Black Silk. Metsy HingleЧитать онлайн книгу.
your sister’s partner.”
“So?”
“So you and me, us…it’s not a good idea,” he said firmly.
“Says who?”
“Says me.” He sighed. “Come on, Anne. I’m almost ten years older than you. I’ve been married and divorced while you’re just getting started with your life. You’re just a kid and I’m practically an old man.”
“I assure you, Detective Kossak, I am not a kid. I am a grown woman and—”
“Kossak, we’ve got to roll,” Charlie called out as she ran back to the car.
“No time to talk,” he told her. And with a swiftness that made her blink, Anne stared dumbfounded as Vince shifted gears, seeming to forget that they were in the midst of a serious discussion, seeming to forget her. Suddenly he was all business. His body tensed, poised for action. And without another word to her, he yanked open the car door and focused all of his attention on his job. “What have we got?” he asked Charlie.
“Not what, who,” Charlie told him as she pulled open the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. “We hit pay dirt with the security discs from the apartment building and—”
Vince pulled his door shut.
But she’d heard enough, Anne thought as she watched the car with Vince and her sister speed off. She raced back to the TV truck. “Let’s go,” she told Kevin.
“We following them?” he asked as he started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
“No. We’re going to the Mill House Apartments,” she told him. And with a little luck she was going to be breaking a big story on the evening news.
Four
While she and Vince waited for the electronics tech to key up the security tapes from the Mill House Apartments, Charlie scanned the visitors’ log. Noting the number of people who had visited Francesca Hill on the day she was killed, she nearly groaned. It would take days to interview them all. “I’m surprised she didn’t install a revolving door.”
“According to the kid at the front desk, our vic was very popular,” Vince said.
“I’ll say. Wait until you see the tape,” the whiz-kid tech named Rich replied.
“We are waiting,” Charlie pointed out. They had been racing from Stratton’s home to the station when the call came saying someone of interest had popped up on the security tapes. She had spent years searching for a lead on Emily’s killer and at last she had one—even if it had come through another tragedy. And she wanted to move on that lead now.
“Here we go,” Rich said as a view of the elevator door and hallway to Francesca Hill’s apartment came onto the screen. A tall blonde in a black leather skirt, sweater and thigh-high boots exited the elevator carrying a gift bag with a frilly ribbon.
“That must be the hot chick the kid at the desk told me about before the manager showed up and put a muzzle on him,” Vince remarked as the woman strutted toward the apartment. “The kid said her name’s Danielle. She’s a dealer at the casino where our vic worked before she hit the engagement lottery.”
Danielle Marceau, Charlie noted, locating the name in the guest log.
On screen Francesca peeked inside the gift bag, then ushered the woman inside her apartment. After several moments spent staring at the closed door, Charlie asked, “Can you speed it up?”
“Your wish is my command, Detective.”
She rolled her eyes. The boy wonder with peach fuzz on his chin had joined the department six months ago. Despite his weird sense of humor and even weirder fashion style, he was a walking, talking, electronics genius. He could make anything electronic sing. A few taps of his fingers and Danielle zipped down the hall in fast-forward motion. The time lapsed on the tape was thirty minutes.
“And here’s our next guest,” Rich said as he slowed the tape again.
“The intended bridegroom,” Charlie remarked when J. P. Stratton stepped out of the elevator. He was greeted at the door with a kiss, before disappearing into the apartment. Fast-forwarding had him leaving again less than twenty minutes later.
“I guess he’s not big on foreplay,” Rich joked.
“Skip the commentary and just run the film,” Charlie said dryly.
Aaron Stratton arrived next, carrying a briefcase, and stayed for fifteen minutes. “You remember sonny boy mentioning a visit to his stepmother-to-be?” Vince asked.
“No,” Charlie replied and made a note to question Aaron Stratton about his visit. The film was fast-forwarded and when it was slowed again, an older gentleman wearing a gray overcoat, hat and carrying a bible went to the apartment. “Reverend Homer Lawrence,” she read the name in the visitors’ log. “I wonder what the minister wanted at that time of night?”
“I’ll get Mackenzie to find out what church he’s affiliated with and we’ll ask him,” Vince said as he scribbled in his notepad.
“Wait! Slow it down,” Charlie instructed. She sat forward, studying the newest arrival. The man was tall, probably six foot three or better, two hundred pounds, early to mid-thirties, she guessed. He had an arresting face with a strong jawline, a sensual mouth and cheekbones sharp enough to cut ice. His hair was thick, straight and looked in need of a trim. Dark brows rested above knowing eyes that stared directly into the camera. Despite the grainy film, the man made an impact. “He looks familiar.”
“He should. He’s Cole Stratton, the owner of CS Securities, one of the fastest-growing companies in the South. The Times-Picayune ran a profile on him in the paper’s business section a few months ago.”
“What’s his relationship to J.P. Stratton?” she asked.
“His firstborn, courtesy of the first Mrs. Stratton. The story is that she was some kind of heiress and it was her money and connections that J.P. used to get started.”
“Divorced?” she asked.
“Dead. Cancer,” Vince explained. “Apparently J.P. did a real number on her before she died. Cole Stratton was just a kid at the time, but word is he never forgave the old man and as soon as he was old enough, he walked out. Turned his back on a virtual fortune and struck out on his own. According to the grapevine, lots of bad blood there.”
“With all that bad blood, one has to wonder why he was visiting his father’s fiancée,” Charlie pointed out and decided to find out what she could about Cole Stratton.
They sped through more surveillance tape and watched as a young woman approached the apartment. Judging by her clothes and the long, straight hair, Charlie pegged her to be in her early to mid-twenties. She didn’t stay long and when she left, she was swiping at her eyes as though crying. Charlie checked the visitors’ book, but there were no further guest entries to the Hill apartment. “Whoever she is, she didn’t sign in.”
“I’ll take another shot at the desk clerk to see if he recognizes her and find out why she didn’t sign in,” Vince offered.
Rich fast-forwarded through more film and when the light glowed on the elevator, he slowed to real time again. A man wearing sunglasses and a hat with a brim exited. The collar of his jacket was turned up, shielding the lower half of his face, which he kept angled away from the camera. “Hold it there,” Charlie instructed and glanced at Vince. “Do you think wearing sunglasses indoors at night is some kind of new fashion trend? Or do you get the feeling our visitor knew about the security camera and didn’t want to be identified?”
“My guess is number two,” he said. “Can you get a close-up of our shy guy?”
“Give me a sec.” Rich tapped at the keys, formed a frame around the face, then magnified it. “That’s about the best I can do,” he said after several attempts