One Good Man. Julie MillerЧитать онлайн книгу.
house? What do you want?”
The whole evening took on a surreal quality. Lights flashed on and off at regular intervals. An alarm blared in the background. They sat on a patterned Persian rug. The victim questioned the cop.
Mitch needed his world back in order. He stood up and straightened his clothes, taking his time before answering her. “Police Commissioner James Reed called me this evening and asked me to check on your family and the house. He gave me his key to bypass the security gate. He said he was watching the property for a friend. He thought there might be some trouble.”
“Uncle Jimmy always was a worrywart.”
Uncle Jimmy?
Casey twisted her body, grabbed the top of the desk and hauled herself to her feet. Bracing her weight against the solid oak top, she hobbled around the desk. Her full mouth narrowed into a grim line with each step. Had she dislocated something? Twisted her knee?
In two steps, Mitch was at her side, cupping her elbow and waist and taking her weight into his hands.
She stiffened when he pulled her against his side. “Don’t.”
He’d never met such a stubborn woman. Mitch tightened his grip, but his voice was gentle. “I’m going to help you, no matter what, so shut up.”
She didn’t exactly relax, but some of the tension eased from her. She inclined her head toward the swivel chair overturned on its side behind the desk. “I just need to sit down.”
Though she continued to favor her right leg, he noticed how she carried her shoulders and chin with grace and determination. Mitch righted the chair and steadied it when she turned to sit. The crown of her hair brushed along his jaw, and the faint scent of vanilla filled his senses.
She might pretend to be one tough cookie, but her ladylike femininity was hard to hide.
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
If he expected to be rewarded with a smile or thank-you, he was destined for disappointment. She twisted the chair away from him and pulled out a sliding keyboard tray. The computer monitor on her desk blinked on, and she pulled up a series of screen commands. She selected one with her mouse, then clicked.
The lights in the house flooded on, and stayed on. Just as abruptly, the alarm stopped.
“There’s no problem here, Captain.”
She raised her head and offered him a fake smile. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I don’t know where Uncle Jimmy gets his ideas. But tell him I appreciate his concern.”
Mitch knew a goodbye when he heard one. This had turned into one hell of an evening. His skull throbbed with a headache. He’d ticked off an ungrateful woman who had every right to sue him. And he had a growing list of questions that no one wanted to answer.
It would have required a better man to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “It’s been real fun getting to know you, too, Ms. Maynard. I’ll be sure to pass your regards along to Uncle Jimmy.”
In the clear light, he easily spotted his badge on the carpet. He picked it up and clipped it to his pocket. He retrieved his gun from beneath a side table and snapped it into his holster. As he straightened, something else caught his attention.
A brown stick protruded from beneath the corner of a black leather sofa. Is that what she’d hit him with?
Keeping his back to her, Mitch used his foot to slide the piece of wood into view. A cane?
His preformed image of Cassandra Maynard, pampered society princess whose elite circle of friends included the commissioner of police, shifted a notch. He’d driven into this ritzy Plaza neighborhood expecting to find people living the lifestyle his late wife had struggled so ruthlessly to attain.
After the commissioner’s phone call, Mitch had fully expected to find Ms. Maynard preened and poised on her perch high above the mortals like himself who had to work for a living. She’d lie about whatever trouble had prompted the intrusion on private family business, and then politely send him on his way.
She had the lie part down pat, and she sounded eager to be rid of him. But this wounded woman in the jeans and gray sweatshirt seemed more brittle than icy. And the disdain in her voice didn’t match the terror in her eyes.
He glanced at the cane again. Richly polished walnut inlaid with a ring of brass at the handle, the item itself bespoke wealth. But a cane was a cane, a symbol of injury or handicap in one so young and apparently athletic as Ms. Maynard. Maybe she’d had surgery, or injured herself in training.
His lean years growing up in a decaying neighborhood north of downtown Kansas City had taught him to recognize some basic tricks of survival. Attacking before the enemy could identify your weakness was a classic.
Uptown or down, Mitch recognized vulnerability.
“So why would Commissioner Reed think anything was wrong here?” He nudged the cane out of sight with his toe, allowing her the security of hiding the extent of her disability from him.
He turned, catching the startled expression on her face before she quickly replaced it with that stoic mask. “I don’t know. I’m surprised he didn’t call me himself.”
“He probably figured you’d lie and say everything was all right so he wouldn’t worry.”
She shrugged. “Everything is all right. Other than you breaking down the door.”
He stepped toward her. “Something scared the hell out of you tonight.”
“You did.”
“No. Before I showed up, something wasn’t right.” He advanced farther, and enjoyed the transient satisfaction of seeing her mask slip a little.
Even at the cusp of winter, the mansions in this oldmonied neighborhood had an unlived-in perfection about them. Lawns were manicured, homes and fences were decorated for the holidays and welcoming lights blazed from crystal-clear windows and porches.
But not the Maynard estate. The imposing structure was half-hidden behind a high granite wall and black wrought-iron gate. Inside that barrier, ancient oaks lined the driveway, casting shadows across the yard that even twin porch lights couldn’t illuminate. One wing of the house was closed off. The interior had been dark. The items he’d stumbled over in the hallway and in this room were arranged in pristine, untouched perfection.
So who kept the princess locked in the tower?
Fairy tales had never topped Mitch’s reading list, but he couldn’t think of a better analogy. Where was the family the commissioner had asked him to check on? He’d bet his next paycheck that she lived alone in this overbuilt monstrosity.
“Are you married, Ms. Maynard? Live with a boyfriend or fiancé?”
He interpreted the sharp, humorless sound that passed as her laugh for a no.
“What about your parents?”
“I’m twenty-eight years old, Mr. Taylor. I don’t live with Mommy and Daddy anymore.”
Touché. So he wasn’t the only one who resorted to sarcasm under pressure.
“Where are they?” He took another step.
“Now that they’ve retired, they spend their winters in a warmer climate.” Not much of an answer, so he switched tactics.
“Why did you attack me?” He reached her desk.
“I thought you were an intruder.” She squared her shoulders. “Most visitors ring the buzzer at the gatehouse before I send them on their way.”
He ignored the obvious hint. He braced his hands on the desktop and leaned toward her. “I said I was a cop.”
She tilted her chin upward. “I don’t care if—”
Garbled voices from the front of the house interrupted their standoff.