Maggie Price - The Passion Of Sam Broussard

Liz leaned forward in her chair. “Why?

“Not long before I went on vacation, I had some construction work done at my home. Part of that involved minor renovation to the kitchen. Numerous workmen were in and out, and it’s possible one of them took the Colt before the burglary occurred.”

Liz nodded. “Did you give the information about the workmen to the burglary detective assigned to your case?”

“I phoned him,” York answered. “He said he would make a note for the file.”

“Do you remember the name of the construction company that did your renovation?”

“Sorry, no,” York said. “It was a long time ago.”

Nodding, Liz glanced at the report. “You didn’t have a security system, right?”

“Correct.” York gave her a rueful look. “I had one installed the day after I returned home and discovered the burglary.”

When Liz noted the judge checking his watch, she said, “Just a couple more questions, your honor. The report states you purchased the Colt a few months before it was stolen.”

“Yes.”

“Did you fire it? Perhaps take it out for target practice?”

“No, I never shot the Colt.” He pursed his mouth. “You look disappointed, Sergeant Scott.”

“Just trying for a long shot, Judge.” With the office so warm, she shoved up the sleeves on her jacket. “I was hoping you took your gun to a friend’s acreage for practice shooting. And that the friend still owns the property.”

She saw something akin to shock settle in the judge’s eyes, then astonishment crossed his face. The look was replaced by uneasiness as his skin paled.

Liz exchanged a look with Broussard. He seemed as baffled as she by York’s reaction.

She eased forward. “Your honor, is something wrong?”

“No.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I just…It’s the heat in here.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “Ballistics,” he said after a moment. “You were hoping I had fired the Colt so you could go to the property and try to retrieve cartridges it ejected. Then compare them with the bullet that killed the victim in your reopened homicide. Sergeant Scott, do you honestly think the cartridges would still be there after thirty years?”

“Odds are against it. But stranger things have happened.”

“Yes,” York agreed. “Time doesn’t destroy everything.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding her. “I’m impressed, Sergeant. Very.”

The way his gaze had locked on her sent an uneasy sensation whispering through Liz. “I’m just doing my job.”

“A job you’ve had a very short time.”

She kept her expression neutral. She had never met York, had never testified in any trial he’d presided over. Had he checked up on her after she called and scheduled the appointment with his secretary? If so, why?

“That’s right,” she answered. “The cold case office has only been open a couple of months.”

“Since I was instrumental in obtaining the federal grant to fund the office, I’m very aware of that.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “In fact, I had been told your name when you requested a transfer from Homicide to work cold cases. I intended to arrange to meet you soon.”

And here she was, feeding him a certain amount of disinformation by purposely failing to mention his Colt had been recovered when her current assignment probably depended on staying in his good graces. “I’m a little low on the food chain to be aware of departmental politics, so I didn’t know you had anything to do with that.”

York shifted his gaze to Sam. “There is only one position in the cold case office. What is your connection to this investigation, Detective Broussard?”

Liz held her breath while tension knotted her belly. Had she made a mistake letting Broussard sit in on this interview? If he told York he’d recovered the Colt, the judge would instantly know she hadn’t been totally candid with him. Considering York’s connection to the cold case office, she could be looking at a transfer to the department’s Information Desk.

“I’m with the Shreveport P.D.,” Broussard said. Although the rich, Southern cadence of his voice was casual, Liz caught an adversarial glint in his eyes.

“I got a tip that the man who confessed to yours and the ninety-nine other burglaries here may have spent some time in Louisiana years ago,” Broussard continued. “When I learned that Sergeant Scott was trying to connect him to an unsolved homicide, I touched base with her. We’ve got some old crimes in Shreveport that we’d like to clear, if possible.”

A wave of relief rolled over Liz. She owed Broussard big-time for not tripping her up with the judge.

“I see.” York rechecked his watch. “I’m due in court. Sergeant Scott, have I given you the information you need?”

“One last question,” she said as she and Broussard rose in unison. Again, she was aware of his height, of his tanned forearms sculpted by hard muscle, his dark hair that a rake of one of his wide-palmed hands had disordered.

“Your question?” York asked when she hesitated.

Liz tore her thoughts from Broussard and noted the annoyance marring the judge’s smooth features. Great, her scattered thinking was close to putting her in York’s bad graces.

“You submitted a form listing all property taken from your home,” she said. “Did you discover anything else missing later? Maybe some inconsequential property you didn’t bother reporting?”

“No, the information on the initial form is complete. My insurance company reimbursed me for my losses long ago.”

York rose and moved around the desk with the ease of a man with total confidence. Probably didn’t hurt that he raked in big bucks from the books on English medieval law he wrote, Liz thought, taking in the polished tips of his black shoes and the tailored cut of his single-breasted dark suit.

“A pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Scott,” York said, offering her his hand. “I’d like to drop by your office and see just what the grant has enabled the OCPD to do.”

“Sure.” There was almost something possessive in York’s handshake that forced her to hold back a shiver. “Just let me know when you can fit a visit into your schedule.”

By the time Sam walked onto the sidewalk outside the federal courthouse, energy was shooting through him. He had no explanation for the instant, intense dislike he’d felt for York. Or the sudden protective instinct that had dropped over him like a net. But he instinctively knew who he was supposed to defend.

Liz Scott.

He paused beside her, his jaw tight. Why would she need protecting? At present, he was off duty and unarmed; the cold case cop had a .357 automatic holstered at her waist. If anything went down, she’d probably be doing the majority of the defending.

“That’s one strange reaction,” she said.

Wondering if she had somehow sensed what was going on inside him, Sam shifted to face her. When he saw her narrow-eyed gaze was focused on the courthouse instead of him, he used the time to examine her.

It was a beautiful October day, warm and smelling of fall and in the bright sunlight her hair was ablaze. For the second time that day, he had the quick image of his hands unplaiting that thick braid, of his fingers plunging into those long tresses….

Wishful thinking, he told himself and scrubbed a palm across his stubbled jaw. “What reaction?”

“York’s.” She met Sam’s gaze, her green eyes filled with speculation. “I ask him if he took the Colt out to target practice thirty years ago and he looks like I hit him. Then he turns pale. Can’t help but wonder what that was about.”

“I’m wondering, too.” And not just about York’s odd reaction, but his own, Sam added silently. There were too many things linked to the Windsor murder investigation niggling at him, bugging him, things he couldn’t logic out. What was it about this case? And the woman assigned to investigate it? Both seemed to have reached out and grabbed him by the throat.