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Cold Case Cop
Mary Burton








Cold Case Cop

Mary Burton









www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For the Virginia Romance Writers




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue




Chapter 1


Monday, July 14, 9:00 a.m.

Catcalls from the homicide squad room had Sergeant Alex Kirkland looking up through the glass walls of his office. His gaze skimmed past the six grinning detectives and settled on a tall, leggy redhead who stopped to greet each person in the room.

Tara Mackey.

A visit from the Boston Globe’s crime beat reporter meant his first day back on the job wouldn’t be as quiet as he’d hoped. But it would be interesting.

Grinning, Mackey wore her trademark getup—dark dress pants, a snugly fitting crisp white shirt and a severe ponytail tied at the base of her skull that accentuated high cheekbones. Some of the detectives called her The Librarian. But Mackey was anything but dowdy or ordinary. She had a killer figure, full lips and a spark in her green eyes that always had Kirkland’s body tensing.

Mackey was a Bostonian by birth but had gotten her start in journalism in Washington, D.C. She’d worked for the Post for eight years. She had returned to Boston to work the crime beat less than a year ago. She covered every homicide, regardless of the time of day or social status of the victim, and she had gotten to know all the names of the division detectives on both the day and night shifts. The cops didn’t always like her hard-hitting questions, but they liked her. Intelligent articles combined with overly sensational headlines had earned her a following in the city.

Closing the file on last night’s homicide report, Alex rose and allowed a second sweep of his gaze over her body. Too bad he didn’t date reporters.

Mackey broke away from the detectives and came into his office. She moved well. “Welcome back.”

Alex shoved his hands in his pockets and rattled the loose change in his left pocket. “What do you want, Mackey?”

Tara’s grin reached her eyes. She was clearly unaffected by his gruffness. In fact, she seemed to get a kick out of irritating him. “I see your near-death experience hasn’t improved your social graces, Kirkland.”

Her direct reference to his near-fatal shooting caught him off guard. No one except the department’s shrink had directly discussed the ambush with him. His injuries reminded family, friends and especially other cops that a policeman’s job was very dangerous. Very aware of this, he had, in the days leading up to his return to work, spent extra time sailing his boat on the bay so that the sun tanned his skin until it had regained its healthy glow. He’d lifted weights at the gym to build up his muscles. And this morning he’d taken additional time dressing.

Alex was aware that the cops in the squad room were listening, even if their gazes were averted. He moved to his office door and closed it. “Did you come to talk to me about manners?”

She laughed. “No. May I sit?”

It was a great laugh. “Sure.”

Mackey made herself comfortable in the chair that was positioned in front of his desk. She crossed those long legs as he moved behind her and around to his chair. He realized she’d changed her perfume. No longer spicy, this scent was soft and feminine. He liked it. A lot.

He sat behind his desk. “So you came all this way to welcome me back to work? I’m touched, Mackey.”

“Park your ego, sport. I’m here about an article.”

“Really? And here I thought your visit was all about me.”

“Not exactly.”

“I didn’t think so.” His swivel chair squeaked as he leaned back.

She dug a file out of her slim briefcase. “I’m embarking on a new project.”

“And I should care why?”

“It directly affects one of your old cases.”

“An old case? I’m up to my ass in alligators, including three new homicides last night alone. Today is not a good day to discuss new projects or old cases.”

A few of his men gawked at Mackey through his office’s glass walls. Irritated, he glared at them. They all had the sense to get back to work.

“I won’t take too much of your time, Kirkland. Besides, you owe me.”

Alex folded his arms over his chest. “Is that a fact?”

She cocked her head. “When you asked the media to write a series of articles on those vagrant murders three months ago, everyone turned you down but me. And as I remember, you got an arrest because of the tips my article generated.”

Kirkland had broken the case because of her help. “The fact that you stepped up to the plate then is the reason I haven’t thrown you out yet. But my patience is wearing thin.”

Mackey laid an inch-thick file of news clips in the center of his desk. “I’ve decided to do a little digging into one of your department’s cold cases.”

The muscles in his back tightened as they always did when trouble lurked too close. “Which case?”

She smiled and paused for dramatic effect. “Kit Westgate Landover. Remember her?”

“How could I forget? You couldn’t have picked a more volatile case.”

“I know.”

Kit had been a West-Coast socialite who’d taken Boston society by storm two years ago. After landing the city’s most eligible, albeit much older, bachelor, she’d vanished during her wedding reception a year ago. The huge affair had been held at the Landover estate and had been the social event of the season. Over five pints of Kit’s blood, enough to kill anyone, had been found splattered all over the estate’s greenhouse. However, no body had been found. “Why are you digging into this case, Mackey?”

Her eyes brightened with excitement. “Why wouldn’t I? When a rich, beautiful woman vanishes, it’s big news. This story ate up headlines for months.”

Because of the endless news stories, the brass and Kit’s new husband, Pierce Landover, had screamed for the cops to find Kit and to make an arrest. Kirkland and a half-dozen other cops had worked nonstop for months. But there’d been no sign of Kit or her killer. “Pierce Landover won’t appreciate this.”

If she were concerned, she didn’t show it. “I can handle him.”

Kirkland shook his head. “Landover went to the mayor and then to the governor to have me fired when I couldn’t crack the case. My arrest record and a few connections of my own barely saved my ass.”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Can you confirm that you think that Kit’s dead?”

He drummed his fingers on his desk. “I didn’t say that. We never did determine what happened to Mrs. Landover.” And that fact still bothered him. He hated unsolved cases. “Look, Mackey, the Boston Police Department has a dozen homicides pending right now—cases with bodies. If you want to play Nancy Drew cover one of them.”

She ignored him. “Care to have a peek at a mock-up of next week’s Metro section?”

Alex watched as she dipped long fingers into her briefcase. “Why do I have the feeling I won’t like this?”

“You may really love it.” Her voice had a throaty quality that had him wondering what else she might love. “My articles have helped you solve cases before.”

“Let’s have it.”

She laid the Metro section in front of him. “This is how I envision the story laying out. A friend of mine in production did it for me.”

Above the fold was a full-color picture of Kit Landover. The woman was stunning. In her late twenties, she had that magical combination of womanly confidence and flawless looks. Her hypnotic gaze stared at the camera lens as if she knew a secret that everyone else wanted to know.

It had been two years since he’d seen Kit in the flesh. She’d arrived at a gallery opening on Pierce Landover’s arm, and had immediately stopped conversation. An indigo silk halter dress had clung to her high, full breasts, small waist and sizzling, tight body. Rich blond curls, parted on the side, had accentuated seductively high cheekbones and enhanced violet eyes.

Every man in the room had entertained erotic fantasies. Every woman in the room had oozed resentment.

Alex flipped the paper over and read the bold headline just below the fold. It read Socialite’s Disappearance Still Unsolved After One Year—Paper Seeking Tips. He shoved out a breath. “You’re opening a hornets’ nest, Mackey.”

Two slim gold bracelets jangled on her wrist as she ran a hand over her ponytail. “That was the idea. Anniversaries have a way of stirring things up, and I’m hoping this mock-up shakes people up and gets them talking to me. After a year, I’m banking on the fact that someone will remember something about Kit they hadn’t shared a year ago.”

He laid the paper down. “Do yourself a favor and drop this case.”

The glint in Mackey’s eyes told him his warning had fallen on deaf ears. “Do you have any theories on what happened to Kit?”

Tension rippled through his muscles. “I don’t comment on open cases.”

“Murder. Killing. Open. It’s not like you to be so unguarded, Kirkland. You must have a theory on this case.”

He didn’t usually make rookie mistakes around reporters. He stiffened and frowned. “Don’t use my words against me.”

She leaned forward, matching his glare. “There is more to this story, Kirkland. I can feel it.”

If he dropped his gaze a fraction he’d have a clear view of her cleavage. “What made you choose this story?”

She shrugged and glanced at her mock-up. “I’ve had the idea to do a cold-case article for a while. And the Kit Westgate case seemed the perfect choice.”

His gaze dropped to her breasts. Nice. He moved his gaze to her pale face and the faint sprinkle of freckles on her nose. “Find another case.”

She straightened. “No can do, Sergeant.”

“I’ve given you a friendly warning. Stay out of this.” But she was right. There was more to Kit’s disappearance, only he hadn’t been able to figure out what it had been.

She grinned. “Kirkland, please. Since when have I ever listened to your warnings?”

He almost laughed at that one. “Never.”

“Exactly.”

Mackey possessed a spark—a vitality—that made other women uninteresting. “Whoever was involved in Kit’s murder or disappearance covered their tracks carefully. You’re not going to shake anyone up with a mock-up.”

She rose as if sensing she’d get nothing more out of him. She picked up her briefcase. Her fingers were long, but her nails were neatly trimmed, unpolished and not fussy. “We’ll see. I’m betting something does happen.”

Rising, Alex ran his hand down his tie. “You’re a good, solid reporter, Mackey. Why stoop to a sensational case like this one?”

She frowned. “Regardless of her social standing, something bad happened to Kit Westgate Landover. And she deserves justice.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Come on, this isn’t really about justice. This is about headlines and advancing your career.”

She leaned forward, giving him a better view of her breasts. “Sure. I won’t lie. The headlines are a definite advantage. But I also want to know what happened to Kit.”

“This is still an open investigation. If you find something, bring it to me. And if I find out you’re holding back information, there’s going to be trouble.”

She smiled, moved toward his office door and rested her hand on the doorknob. “I would never hold back on you, Kirkland.”

“That’s a load of bull, and we both know it.”

She laughed and opened the door.

He watched her walk toward the elevator and muttered an oath. Damn, but he did admire the way her hips swayed.

Alex had the feeling that all hell was about to break loose.




Chapter 2


Monday, July 14, 10:05 a.m.

Tara hadn’t figured that Alex Kirkland would give a quote on this case. He was too good a cop to let his cards show. But she had got a sense of his frustration. It did bother him that Kit’s case had never been solved.

And she couldn’t resist seeing for herself that he was truly on the mend. She’d kept tabs on him while he was in the hospital recovering from the shooting that had shocked everyone.

Kirkland had been shot during a routine investigation. He and Detective Matthew Brady had gone to the home of a wealthy doctor to ask him questions about his wife’s suspicious death. The doctor had answered the front door armed with a loaded shotgun. According to Brady, Kirkland had reacted instantly. He’d pushed Brady out of harm’s way as he’d drawn his own gun. The doctor had fired, hitting Kirkland in the chest and thigh. The buckshot had nicked the femoral artery in his leg and punctured his lung. Kirkland had fallen to the ground but had fired his own weapon. The single shot had killed the doctor.

The entire exchange had happened in a split second, but Brady recognized that Kirkland was in bad shape. He was still conscious but in terrible pain and bleeding badly. Kirkland had nearly bled out before the paramedics got him to the hospital.

Three days after Kirkland’s shooting, Tara had snuck onto the ICU floor at Boston General. She’d told the doctors she’d been checking on Kirkland’s progress for a follow-up article on the shooting. They’d allowed her to peer through the glass walls of his room.

What she saw nearly took her breath away. He’d been lying in the hospital bed, as pale as his sheets and barely conscious. There’d been so many wires hooked up to him. The sight had shocked her. She’d not had the nerve to go into his room, but had lingered several feet back. The doctor had said that the injury would have killed most.

Now, despite the July heat, the memory still had the power to send chills down Tara’s spine.

With an effort, she tried to focus on the fact that he looked good now. His tall, lean frame remained taught and muscular. Time in the sun had left his skin tanned and his newly cut brown hair a shade lighter. He looked good. Real good.

She parallel-parked her beat-up white Toyota on the exclusive, tree-lined Beacon Hill side street. This exclusive area of Boston screamed old money and privilege. And it set her nerves on edge.

She shut off the car engine. She didn’t do well with snobby, rich people. They made her feel awkward and somehow less because she didn’t have blue blood in her veins. Intellectually, she understood this was stupid, a reaction to a sad episode in her past, but no amount of inner pep talks quite erased her feeling of inferiority.

Skimming fingers over her ponytail, she reminded herself that she’d been a reporter for nine years and had interviewed some of the most powerful and dangerous people in Washington, D.C. and Boston. She’d written about politicians, murderers, arsonists and sophisticated white-collar crooks. An old rich guy living on Beacon Hill wasn’t going to throw her off her game.

Tara pocketed her keys and grabbed her briefcase, slid out of the car and closed the door. Halfway down the block her cell phone rang. She dug the phone out of her purse. Caller ID confirmed it was her editor, Miriam Spangler.

Tara flipped the phone open. “I am on my way to Landover’s as we speak, Miriam.”

“Remember, don’t piss him off.” Miriam’s voice was gruff, a product of thirty years of chain smoking. “His family is as powerful as the Kennedy clan. Rile him up and there could be hell to pay.”

That comment irritated Tara. “I can handle myself, Miriam.”

“You do have a temper, sweetie. It’s why you left D.C.”

“It’s one of the reasons I left D.C. And I’ve learned my lesson.”

As if she hadn’t spoken, Miriam said, “Don’t push this too hard. If Landover says to drop it, drop it.”

Tara’s blood shot past the boiling point in a second. “Yesterday you were salivating when I showed you the mock-up of the article and pitched the idea.”

Miriam blew smoke into the receiver. “I had all night and most of this morning to conjure a thousand devastating scenarios in my head. Most of them included me without a job or a pension. If and when this article runs, it’s going to be dicey.”

Tara muttered a few choice words. “When did you get to be so timid?”

“Since I realized I’m two years away from collecting a full pension.”

Frustration fueled Tara’s anger. “My readership has been growing steadily, and this is the kind of story that will hit home with them. Remember, you gave me the go-ahead to look into Kit Westgate Landover’s case.”

“I know. I know.”

“Think about it, Miriam. This is the stuff of Pulitzers. Network news coverage. Book deals. When I go to the top I’ll be telling everyone you were the star editor behind me. I will make you famous and position you for your own book deal.”

Miriam sighed. “We both know I didn’t want to fade quietly into retirement.”

She smiled, knowing she’d hit all Miriam’s hot buttons. “Exactly.”

“All right. Go for it. But please just be careful, Tara.”

“I will be fine.” Tara closed her cell and shoved it in her briefcase as she reached Landover’s house. Standing on the sidewalk, she stared up at the corner-lot mansion. The home had been built in the seventeen hundreds and was steeped in history. This had always been an exclusive pricey area of Boston, but in today’s market this place was worth a king’s ransom.

She climbed the stone steps to the black, lacquered front door. A pineapple brass door knocker hung in the door’s center.

Tara rapped the knocker twice against the massive door. The sound echoed inside the house. She moistened her lips and stood a little straighter.

Miriam’s and Kirkland’s words nagged her as she tried not to fidget. They were right. She had a hot head. Back in D.C., she probably shouldn’t have called that senator an idiot. But she was smart enough to learn from her mistakes. She could handle Pierce Landover if she could get in to see him.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway inside. If her luck held, she’d get Landover’s maid, or someone else who didn’t know her. She then might be able to get into the house and maybe see Landover. There’d been times in the past when she’d talked her way into situations and gotten great quotes.

But there’d also been times when she’d been tossed out and threatened with legal action.

That could be today’s scenario if Cecilia Reston, Landover’s personal assistant for the last twenty-five years, answered the door. Reston protected her employer with the ferocity of a bulldog. And she’d have no trouble reporting Tara to the cops.

Tara glanced at her black flats and, seeing dust on them, quickly rubbed them against the panty hose under her pant leg.

The door opened to a very young woman dressed in a maid’s outfit. She had dark, straight hair pulled back with a rubber band and big brown eyes that telegraphed naïveté. “Yes?”

Tara smiled brightly. “I’m Tara Mackey. I have an appointment with Mr. Landover.”

The young maid frowned as if confused. “I didn’t realize he was seeing people today. Are you here about the clothes he’s giving away?”

Tara wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “Clothes?”

“His wife’s clothes. He’s giving all her gowns away to charity.”

“Ah, yes. She had such stunning gowns. We have a ten-thirty appointment to discuss the gowns,” she said without blinking.

The maid nodded and stepped aside. “If you’ll wait here.”

Tara’s heart jumped, but she kept her cool as she stepped inside. “Thank you.”

So Landover was giving away Kit’s dresses. Was it a sign that the old man was moving on with his life?

The maid hurried up the carpeted spiral staircase and down the upstairs hallway. Her footsteps faded away. Tara was left alone in the foyer.

She studied the marbled foyer’s black-and-white polished floor. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and caught the morning sunlight, which streamed in through a transom above the door. Across from the door stood an antique Chippendale table pushed against the wall. On the table sat a Chinese vase filled with fragrant, freshly cut roses. The understated decor was all very elegant and expensive and not to her taste at all. She liked simple and unpretentious pieces that were often used and had a quirky history.

To her left, a set of tall mahogany doors stood ajar, giving her a peek into the receiving parlor. Unable to resist, she moved to the open door and looked inside. Immediately her gaze was drawn to the huge painting of Kit that hung over the brick fireplace. In the portrait, Kit wore a soft pink strapless dress that cloaked her lithe body like a second skin. Her blond hair was swept up into a chignon, and a stunning diamond pendant necklace dipped into her full cleavage. Teardrop gems dangled from her ears, and a thick diamond bracelet circled her wrist. Tara recognized the gems in the portrait. They were the ones Kit had been wearing on her wedding day—the ones that had vanished with her and were reported to be worth fifteen million dollars.

Tara glanced up the staircase to see if anyone could see her. Satisfied that she was alone, she pulled out her cell phone, quickly snapped a picture.

The sound of footsteps on the landing had her stepping back into the foyer. She jammed her cell phone into her briefcase.

“May I help you?”

Tara turned to find a stern-looking woman descending the stairs. Dark brown hair was swept tightly back and accentuated sharp brown eyes. She wore a silk blouse, linen pants and high-heeled shoes.

“That’s a stunning portrait of Mrs. Landover,” Tara said. There was no sense hiding the fact that she’d been caught peeking.

The woman lifted a thin eyebrow as if she did not approve. “My name is Mrs. Reston. What can I do for you?”

Tara mentally regrouped. So much for getting in to see the old man today. “I’m Tara Mackey. I’m with the Globe. I spoke to you earlier about an appointment with Mr. Landover.”

Mrs. Reston’s lips flattened into a thin line. “I told you on the phone that Mr. Landover doesn’t speak with reporters.”

Tara smiled, trying not to look the least bit deterred. “I would only need about five or ten minutes of his time.”

Mrs. Reston quickly slid a bony finger under her pearl necklace. “No.”

“The one-year anniversary of his wife’s disappearance is coming up next week.” From her briefcase she pulled out the mock-up of her article. “The Globe is going to do a story about Kit Westgate. The hope is to spark the public’s interest. Maybe someone will come forward with new information about what happened to Kit. Either way, we’d love Mr. Landover’s comments for the piece.”

Thin lips dipped into a frown as Reston stared at the glowing picture of Kit. Jealousy burned in her eyes. Reston had clearly hated Kit. “No reporter has cared a wit for Mr. Landover or all the good works he’s done since Kit Westgate came into his life. Everyone just cared about her. Why can’t your type leave him alone?”

The your type comment had Tara bristling, but she kept her cool. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions. I only need a few minutes of his time.”

“I know Kit Westgate is just a story to you, but she devastated Mr. Landover’s life. The woman was in league with the devil as far as I’m concerned. And frankly, I don’t care if we ever find out what happened to her. Drop this story.”

The show of emotion interested Tara. “You really hated her, didn’t you?”

Mrs. Reston hesitated, realizing she’d let too much of her emotions show through her stoic Boston reserve. “Leave this house before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing. And don’t ever come back here or try to speak to Mr. Landover again.”

Tara could just imagine Miriam’s and Kirkland’s expressions when word reached them that she’d been arrested for harassing Mrs. Reston. Kirkland’s dark gaze was the hardest to banish.

Tara crossed the threshold to the front stoop. She turned. “Mrs. Reston, when was the last time you actually saw Kit?”

Mrs. Reston slammed the door in her face.

For a moment, Tara stood there, staring at the polished brass knocker just inches from her nose.

It wasn’t even noon, and Kirkland, her editor and Landover’s personal assistant had warned her off this story.

Why didn’t they want the case reopened? Solving it would be a huge coup for the police and the paper. And it would bring resolution to Kit’s family.

Tara shoved the newspaper into her briefcase and started toward her car. Her body tingled like it did when she felt as if she’d hit upon a great story.

She sensed that if she kept showing her mock-up around Boston she was going to coax a few hidden facts out of someone.

Smiling, Tara started to whistle as she slid behind the wheel and fired up the engine. She turned on the radio and cranked it loud. “There’s no doubt about it. I’m on the right track.”




Chapter 3


Monday, July 14, 10:45 a.m.

Tara was glad to leave the Beacon Hill district. She cut through side streets, winding her way north for several miles until she reached the north end.

This part of town always brought her blood pressure down. She loved the narrow, winding streets and the four-story brick apartment houses. No one here had a yard, and during summer evenings neighbors often set up chairs on the sidewalk to chat. The taverns had a homey feel to them. The shops were practical, not pretentious. The food was hearty and not gourmet. This was where the working class people lived.

She checked her notes to confirm Marco Borelli’s address. Marco had been Kit’s chauffeur—the one man besides her husband who’d spent the most time with her. There’d been reports that the two had often talked quietly to each other, and some rumors suggested they had been having an affair. However, nothing was ever proven.

Tara wove down a collection of side streets into a poorer section of town. She parked in front of an apartment house that looked in need of renovation.

She got out of the car and climbed the stairs to the front door. Close up, she could see that the black paint was peeling and the threshold was rotting. Mortar between the bricks was chipped, and there was a strong smell of garbage. She tried the front door and discovered it was locked.

Frustrated, she glanced to the call buttons on the left side of the door. It was doubtful Borelli would let her in, so she pushed several at once, hoping one of the residents upstairs would buzz her in. In a clear voice, she said into the intercom, “Pizza.”

To her relief, the lock clicked open and she quickly entered the building.

Tara climbed the steps to the third floor. Her nose wrinkled at the blending smells of cabbage and trash. The hardwood floors on the steps were scarred and the banister was shaky enough to give way with the slightest amount of pressure. When she reached the third floor, she found apartment three-A and knocked.

No answer. She knocked again. “Mr. Borelli, are you home?”

Tara pressed her ear to the door and heard the faint sound of a TV game show. Someone was in there. She knocked again. “Mr. Borelli?”

Frustrated, she pulled a business card from her purse and wrote a quick note for him to call her. She tucked it in his doorjamb.

Tara was about to leave when Borelli’s door snapped open. Her card fluttered to the floor.

A man stood in the doorway, his wide, muscled shoulders filling the door. He had coal-black hair slicked back off his face, a wide jaw and a muscular build accentuated by a tight black T-shirt. Diamond studs adorned each earlobe and a gold chain hung around his neck.

In the pictures she had of Borelli, he was always in the background behind Kit, and was always conservatively dressed in a dark suit. He was part chauffeur and part bodyguard. “Mr. Borelli?” Tara asked.

He frowned. “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

“I’m Tara Mackey. I have a few questions for you about Kit Westgate.”

His scowl made his thick brow look heavier. “I don’t talk to cops.”

“I’m not a cop. I work for the Boston Globe. I’m a reporter.”

His expression darkened, and she suspected he liked cops better than reporters. “I’m done talking with reporters, too. You all are a bunch of bloodsuckers, if you ask me. You vultures just about hounded me to death a year ago.” He reached inside his apartment, grabbed a bag of garbage and then shouldered past her to the waste chute. His thick aftershave trailed after him.

“I am a fair reporter.”

He snorted. “Right. Between the cops and the reporters, my life was hell. I ain’t going back to that.”

She peered into his apartment. The small room was furnished with a sofa and a TV. Her gaze skimmed past a half-eaten pizza on the lone coffee table, and over the floor littered with empty beer cans.

Her nose wrinkled. “Did you have a party?”

Borelli muttered an oath. “None of your business.”

“Hey, I’m not here to cause you trouble. You were cleared by the cops of any wrongdoing in Kit’s disappearance. You were in New York the day the Landovers married and she vanished.”

He yanked the chute open and dumped the trash down. He released the door, and it banged against the wall. “That’s right. I was hundreds of miles away.”

“So it shouldn’t be a big deal for you to answer a couple of questions. Five minutes of your time is all I ask.”

He folded his arms over his chest. On his biceps there was a tattoo of a coiled snake holding a broken heart. “You’re gonna twist my words like those other reporters did.”

“I won’t. I just want to hear your side of the story.” And then, without waiting for a no answer, she said, “You used to live on the Landover estate, didn’t you?”

He glanced at his buffed nails. “Yeah, I had a guest cottage near the garage.”

“You must have had a sense of how Landover’s relationship was going with Kit. Do you think he could have killed her?”

Borelli’s face hardened. “Sure, he could have killed her. The guy had a temper, and I saw him slap Kit in the face once.”

“You tell the cops?”

“I sure did.” He leaned toward her, his tall frame towering over her. “Kit was afraid of Pierce. And I think she’d have backed out of the marriage if she could have. But she was afraid to.”

“She told you she was afraid?”

“Yeah. A couple of times.” He was a hard one to read.

“Why would Mr. Landover kill Kit on their wedding day? Especially with half the world watching.”

Borelli shrugged. “Who the hell knows? Rich people are different than the rest of us. All I know is that they fought often those last few weeks. Even on their wedding day they got into it. You hear a lot when you’re sitting in the front seat of a car.”

“What did they fight about?”

“Anything and everything. Mostly, he just didn’t like the way she flirted with other men. And she didn’t like being told what to do.”

This was a side of Kit she’d never heard about. “Did she flirt with anyone in particular?”

“Naw. She just liked men. And she really enjoyed wrapping them around her finger.” He frowned as if a memory jabbed at him. Abruptly, he moved around her to the threshold of his apartment. “I’ve said what I’m going to say. You’re making me miss Wheel of Fortune.”

Tara thought about the pictures she’d collected of Kit during her research. A sharp intelligence burned behind her sapphire eyes. “What about the missing gems? She was wearing fifteen million in ice when she vanished. Any theories on that?”

“How would I know? I’m guessing that whoever killed her must have taken them.” He leaned against the door frame, letting his gaze trail over her body. A smile played at the edge of his mouth.

When Kirkland’s gaze had glided over her this morning, she’d felt a thrill of desire. This guy gave her the creeps. “She was from California?”

“Yeah. Northern California. Wine country.”

“Did she ever keep up with anyone from her past?”

“Kit wasn’t the type that looked back.”

“If Pierce didn’t kill her, any thoughts on who else might have murdered her?”

“If I knew, I’d have told the cops. But I still say that it was Landover.” He flexed his biceps and the snake appeared to move. “So why you asking all these questions now? Kit’s yesterday’s news.”

“She was a beautiful woman and she died young, like Marilyn Monroe or Anna Nicole Smith. People never get tired of hearing about those women. Even after years, their deaths are still shrouded in conspiracy theories.”

“You’re wrong. Kit’s old news. Nobody cares about a spoiled, dead socialite.”

She tried to keep her voice casual. “You said dead socialite. So you’re sure she’s dead.”

He paused a beat to gather his thoughts. “She has to be dead. All that blood. No one could have survived.”

“No body was found,” she prompted.

Borelli grinned and, leaning forward, whispered, “Disposing of bodies is easy, lady. Just takes a few garbage bags and a saw.”

A shudder ran through her body. She’d interviewed enough career criminals to recognize one. “You speaking from firsthand experience?”

He winked at her. “My advice to you is butt out. Or you might end up like Kit.”

Her stomach knotted with tension, but she held her ground. “That a threat?”

Borelli smiled. A gold incisor glittered. “Friendly warning. Now go find yourself another story and stay out of my life.” He retreated into the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Tara stared at the closed door and dug her hand through her hair. “Not exactly a home run, but it’s a start.”

She checked her watch. She had time for one more interview before her shift at the bar where she worked nights. She had taken a sizable pay cut to move north. Reporting now barely kept a roof over her head, and she needed the second job to pay off the mountain of student loans from college.

Reston and Borelli had been difficult but she suspected her next interview was going to be worse. She had to find a way to get into the exclusive Founders’ Yacht Club and speak to some of Kit’s old friends.

She’d not been to the club in a long time, and didn’t relish returning.



Alex spent the better part of the morning trying to forget Tara. But her visit had awakened so many unanswered questions that lingered from the Kit Westgate case.

He paced his office floor, ignoring the ache in his leg. Tara had said she was going to talk to Pierce. But he knew she would never get past Landover’s assistant. Mrs. Reston had made hardened cops cringe. And if Tara thought she’d get quotes from any of the old man’s friends, she was also mistaken. Boston society was an elite, closed group that didn’t like airing dirty laundry.

But Alex could step into Landover’s exclusive world. He’d been born into one of the wealthiest families in the state. He’d done his undergrad at Princeton and earned his law degree from Harvard. He’d been groomed to take over the Kirkland empire. And then his cousin had been slain by a mugger. The incident had rocked the family and changed the direction of his life. He’d quit the family business and joined the police force. The decision had cost him personally. His wife, Regina, hadn’t understood the decision and had left him. His parents and brother were also furious with him. Even now his relationship with his family was strained.

But he’d never regretted his decision for a moment. He belonged in the police department.

Alex dialed Detective Brady’s extension. Seconds later, the cop appeared at his door. “What do you need, Sergeant?”

Rising, Alex put the brunt of his weight on his good leg. “I’m going out for an hour or two. I want to follow up on a lead associated with the Kit Westgate case.”

“You have a lead after a year?” Brady sounded surprised. “What is it?”

“Let me chase it down first. It most likely won’t play out.”

“No problem.” Brady offered a crooked smile. “This got anything to do with Tara Mackey showing up here this morning?”

Alex wondered when he’d become so transparent. “Unfortunately, yes. She’s going to do a piece on the anniversary of Kit’s disappearance.”

“Jeez. That’s all we need.”

“To her credit, she raised a few good questions.”

Brady shook his head as if he were talking to one of his own five sons. “She’s trouble.”

Alex opened his desk drawer, pulled out his .38 and slid it into the gun holster on his belt. “Tell me what I don’t know. But I’ve got to do a little nosing around just to settle my own doubts.”

Brady’s barrel chest filled with a deep breath. “You don’t want me to ride along? I could drive.”

The two men had only spoken about the shooting once. Brady had tried to show his gratitude over Kirkland saving him by way of an awkward thank-you. But Kirkland’s own guilt over not being quicker on the draw had made it impossible for him to really discuss the incident. If he’d been a second slower, those five Brady boys wouldn’t have a father. “Thanks. But I got it covered. I’ll be back by lunch.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

It took Alex thirty minutes to cut through the city traffic and reach the exclusive Founders’ Yacht Club located on Dorchester Bay. The club was one of the oldest in the state and had been a familiar spot for Kit and Pierce during their courtship.

Alex always felt as if he were stepping back in time when he drove through the club’s brick-and-iron gates. Manicured lawns and discreet hedges lined the driveway that took him to the circle in front of the club’s entrance. The two-story building was made of white marble and had large white columns. Large sections of the exterior were covered with neatly trimmed ivy.

A parking attendant glanced at Alex’s police-issue Impala as if he weren’t sure what to make of it or Alex. But then he got a look at Alex’s face and relaxed. “Mr. Kirkland. Are you going sailing today?”

“No. This is a quick trip.” Alex left the keys in the ignition and the engine running. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, so you might not want to park it in the annex lot.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Alex made his way up the stairs until he came face-to-face with a tall bear of a man. Dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and red tie, the man stood by the front door behind the reservation table, guarding the front gate of the club like a centurion.

“Danny,” Alex said.

The man’s stern face softened the instant his gaze met Alex’s. “Mr. K. How are you doing?”

Alex liked Danny. “Good, Danny. How’s that brother of yours?”

“Staying out of trouble,” he said, lowering his voice. “Thanks for the talking-to you gave him. I can assure you that he won’t be a problem again.”

When Danny’s brother Frankie had been arrested, the doorman had called Alex in a panic. Alex had pulled the kid out of holding and then taken him for a personal tour of the jail. By the time their visit had ended, the fourteen-year-old was pale, desperate to go home and vowing never to shoplift again.

Alex shoved his hand in his pocket. “I’m glad to hear that. Is my grandmother here?”

His grandmother, Gertrude Elizabeth Kirkland, and her four oldest friends met each Monday for a very serious game of gin rummy. The ladies could afford to bet big and they always did. But no matter who won or lost, the pot always went to St. Michael’s Children’s Charities.

Danny nodded. “She and the ladies are at their regular table.”

“Thanks.”

Danny glanced at Alex’s open collar. “Excuse me, Mr. K., but you don’t have a tie.”

Alex reached for his collar. He’d taken his tie off after Mackey had left because it had suddenly felt so confining. “I left it in my desk.”

“You got to have a tie in the main room.”

“I know.” As a teenager, Alex had hated the club’s mandatory tie rule. These days, remembering those petty rebellions made him smile. “Do you have an extra one that I could borrow?”

Danny smiled as he pulled a red tie out from under his desk and handed it to Alex. “How’s that?”

“Perfect.” Alex wrapped the tie around his neck and quickly wound it into a Windsor knot.

In the main dining room, round tables covered in starched white linens hosted dozens of different people who all looked very much alike. The women wore couture and the men sported handmade suits. A deep red carpet covered wood floors, drapes framed large floor-to-ceiling glass windows and an enormous crystal chandelier hung from the center of the room. Soft piano music played in the background, melding into the polite conversations, the clink of glasses and the subtle activities of the waitstaff.

The eastern wall of the room was glass, and gave a stunning view of the bay. Blue sky and clear water set off the sails of a dozen white sailboats. When he’d been in ICU, he’d promised himself that he would sail more when he recovered. And he had. He’d spent the last two weeks on the water. The boat had been yare and the weather stunning, but he’d found that sailing alone became tedious.

Alex headed to the large table in the back of the room. It was his grandmother’s favorite table.

His grandmother had a Katharine Hepburn style that set her apart from her peers. Even at seventy-six her mind was sharp, and no one made a move at the club without her knowing it. He’d exhausted all conventional investigation methods after Kit had vanished. No tactic had revealed anything that cracked the case. Today, he thought he’d try a different approach.

Right after Kit’s disappearance, Gertie had been in France, so he’d not questioned her, but now he realized she could give him a different perspective on the case.

Gertie’s friends flanked her left and right. All wore suits in varying shades of red or blue, pearls around their necks and their white hair coiffed into tight curls.

Peering over turquoise reading glasses on her nose, Gertie frowned down at the cards in her hand. “Evelyn, I believe it’s your turn to deal.”

Evelyn, the woman to Gertie’s right, leaned forward and took the pile of cards. “This time you are not going to win.”

Gertie laughed. “We’ll see.”

Alex cleared his throat. “Gertie.”

His grandmother glanced up and immediately smiled. “Alex, what a pleasant surprise! Ladies, you remember my grandson, Detective Alex Kirkland.”

The emphasis on detective spoke to Gertie’s support of his chosen profession. She was the only one in the family who’d approved of his decision.

Alex leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?”

Pride glinted in her eyes. “Excellent. I am winning hand over fist today.”

He smiled at the other ladies. “Watch out, ladies. She cheats.”

The women laughed. Gertie appeared offended. “Alex, I know you didn’t drive across town to question my card skills.”

“Can’t I just come to visit my grandmother?”

Gertie chuckled. “Darling, the club drives you insane. You come here only to get your boat. You never come in the main room and mingle.”

Alex no longer felt as if he fit in here. He and the club members had less and less in common as the years passed.

He pulled up a seat and sat beside her. It felt good to have the weight off his leg. A waiter appeared and offered coffee, which he accepted.

“I’m looking into a case from last year. I was hoping you and your friends might be able to help.”

Across the table, Evelyn dealt the next hand of gin rummy. “This sounds exciting. We’ll help in any way we can.”

The other women nodded.

Gertie removed her glasses. “We are all yours, my dear.”

Alex loosened his tie. “Remember Kit Westgate?”

Each woman’s face tightened, including Gertie’s. “She’s a hard woman to forget.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

Gertie traced the rim of her half-full sherry glass with her fingertip. “West Coast money. Stunningly beautiful. Men could barely think straight when she was in the room. She had a way of making them fall under her spell just by the toss of her head or a smile.”

Alex shifted, remembering his own reaction to Kit. “And?”

“I didn’t like the woman,” Gertie said. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but she could be a cold-hearted manipulator. She could be quite unkind to Pierce. Granted he was a big boy and could take care of himself, but she had him completely wrapped around her finger and could make him do anything. It was rather sad to see.”

That description contrasted what her chauffeur had told him last year. Borelli had described Pierce as abusive.

Evelyn picked up her cards and started to arrange them. “Remember the incident after the Founders’ Ball last year?”

Gertie wrinkled her nose. “Kit got into a fight with the ladies’ room attendant. She didn’t realize I was in the last stall. Anyway, for a moment that cultured, smooth voice of hers slipped. For just a moment, she sounded very common. After that I never believed she was who she said she was.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“Some woman named Brenda. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“Pierce said he did a complete background check on her,” Alex said. “In fact, he was quite helpful to the police, and supplied us with West Coast contacts.”

“He did check her out completely,” Gertie said. “He is a thorough man so he should know. And she did sign a prenup, so he was happy. According to the prenup, she wouldn’t get a dime if she left him.”

Across the table Roddie Talbot ran her finger along her neat strand of pearls. “Kit was quite chummy with her driver.”

“Do you think they were having an affair?” Alex asked. The chauffeur had a record and had been a prime suspect until he’d produced ten witnesses who’d sworn he was in New York City.

“Who’s to say if they were lovers?” Gertie said. “But I can tell you he was quite protective of Kit.”

A clamor of noise had Alex lifting his head. He glanced toward the main entrance and saw a tall blond woman enter. She was wearing a Channel suit that matched her ice-blue eyes.

Regina. His ex-wife. Damn.

As if sensing Alex’s presence, the blonde’s gaze settled on him. Thin lips spread into a wide grin, and she brushed by the man she was with and hurried toward Alex, her arms open. “Alex!”

He had started dating Regina at Princeton, but they’d known of each other since preschool. Their union had thrilled his parents and been an anticipated step after college graduation. After he and Regina had married, Alex had dutifully attended law school, and Regina took her place in society, filling her days with committee meetings and lunches. Their marriage had been happy enough until Alex’s cousin had died and Alex had chosen to join the police force. Regina had been furious. They’d fought bitterly. In the end, she’d asked him to choose between her and the career. He’d chosen the force.

Tension crept up Alex’s spine as he rose. He hadn’t seen Regina since just before the shooting, when she’d called him out of the blue. She’d just broken up with her latest boyfriend and he’d just solved the murder of a young boy. He’d allowed her to charm him and they had ended up in her bed. When he awoke the next morning, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. She’d spoken of reconciliation. When he’d refused, she jetted off to Europe. Two days later, he was shot.

Two weeks ago she’d shown up at his home with a bottle of champagne and a gourmet meal made by her cook. She’d tried to rekindle their relationship again. This time he’d had the good sense to say no.

Regina’s sweet perfume coiled around him as she kissed him on the cheek. “Alex, how are you?”

“Doing well.”

“You look wonderful,” she said, holding him at arm’s distance and studying him. “Tell me you’ve given up any notion of returning to police work.”

Nothing had really changed between them. “I started back today.”

She pouted. “What a waste of good talent. I spoke to your brother Brandon the other day. He’d love to have you in the company.”

Gertie drummed impatient manicured fingers on the table’s white linen. “How goes plans for the Founders’ Ball? It’s less than a week away.”

Regina brightened. She brushed an imaginary bit of lint from his shoulder, something she’d done a lot when they’d been married. “Excellent. We will transform this place tomorrow. It’s a Monte Carlo theme this year.”

“Wonderful,” Gertie said.

His ex-wife missed the sarcasm in his grandmother’s voice. The two had never gotten on well.

Alex decided to turn this meeting into an opportunity. “Regina, what do you remember about Kit Westgate?”

The blonde smiled. “Lovely woman. Such a sense of style. I would have killed for her skin.”

“Anything unusual you remember about her?” Alex said.

“There was this one time when we were in New York shopping about eighteen months ago. We were on Fifth Avenue in Saks. Anyway, this shopgirl came up to Kit, hugged her and called her Brenda.” Regina shuddered. “We were all shocked. Kit was furious. She told the woman that she was mistaken, and we left immediately.”

Brenda. Gertie had heard Kit arguing about a woman named Brenda. “Could it have been a case of mistaken identity?”

Regina nodded. “That’s what I thought. But it was strange. The woman was convinced that Kit was this Brenda.”

“Anything else you remember about Kit?”

“No. Why are you asking? The woman has been dead for a year.”

“I’m looking into the case. A loose end that’s always troubled me.”

Regina checked her diamond watch, caught sight of a male friend across the room and waved. “Honestly, Alex, why you would worry about an old case is beyond me. Kit is yesterday.”

Understanding each other had been one of the major faults of their marriage. “Thanks, Regina.”

She hooked her arm in his. “Walk me to my car?”

“Sure.” Alex glanced at Gertie and her friends. They shamelessly stared at the duo. None looked happy. “Ladies, thank you for your help.” He kissed Gertie on the cheek. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

“Of course, my dear,” Gertie said.

Alex escorted Regina out of the club, aware that a half-dozen sets of eyes followed him. She was the darling of the club. He was the black sheep of his family and social set. No doubt everyone would be talking about him and his ex for days as whispers of reconciliation swirled. The club was like a small town where everyone knew everyone else’s business.

When they came out on the portico, Alex spotted Tara’s Toyota parked at the top of the circular drive. He glanced around, wondering where she lurked.

Regina tightened her hold on his arm. “Alex, darling, we really should get together again soon. It’s been too long.”

Regina was beautiful, and sex with her was always passionate if a bit lonely. It would be easy to fall into bed with her but he knew he’d be fooling himself and her if they did.

“Hey, sport!”

Tara Mackey’s familiar voice caught Alex by surprise. He turned toward the east end of the building. A club security guard, who was an off-duty cop named Jimmy Rogers, was hauling Tara away from the club. She was trying to dig in her heels and pull against him, but resisting Jimmy was like trying to stop an avalanche. The guy was six-five and weighed close to two hundred and fifty pounds.

“You’re gonna have to leave, ma’am,” Jimmy said. His voice was calm. “This club is for members only.”

“Let go of me, pal!” Tara shouted. “I told you I only need five minutes.”

Jimmy kept pulling her toward the driveway. “No way.”

A smile tipped the edge of Alex’s lips. Regina was a beautiful woman, but compared to Tara she seemed spiritless and ordinary.

“Regina, if you will excuse me, I see a friend.” He ignored her pout and headed toward Tara.

“Ma’am,” Jimmy said. “You aren’t allowed in the club.”

“This is a free country. Free speech is in the Bill of Rights,” Tara said. “I just want to talk to a few people.”

The guard released Tara abruptly and she stumbled back. She barely caught herself before she fell on her backside.

Jimmy folded thick arms over his chest. “Leave or I call the cops.”

“Look, man, I just want to talk to Mrs. Talbot. I promise I won’t be a problem. I’ll be in and out in five.”

The guard reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cell phone. “I’m dialing the cops.”

Tara’s bravado faltered.

“Jimmy,” Alex said, moving toward them. “What’s the problem here?”

Jimmy’s scowl softened. “Hey, Detective Kirkland. How you doing? No problem here. I was just about to have this reporter arrested for trespassing.”

Tara glanced up at Alex. And for just a second her face colored as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Alex took Tara’s arm. “You don’t have to worry about Ms. Mackey. I’ve got this under control.”

Jimmy seemed grateful to be done with Tara. “Thanks, Detective.”

Tara’s expression turned glib. “Friends in high places, pal.”

Jimmy shrugged and returned to his post back in the club.

Alex pulled Tara away. “Don’t push your luck.”

Tara followed until they were out of earshot and then jerked her arm free. “Thanks, Kirkland. I’m not sure where you came from but I appreciate the help. Now I have to figure out how to get into that club.”

Her cheeks were flushed and her green eyes sharp with the prospect of a challenge. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, drawing his attention to her full breasts.

Alex realized he wanted to kiss her. Damn. Kiss Mackey. Where the hell had that come from? “Why do you want in the club?”

“I found Kit’s old chauffeur but he didn’t have much to add. So I figured I would visit the club—Kit Westgate’s old hangout. I was hoping to ask around and see if anyone remembered her.”

“No one’s allowed in without a membership unless they are a guest of a member.”

“Yeah, I know. But I thought maybe I could just slip in the side entrance. I was five feet in the side door when I was stopped by that goon. He said he spotted me because I don’t blend in.”

Alex studied her outfit. It didn’t blend. Frankly, it was a shade too tight and sexy for the club. “You’re just too…”

“Inexpensive, lowbrow, cheap?” The hint of defensiveness in her voice surprised him.

“Sexy.”

She blushed. “This is not sexy.”

That made him grin. “Come on, Mackey. You know how to work an outfit so that the male cops you interview don’t think too clearly.”

Mackey shrugged, unapologetic. “I get the quotes any way I can.” She shot an annoyed glance back at the club.

“Get over it. You got caught and were tossed out.”

She drew in a calming breath. “It’s not that I mind getting caught. It’s happened before. It’s just that these highbrow types put me on the defensive. They think a big bankroll and a pedigree makes them better.”

“Sounds like you’ve got issues.” Tara Mackey was generally one of the most open-minded people he knew. “I’m surprised you have such a narrow view of the wealthy.”

“You sound like Roxie.”

“Roxie?”

“My aunt. She raised me.”

The tidbit of information told him that he knew very little about Mackey personally. It was enough to make him curious about all the other things he didn’t know about her.

Regina chose that moment to approach them. His ex looped her arm possessively around his. “Alex, who is your little friend?”

Her emphasis on little had Tara visibly bristly. She opened her mouth, ready to fire back an answer.

Alex cut Tara off before she could comment. “Regina, I’d like you to meet Tara Mackey. Tara is a crime reporter for the Boston Globe. Tara, this is Regina Albright.”

Regina’s brows rose. “A crime reporter? You must have met Alex at the police station.”

Tara smiled, but he sensed her tension. “That’s right.”

Regina wrinkled her delicate nose. “Alex mentioned an article in the paper a few months ago. He wasn’t pleased with the headline.” She laid her manicured finger against her chin. “What was that headline? Oh, I remember. Arsonist Smokes Cops. That really made him mad.”

Mackey’s didn’t flinch. “That was my piece. I was covering the north-side fires, set by an arsonist who called himself Nero.”

Alex had called Mackey the day that article had come out. He had gotten her voice-mail and had expressed his displeasure in no uncertain terms. She’d responded later with a text message. Glad u red my stuff. “We caught the guy last week.”

“And I reported that,” Mackey added. “Brady had a few nice quotes as well.”

Mackey’s gaze dropped to Regina’s hold on him. Her lips flattened. Some knew of his privileged background, but for the most part he downplayed it. He doubted Mackey knew. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her mind.

“Regina,” Mackey said slowly. “How do you know Detective Kirkland?”

Regina grinned, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. “Didn’t Alex tell you about me?”

“No.”

Alex pulled his arm free of Regina. “Regina and I were married a long, long time ago.”




Chapter 4


Monday, July 14, 2:00 p.m.

Regina grinned. “Darling, it wasn’t that long ago.”

Tara’s smile froze on her face. But mentally, her brain ticked through the facts she knew about the Albright family. Blue blood. Money. Privilege. They represented the worst possible combination as far as she was concerned. So what was a homicide cop like Kirkland doing mixed up with a family like that?

“I didn’t realize that you’d been married.” Tara’s tone sounded extra cheery. She was trying to prove to Regina and herself that she didn’t care that Kirkland had been married. It sure wasn’t any of her business who he slept with or who he’d been married to.

Alex cleared his throat. “Regina and I have been divorced for eight years.”

Regina pouted. “Has it been that long? It seems like it was only yesterday we were vacationing in St. Moritz for our honeymoon. And of course there was that cozy dinner at your house a few months ago.”

Regina might as well have stamped Mine on Kirkland’s forehead.

Again, Tara reminded herself that it was none of her business. “How’d you two hook up in the first place?”

Regina smiled. “We grew up together.”

Albright. St. Moritz. Kirkland.

In a flash Tara connected the dots. How could she have been so stupid? The Kirkland family was the bluest of the blue bloods. His younger brother Brandon was constantly being quoted in the financial section. He was a wizard when it came to the financial markets. The family had more money than most small countries.

Alex Kirkland was not a regular guy a girl asked out for a beer or invited to a ballgame. “Kirkland, you’re one of the Kirklands, aren’t you?”

His jaw tightened. “Yes.”

Regina laughed. “You didn’t know? Good Lord, everyone knows Alex is the heir to the fortune.”

Kirkland cleared his throat. “My brother runs the company. I’m a cop.”

Tara suddenly felt foolish and awkward. She was a reporter. It was her job to know about people. But with Kirkland, she’d not looked past the badge and his reputation as a cop.

Again, she flashed the too-bright smile. “Hey, I’d love to stand here all day and chat. But I’ve got to go. Have a good one.” She started across the circular drive toward her car.

“Mackey,” Kirkland said.

She ignored him. It was unreasonable for her to be mad at him, but she was. She had really wanted him to be just a regular guy.

Kirkland caught up to her just as she reached her car. His grip on her arm was gentle but strong enough to stop her. “What’s eating you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re pissed that I slept with my ex a few months ago?”

“Please, I could care less about that.”

His gaze narrowed. “So that means you have something against rich people.”

Tara dropped her gaze to her purse and started to dig for her keys. Damn, where were they? “I’ve nothing against the rich.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

He laid his hand on her arm. “Coward.”

She jerked her arm free, but continued to dig in her purse. Where were her keys? “Go away.”

“Not until I explain.”

She could feel the color rise in her face. “Explain what? You’re rich. You have connections. Why you chose to downplay that fact is your business. It’s not a big deal. Really.”

He studied her face. “This is a big deal to you. Why?”

She refused to let this get to her. “What’s a big deal is that I can’t find my keys and I’ve got to get to work.”

“At the paper?”

“At Roxie’s bar. I wait tables there a few nights a week.” Her fingertips brushed metal and she pulled out her keys. She jammed the key in the lock.

Kirkland shoved his hands in his pockets. “I downplay my background because I don’t want it overshadowing my police work.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” She opened the door.

He studied her closely. “Did some rich kid jilt you at one time?”

She got in the car and sat down. The last thing she wanted to do was examine her own prejudices, hang-ups and failed relationships. “Can we just drop it?”

He seemed to understand that she’d said all she was going to say. Like a good interrogator, he changed tactics. “I talked to Regina about Kit.”

That had her refocusing her attention back on him. “And?”

“Regina and Kit were in New York eighteen months ago and a saleswoman in Saks called Kit Brenda.”

Curiosity ignited in her. “Did Regina know who the woman was?

“No. To her she was just a salesclerk.” He shifted his stance as if his leg bothered him. “Kit told the woman she was mistaken and then demanded they leave the store.”

Her mind ticked through the possibilities.

Kirkland’s gaze narrowed. “I think you’re right about there being more to this case. I’m going to move this case from the back burner to the front, Mackey.”

Tara hid her smile. She hadn’t thought he could leave the unsolved case alone for long. “And you will give me the scoop if you solve it before me?”

“Why should I?” A grin tipped the edge of his lips, and the smile changed his entire look. He wasn’t classically handsome but there was a ruggedness—a maleness—that she found far more attractive.

“Because I’m the one that brought this case back to your attention and I’ve promised to share with you anything I find.”

Amusement sparked in his eyes. “You share and I’ll share?”

“It’s a fair arrangement.” She checked her watch. “Damn. Listen, I really do have to get going. I’ve got to stop by the paper before I get to Roxie’s.” She fired up the engine.

He stepped back from the car and she closed the door. “Be careful, Mackey. This case is going to ruffle feathers.” He really looked worried.

“Ruffling feathers is what I do best. You know that.” Gravel kicked up as she shoved the gear into Reverse and backed out of the parking lot, leaving Alex Kirkland staring after her.



The newspaper offices were busy when Tara arrived. She waved to the guard at reception and punched the up elevator button. The doors dinged opened to Bill Heckman, a tall, slim man with blond hair who always wore a Ramones T-shirt. This shirt was black with red lettering and a white skull. He was holding a stack of magazines and had an unlit cigarette behind his left ear.

Bill grinned. “Tara. How goes it?”

Tara and Bill had grown up in the same neighborhood. They had many friends in common from school and now both worked for the paper. They’d gone out a few times and Bill had wanted to get serious, but Tara had kept the relationship limited to friendship and the occasional Red Sox game. “It’s going. Thanks again for that mock-up. It’s been great.”

“No sweat.”

“Where you headed?”

“Going to the sports bar across the street. They’re doing highlights of the Sox games from last year. Want to come?”

She was genuinely sorry she couldn’t go. “I’ve got to work. Rain check?”

“Will do.” He grinned. “Tell Roxie hi. And I’ll be by on Saturday to fix that leaky faucet.”

“Thanks, Bill.” She kissed him on the cheek and got on the elevator. She punched Three and the doors closed. The elevator doors opened on the third floor to a large room with three rows of desks separated by narrow aisles. Most of the desks had reporters sitting at them. Everyone was either staring at a computer screen or talking on the phone. They were all racing to meet the evening deadline for the morning paper.

Tara hurried to her desk. Miriam had given her a week to work on the Westgate piece, so she had no evening deadline. The story was due in six days. She sat down and set her bag by her desk. She clicked on her computer.

While the machine booted up, she glanced at the stack of mail on her desk. Under the pile of various press releases and police incident reports she found a manila envelope. It had T. Mackey written on it. As she reached for it, her computer screen came on and she opened her e-mail. There were several Urgent Reply Requested e-mails from accounting regarding her last expense report. She dealt with those.

Her phone rang twice. She answered questions from two reporters before she got back to the envelope. She tore the sealed edge open.

Inside, she found a piece of paper folded crisply in half. She unfolded the paper and discovered it was a New York City rap sheet for a Brenda Latimer. Why on earth would someone send her Brenda Latimer’s file? She checked the envelope for a note, but there was none.

Tara dropped her gaze to Brenda Latimer’s picture. Immediately, the photo had Tara straightening. The girl was twenty-three or-four and had ink-black hair. A rebellious look glinted behind ice-blue eyes that were outlined in extremely heavy makeup.

There was no missing the similarities. The oval face, the graceful jawline and the high slash of cheekbones were unmistakable.




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