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She’d heard something. Hadn’t she? She listened for several seconds, but all was silent. Her gaze slid to the clock on the edge of her desk and she was surprised to see that it was already past nine.
The building was probably all but deserted by now. Maybe she’d heard the security guard making his rounds.
She finished her sentence then saved the document. That was enough for one day. If she went home now she’d have just enough time to eat dinner and watch a program on television before going to bed.
Scooping up the day’s tapes from her desk, she headed for the reception area out front where she dumped them into Brenda’s in box to be transcribed tomorrow. She was about to return to her office for her jacket and briefcase when she heard something that sounded like a chair leg scraping against the floor. The sound had come from the direction of the file room.
Trista stared at the closed door. Was someone in there? The idea of an intruder was ludicrous—the only money in the place was a fifty-dollar petty cash fund that Brenda kept locked in her top drawer—but she was reluctant to open the door and check.
If someone was there, the last thing she wanted to do was surprise him. Trista backtracked to her office and shut the door with a loud bang, and locked it behind her.
She could have sworn she heard the sound of another door opening, then footsteps. Picking up the phone, she called building security. Joe Wilkins answered immediately.
“I think someone may have broken into my suite, Joe. I just heard some strange noises in the file room, and Brenda went home hours ago.”
“Don’t worry, Ms. Emerson. I’ll be right up to check it out. We had a squirrel in the offices above you last week. Could be the same rascal.”
“I’m not sure, Joe. It sounded like footsteps to me.”
“I’ll be right there. Are you in your office?”
“Yes. And the door’s locked.” Trista set down the receiver, and waited. A few minutes later, the sound of voices in the hall made her adrenaline surge. Joe worked alone downstairs. Who could he be talking to?
Unless it wasn’t Joe coming at all, but somebody else. The same somebody she’d heard earlier in the file room? She looked around her office for something, anything, that might serve as a weapon. A pair of scissors lay conveniently on the corner of her desk. She grabbed them, then hid behind a bookshelf on the wall next to the door.
Trista grasped the scissors handle so that the metal dug into her skin. The voices drew nearer. She could tell that both were men. The one who was doing the most talking could have been Joe, but the other voice was deeper, and something about the cadence of the speech made her stomach clench into a hard knot. He spoke only a few words—she couldn’t make out—then the first man spoke again, and now they were close enough that she knew for sure it was Joe.
With a relieved sigh, she let the scissors drop from her hand. Crossing the carpeted floor, she opened the door.
“Joe! Thank goodness, it’s you. My imagination must be working overtime. I thought…” The words froze on her tongue when her gaze fell on Joe’s companion.
The man’s eyes were the exact shade of dark blue-gray as the storm clouds that built over Lake Ontario during the hot, humid summers. And they were fixed on her with a ruthlessness that made her feel like an insect about to be squashed.
Trista wanted to turn and run, but there was nowhere to go, and Joe would surely think she was crazy.
“Here you are, Ms. Emerson.” Joe sounded cheerful. “Detective Forester walked in the front door just after I got your call, so he decided to come with me to check out those noises.”
“How convenient.” She was amazed at how cool her voice sounded.
“Pretty good timing all right. And they say you can never find a cop when you need one!” Joe chuckled, not noticing that the other two people in the room were definitely not amused.
Although she’d been looking at Joe as they spoke, Trista felt her gaze being pulled back to the detective. Neither of them had acknowledged that they knew one another, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off her for a second. He was still watching her, his expression grim and unyielding.
“Let’s check out that file room,” he said.
The deep rasp of his voice shocked her. Only vaguely did it resemble the voice she remembered, in the way a young red wine compares to a rich port. Both from grapes, yet… “It’s out this way,” she said, striving for the same cool tone she’d used earlier. She walked around Joe and led them past reception.
Trista paused in front of the door to the file room. “This door is ajar. Just before I called you, Joe, it was closed.”
“Are you sure?” Joe asked.
Was she? She thought so, but now she wondered if she’d merely assumed it was closed. Frowning, she led the way inside.
Initially, all appeared as normal. The photocopier stood against the far wall. To its right were the file cabinets, the table with the coffee machine on it and a row of ceramic mugs. Then she noticed that one of the file drawers was partially open. That wasn’t like Brenda.
“Looks okay,” Joe said cheerfully, walking into the room and examining the ventilation screens carefully. “I can’t see any signs of squirrels, though.”
“I’m sorry, Joe. I really thought I heard something.”
“No problem. Best to be safe about these things. Well, I’d better get back to my post. Coming, Detective?”
“I was actually hoping to have a moment with, um, Ms. Emerson.”
Trista’s heart sank. She should have known she wouldn’t get rid of him that easily.
“Okay, then.” The sound of Joe’s whistling traveled down the hall, fading out once he’d closed the main door behind him.
Trista stared at a picture on the wall, knowing full well that those stormy eyes were on her again, seeing far more than she wanted him to see. She’d thought of Morgan often over the years—more often than she wished—and always with the hope that he’d put the past behind him and gone on to live the full and happy life that he deserved.
With the lines of anger and bitterness that outlined his mouth and creased his forehead, however, she could see that her wishes had been in vain. And now she couldn’t find the strength to face the bleakness that she saw staring out of his eyes. What had brought him here, tonight of all nights? What could he possibly have to talk to her about?
“There was something about this room that bothered you when you first walked in, wasn’t there?” His voice, although quiet, reverberated through the space like ice cracking on a frozen pond.
Trista frowned. She wasn’t surprised that he’d noticed. He’d always had a sixth sense about things like that. “Yes. It was that drawer.” She pointed at the open cabinet. “My secretary, Brenda, locks those every night. I’ve never seen her forget.”
He walked across the room and stopped where she had pointed. “This one?”
She nodded, then watched as he flipped through the files. It was a relief to have his attention elsewhere. Now she could examine him more closely. His hair was still dark, no signs of gray. And he still wore it so short you couldn’t tell it was naturally curly. He’d kept in shape, his body had the sinewy leanness that comes from a life of physical activity. As he bent over the drawer, the black leather of his jacket stretched tautly across his shoulders.
“Are these your notes on client sessions?” he asked.
“Yes, they are.”
He looked at the label on the outside of the drawer. “I suppose this is where your file on the Walkers would be kept?”
“Yes.” Trista caught her breath. “How did you know the Walkers—”
“The file’s missing.”
“I know the file’s missing. But you haven’t answered my question. How did you know the Walkers are my clients?”
“What do you mean, you know the file’s missing?”
They were speaking at cross-purposes, and Trista had to summon her patience to keep calm. “I’ll answer your question, Morgan, once you answer mine.” She bit her lip. It was the first time she’d said his name, and it was clear that he’d noticed.
He stood tall and stared. They were several feet apart but she could read the condemnation in his eyes, and she had to look away. Several seconds passed before he spoke again.
“I don’t want to shock you, but Jerry Walker is dead.”
“Dead?” She felt behind her for the solid support of the wall.
“Yes. He was murdered. In a motel room. Probably sometime yesterday afternoon.”
Morgan seemed to get satisfaction from each one of the facts he hurled at her. Trista clutched at the door handle, trying to hide her sudden dizziness. Jerry Walker dead? Murdered? “Are you sure?”
“Let me see. Bullet hole in chest. No pulse, no breathing, eyes staring forward, never blinking. Yeah, I think I can say that I’m sure.”
Trista caught her breath at the beginning of a sob, knowing he’d meant to be cruel, and refusing to let him see he’d hit his mark. “Right. Dumb question.” She thought for a few minutes. “It happened in a motel room?”
He nodded, leaning back on the cabinet behind him. “Seems he had a romantic afternoon planned. And I don’t think it was with his wife.”
Poor Nan. She would have to deal with death and infidelity, all in the same blow. Not to mention murder…
“And I suppose you’ve been assigned to the case?”
He rubbed a hand over his chin, his gaze confirming her suspicion. “Can we sit down? I have some questions for you.”
Questions? Trista didn’t like the sound of that. Back in her office she sank into one of two armchairs, while Morgan perched across from her, on the edge of the sofa. She knew from past experience that his eagle eyes were recording every detail about her appearance: the stylish new haircut, the fact that she’d lost weight since he’d last seen her, even the new, tiny wrinkles that had developed around the corners of her eyes. Nothing would escape him. She sat still, resisting the urge to squirm, to turn away from his open staring. Eventually he spoke and the tension in her shoulders eased slightly in response.
“What time did you hear the intruder?”
“Just after nine.” Trista glanced at her watch. It was quarter to ten now. She watched him reach inside the breast pocket of his jacket and pull out a notepad.
“You said Jerry was shot?” she asked.
Morgan nodded. “Died instantly.”
At least there’d been no suffering. “Was the gun found at the scene?”
A half smile twisted Morgan’s mouth. “No.”
She shrugged. “Not that I would have suspected suicide.”
“Nice to have that thought confirmed.” Morgan’s eyes gleamed for a moment and she knew she’d been indiscreet.
“So what brought you here, just at the precise moment I called security?”
“The timing was fortunate. The reason I’m here…” He broke off for a moment, his eyes drawn to the dark night outside the window. “We were looking through Walker’s financial papers and saw a canceled check made out to you. It seemed a point worth checking to me. Married man is killed while waiting for his lover to show up. The same married man is going to marriage counseling with his wife. Interesting paradox, don’t you think?”
What had he thought when he’d recognized her name on that check? What had he felt? He gave no indication now that he cared one way or the other. But Trista knew it must have been a shock.
“Rather despicable if you ask me. But how did you know to find me here? You couldn’t have known I’d be working late.”
“Why not? You usually do.”
Trista put a hand to her throat. There was such familiarity in those words. Had he been checking up on her over the years?
“I did try calling you at home first,” Morgan conceded.
Trista fingered her key chain nervously. Morgan had her unlisted home number? Of course, the police would have access to that sort of information. Still, it was kind of unsettling.
“Where did it happen?” she asked. “The murder.”
“The Night’s End.”
“The motel with the flashing neon palm tree along the expressway in Etobicoke?” It was hardly one of the area’s finer establishments.
“Yes. I think Jerry had been meeting this woman there for a few weeks now. They seemed to have a routine going. Now you’ve got your questions answered, so how about answering mine? Why did you know that the Walkers’ file would be missing?”
“Because I had an appointment with them today. Which they did not show up for, obviously. The file is sitting in the out basket on my desk.”
“Lucky for that or it would be missing right now.”
“You think the intruder was after the Walkers’ file?”
Morgan didn’t deign to answer. “Who has access to your office? The outside door is in perfect condition. Whoever got in here had to have had a key.”
Trista noticed that he wasn’t doubting that there’d been an intruder, the way Joe had. “Only security and my secretary have keys. And mine’s still here.” She held up the chain she’d been playing with earlier.
“You’re sure there’s no other?”
“Well, there is a spare. We keep it in the petty-cash box. I think there’s an extra one for the file cabinets, too. Just a minute. I’ll get them for you.” She walked back into the reception area and unlocked the top drawer of Brenda’s desk. Inside was a small metal box. She opened the lid and pulled out two twenties and a five. A few dollars’ worth of change remained on the bottom. “That’s odd.”
“What is it?” Morgan had followed her. Now he held her gaze with his own, and she saw that tension had stretched his mouth thin.
“Our keys.” Trista looked back at the box. “They’re missing.”
CHAPTER TWO
MORGAN LOOKED OVER Trista’s shoulder into the metal box. “Are you sure your secretary kept the key here?”
“Of course I am.”
“Does anyone else have access to it?” Morgan asked, undaunted.
“This is a small practice. There’s only Brenda and me.”
“Well, what about when Brenda goes for lunch or to the washroom—does she lock the drawer?”
Trista felt her patience snap. “We keep a fifty-dollar petty-cash supply in there, Morgan. Hardly a fortune.”
He ignored her flare-up. “So any one of your clients might have had the opportunity to take that key?”
Trista bristled further at his assumption. “Why does it have to be one of my clients? Perhaps it was a deliveryperson, or a courier. Why, even the young man who comes in every week to water our plants could have found that key as easily as any of my clients.”
“That’s a good point. Why don’t you make a list of all the deliverypeople, etcetera, that you’ve had through the office in the past few weeks?”
Trista sighed. She was sorry now that she’d ever mentioned anything about the noises she thought she’d heard. “Isn’t this a lot of fuss for a simple office break-in? Especially when nothing has been stolen?”
