Kansas City Secrets (19 page)

Her smile eased his concern a fraction. “Yes, sir.”

By the time he'd circled back to the driver's side, Trent was jogging up to meet him. “Hey, brother.”

“What is it, junior?”

His partner handed him a DMV printout of Glasses Guy, the man Rosie had ID'd from the society page photo. “Meet Leland Asher's nephew, Matthew.”

“Son of a gun.” He handed the printout over to Rosie. “Look familiar?”

“That's him. Is he part of his uncle's organization?” She handed the paper back. “What's his connection to me?”

“It may not mean anything. We can't tie him to any criminal wrongdoing,” Trent answered. “But he does visit his uncle in prison.”

“So he could be a courier for getting his uncle's messages in or out of Jeff City.” Max quickly skimmed the rest of the information on the page and muttered a curse. Matt Asher drove a Chrysler sedan, not a green pickup. “So he doesn't have a connection to the Bratchers, either.”

Trent shook his head. “He's got an alibi for most of the nights the stalker was at Rosie's house.”

“Which is?”

“Believe it or not—therapy. He sees a clinical psychologist. I'm guessin' he's got family issues. We'll keep an eye on him to see if any messages are passed between him and Uncle Leland when he visits him in prison. But right now, we've got nothing on him. We can't touch him. Plus, the kid's only twenty-two. He was barely old enough to drive when Bratcher was murdered.”

Max looked up to his partner and thanked him.

“Not a problem. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Send somebody over to watch Rosie's house tonight. I need some solid shut-eye.”

Trent waved to Rosie to reassure her, as well. “I'll be there myself as soon as I process Bratcher.”

“I owe ya.”

“Don't worry, brother. I'll collect.”

* * *

M
AX
 
AND
 
THE
 
DOGS
heard the quiet whimpering over the rainfall sounds of the shower coming through the bathroom door. He didn't know about Duchess and Trixie, but he wasn't sure how long he could stand that heartbreaking little mewl before he busted down another door to get inside and do something about it.

The house couldn't be locked up any tighter. He had his Glock strapped to his belt. The blinds throughout the house were drawn to dissuade the Dinkles' and anyone else's curiosity about the copper-haired recluse, and he knew Trent was parked in his truck out in the driveway tonight. So no way had anyone gotten past all those lines of defense to hurt her.

Still... He knocked softly at the door. “Rosie? Honey, are you okay?”

“Just a minute.” Although he could easily jimmy the old door lock, he scrubbed his hand over his stubbled jaw, waiting impatiently through some sniffling and shuffling noises. Then the running water stopped.

A few seconds later, the latch turned and the door opened.

“You girls, stay,” he ordered. Not waiting for an invitation, he slipped inside the white-and-black-tiled bathroom and closed the door behind him.

“What is it?” Rosie asked, clutching the lime-green towel that hung from the scalloped swells of her breasts down to the top of her thighs. His pulse rate kicked up in hungry awareness, so he wisely hung back by the door. “Is something wrong?”

“I hope not.” Ignoring the long, wavy strands of wet copper that clung to her shoulders and sent tiny rivulets of water down her arms and into the shadowy cleft between her breasts, Max focused on the ugly marks marring the skin around her neck. He brushed his fingers across the blue-and-violet bruises there. “Are you in pain? Is your throat still sore? The paramedic said that gargling would help.” He ran through the checklist of possible complications related to her assault. “Are you having any trouble breathing or swallowing? Maybe I should have run you to the ER instead of bringing you home.”

She offered him an unconvincing smile. “I'm okay. I'm sore. But the hot water helps.”

So, no physical pain. That would have been easier to deal with. With the pad of his thumb, he wiped away a tear that lingered on her cheek. “And this?”

She turned her head and pressed a kiss into his palm. “You once said that I could tell you anything, that you'd listen.”

“That's right.” He made a valiant effort to avert his gaze from all that creamy bare skin peeking out above and below the edges of the towel. But the burn scars and bruises at her neck were a sobering reminder to his traitorous body that she wanted to have a serious conversation here. “Is everything okay?”

“You said I should look you in the eye and ask for what I want.” She tilted those soft gray eyes to his and he lost his heart to her a little more. “I want you to stay.”

“I wasn't planning on going back to the basement.”

“No. I'm not saying this right.” Her gaze dropped to his chin, then bounced right back. “Stay here. With me.”

The walls of restraint that were keeping his libido in check took a serious hit. But he didn't want to misunderstand. “Honey, don't tease a man. Are you asking me to take you to bed?”

She nodded and reached up to trace her fingers along the line of his jaw, waking dozens of very interested nerve endings there. “I want to do more than cuddle tonight, Sergeant. I want to feel like a normal, desirable woman. I want to feel good hands, safe hands...
your
hands on me. I want to erase—”

“I get the message.” Max already had her in his arms. His mouth was on hers, his tongue driving inside to claim her taste for his own. He drove her back against the tile wall, imprinting her curves against his harder body. Her hands slid up to his face and hair and his slid down to grasp her hips and pull them into the cradle of his thighs.

His jeans felt thick. His shirt was an impediment. And that towel definitely had to go.

With their lips clinging to each other, their hands explored places that were tender and hard. Silky and soft. Cool and hot. He got his belt off and his holster safely set aside on the vanity before she reached for the zipper of his jeans.

“Not yet, honey.” He caught her wrists and moved her hands to his chest, encouraging her to go after the buttons on his shirt while he shucked out of his boots and jeans.

By the time he was as naked as she was and he'd fished a condom out of his wallet, her lips had discovered the taut, eager nipples of his chest and a bundle of nerves behind his left ear. He'd feasted on her lips and filled his hands with the heavy weight of her breasts. He tongued his way from one curve to the next, stopping only to turn the shower back on and adjust the temperature to a soothing warmth before he palmed the back of her thighs and lifted her into the shower with him.

“Max,” she gasped, her thighs clenching when the water first hit her skin.

“Easy, honey.” He pulled her into the heat of his body and switched positions, taking the brunt of the spray on his back. “I want to make this as good for you as I can.”

Then he grabbed the bar of soap and really went to work. She wanted to forget that Howard had touched her? That Richard had abused her? Max wanted to imprint himself all over her body. He put his hands every place he could touch—her feet, her legs, that sweet round bottom. He washed her stomach and back and arms and breasts, running the creamy soap over her beautiful skin. Then he moved the soap between her legs to wash her there.

Her thighs clenched around his hand. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. Her forehead fell against his chest. “Oh, Max. Max.” She said his name, over and over, in breathless whispers against his skin. Soon, he set the soap aside. With the heat of the water and the heat of his hand pressing against her most tender flesh, he felt her tighten, quiver. And when he slipped a finger inside her, then two, she cried out his name and convulsed around his hand.

How could any man not think this brave, vibrant, responsive woman was anything but sexy and desirable?

But it wasn't enough. For either of them.

The shy siren with the beautiful body slipped her arms around his neck and pressed every decadent inch against his hot, primed body. Not even the water sluicing over his head and shoulders could come between them as she pulled her mouth down to his and asked for what she truly wanted.

“You, Max. I want you inside me. Now.”

His fingers shaking with the need of his body, he reached around the shower curtain and ripped open the condom packet. All he remembered were her hands learning his body, her lips demanding kiss after kiss. He happily obliged her exploration until he could take no more.

“Now, honey.”

“Yes.”

He picked her up and her legs wrapped around his hips as he eased himself inside. He held his breath for a moment, filling her, expanding her warm sheath to accommodate his desire. With his strong hands holding her securely between the tile wall and his body, he began to move inside her. Slowly, at first. A thrust, a kiss. A thrust, a nibble of her ear. His lips moved lower with each thrust and she arched her back, offering him her body. He closed his mouth over the proud peak of her breast, swirled his tongue around her pearled nipple and she gasped.

His body demanded faster, harder, and hers accepted, welcomed, blossomed with his need.

The one glitch came when he pressed a kiss to the scar on her collarbone. Her fingers tried to push his lips away. “Don't,” she whispered. “They're ugly.”

But Max insisted on gently kissing each mark. “Every inch of you is beautiful to me.”

And then the need became too great. The rhythm between their bodies synced and moved together. The water ran, the heat consumed him. And with a final thrust that blinded him to all but the crazy, inexplicable love he had for this woman, Max poured himself out inside her.

A few minutes later, after catching their breaths and another quick rinse in the cooling shower, Rosie turned off the water. He wrapped a towel around his waist and another around her, then lifted her into his arms and carried her to bed.

He shoved a pair of bed-hog dogs onto the floor and laid her down. Max climbed in beside her, pulled the covers up over them both. Spooning his damp, spent body next to hers, he pulled Rosie to his chest, buried his nose in the sweet scent of her hair, and they drifted off into a deep, healing sleep together.

Chapter Eleven

Max awoke to a dog licking his ear and an empty pillow beside him.

A brief moment of panic—that Rosie had somehow been taken from him while he slept, with that dreadful sense of finality he'd felt the morning Jimmy hadn't shown up for their fishing weekend—roused him completely. But the panic quickly ebbed when he smelled the coffee brewing in the kitchen and heard the strains of an orchestra playing softly from another part of the house. Rosie was fine. Just an early riser, eager to get a start on a new day. Hopefully, not a woman who was having regrets about the night before.

And then there was the poodle who'd taken such a shine to him. Pushing aside Trixie's tongue, Max sat up. She switched the licking to his hand until he spared a minute to give her a tummy rub. “Really? Is this going to be a thing with you?”

He set the fuzzy morning greeter on the floor and got up to use the bathroom, retrieving his shorts and jeans and pulling them on. He tucked his holster into the back of his belt and pulled out his phone to put in a quick call to Trent to get a status report.

“Morning, sunshine,” Trent teased. “How'd you sleep?”

“Better than you, I'm guessin'. Anything I need to know about?”

“Everything's quiet out here. I got a call five minutes ago from Jim. He said Charleen Grimes left her condo, drove through a coffee shop, then went to work. Apparently, they're having a big summer clearance sale at her boutique if you're lookin' for a new dress.”

“No, thanks.” Max shook his head and went to the kitchen to pour himself a mug of coffee. Even after a stakeout, the younger detective was too chipper in the morning for his tastes. “Anything else?”

“You need to call Katie. She's got some information you'll want to hear.”

“Got it. I've got my coffee now, so you can leave. Thanks for keeping an eye on things.”

“Not a problem.”

Max drank half his coffee and ate a cinnamon roll that he hoped Rosie had left out for him before dialing Katie's number.

“Good morning, Max.” Was everyone he knew a morning person?

“Morning, kiddo. Trent said you had something for me?”

“You bet. I tracked down a short list of dark green, extended cab pickup trucks with black trim—sold in the KC area in the past month, so it would still have dealer stickers and not a registered license plate yet.”

“How short is the list?”

“Three trucks. Here's where it gets interesting.”

Normally he was amused by Katie's flair for drama, but this morning he just wanted to get the info and get back to Rosie. “Tell me, sunshine.”

“All three were purchased as fleet vehicles for Endicott Global.”

Max opened his mouth to swear but decided Katie didn't need to hear him any more than Rosie did. But that Wells woman had lied to them with a straight face. The CEO fit two of the three puzzle pieces—she had access to the drug that killed Richard Bratcher, and a company vehicle had been spotted near Rosie's house. “You did good, kiddo. Thanks.”

More awake and on guard and ready to face whatever reaction Rosie had to that steamy shower they'd shared, he sought her out and found her sitting on the braided rug in the library. He needn't have worried about her having regrets or feeling self-conscious about her beautiful body or feeling pressured to turn one night into a full-blown relationship. She jumped up from the boxes and papers she'd been sorting and hurried across the room, smiling.

The jeans she wore kind of caught him off guard. He wouldn't have thought she even owned a pair with that wardrobe of dresses she usually wore. But he couldn't help but smile back—or cling to the kiss she rose up on tiptoe to give him. “Morning, Rosie Posy.”

“Max, look what I found.” She hadn't pinned her hair up yet, either, which distracted him from the stationery and envelopes she juggled in her hand. “I was going through some old letters Richard had written me. I felt like I was starting a new life today so I wanted to get rid of my past. I mean I'm thinking of myself as Rosie instead of Rosemary now. I'm not afraid some creep will come to my house every night anymore. I was going to throw away all these old letters he sent me.”

He put a hand up to stop the philosophical discussion he wanted to hear more about—later—and urged her to get to the point. “What did you find, Rosie?”

“This.” She tossed most of the letters she held into a box, then unfolded one stamped with the Bratcher law firm name at the top. A rock settled in Max's gut. This couldn't be good. “Richard must have stuck this letter in the wrong envelope. It's to his mistress, not me.”

He took the letter. “You know, for a man I've never met, I sure do dislike him.”

Rosie pointed to the salutation at the top of the paper. “Look who it's written to.”

Max drew in a satisfied breath as the third piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Charleen Grimes wasn't the only woman Richard had cheated with.

“We've been looking for the wrong mistress.”

It was a love letter to Hillary Wells.

* * *

“I'
M
 
TIRED
 
OF
 
WAITING
.”

“Sir, I told you she was on a conference call... Sir?”

Rosie nodded to the sputtering assistant at the front desk as Max flashed his badge and marched right past him into Hillary Wells's office at the Endicott Global building.

She plowed into Max's back when he suddenly stopped. He spun around to catch her hand and keep her from tumbling, but she could see what had stopped him. The office was empty.

“Is there a back door to this room?” Max asked. “She's not here.”

The assistant stepped into the office and looked around, too. He threw up his hands as if surprised to see his boss had left.

Max clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him out of his path. “Nice stall, kid. You hear from the boss lady, tell her KCPD wants to have a conversation with her.”

“Yes, sir.”

While they were driving down the highway, Max alerted the Cold Case Squad that Hillary Wells was in the wind. She'd skipped out on her appointment with Max and Rosie and hadn't left her contact information with her assistant. She wasn't answering any of her phones, and, according to Katie, who'd tried to locate her via GPS, Dr. Wells's cell phone had been turned off.

“Wait a minute.” Katie hesitated, probably reading something off one of her computer screens. Rosie had put Max's cell on speaker and held it up for him to speak and hear while he drove the Chevelle.

“What is it, kiddo?” Max prompted.

“It looks like she has a cabin down by Truman Lake. I've got a ping off her vehicle's smart system there.”

“Give me a twenty.” Once Katie gave them the cabin's location and directions to get to it, Max made his way to the south end of the city and drove over to one of Missouri's most popular recreation areas.

An hour later, after a scenic drive through the northern edge of the Missouri Ozarks, they pulled into a gravel driveway behind a dark green pickup truck.

“Son of a gun.” Katie's research was right on the money. “She's here,” Max announced, nodding toward the windows along the front of the cabin that had been opened to let in the warm summer breeze. He took Rosie's hand and pulled her into step beside him and they walked to the front door. “Today, maybe you'd better let me do the talking. I have a feeling the good doctor won't be such a cooperative witness this time.” He knocked on the door. “KCPD. It's Detective Krolikowski, Dr. Wells. I'd like to ask you a few more questions.”

When the woman didn't immediately answer, Rosie asked, “How does this work, exactly—you ask her if she killed Richard?”

Max grinned. “Well, the direct approach doesn't usually work for most suspects.”

“It worked for me.”

He reached over and sifted his fingers through the ponytail hanging down the back of her T-shirt. “You, Rosie March, are the exception to most rules.”

After more than a minute with no response, Max knocked again. “KCPD.” He motioned Rosie to stand back to the side as he pulled his weapon.

His wary posture put her on guard, too. “Do you think something's wrong?”

His shoulders lifted with a deep breath. “I hope she hasn't done anything stupid like take some of her own drugs to get out of doing prison time.”

“Suicide?”

Max's jaw trembled before he knocked on the door one last time. He was thinking of his friend Jimmy. “I'm comin' in, Dr. Wells.”

Rosie clung to the safety of the wall while Max turned the knob and pushed open the door.

A gunshot exploded close to Rosie's ear and Max went flying back off the front step. “Max!”

He hit the ground with a horrible thud and pulled his knees up, groaning, rolling from side to side as the front of his shirt turned red with blood.

Hillary Wells marched out of the cabin, shifted the aim of her gun at Rosie and warned her, “Don't move.”

Rosie clung to the cedar planking of the cabin while Hillary picked up Max's weapon, which had been jarred from his hand when he'd landed.

She unloaded the magazine of bullets from his gun and tossed the weapon one direction into the woods surrounding the house, and the magazine into the trees in the opposite direction.

Hillary turned back to Rosie, using her gun to give succinct directions. “Now handcuff his wrists together. Then get his keys and load him into the backseat of his car. You're driving.”

* * *

R
OSIE
 
SWIPED
 
AWAY
 
the tears the spilled from the corner of her eye, not sure if they were tears of fear that Max's head kept lolling from one side to the other as he bled out into the backseat, or pure, white-hot anger for the woman sitting in the passenger seat, calmly giving driving directions while training her gun at Rosie to ensure her cooperation. She suspected it was a little of both. Hillary Wells had killed one man Rosie had thought she loved, and now the woman was going to kill Max. And that would be a loss from which Rosie was certain she'd never recover.

Rosie glanced down at the typed suicide note Hillary had forced her to sign by threatening to shoot Max again. The Endicott Global CEO had written an essay of pure fiction, where Rosie confessed to murdering her abusive ex-fiancé by filling a bottle of champagne with RUD-317, seducing him in his condo and sneaking out after he'd overdosed on the drug. When the Cold Case Squad detective unmasked her as the killer several years later, she shot him before her secret could be revealed. But she'd fallen in love with the detective and, regretting her rash action, killed herself.

Rosie shifted her grip on the wheel and tried to think of a way she could escape and get Max to an ER for medical treatment. He kept sliding in and out of consciousness. His breathing was labored and his skin was far too pale.

“No one who knows me will ever believe that note.”

Hillary smirked. “They won't believe you're a strong enough woman to commit cold-blooded murder?”

“No. They won't believe I'd ever want to seduce Richard.”

The deep-pitched chuckle from the backseat infused her with renewed strength and determination. “That's my girl,” Max rasped.

But Hillary didn't appreciate the humor. “I knew you were going to be trouble. You couldn't be content, could you? Nobody could prove you murdered Richard, but as long as you were the police's prime suspect, no one was looking at me, either.” She indicated a narrow side road and ordered Rosie to turn. “Richard was a scumbag—greedy, self-centered, violent—the world is better without him. It was a win-win situation. You weren't in jail and he was out of your life. But you had to know the truth, didn't you?”

“He's never been out of my life since I met him. Clearing my name is the only way I can finally say goodbye to his influence over me.”

Sheer will seemed to fuel the grumbling voice from the backseat. “Why did you kill him, Doc? You didn't like that he cheated on you, too? Or are you just a man hater?”

“It was purely business.” She pointed to a gravel road among the trees. “Turn here.” Rosie obeyed, following Dr. Wells's directions deeper into the forested recreational area dotted with remote cabins around the dam and creeks that fed them. “Richard was a two-night stand. I picked him up in a hotel bar.”

Rosie glanced in the rearview mirror. Max opened his eyes and nodded. He remembered it, too. Rosie had picked him up in a bar and recruited him into helping her. She hadn't regretted a moment of their time together since.

“How is murder a business deal?” Rosie asked, concentrating on the narrowing road. They were dropping in altitude, too. They were approaching a remote cove off the main lake.

“I needed someone else dead and out of my way before he cheated me out of my life's work and rightful position at the company.”

“Lloyd Endicott?” Max guessed.

“Yes.” The woman was completely unapologetic about the death of her so-called friend and mentor. “I knew I'd be the first person the police would look at if it was proved Lloyd's death was anything but accidental. So I made a deal with a colleague to arrange for his death, and in exchange, I was asked to eliminate Richard.”

“Strangers on a Train,”
Max muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. I have a couple of friends who like old movies.”

Turning up her nose as if polite chitchat was beneath her, Hillary used the gun to give Rosie the next direction. “Pull up over there at the old boat ramp. Leave the engine running.”

“Who wanted Richard dead?”

“I'm not allowed to say. A deal's a deal.”