Release (35 page)

“You didn’t notice anything that might help to identify him? Didn’t recognize his voice?”

She shook her head.

“What about his height and weight?”

She scrunched her forehead and winced in pain as she accidentally agitated the bruise and cut on her head. “Maybe six foot? Maybe more? I couldn’t really tell about his weight, because he wore a black overcoat, but he wasn’t overweight. He seemed in shape . . . athletic.”

“You said he had a gun?”

Genevieve nodded.

“I don’t suppose you noticed what type of a gun it was? If I recall correctly from the investigation, you know a bit about guns.”

She paused in the action of reaching to see if the bandage on her head was secure. “It was a Beretta nine-millimeter.”

“The kind of gun Kennedy carries?”

She smoothed her face into impassivity even though her heartbeat began to drum in her ears. “Yes, I suppose so. Many people that have a history in intelligence work use that type of weapon, Mr. Franklin.”

“Including your husband.”

This time Genevieve didn’t respond. She just watched him with affected calm as he lifted a long leg and propped himself against the corner of the metal desk.

“May I ask where you were going when the man forced you off the road?”

“I was going to my aunt’s house. My mother lives with her now. I believe when I saw you on Saturday evening, I might have mentioned that my stay in the penthouse would be short—just until the storm is over. My mother lives in—”

“Gary. I remember,” Franklin said in a friendly fashion. He whistled and shook his head. “Sure seems like someone’s got it out for you, Ms. Bujold.”

“Someone had it out for my purse, that’s for certain.”

He tilted his head and studied her like a curious puppy. “You really think this was just a random incident? After everything else that’s happened to you over the weekend. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit unlikely, Ms. Bujold?” When she didn’t answer, Franklin continued. “Kennedy doesn’t think it’s any more of a coincidence than I do.”

“Everyone’s entitled to his opinion.” Genevieve stood. “If you have any more questions for me, maybe I should call my lawyer, Mr. Franklin?”

His eyebrows went up in a guileless expression. “I wasn’t cross-examining you. I just came down here to make sure you were all right.”

“Really. I thought you came down here because you still suspect I killed my husband, Detective.”

He leaned back when he heard her frank appraisal, a woebegone look on his puppy-dog face. “I assure you that’s
not
what I think, Ms. Bujold.”

Her throat tightened. She had to struggle to get out words. “Surely you don’t suspect
Sean
of anything, do you? That’s
ridiculous
, he was—”

She started in shock when she heard someone call her name from the other side of the curtain.

“Sean?” she cried out breathlessly.

A second later Sean whipped the vinyl curtain aside and plunged into the makeshift office. The already small space shrunk even further. She felt as if she hid in a closet with two extremely large men. Sean gave Franklin a cursory glance before he pinned Genevieve with his blazing eyes. She gaped at him, mesmerized by the unexpected sight of him. She stilled an overwhelming urge to run into his arms.

“Are you all right?” he asked tensely.

“I’m fine, Sean.”

“What did the doctor say about your head?”

“It’s just a bump. They might want to keep me overnight for observation, but I don’t plan on agreeing to that. Sean, what are you
doing
here?” The anxious question popped out of her throat.

“I called him.” She blinked at the sound of Franklin’s mellow, Mississippi-accented baritone. The detective glanced blandly between her and Sean. “I figured he’d want to know if something happened to the woman he cares about so much. I see I was correct in my assessment.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

N
ausea rolled through her. She must have swayed slightly, because suddenly Sean was there, easing her down into the chair. Genevieve wanted to shout at him to quit touching her—to stop giving credence to Franklin’s benignly uttered volatile statement, but she was too busy fighting off the nausea.

“I need to talk to her alone, Franklin.”

“Sean, no—”

“Sure thing,” Franklin said politely before he stood. “I’ll be out in the waiting room, Ms. Bujold. There are a few other things I’d like to ask you.”

Genevieve closed her eyes at the sight of Franklin ducking through the curtain. Why did Sean insist on digging a bigger hole for himself? Why didn’t he just hand over a written confession to Franklin here and now?

“Sean, you’re acting like a fool—”

“Not now, Genny.”

At least he used a hushed tone. What if Detective Franklin lingered outside? Both of his hands cupped her jaw. They stared at each other in the dim, grubby space. His blue eyes flickered over the bandage on her head. She read the rigid set of his features and sensed his anxiety and his frustration with her. She sensed his love most of all.

Genevieve tensed, thinking he was about to lay into her for leaving the penthouse.

For leaving him.

“There were some things that were salvaged from the fire,” he began. “We saw the firemen start to retrieve them and set them out on the lawn when we caught that news clip last Saturday. Do you know what happened to that stuff? Did Jim take it to his daughter’s house in Niles?”

Her mouth gaped open. It’d been one of the last things she’d have expected him to say at that moment. “How did you know about that?”

“Just answer me, Genny. It’s more important than you know.”

She clamped her jaw shut. “Yes. Jim took some salvaged items to Niles.”

“Do you have Jim’s daughter’s address?”

“I . . . yes, but that’s not where that stuff is anymore, Sean. Jim called me this morning and said he was going to take them to my mother’s for storage today. Sean, what’s this all about?” Genny asked when Sean released her jaw. Dizziness waved through her once more. She wished he’d put his hand back on her. She wished he’d hold her. As always, his touch steadied her. Instead, he grabbed a scrap of paper from the desk and a pen.

“Your mom moved in with your aunt a while ago, didn’t she? Write down her new address.”

“Buy
why
?” She asked as she clutched the pen and started to write the address.

“I was wrong to think the fire related to all the other stuff that’s been happening to you. Well . . .
it
does relate, just not in the way I thought. In fact, that fire was what set this whole thing rolling.” He must have noticed her confusion broadcasted loud and clear on her face. “The fire wasn’t set by anyone. But all those news cameras caught something on film that meant a hell of a lot to someone who saw it.”

“Who?”

“Albert Rook.”

“Albert
Rook
?” Genevieve exclaimed, her amazement growing. She hadn’t heard the man’s name in years. Since he was friends with Max—they used to golf together, she recalled—the police had questioned him during the investigation. But they’d questioned every employee at Sauren. Rook had attended Max’s funeral, she recalled, and then left the company soon after. She’d never seen him since. But there had been that time . . .

“Genny. What are you thinking?” Sean whispered tensely.

“It seems so strange to hear his name again. I’m just stunned. Do you think that was
Albert Rook
who broke into my boutique?” Her eyes widened. “That it was
him
. . . in the SUV that ran me off the road?”

“I’d bet money on it.”

“He was such a strange man. So cold . . . so intense all of the time. I was just remembering that after the funeral, he said he wanted to meet with me. At the time, I thought he wanted to personally give his condolences in regard to Max.” She searched Sean’s face. “He didn’t want to give his condolences though. Did he?”

Sean shook his head, a grim expression on his face. “No. He wanted to blackmail you, Genny. He wanted to blackmail
us
. But I ran him off before he got the chance. He stayed away for three years. But a couple of days ago, he must have seen a news clip about the fire—WGN is broadcast on cable in Indianapolis, where Rook lives.”

Genevieve wanted to ask him how he knew where Rook lived, but another question flew to her tongue first. “What did he see?”

“A briefcase. The carbon attaché case Max used to carry. Do you remember it?”

Another wave of dizziness rolled through her brain. She shut her eyes and it passed. “Yes. Of course. I don’t recall it being in the mansion, though. I thought it was with the things that were cleaned out of his office. I never went through them personally—”

“The briefcase wasn’t in his office. I checked,” Sean said tersely. “He probably had it hidden somewhere in the mansion. Max loved hidey-holes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a compartment or a room installed somewhere in the house—some place where he could stash what he held most dear to him. But the fire brought some of Max’s precious secrets to light. That hidden attaché case survived the blaze. They build those things to survive an apocalypse,” Sean muttered under his breath. “Albert Rook got firsthand proof that I’d been lying to him three years ago. I didn’t possess the evidence he feared I had. Genny, there’s something important I have to ask you.”

She sensed his almost palpable tension;
shared
in it.

He leaned down so their faces were only inches apart.

“Did you kill Max?”

The hissing sound of his last whispered syllable seemed to linger in her ears.

“No,”
she mouthed. Her brain had short-circuited, depriving her of the power of speech.

Sean studied her with a lasering stare. His expression suddenly shifted. Incredulity shadowed his features.

“Christ. You thought
I
did, didn’t you?”

Genevieve grabbed onto his shoulders as though she were drowning and he was the one solid object in a sea of uncertainty. “You didn’t?”

His face collapsed with emotion for a brief moment before he glanced away, his eyes glistening.

“I might have thought about it a time or two—especially after New Year’s Eve. But the answer is no. I didn’t kill Max.”

He straightened. Her hands fell uselessly in her lap.

“I have to go, Genny.”

“What?
Where?
” She felt just as disoriented as she had when Albert Rook had shoved her head into the steering wheel.

“I have to get that briefcase.”

“No, Sean. Don’t go
now
,” Genevieve pleaded. She couldn’t believe he was planning to leave after what they’d just told each other.

He hadn’t killed Max.

He’d thought
she
had.

She stood and lurched toward him. He caught her before she fell to the floor.

“Genny, sit down,” he said sternly.

“But . . . I can’t believe . . . I . . .”

He set her down in the chair. She felt his firm lips brush against temple that wasn’t bandaged. He turned and parted the curtains.

“Sean,”
she called out shrilly.

But he was gone.

She was starting to stand and go after him when the curtains moved and the heavyset nurse swept inside. She gave Genny a blazing glance and pointed at the chair.

“Sit down, young lady. You’re about to pass out,” she proclaimed. “Stay right there while I find a place for you to lie down.”

Genny sagged into the chair. Despite her wishes to go after Sean, her body didn’t seem to be cooperating. Black spots occluded the edges of her vision. She saw the messy office through a thick, dreamlike haze.

Detective Franklin stood when Sean approached him in the crowded emergency room waiting area.

“Albert Rook killed Max Sauren,” Sean stated bluntly. The whites of Franklin’s eyes showed as he gaped in amazement. “I’ll be able to show you in a few hours the motive for the murder. In the meantime, he’s still out there somewhere. He’s a threat to Genny. Would you stay with her?”

Franklin looked hesitant. “It’d be better if you just told me where you’re off to, Kennedy. I can help you get the evidence you’re talking about.”

Sean shook his head even as he started to back away. He needed to get that briefcase, and quickly. It was tangible evidence that not only proved Rook’s criminal character, but also provided a powerful motive for murder. Now that he’d looked into Genny’s eyes point-blank and knew the truth—that she hadn’t murdered Max—Sean wouldn’t hesitate to help the police arrest Rook. Rook could malign Genny all he wanted. He could show Franklin the evidence he’d shown Sean three years ago.

But Franklin wouldn’t be so likely to trust his claims once they saw the solid proof of Albert Rook’s treasonous activities. Once he knew Max had been blackmailing him with that knowledge.