Terri Reed - Double Threat Christmas

“Back away?” she repeated, her voice reedy.

He took her by the shoulders. “Lower the painting.”

Slowly, she let it fall, and the painting came to a rest on the floor of her closet. She stepped back, allowing him to propel her toward the front door. He captured her outstretched hand before she could touch the knob.

“We’ve contaminated the scene enough,” he said, and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. He slipped one on and opened the door.

When they cleared the threshold, he used his cell phone to call dispatch.

Megan looked so small and vulnerable. He resisted the urge to take her in his arms. He had to stay objective. “We’ll wait for the CSI team.”

“And then?”

Regret lay heavy across his shoulders. “Then I have to take you in.”

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At an early age Terri Reed discovered the wonderful world of fiction and declared she would one day write a book. Now she is fulfilling that dream and enjoys writing for Steeple Hill Books. Her second book, A Sheltering Love, was a 2006 RITA ®Award Finalist and a 2005 National Readers’ Choice Award Finalist. Her book Strictly Confidential, book five of the Faith at the Crossroads continuity series, took third place in the 2007 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year Award. She is an active member of both Romance Writers of America and American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children and an array of critters. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends, gardening and playing with her dogs.

You can write to Terri at P.O. Box 19555, Portland, OR 97280, visit her on the Web at www.loveinspiredauthors.com, or leave comments on her blog at http://ladiesofsuspense.blogspot.com/.

Every good thing bestowed and every perfect gift

is from above, coming down from the Father of

lights, with whom there is no variation,

or shifting shadows.

—James 1:17

To my family, for putting up with the long hours

at the keyboard. I love you all.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

“I didn’t kill those men!”

The declaration so angrily delivered by the petite curator of New York City’s Sinclair Art Gallery held more sincerity than most perps’.

Even so, homicide detective Paul Wallace barely managed to contain his scoff. He’d heard those exact words way too many times during the course of his law-enforcement career.

And denial was the fallback in every situation for most suspects.

Even suspects as lovely as Megan McClain.

Upscale all the way in her well-fitting, short-sleeved red dress and intricately patterned black pumps. Not exactly attire suited for the December snowstorm raging outside. She probably had a change of clothes stashed for the trek home—a planner.

Paul gauged her height at five feet five without the two-inch heels. She was about a hundred and ten pounds of slopes and angles. Raven-black hair fell past her shoulders, and her vivid blue eyes, the pupils dilated slightly, were set symmetrically within her pale, heart-shaped face.

The rapid beat of her heart was evident at the carotid pulse point on her graceful neck. Was she experiencing shock or remorse?

Paul glanced around, quickly assessing and cataloging the crime scene. Beyond the faintest trace of spent gunpowder and the coppery odor of blood, he detected a citruslike scent. On the yellow walls of the room they stood in, painted works of art were hung, and little display lights threw a glow on the framed pieces, creating a half circle of light on the floor beneath the bodies.

He noted that across the top threshold of each doorway, leading to other rooms full of artwork, a black seam hid a gate that would drop down if the security system was activated. Those gates were up. No alarm had been sounded. High in the corner of the room was a security monitor.

Pulling his focus back to Ms. McClain, he shrugged out of his overcoat and laid it across the crook of one arm.

“Did you hear me, Detective…?” she demanded, all spitfire and ready to explode. “Why would I call 911 if I’d killed them?”

Paul ignored her question as irrelevant, because too often the perpetrator of a crime was also the one to call 911 in an attempt to deflect the police from looking too closely at themselves. He would consider Megan McClain a suspect/potential witness, until he knew more.

“Detective Wallace,” he supplied, and flipped open his notebook to reread what he’d already learned from the responding officer. “You were read your Miranda rights. Do you fully understand these rights?”

She waved an impatient hand. “Yes, of course.”

“Good. So you were working here alone. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I mean no. I thought my boss was upstairs. I already went through all this with the other officer,” she huffed, and pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear to reveal sparkling stones. “And then again with those other people who practically strip-searched me.” A shudder rippled over her.

The CSI team had performed a routine exam of her person for trace evidence, checking her hands for gunpowder residue, taking any out-of-place fibers off her clothing and looking for blood droplets that would match the victims. The team had done their job.

Now it was his turn. Interviewing the suspects and witnesses was a vital aspect of any investigation, especially done as closely to the crime as possible while the person’s memory was fresh and they hadn’t had time to embellish or minimize any details.

“I understand that, ma’am. Nevertheless, I need you to go through it again with me,” Paul explained.

He’d look for inconsistencies in her account of the events and for ways to dig deeper and sift truth from lies.

She blinked her long lashes. “Fine. My assistant had an appointment, so she’d left early. I was alone in the workroom preparing the Wahlberer painting for transport when Mr. Drake—” She gestured to one of the two dead men lying on the floor to the right.

Ms. McClain seemed momentarily frozen as she stared at the dark-haired man sprawled on the shining cherrywood floor. A pair of long-handled sheers protruded from the man’s gut, and blood spilled out to stain the floor a deep crimson. The click and flash of the CSI tech’s camera documenting the death echoed in the room along with the hushed whispers of those working the scene.

A stabbing indicated a crime of passion.

“Mr. Drake came in…” Paul prompted, wondering if there was enough fire in her blood to make her commit murder.