The Passion Of Sam Broussard. Maggie PriceЧитать онлайн книгу.
raised a brow. “Don’t tell me he’s still in slam for those thirty-year-old burglaries?”
“No, his lawyer worked a deal that got him ten years for those. Temple kept a low profile after his release until he broke into a house owned by a rich widow. After assaulting her, he charged out the back door where the woman’s chauffeur tackled him and called the cops. That bought Temple a ticket back to the pen.”
Sam watched while Liz aligned her notes, tapping the edges neatly together before returning them to a folder with WINDSOR printed on the tab in bold, precise letters. He wondered how all that controlled organization transferred into her personal life. And if her new husband found it as intriguing as he did.
“Sounds like you spent a lot of time while you were on leave digging through the background on this case.”
With what looked like careful deliberation, she slid the folder into her tote. “Like I said, I’m dedicated.”
“And your husband must be a real understanding guy for you to take work on your honeymoon. He a cop, too?”
“No.” Her gaze stayed on his for a split second, then flicked away. “Look, I…When we got to Vegas we didn’t…I just couldn’t go through with it.”
She looked back at him, and for the first time Sam realized she was wiped out. The fatigue was hard to spot, but it was there—in the sight drooping of her eyelids, the faint shadows under them.
Without conscious thought, he softened his voice. “You didn’t get married?”
“No.”
Sam felt his gut clench. The thought that she was no longer forbidden fruit was entirely too appealing. “Maybe you’ll be able to piece things back together.”
“No.” The almost whispered word rang with finality.
He was aware that everything inside him was now at attention. “If you had doubts, calling off the wedding was the smart thing to do.”
A line formed between her brows. “You an expert on marriage, Broussard?”
He hesitated, thrown off balance that he’d nearly told her he was a widower. He never talked about Tanya. Couldn’t even think about her without seeing her lying in a pool of blood, and feeling the slicing guilt because he’d as good as put her there.
He set his jaw. Maybe he’d almost dropped his guard with Liz because of the fatigue and vulnerability he’d just seen in her face.
He didn’t know. All he knew was he was going to have to keep a tight rein on his emotions.
“Broussard?”
Realizing Liz was waiting to find out if he considered himself an expert on marriage, he shrugged. “A common-sense observation, is all.”
Just then, the cell phone she’d placed on the table trilled. Thirty seconds later, she ended the call, then dropped her phone into her tote and met Sam’s gaze. “That was Judge York’s secretary. He’ll see us in his chambers now.”
“Great.” Sam could have sworn he felt Liz’s gaze like a touch. So much for the tight rein on his emotions, he thought and rose.
For Liz, it was a relief to get out of the coffee shop. The entire time there, she struggled to stay focused on York’s burglary report. More than once she’d lost her train of thought and found herself watching Broussard’s hands. Noting how solid, strong and long-fingered they seemed.
And ringless.
What the heck was going on? she wondered as she and Broussard stepped onto an elevator where two maintenance men were debating the reasons why the heating system on the building’s upper floors had gone wonky. While the elevator zoomed upward, Liz reminded herself that her thoughts should be centered on the Geneviève Windsor homicide. Instead she felt her senses being pulled—tugged at—by the gray-eyed Shreveport cop who planned to leave town as soon as this interview with the judge was over. Considering her overall brainless reaction to the man, that couldn’t happen soon enough.
“After you,” Broussard said when the elevator reached the courthouse’s sixth floor.
“Thanks.” Stepping past him into the overwarm corridor, Liz caught a whiff of his subtle woodsy cologne, and felt her pulse rate bump up. Enough, she told herself. She hadn’t even felt this edgy, all-consuming pull to Andrew, and she’d almost married him. Twice.
The reminder of how her personal life had done a one-eighty had Liz’s fingers tightening on the strap of her leather tote. Then there was the damn dream she’d had to contend with night after night that had left her weary beyond measure. She had to come up with a plan to get rid of her macho Dream Lover. Tonight.
Feeling marginally better, she tugged open the heavy wooden door that displayed Judge David York’s name.
Moments later, a middle-aged secretary escorted Liz and Sam into the judge’s chambers. The large office, which was even warmer than the corridor, had the feel of an old-world study with dark paneled walls, leather chairs and a polished mahogany desk the size of a helipad.
The man sitting behind the desk was lanky, with sharp features and silver hair that lent him a distinguished air. From the background check she’d run, Liz knew that David York was in his mid-sixties, yet he looked a decade younger.
“Judge York, I’m Sergeant Scott, this is Detective Broussard,” she said, flashing her badge as they moved toward the desk. Making the introductions automatically identified her as the lead detective. At this point, there was no reason to explain where Sam was from or why he was there.
“Have a seat.” York gestured toward twin leather visitor chairs, his gold cuff link glittering with the movement. “The hearing this morning that pushed your appointment back has crimped my schedule. I have to be in court shortly, so I don’t have a lot of time.”
“I’ll be brief, your honor,” Liz said, settling into the chair beside Sam’s. “The cold case office has reopened an unsolved murder in which the weapon used was a.45 automatic. A check of all unsolved shootings around the time of the homicide revealed that this particular murder was our only one in which a .45 was used.”
The judge lifted one salt and pepper brow. “Perhaps because a .45 is an unusually large caliber weapon for street crime.”
“It is,” Liz agreed. “When we ran a check of all .45’s reported stolen during the time frame of the murder, we got a hit on your residential burglary.”
York blinked. “You’re here about my burglary? From thirty years ago?”
“Yes.” While working in Homicide, Liz had learned to always keep details close to the vest. Judge or no judge, York didn’t have a need to know at this point that his Colt had been recovered, much less that it had been identified as a murder weapon. “More specifically, we’re here about the man who confessed to breaking into your home and stealing your .45 Colt.”
“I had my own law practice at that time,” York said. “After he confessed, a police officer told me the man’s name, wanting to know if I’d ever represented him. I hadn’t.” York remained silent for a moment, and Liz could almost see his mind working behind his dark brown eyes. “Apparently you’re thinking that the burglar committed the murder? With my Colt?”
“It’s possible,” Liz said. “By his own admission, he stole the same caliber weapon used in a killing around the same time.”
When she leaned to pull her copy of the burglary report from her tote bag, her gaze flicked to Broussard’s right hand, resting on his thigh. In the next heartbeat, she imagined those long, tapered fingers pressing against her flesh. Her pulse began to thrum.
Liz swallowed hard, appalled she had allowed that type of thought to intrude while she was conducting an interview. Fatigue, she reasoned. Sleep deprivation had made her punchy.
Squaring her shoulders,