Twice Kissed (40 page)

“We can’t leave,” she said despite his punishing grip. “Not until we find my sister.”

“What if it’s too late, Maggie?”

“It isn’t. I won’t believe it.” She rotated toward him and he surrounded her with steel-strong arms.

“Okay,” he said, his lips brushing against her crown. “We’ll try to find her, but you’ve got to promise me that you’ll be careful.”

“And what about you, Thane? Can you promise me the same?”

His muscles flexed and he lowered his mouth to press his lips to hers for one single tantalizing instant. Then he rested his forehead on hers and said with unerring certainty, “What I can promise you is simple, Maggie. I’m gonna get the son of a bitch who’s behind all this and when I do, believe me, he’s gonna wish he was dead.”

Henderson sat at his desk and stared out at the night. His coffee was cold, his stomach rumbling, and he was sick to the back teeth of Marquise or Mary Theresa Reilly or whatever the hell her name was. He’d called Maggie McCrae out of some sense of duty as sooner or later the press would find out that another vehicle had been involved in the accident and they would be swarming on the story like yellow jackets at a backyard barbecue.

He twirled his pencil, glanced at the photo of Marquise pinned to his bulletin board and thought about the other cases under his command. They paled in public interest and, he had to admit, in his as well. Like the rest of the viewing audience he was half in love with the foolish, egotistical celebrity. Yes, she was vain, a liar, a woman who stepped on those who got in her way, a flamboyant personality who obviously didn’t know the first thing about getting her shit together, but there was something enigmatic and dangerously fascinating about her.

Since her disappearance, she’d garnered media attention from as far away as Chicago and Tampa. Once nearly forgotten, a dull dying has-been, she’d suddenly gained that unique luster of a tragic heroine—a woman lost; a beautiful female in the throes of some mystery. And even he wasn’t immune. “Christ,” he growled, disgusted with the turn of his thoughts. It was time to wrap this thing up—long past.

He glanced at the manila folders haphazardly stacked on the corner of his desk—a pile of other investigations that he couldn’t ignore. Yet here he was, late at night, still trying to figure out what the devil had happened to a woman who was fast becoming Denver’s most famous celebrity. Mary Theresa Reilly Walker Gillette had, by becoming mysteriously invisible, made herself more well known than ever. A household word.

Was the accident a coincidence?

A planned publicity trick gone awry?

Some heinous plot?

“It’s sick,” he grumbled to himself, and hated being a part of the media circus and speculation that were a party to anything that had to do with Marquise. If only he thought he was making some kind of headway, but the investigation seemed stalled, log-jammed, and it made him irritable and cranky.

Somewhere in the outer offices another midnight hero, some detective working late coughed. A second later a phone rang in another part of the building.

Henderson spun his chair to stare at her glossy photograph full in the face and felt his stone of a heart chip a bit at the sight of her bright smile and mischievous green eyes. Almost as if she were pulling a fast one over on the photographer and anyone else even remotely associated with her.

Rubbing the stubble on his jaw, he thought about recent stalemates in the case. His interview with Jane Stanton hadn’t gone well. A neighbor of Marquise’s, Jane was pushing eighty, and though she was spry, her memory sharp enough, her hearing, apparently, wasn’t always dependable.

“I was looking for Precious that night, you see,” she’d said, blue eyes cloudy with cataracts as she’d offered the detectives tea that tasted like it had been made from some bitter weed. She’d sat in a rocking chair with an afghan and the cat in question on her lap. Precious had blinked his yellow eyes slowly as if he enjoyed being the center of attention while other felines—five in all—took up various perches in the stately old home.

An orange tabby had viewed them from the top shelf of a bookcase, a Siamese had peered from a crack in a cupboard door left slightly ajar and the other three strolled around the room, hopping onto the furniture or staring through the window at winter birds fluttering in the bare branches of a copse of saplings planted near the back deck.

“He’s such a naughty boy,” the old woman confided, “always trying to stay outside, aren’t you dear?” With a smile she continued to stroke the cat. “Anyway, I was looking for this little imp, here, when I heard a commotion on the other side of the fence. I couldn’t see through the bricks, mind you, but I recognized the voices and though they were muffled, I’m sure I heard Marquise call that Walker man by his name…at least I think so. But I heard, clear as a bell, him threatening her. Warning her that he’d kill her.” She nodded curtly, as if agreeing with herself. “Usually I try not to eavesdrop but that night…” She shrugged her thin shoulders as if to say, “what can you do?”

“You couldn’t hear what they were saying?” Hannah clarified, and the woman’s wrinkled face drew together like a tiny purse.

“Not really, but I thought they said something about money or a child…oh, I don’t really know.” She smiled sadly and sighed. “I usually keep to myself, you know. Just call for a ride down to the center once in a while.”

“Do you know Marquise?”

“Only just to wave and say ‘hi.’ I saw the young men come and go—the latest one, the fellow with all the hair and the flashy car…” sparse gray eyebrows rose over the rims of her glasses—“I think he’s a little rude. The ex-husbands are a nicer lot.”

“Did Marquise leave with anyone that night?”

“Now, that I can’t be sure.” She’d pressed the tip of one long, bony finger to her lips and thought for a second. “It seems that I saw her Jeep leave and there were definitely two people in it. A man and a woman, I think…but…” she shrugged, “…it was dark, except for the second or two they were under the streetlights, and I can’t be certain.”

Judging from the clouds in her eyes, Henderson had silently agreed.

He and Hannah had somehow managed to force down most of the strong tea without the benefit of gleaning more information, then left in frustration. Now, hours later, Henderson felt backed up against the wall. He’d read the accident report on Marquise’s vehicle over and over again, hoping to find some new clue that he’d overlooked, perused the faxed documents on Renee Nielsen until he could recite them backward and forward and barked at underlings to find any and all information on the dead woman.

There was nothing out of the ordinary about Thane’s employee—except that she’d been on his payroll and had ended up dead in his ex-wife’s mangled vehicle. Had Renee borrowed Marquise’s Jeep? Stolen it? No—Marquise’s handbag had been in the backseat. The contents were as expected: wallet, brush, mirror, six tubes of lipstick, mascara, tampons, credit cards and sunglasses. A few receipts for gas. An address book that was battered and, from the number of crossed-out names, should have been replaced a while back. Most of the people had moved long ago. He knew. He’d called them all and come up dry. So, unless Renee had stolen Marquise’s purse as well as the Jeep, the natural assumption was that Marquise had been with her.

Or had she? Maybe she’d left her bag in the car and forgotten it when she’d handed Renee the keys.

Nah.

Henderson’s head pounded with unanswered questions.

Marquise’s Jeep had been examined by the best detectives in the department, men who were trained to search for clues, if there were any; but the vehicle looked normal aside from the traces of black paint on the mangled rear fender.

The paint was the one bright spot in the otherwise dark case. Already the analysts in the lab had discovered from paint scrapings taken from the wreck that the paint was a blend used by Chevrolet; the glass from the headlight, again from a Chevy product. A pickup or Blazer had helped nudge Renee Nielsen’s vehicle off the road.

But why?

Who had wanted to kill Renee? Or Marquise?

The answer was in the missing vehicle, and Henderson had communicated with all the law-enforcement agencies in the entire southwest to be looking for a dented black Chevy. DMV and dealership records would be scrutinized.

It was late, the department quiet. If he had any brains at all, he’d drive home to his apartment and put in a call to the kids. Instead he shuffled through his notes again. From the looks of it Marquise didn’t have much of an estate, and everything she did own would be left to her niece, Maggie’s kid. Marquise had two insurance policies. One named Maggie and Becca McCrae; the other was to a company that Marquise had helped found, MER, Inc., a local business-development company that didn’t do diddly as far as Henderson could see. Marquise was the CEO, what a joke, and Eve Lawrence handled the books, which showed a negative cash flow. Frowning, he shuffled through his notes, searching for more information on MER, Inc.

Before he could locate what he wanted, the door to his office flew open. Bang! It hit a file cabinet.

Hannah, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling, marched into the room.

“You’ve got something,” he guessed, sensing her excitement, the kind that comes only with a break in a stagnant case. He shoved the papers into his briefcase and turned his full attention to his partner. She was a pretty woman anyway, but when she’d figured something out, her cheeks flushed, her eyes gleamed and she was more attractive than ever.

“Could be.”

“What?”

“Okay.” She plopped down on the corner of his desk and he ignored the fact that her skirt hiked up a notch. She swung one leg and leaned closer to him. “What we’ve got is that of all the people connected with Marquise, several own late-model black Chevys.”

“Who?” Henderson asked.

“It’s an interesting list. Let’s start with Ron Bishop, the station manager at KRKY. He owns a Mercedes and a black Chevy pickup. His wife usually drives the Mercedes.”

“Check him out,” Henderson said, though he doubted Ron would kill off one of his stars, no matter how much of a prima donna and pain in the butt she was.

“Will do. Now there’s also Gillette.”

Henderson sat up straighter in his chair. This was interesting. “He did own a black Blazer a couple of years back, but he gave it to his daughter, Tanya Inman.”

“Whose husband dumped her for Marquise?” Even better.

“Bingo.”

Henderson’s old chair squeaked as he leaned forward, riffling through the files on his desk, flipping through the pages, trying to find some kind of information on Tanya Inman. “Check them out, too.”

“Will do. But here’s the really interesting one,” Hannah said, a teasing smile on her pale lips. “A black late-model Blazer was recently purchased by one Renee Warner.”

“Warner?” That sounded familiar. He turned to the information they’d collected on the victim.

“Mmm. Renee Nielsen’s maiden name. Seems she decided to take it back a few months ago, then went out and bought herself a two-year-old Blazer. Apparently found one in the paper, contacted the guy, and paid him with a cashier’s check. Just registered through DMV six weeks ago, listed her address as an apartment on the north end of town.”

Henderson couldn’t believe this sudden turn in luck. He was already on his feet, snapping his briefcase closed. “And?”

“And nothing. I already checked it out. Furnished, but for the most part empty. The place hasn’t been lived in for weeks. It was, as they say, clean as a whistle. None of the neighbors had ever seen anyone fitting Ms. Nielsen’s description.”

“So where was she living?” Some of his excitement ebbed.

“Don’t know yet.”

“Think she’s connected somehow to Walker?”

“Seems unlikely, as he’s the one who came up with the ID.”

“He didn’t have much choice. We would’ve found out anyway.”

“Give up on him, would ya? Just because he threatened his ex-wife, who owed him some money, and now a woman who worked for him is dead, doesn’t mean that he’s guilty of anything other than having poor taste in women and being an easy mark.”

“Ya think?” He reached for the baseball, but left it in its holder. The heating system rumbled, blowing air and stirring up dust.

“I do.”

“So how is Renee Warner Nielsen connected to all this?”

Hannah winked at him. “I’m working on that one. Between the bank where she got the cashier’s check, the previous address and references she gave the landlord, and information on the insurance on the vehicle, we might just come up with something.”

“If we’re lucky,” Henderson said, reaching into his top drawer for a stick of gum.

“Come on, Reed,” she said tossing her hair back and laughing. “The day you believe in luck is the day I give up coffee.”

With a soft bump, the jet touched down at Denver International Airport, and Becca grabbed her backpack from under the seat in front of her. She’d listened to her CDs for the two-hour flight, eaten the stale peanuts, and downed a 7UP, all the while trying not to get into a conversation with the plump fiftyish woman next to her. Her name was Gladys and she would tell anyone who showed the slightest bit of interest about the birth of her first grandchild—like it was the biggest event since the last Rolling Stones tour, which, unfortunately, she’d managed to attend. To listen to her you’d begin to believe that Mick Jagger was the greatest singer to ever grace a stage. Obviously Gladys had never seen Beck on MTV.