In Harm's Way. Lyn Stone
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print lifters were busy dusting things while Kick measured a stain he’d found near the coffee table. The medical examiner would be arriving shortly to take charge of the body. Mitch knew there wasn’t much he could discover here that Kick and the M.E. wouldn’t.
Again he glanced through the door at the witness, or suspect, or whatever she would turn out to be. She hadn’t moved. Or relaxed. “She live here?”
“Nope, but she is still the missus. Says she just flew down from the Big Apple. Andrews must have been expecting her. Wine’s in the fridge, glasses were out, little napkins, nuts and stuff. All scattered now, of course, but he had it ready at one time.”
“Looks pretty straightforward,” Mitch said. “Not much question about cause of death. Single shot to the head. No sign of a break-in?”
“Nope. He opened the door and let her in.”
“Maybe he let someone else in first? Let’s try to keep an open mind here.”
Kick snorted. “Don’t you be fooled just because she’s a looker. Pretty fingers can pull triggers, too, y’know.”
“You want to stick one of those fingers in a light socket right now and save the state a trial? How about some proof first, huh?” Mitch felt obliged to point out that the investigation was not complete. Kick was acting as if he had the case sewn up.
“I’m working on it, okay?” Kick snapped.
Mitch ignored his attitude and returned to examining the body. “Died where he fell, looks like.”
Kick mumbled an agreement, engrossed in an address book he’d found in the drawer under the phone. “Captain was looking for you this afternoon after you left. Wanted to see you before you took off. Something about that shooting I guess. The guy still alive?”
“Last I heard.” Mitch glanced around at the living room. “Whoever did this left a big enough mess, didn’t they? You got things covered?”
“Absolutely. You can go ahead and leave.” Kick inclined his head toward the woman in the bedroom. “I’ll take her in soon as I get through here.”
“I’ll do it,” Mitch said. “I stopped off and got an unmarked in case you’d apprehended somebody.”
Kick frowned at him. “And let you play Sir Galahad to Princess Sureshot? Not hardly. I’m transporting, Mitch, and interrogating her.”
“No, you’re going to stay here and question the neighbors,” Mitch informed him firmly, unsure why he was pulling rank on Kick. He had never done that before, and it bothered him to do it now. But his partner was being too close-minded about this whole deal. He had already decided they had their shooter. Mitch just wanted to make sure Kick wasn’t taking the easy way out.
“Checked her for powder and printed her yet?”
Kick looked up, his lips tightening. “Not yet.”
Mitch called Abe Sinclair over and quietly ordered him to do a quick paraffin test on Mrs. Andrews to detect whether she had any gunpowder residue on her hands and then get her prints. He wanted all the bases covered.
Then Mitch moved away from the body, got as isolated as he could in the middle of a busy crime scene and turned on the recorder. He put it to his ear and listened to Kick’s curt demand that Mrs. Andrews tell in her own words what had transpired. Following was the brief statement she had given. Very brief.
He could see her better from where he stood now. Abe was in there now, doing his thing with paraffin. She appeared almost oblivious to the process. Classic profile. Perfect hair. Lovely. She was thin, no, slender. Beautifully dressed in a beige suit and gold earrings. Tasteful. Cool, just as Kick had said.
From this distance she didn’t look all that upset about what was going on. At any rate, she wasn’t sobbing her heart out, not that that meant anything necessarily. Could be in shock.
Her voice on the tape was soft and cultured, but with almost no inflection. A pleasant-sounding computer robot came to mind. She referred to the victim by name, not using the we pronoun that would indicate they’d had a happy relationship. Of course, if she’d killed him, she would want to disassociate herself, not think of him as half of her couple.
As he listened, she made it clear she had touched the body while checking for signs of life. Or maybe to explain away any forensic evidence that might turn up later. She admitted she had touched the gun before she thought what she was doing.
When the tape ran silent, he clicked Stop, stuck the recorder in his pocket and entered the bedroom. With a jerk of his thumb, he ordered Abe and the officer who’d been keeping watch over her to leave them alone.
“Mrs. Andrews?” he greeted her. “I’m Detective Winton. You’re the one who discovered the body?” He sat on the edge of the chair located about three feet from the bed, so that he faced her.
“Yes,” she whispered. Then she looked up at him with beautiful, dark-fringed blue eyes that badly needed to weep. He knew better than to feel sympathy for her. You didn’t last long in this business if you couldn’t stay detached. This was the hardest part of the job, but it usually wasn’t quite this hard.
He had seen faces filled with sorrow more times than he could count, but he couldn’t recall one that had moved him quite the way hers did now. Why was that? Instant attraction, yeah. But it seemed more than that, something he couldn’t get a handle on and name.
Getting thunderstruck by a woman was a new experience for Mitch and he didn’t much like it. His defenses wouldn’t go up like they were supposed to. He probably should let Kick take over right now, but he couldn’t make himself do that. Not when she was looking up at him with those soulful eyes, as if she was depending on him to get this right. And not when Kick was ready to hang her on the spot.
Mitch prided himself on judging character. Women seemed easier to read than men. Their emotions were usually closer to the surface, somehow more accessible. That was a sexist view, he knew, but he’d found it to be true, anyway.
Either Robin Andrews cared for that man on the floor and was grieving, or she had delivered the shot that killed him and was terribly sorry about it. “Did you kill your husband, Mrs. Andrews?” The question had slipped right out of his mouth before he could catch it.
Damn. Mitch almost pounded his head with his fist. He wasn’t supposed to put that to her yet. She hadn’t been read her rights, unless Kick had done it off tape, which was almost surely not the case.
Mitch hoped she wouldn’t confess right now. If he was being perfectly honest, he hoped to hell she didn’t have cause to confess at all. It surely would cut down on the workload if he could just haul her in and not have to track down some unknown, but for some inexplicable reason he just didn’t want her to have done it. The thought rattled him.
Women were perfectly capable of murder. However, as a man brought up to revere women, he had to keep reminding himself of that. Finding it hard to believe that the gentler sex would do such a thing was his one huge hang-up and he worked hard at concealing it and compensating for it. But he didn’t want to overcompensate. It was a problem.
He wished to hell another team had caught this one. He obviously needed a good night’s sleep.
Robin couldn’t believe this was happening. “No. I didn’t kill him. I’m the one who notified the police,” she explained.
“Sorry. Won’t get you off the hook.” The detective shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other. “Sometimes a perpetrator will call in the crime, tryin’ to throw off suspicion,” he continued in that maddeningly slow drawl of his. “But we’ll get around to that in a little while. For now let’s just clear up a few things. Minor points, really.”
He pulled a small black notebook out of his pocket and smiled at her when he successfully located the ballpoint pen to go with it. Had Columbo started out like this? Robin wondered.
She