Mary Burton - Cold Case Cop

Alex watched as she dipped long fingers into her briefcase. “Why do I have the feeling I won’t like this?”

“You may really love it.” Her voice had a throaty quality that had him wondering what else she might love. “My articles have helped you solve cases before.”

“Let’s have it.”

She laid the Metro section in front of him. “This is how I envision the story laying out. A friend of mine in production did it for me.”

Above the fold was a full-color picture of Kit Landover. The woman was stunning. In her late twenties, she had that magical combination of womanly confidence and flawless looks. Her hypnotic gaze stared at the camera lens as if she knew a secret that everyone else wanted to know.

It had been two years since he’d seen Kit in the flesh. She’d arrived at a gallery opening on Pierce Landover’s arm, and had immediately stopped conversation. An indigo silk halter dress had clung to her high, full breasts, small waist and sizzling, tight body. Rich blond curls, parted on the side, had accentuated seductively high cheekbones and enhanced violet eyes.

Every man in the room had entertained erotic fantasies. Every woman in the room had oozed resentment.

Alex flipped the paper over and read the bold headline just below the fold. It read Socialite’s Disappearance Still Unsolved After One Year—Paper Seeking Tips. He shoved out a breath. “You’re opening a hornets’ nest, Mackey.”

Two slim gold bracelets jangled on her wrist as she ran a hand over her ponytail. “That was the idea. Anniversaries have a way of stirring things up, and I’m hoping this mock-up shakes people up and gets them talking to me. After a year, I’m banking on the fact that someone will remember something about Kit they hadn’t shared a year ago.”

He laid the paper down. “Do yourself a favor and drop this case.”

The glint in Mackey’s eyes told him his warning had fallen on deaf ears. “Do you have any theories on what happened to Kit?”

Tension rippled through his muscles. “I don’t comment on open cases.”

“Murder. Killing. Open. It’s not like you to be so unguarded, Kirkland. You must have a theory on this case.”

He didn’t usually make rookie mistakes around reporters. He stiffened and frowned. “Don’t use my words against me.”

She leaned forward, matching his glare. “There is more to this story, Kirkland. I can feel it.”

If he dropped his gaze a fraction he’d have a clear view of her cleavage. “What made you choose this story?”

She shrugged and glanced at her mock-up. “I’ve had the idea to do a cold-case article for a while. And the Kit Westgate case seemed the perfect choice.”

His gaze dropped to her breasts. Nice. He moved his gaze to her pale face and the faint sprinkle of freckles on her nose. “Find another case.”

She straightened. “No can do, Sergeant.”

“I’ve given you a friendly warning. Stay out of this.” But she was right. There was more to Kit’s disappearance, only he hadn’t been able to figure out what it had been.

She grinned. “Kirkland, please. Since when have I ever listened to your warnings?”

He almost laughed at that one. “Never.”

“Exactly.”

Mackey possessed a spark—a vitality—that made other women uninteresting. “Whoever was involved in Kit’s murder or disappearance covered their tracks carefully. You’re not going to shake anyone up with a mock-up.”

She rose as if sensing she’d get nothing more out of him. She picked up her briefcase. Her fingers were long, but her nails were neatly trimmed, unpolished and not fussy. “We’ll see. I’m betting something does happen.”

Rising, Alex ran his hand down his tie. “You’re a good, solid reporter, Mackey. Why stoop to a sensational case like this one?”

She frowned. “Regardless of her social standing, something bad happened to Kit Westgate Landover. And she deserves justice.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Come on, this isn’t really about justice. This is about headlines and advancing your career.”

She leaned forward, giving him a better view of her breasts. “Sure. I won’t lie. The headlines are a definite advantage. But I also want to know what happened to Kit.”

“This is still an open investigation. If you find something, bring it to me. And if I find out you’re holding back information, there’s going to be trouble.”

She smiled, moved toward his office door and rested her hand on the doorknob. “I would never hold back on you, Kirkland.”

“That’s a load of bull, and we both know it.”

She laughed and opened the door.

He watched her walk toward the elevator and muttered an oath. Damn, but he did admire the way her hips swayed.

Alex had the feeling that all hell was about to break loose.

Monday, July 14, 10:05 a.m.

Tara hadn’t figured that Alex Kirkland would give a quote on this case. He was too good a cop to let his cards show. But she had got a sense of his frustration. It did bother him that Kit’s case had never been solved.

And she couldn’t resist seeing for herself that he was truly on the mend. She’d kept tabs on him while he was in the hospital recovering from the shooting that had shocked everyone.

Kirkland had been shot during a routine investigation. He and Detective Matthew Brady had gone to the home of a wealthy doctor to ask him questions about his wife’s suspicious death. The doctor had answered the front door armed with a loaded shotgun. According to Brady, Kirkland had reacted instantly. He’d pushed Brady out of harm’s way as he’d drawn his own gun. The doctor had fired, hitting Kirkland in the chest and thigh. The buckshot had nicked the femoral artery in his leg and punctured his lung. Kirkland had fallen to the ground but had fired his own weapon. The single shot had killed the doctor.

The entire exchange had happened in a split second, but Brady recognized that Kirkland was in bad shape. He was still conscious but in terrible pain and bleeding badly. Kirkland had nearly bled out before the paramedics got him to the hospital.

Three days after Kirkland’s shooting, Tara had snuck onto the ICU floor at Boston General. She’d told the doctors she’d been checking on Kirkland’s progress for a follow-up article on the shooting. They’d allowed her to peer through the glass walls of his room.

What she saw nearly took her breath away. He’d been lying in the hospital bed, as pale as his sheets and barely conscious. There’d been so many wires hooked up to him. The sight had shocked her. She’d not had the nerve to go into his room, but had lingered several feet back. The doctor had said that the injury would have killed most.

Now, despite the July heat, the memory still had the power to send chills down Tara’s spine.

With an effort, she tried to focus on the fact that he looked good now. His tall, lean frame remained taught and muscular. Time in the sun had left his skin tanned and his newly cut brown hair a shade lighter. He looked good. Real good.

She parallel-parked her beat-up white Toyota on the exclusive, tree-lined Beacon Hill side street. This exclusive area of Boston screamed old money and privilege. And it set her nerves on edge.

She shut off the car engine. She didn’t do well with snobby, rich people. They made her feel awkward and somehow less because she didn’t have blue blood in her veins. Intellectually, she understood this was stupid, a reaction to a sad episode in her past, but no amount of inner pep talks quite erased her feeling of inferiority.

Skimming fingers over her ponytail, she reminded herself that she’d been a reporter for nine years and had interviewed some of the most powerful and dangerous people in Washington, D.C. and Boston. She’d written about politicians, murderers, arsonists and sophisticated white-collar crooks. An old rich guy living on Beacon Hill wasn’t going to throw her off her game.