Questioning the Heiress. Delores Fossen
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was he thinking?
It couldn’t be concern. He was the surly one, and she was the richer one. She was an heiress. He, the chauffeur’s son. Concern on her part wasn’t in this particular equation, and the only thing she cared about was getting through this. The only thing he cared about was keeping her alive and catching a killer.
The silence came like the soggy downpour that was occurring simultaneously outside. They weren’t comfortable with each other, and they weren’t comfortable being in the same confined space. Hopefully, that confinement would end when the bomb squad finished, and he could pawn this “richer” leggy brunette off on someone else.
Anyone else.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help more with the investigation of the hit-and-run,” Caroline whispered.
That comment/apology came out of the blue, and Egan certainly hadn’t expected it. More ring twisting, yes. Ditto for touching that gold heart pendant. But he hadn’t anticipated a sincere-sounding apology. “And you’re probably sorry that you were driving the car that night.”
“That, too.” She nodded. “But my memory loss is only of that night. I remember Kimberly.”
So did Egan. Kimberly had grown up on the same street that he had. And her brother, Brody, was now Egan’s boss.
“She was a kind, generous woman who worked hard as an intern for the City Board,” Caroline continued. “I’m glad her killer is dead.”
And yet her killer was also someone whom Caroline had known. Vincent Montoya, who’d rammed his vehicle into the passenger’s side of Caroline’s vintage sports car. The impact had thrown Kimberly from her seat, and she’d sustained a broken neck. Death had come instantly.
But not for the two other men Montoya had murdered.
Two men, Trent Briggs and Gary Zelke, who Montoya likely believed had seen him ram into Caroline’s car, had been killed months later. Montoya had murdered them to eliminate witnesses and probably would have done the same to Victoria Kirkland, a third possible witness, if someone—the vigilante maybe—hadn’t killed Montoya first. Since it was possible that Victoria was now in danger from this vigilante, she was out of state in Brody’s protective custody.
Unlike Caroline.
She was here at Cantara Hills. Right in the line of fire.
“We still need to find out if Montoya was working alone, or if someone hired him to commit those murders,” Egan reminded her. He stood and poured them both some coffee. “And if he was working alone, then who’s this new intruder who came into your house tonight?”
She took the mug of coffee from him, gripping it in both of her shaky hands, and she sipped some even though it was steaming hot. “And you think that intruder might be Kenneth Sutton, the chairman of the City Board?” Despite all the other emotions, skepticism oozed from her voice.
Egan shrugged and sank down in his chair. “Stating the obvious here, but Montoya was Kenneth Sutton’s driver, personal assistant and jack-of-all trades.”
“That doesn’t mean Kenneth ordered Montoya to kill anyone. Kenneth’s a career politician and is running for the governor’s office. He can be ambitious when it comes to politics, but I don’t think he has murder on his mind.”
Egan was about to remind her that rich politicians hid behind their facades just like everybody else, but his cell phone rang, and he snatched it up. “Sgt. Caldwell.”
“This is Detective Mark Willows from the bomb squad. We’ve done a preliminary assessment. No injuries. Property damage is minimal. Definitely nothing structural. A few holes and dents in the garage wall. For the most part, the impact was confined to the Mercedes.”
Well, that was better news than he’d expected. That blast had been damn loud. “There was enough damage to destroy the car?” Egan asked.
“It’s banged up pretty bad, but we’ll tow it to the crime lab and look for prints and other evidence. The explosion happened at 8:10 p.m. You’ll probably want to question the owner to see if there’s anything significant about that time. We’ll question her, too, but it can wait until tomorrow. We’ll be here most of the night collecting the bits and pieces so we can reassemble the device and try to figure out who made it.”
“Thanks. Call me if you have anything else.” Egan clicked the end-call button and looked at Caroline. Who was looking at him, obviously waiting. “Good news,” he let her know. “No one was hurt. Your car is totaled, but the house is okay.”
The breath swooshed out of her, and her hand was suddenly shaking so hard that she sloshed some coffee on her fingers when she set the cup on his desk.
“Good. That’s good.” A moment later, she repeated it.
He debated if he should check her fingers, to make sure she hadn’t scalded them. She certainly wasn’t doing anything about it. Egan finally reached over and caught on to her wrist so he could have a look. Yep. Definitely red fingers. He rolled his chair across the floor to get to the small fridge, retrieved a cold can of soda and rolled back toward her. He pressed the can to her fingers.
She didn’t resist. Caroline just sat there. Her head hung low. Probably numb. Maybe even in shock. “I didn’t want anyone else’s death or injuries on my hands,” she said under her breath. “I couldn’t live with that.”
Since she seemed on the verge of tears, or even a total meltdown, Egan decided to get her mind back on business. His mind, too. He didn’t like seeing her like this.
Vulnerable.
Fragile.
Tormented.
He preferred when she had that aristocratic chin lifted high and the ritzy sass was in her eyes. Because there was no way he could ever be interested in someone with a snobby, rich, stubborn chin. But the vulnerability and the genuine ache he heard in her whisper, that could draw him in.
Oh, yeah.
It could make him see her as an imperfect, desirable woman and not the next victim on a killer’s list.
And that wouldn’t be good for either Caroline or him.
He needed to focus.
That was the best way to keep her alive and catch a killer.
He wrapped her fingers around the soda and leaned back to put some distance between them. No more touching. No more thinking about personal stuff. “The timer on the explosive was set for 8:10 p.m. Where would you normally have been at that time?”
Her head came up, and she met his gaze. “Since it’s Monday, I should have been in the car, driving home from work.”
He was afraid she was going to say that. “That’s your usual routine?”
She nodded. “I always work late on Mondays. The security guard walks me out to my car at eight p.m., because that’s when his shift is over. I leave at exactly that time so he won’t have to stay any longer, and it takes me about fifteen minutes to drive home.” She put the soft drink can aside so she could touch the necklace. “But the security guard wasn’t feeling well tonight. He wouldn’t go home until I did so I left about forty-five minutes earlier than I usually do.”
That insistent sick guard had saved her life. Egan didn’t need to spell that out for her.
“Who knows your work routine?” he asked.
The color drained from her cheeks. “Anyone who knows me.”
Well, that didn’t narrow it down much, and it certainly didn’t exclude Kenneth Sutton. There was just something about Kenneth that reminded Egan of a snake oil salesman. Egan only hoped that his feelings weren’t skewed that way because the guy was stinkin’ rich.
“So did the same person plant that bomb and then break into my house?” Caroline asked.
“Possibly.