “Well, the reason I asked is that we believe he had a female visitor on Saturday evening. Would you have any idea who it could have been? Did he have any women friends who might have just dropped by or—”

  “You think a woman killed him?”

  “We’d simply like to question his visitor. So, as I said, if you have any idea...”

  “I don’t. I’d like to help you, but I really don’t.”

  Hank nodded. “I’m sorry I have to ask this, but just for the record, where were you on Saturday evening?”

  “I was with a friend,” she said slowly. “A female friend. She came over around seven, we had dinner here, then watched an old video. The English Patient. We’re both Ralph Fiennes fans. And it’s a long movie, so she didn’t leave until after midnight. Do you want more details?”

  “No, but I need your friend’s name and numbe
r. Again, it’s only for the record.”

  “Her name is Rhonda Stirling. And her number is 555-1623.”

  Hank jotted that down, then closed his notebook and thanked Flores for her time.

  Travis added his own thanks, gave her his card and asked her to call if she thought of anything that might help them.

  “Anything at all,” he added before she closed the door.

  “What do you think?” he said as he and Hank started down the hall.

  “Same as you. Our wit put the blonde in the hall around ten. M.E.’s estimated time of death is between nine and midnight. Flores was watching her video the entire time.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant. Do you think she was lying?”

  Hank shrugged. “Always a possibility.”

  “I’ve got a feeling that either she was or there’s something she held back. And she knew Rhonda Stirling’s number without looking it up. Which probably means they’re pretty good friends.”

  “You’re saying good enough that Rhonda might give her a phony alibi?”

  “It wouldn’t be a first.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll check it out. But at this point Flores is a whole lot lower on my list than Parker’s sister.”

  Travis frowned. He and Hank rarely had different gut reactions to people, and he’d be a whole lot happier if they’d read Celeste Langley the same way. As in, innocent.

  They reached the elevators and silently waited—until Hank caught his gaze and said, “I was right last night, wasn’t I. Something about that woman got to you.”

  He shook his head. “I told you, I just felt sorry for her.”

  Hank eyed him, clearly not buying that. But when he spoke again he simply said, “Good. ’Cuz I’d hate you to start feeling anything more, then discover she’s our perp.”

  * * *

  A LITTLE BEFORE TEN, Travis and Hank called it a night and started uptown, heading for Manhattan North Homicide so Hank could pick up his truck and get home to Jersey.

  He had a house on a couple of acres, not far from Madison. It was a bit of a commute, but he’d bought there because his ex-wife had wanted to live in the “country.” They weren’t there long, though, before Jane left him. Like so many cops’ wives, she just hadn’t been able to take the night work and impossible hours.

  They made marriage a risky proposition for a cop, and one Travis intended to continue avoiding—despite his mother’s hints that thirty-three was more than old enough to be settling down.

  Turning his thoughts back to their newest case, he began mentally reviewing the evening.

  They’d made six stops after leaving Jill Flores and had caught five more people at home. Three of Parker’s friends and two of his long-term patients.

  All had professed shock at hearing he’d been murdered. Each had seemed sincerely upset. None had told them anything helpful.

  Of course he’d given them all his card, so there was a chance that one of them would think of something useful and get back to him. Or maybe a detail neither he nor Hank had picked up on immediately would fall into place later.

  That often happened. One person you questioned said something that eventually came together with what another one told you.

  Adding up bits and pieces was how you usually solved homicide cases.

  He turned onto East 119th, and as they neared the parking garage, he asked Hank, “What do you want to do in the morning?”

  “Sleep in.”

  Travis grinned. “I can live with that. How about I see you here at ten?”

  “I could probably manage nine-thirty. That would let us talk to a few more people on our Parker list, then spend the afternoon playing catch-up.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Despite the pictures Hollywood painted, big-city homicide detectives didn’t have the luxury of devoting all their time to a single case. He and Hank routinely had more of them on the go than they could reasonably juggle.

  They reached the garage and his partner climbed out, then turned to give Travis a tired wave. As he disappeared into the garage, Travis started back downtown.

  One of the good things about both living and working in Manhattan was you were never very far from where you were going. Which meant that in mere minutes, barring a traffic crunch, he’d be home.

  Just as he was debating whether the first thing he’d have when he got there was a hot shower or a cold beer, his phone rang.

  Hoping it wasn’t someone calling about a fresh homicide, he dug the phone from his pocket and answered it.

  “Detective Quinn, it’s Celeste Langley again.”

  Instantly, he felt the edges of his brain growing fuzzy.

  “I’m so sorry to phone this late, but—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I barely finished working,” he said, thinking she sounded upset. “In fact, I’m still on my way home.”

  “That’s a very long day.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “I...Detective, I just had a call from a man who told me he was one of Steve’s patients.”

  Travis felt an icy numbness at the base of his spine, the sensation he always felt when he knew he was hearing something not good.

  “He said that you and Detective Ballantyne had been to see him, and—”

  “What was his name?”

  “Evan Reese.”

  Definitely not good. Reese had been seeing Steve Parker five days a week for the past three years, but he was clearly a long way from being cured of whatever his problem was.

  Not that Travis figured he was any expert in the field of psychiatry, but it didn’t take Sigmund Freud to recognize a mentally unbalanced person. And his read on Reese was that the man might be dangerous.

  “We talked to him a couple of hours ago,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Why did he phone you?”

  “He said he wanted to offer his condolences. But...well, the thing is, the conversation got weird enough to make me nervous.”

  Weird. Crap. They were well beyond not good.

  “Even so, I wouldn’t be calling except that I simply couldn’t figure out why you’d tell him about me, let alone give him my number. So I decided that if I bothered you for just long enough to get an explanation, I’d sleep a lot better.”

  “Ms. Langley...did he say we gave him your number? Or are you only assuming—”

  “No. He said you happened to mention Steve had a sister, and that when he told you he’d like to offer me his sympathies you gave him the number.”

  “Well, he lied.”

  “You mean about your giving him my number? Or do you mean you didn’t even mention me?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Oh,” she murmured.

  Her tone told him he’d just upped her anxiety level.

  “Then how did he even know I existed?” she asked.

  “Your brother must have talked about you.”

  “No, that can’t be it.”

  “He wouldn’t have had to say much.”

  “But he wouldn’t have said anything. I wasn’t an important part of Steve’s life. I don’t imagine he ever talked about me to anyone, and he’d definitely never have said a word about his personal life to his patients.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. It would have been inappropriate, and one thing I do know about Steve is that he was very professional.”

  Okay, if it wasn’t Parker who’d told Reese...

  Travis tried to think of another possibility but came up empty—probably because his mind was so closely focused on the fact that since Reese had Celeste Langley’s number he likely had her address, as well.

  That thought reminded him he’d forgotten to ask an obvious question, so he said, “Regardless of how Reese
knew about you, is your number listed? Could he have gotten it from Information?”

  “Uh-uh. It’s unlisted.”

  “Then I think we’d better talk some more about this face-to-face. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “No, wait. Coming here at this time of night would be crazy. I can—”

  “Five minutes,” he repeated. “Ten, max. And...” He hesitated.

  What would happen if Reese showed up at her place?

  He considered the question for a couple of seconds, then decided that when she’d been so cautious about letting him and Hank in last night, she’d never open her door to a stranger. Especially not one like Reese.

  And that meant there was no point in warning her not to. It would only make her more upset.

  “And what?” she said.

  “Nothing. Nothing that can’t wait till I get there.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Monday, October 4, 10:23 p.m.

  GAZING OUT INTO the night, stroking Snoops’s soft gray fur while she watched for Travis Quinn, Celeste couldn’t help feeling a little dumb for not even considering that Evan Reese might have been lying.

  If that possibility had occurred to her, she’d never have bothered Quinn. But she had. And despite her guilt about that, she wasn’t entirely unhappy that he was on his way over.

  She was feeling a chilliness that had nothing to do with the room temperature. If Reese hadn’t gotten her number from the detectives, then where?

  And how had he even connected her to Steve when their last names were different? Obviously, he’d somehow learned Steve had a sister, but just how had he honed in on her?

  While she anxiously watched the street, a car sped down it and pulled to an abrupt stop in front of her building. A black Mustang. The car Travis Quinn had been driving last night.

  A sense of relief enveloped her as she watched him climb out. There was something about him that she found extremely reassuring. Something in addition to his being a cop.

  In part, she knew, it was simply that he looked like a man accustomed to taking charge. He moved with a fluid confidence, and his features, regular as they were, were decidedly masculine.

  But there was more to it than that. And although she hadn’t managed to put her finger on exactly what it was, she’d caught herself wondering about it a dozen times during the day.