Slow Burn. Heather Graham Pozzessere
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didn’t notice, that reporter is also suggesting that you should have been more thoroughly investigated.”
“And all the while the real murderer is walking around at large, laughing at everyone.”
“Spencer,” Reva said, beginning to grow protective, “David almost allowed his entire business to fall apart, he was so desperate to find Danny’s killer. You’ve got—”
“Then I’ll hire David and the entire damned agency, and that way no one will be worrying about anything falling apart.”
David stood. He’d had it with Spencer carrying on, and he would be damned if he’d have his little sister fighting his battles for him, even against Spencer.
“I won’t work for you, Spencer,” he said flatly. “And for the moment, you can either sit down, in which case I’ll go over everything I know, or you can get out.”
“Damn you, David, I will not leave.”
“You will leave, because I’ll set you out bodily, then call the cops and tell them you’re harrassing me and affecting my business,” he told her, then sighed with exasperation as she continued to stare at him as if she were about to explode any second. “Spencer, please, sit!”
She sat. Reva caught his eye. “I’ll get some coffee,” she said.
“If it’s for Spencer, make it decaf. She certainly doesn’t need the caffeine!” David said.
Spencer let that pass. When David sat down behind his desk again, he felt a wave of guilt and sorrow sweep over him. She was so pale, and so damned thin. All her life, she had dressed beautifully but simply, and that hadn’t changed. She was wearing a sleeveless dress that stopped just above the knee. But the cut was perfect, and David assumed it was some kind of designer original, although Spencer also made a point of buying things just because she liked them, not because there was a name attached to them. Spencer had never acted as if she came from money, but it was always there in the background, just the same. He had to admit, though, he wasn’t sure just who had buckled to the family pressure, him or her.
Whatever, the dress, simple, perfect, looked wonderful on her. One minute she seemed like a tempest, and now she seemed all but ethereal. She needed more meat on her bones, more color in her face. Her eyes were haunted. Hell, his probably looked that way, too. It had been rough, learning to live with Danny gone.
And hunting for his killer.
“It’s been a year, David,” she said almost tonelessly.
“Spencer, have you been to the police—”
“Of course. Lots of times. They’re always as nice as they can be—except, of course, when they start questioning me again.”
“They have to do that, Spencer.”
“How could I have killed him?” she asked bleakly.
He hesitated. “The way they see it, anything is possible. You might have run out, shot him, run home, then waited for someone to come and give you the news.”
“But you know—”
“I’m telling you what the D.A.’s office could come up with in terms of motive. You were his wife. You inherited a sizable fortune on his death.”
“But you found me—”
“Stark naked. What a great way to shed bloody clothing.”
She was standing again, staring at him as if he were a cold-blooded killer. “You bastard! What about you? He died in your arms!”
“Spencer, sit down, or I’ll make you sit down in about two seconds!”
She didn’t sit. He swore, rising. She sat, teeth grating, staring at him. “Spencer, damn you, they questioned me, too, over and over. Guys I worked with for years. They had to explore all the possibilities.”
Tears were hovering in her eyes. She was trying very hard not to shed them. “I loved Danny.”
“I know that, Spencer.” He clenched his teeth, feeling as if he’d been punched in the heart. He’d loved Danny, too. Just about everyone who ever met Danny Huntington cared about him. Except, of course, the killer. Or killers?
“Spencer, remember the case just a few years ago? Right on Bayshore Drive. Wife calls in, her husband’s been shot. Says some men broke in and killed him. Turned out she hired the men who shot them, let them in and out, waited long enough for them to disappear, then called emergency. Remember, Spencer?”
“Yes, I remember,” she said impatiently. “She was also much younger than he was and wanted his money. The two cases are nothing at all alike.”
“Spencer, the police can’t help it. Most murders are committed by people close to the victims. Wives rank right on top.”
“Damn you, David, I didn’t come here to listen to you explain why the cops questioned me. Danny has been dead for over a year. A cop, David, a cop murdered—and no suspect in sight! And you sit there justifying why they questioned me! I want to know what else they’ve got! And all anyone will ever tell me is that, oh, we’ve a few leads, we’re following this one or that one! They humor me. They pat me on the back, but nothing happens!”
“Spencer, they’re trying. It takes time—”
“I want to know what you’ve got.”
“Spencer, go home. Reconstruct something,” he told her. Was reconstruct the right word? He wasn’t sure. Montgomery Enterprises wasn’t really a construction company, nor was it a decorating firm. Sly had begun the business in the very early days of the city’s existence. Back then he’d done detail work, cornices, moldings, mantels, working with the best architects and builders. He had liked to remember those old times, when the now bustling, international city had been nothing but a small southern settlement carved out of a swamp. Now they preserved the old, making it as good as new. They restored buildings, down to the small details, the tiles, moldings and cornices. David found it hard to imagine that there was enough here to keep them going, but it was remarkable to see sometimes, through Sly’s eyes, just how much was considered to be of historical value. Especially in the last decade or so, with the Art Deco boom, the refurbishing of the beaches and certain other areas of Greater Miami, the old had become in. Montgomery Enterprises was doing extremely well.
“Go home, or go repair a quaint old bathroom or something,” he told her, rubbing his temple.
Her eyes narrowed. “I went home, David. I went away for a year, and I left everything to the cops and to you, his best friend, the hometown boy who could find out anything! I went away, but damn it, it seems like I’m the only one who really cares! I have to stay on this if we’re ever going to find Danny’s killer. The eulogy was just great, the cops who turned out were wonderful, the twenty-one-gun salute was grand! But that buried him, and he’s stayed buried. And the case has stayed buried with him. I want something done now. I want to know what you’ve got. He was a homicide cop. What was he on to? Why was he meeting you that morning?”
Reva cleared her throat from the doorway. “Coffee!” she said cheerfully.
David was glad for the interruption. It bought him a little time as his sister came into his office and set the tray on his desk. He was deterred from his thoughts by the tray, though. They kept mugs in the office. Good sturdy mugs. But there were china cups sitting on a silver tray, and the coffeepot was silver, as well, along with the creamer and sugar bowl.
He stared at Reva, who glanced at Spencer and shrugged. He smiled, shaking his head.
“Thanks, Reva,” Spencer said, restlessly standing again, approaching the tray.
“Spencer, please, relax!” David said.
“I can’t just sit still!” she exclaimed, reaching for the coffee server. She glanced at Reva. “I don’t mean to be difficult—yes, I do, except not about the coffee—but do you still have those great mugs