In Harm's Way. Lyn Stone
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a friend, another policeman, rented this place. She’d erroneously assumed it was a man.
“Sandra Cunningham,” he explained. “She’s at the FBI academy for a training course.”
He sounded terribly proud of this person. Robin made herself smile at him. “Are you sure this friend won’t object to my invading her space while she’s away?”
“Positive she won’t, but I’ll call her and let her know.” He backed out of the door. “Speaking of calls, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make some. I’ll do it from my place.”
“You live close by?”
“Just next door.” He looked at his watch again. “Try to get some sleep this morning and I’ll check back with you around noon.”
Robin turned the dead bolt after the door closed and leaned against the solid panel. She listened for his footsteps on the stairs, but didn’t hear them. He must move like a cat.
She looked at the phone on the table by the window, then decided it might be best to wait until after she had slept to call her mother. Dealing with her would take energy Robin didn’t have at the moment. Exhausted beyond bearing, she went straight to the bedroom and stretched out across the big brass bed.
Usually she preferred being by herself, but now almost wished Mitch Winton had stayed. She suddenly felt too alone.
Chapter 4
Mitch cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder while he shucked his shorts. He turned the taps on the old clawfoot tub and adjusted the temperature of the water, wishing he had one of those whirlpool thingamajigs attached. His muscles felt kinked and his brain was fuzzy from sleeping in the daytime.
He had gone directly to bed after leaving Robin in the next apartment and slept a good half day uninterrupted. Now his internal clock was screwed. He had to get back on track.
First he needed to find out what was going on with the case. Then he would go over and see how his houseguest was holding up.
Kick answered his cell phone on the fifth ring.
“What you got so far, Kick?” Mitch asked.
“A headache for one thing,” Taylor declared, sounding like he was in a real snit. “Hunford tells me you took the suspect home with you. What the hell are you thinking?”
Mitch grunted. “The boss thought it was a good idea.”
“You should have put her up in a hotel or something. Do that today,” he snapped.
“Soon as you make captain and start calling the shots,” Mitch replied easily.
He stepped into the tub and lowered himself into the steaming water, holding on to the phone so he wouldn’t douse it. “Anything new turn up after I left?”
Kick pouted for a few seconds before sharing. “Forensics found some red dirt stains on the rug. Hardly noticeable, but they could be important. We might want to check the lady’s shoes. Victim’s were clean, every pair he had.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. His cleaning lady was in there yesterday afternoon. I found her in the address book and called to see when she’d done the place last. I guess Andrews was getting things polished up, expecting his wife. We’re trying to find out if anyone else was seen coming in after the floor was vacuumed.” Kick was silent for a minute. “You keeping her in your apartment?”
“The cleaning lady? No—”
“Mitch, I’m not in the mood!”
Mitch smiled to himself, enjoying the yank on Kick’s chain. “She’s in Sandy’s apartment, across the hall.”
“Taking her to your own house is not wise and you know it.”
“Don’t worry. I’m just keeping an eye on her,” Mitch explained patiently. “And I figured Sandy’s was a good place to do that. She wanted me to sublet for her if I could.”
“Listen, Mitch,” Kick said, sounding calmer, though his voice held a warning, “everything we’ve got so far points directly at Robin Andrews. Blood on her hands, prints on the weapon, sound motive—he wanted the divorce, she didn’t. Or vice versa. And that ain’t all—”
Mitch scoffed. “That’s not enough to stand up. Way too circumstantial. Hunford even said so. She could never have brought the weapon in on that plane and didn’t have time to get one after she arrived.”
“The Beretta belonged to Andrews,” Kick said. “Registered and licensed. Already there.”
“Notice the results from the paraffin tests?” Mitch asked.
“She could have worn gloves.”
“Then what did she do with them?”
“We’re still looking.”
“Why are her prints on the gun if she wore gloves?”
Kick missed a beat, then picked it up. “Touched it later. Good move. Threw you off, didn’t it?”
“She’s innocent,” Mitch declared. “Look somewhere else.”
“All right, then, how about this?” Kick asked, deadly calm now and all business. “We found a life insurance policy in the desk. The Mrs. is about to be a hundred thousand richer than she was yesterday. Is that enough?”
“Not much insurance, is it? Peanuts for a guy who’s in the business.” Mitch sank deeper into the hot water, closed his eyes and rested his chin on his chest. “Let me call you back, Kick. I’ll check her shoes.”
“You bring her shoes in, Mitch. That’s how it’s done.”
“Giving me orders again, hotshot?”
He heard Kick sigh. “No, just reminding you to think with the big head and not the little one.”
An hour later Mitch was back at the precinct.
“She could have scrubbed them,” Kick said, staring through the plastic bag at the classic pumps with their three-inch heels. “I really think she’s guilty.”
“Yeah, I know. You keep saying that. Just run tests for residue.” Mitch had elected to bring the shoes straight to Taylor immediately and turn them over expressly for that purpose. He wondered what Robin would do when she woke up and found herself barefoot. “Bet you my next paycheck you don’t find any red dirt.”
Kick scoffed. “If you live to get a next paycheck. It’s mighty risky taking a murder suspect under your wing. Besides, you’re on suspension.”
“I got the okay to do this, Kick. Look, I need to get back home. You want anything else, give me a buzz.” Then he remembered the computer. “By the way, I need to pick up Ms. Andrews’s suitcase and laptop. Are they here?”
Kick frowned. “Where did she leave them?”
“Right by the front door, she said.” He felt his heart jump when he noted Kick’s tightened lips. “What?”
“I went over everything in that apartment, Mitch. No computer. No bag.”
They stared at each other for a minute. “Either somebody on the investigating team has sticky fingers, which we know is not likely, or…the killer was still in the apartment when she arrived and took her stuff with him after she went into the bedroom,” Mitch said.
“That’s crazy,” Kick said. “Maybe she’s making them up. Ever think about that?”
“Maybe not. We know the shooter was after something,” Mitch said. “Could be he thought Robin Andrews might have brought whatever it was with her.”
Kick’s eyes narrowed, but he had nothing to say. Mitch didn’t mention the disk then. It seemed best at