скачать книгу бесплатно
“I already calculated and confirmed it with Doc. We agree the angle of the blow, combined with the force of it, probably indicates the perp was around five-six or -seven and not very strong.”
“Ah, a small wimpy guy or a woman. Is that what you’re saying?” She sounded insulted for some reason, but she was right on the money.
Ryan inclined his head in agreement. “It was a lucky blow. Because of that and the choice of weapon, I really don’t think the murder was premeditated.”
Nina huffed. “Maybe not, but last night’s fire certainly was.”
“Maybe whoever set it didn’t know you were in there. Could have been to destroy any trace evidence.”
“Then why wait until you’d already made the sweep?” she argued. “They knew I was there, all right. I had the distinct impression I was being followed all the way to the guesthouse.”
“Later.” Ryan shushed her when Pete’s son, Jack, started over with their food.
Ryan attacked his burger immediately, amazed that Nina did exactly the same.
“Umm,” she crooned, the look on her face one of ecstasy as she chewed a mouthful of the juicy fat hamburger.
A smudge of mustard dotted her lower lip, enticing him the way mustard never had before.
The frosty attitude he’d worked up against her that morning had thawed down to acceptance, then warmed up to something he didn’t even want to name.
Ryan reached for the sugary tea, grasping at any kind of reassurance that his life hadn’t changed all that radically. He was in trouble here. Even his ice cubes had melted.
When Ryan took her back to the lab over the police station, Nina didn’t bother apologizing to Franz Koenig for her earlier escape. As for Franz, he didn’t even seem aware that she had been gone.
Ryan got right down to business, asking Franz to produce the murder weapon from the evidence vault downstairs. Nina felt edgy about seeing the thing that had killed Desmond, but also eager to check out what had occurred to her about it. Ryan remained quiet while they waited, ostensibly reading over a page of notes Franz had been writing when they arrived.
Once she had the statuette in her hands, she turned the small bronze figure this way and that, holding it by the marble base while she examined the arm of it through the plastic bag. The sculpture depicted a standing nude, one arm fused to the side of the body, the other raised with the hand buried within the hair at the nape of the neck.
“The bent elbow there inflicted the killing blow,” Franz mumbled, pointing clumsily at it.
“It had been wiped, but we found traces of blood and skin particles in the crevices of the arm where the bronze is textured,” the tech related in a monotone with just a hint of a German accent. “We also have isolated a half print, not yet identified.”
She wondered what sort of person would have the presence of mind to wipe off the makeshift weapon after bashing Desmond with it and watching him die. Somehow she couldn’t believe it had been someone so stricken with outrage they didn’t know what they were doing. Whoever had done it must have recovered their senses pretty quickly after the so-called crime of passion.
“Not squeamish at all, are you?” Ryan commented, inclining his head toward the object she was holding.
Nina realized he’d been watching her, his eyes narrowed, as she’d handled the instrument of her brother’s death. It did seem strange, even worried her, that she felt so little.
“I’m being objective, as you suggested,” she replied. She could hardly blame him for wondering about her lack of emotion when she wondered about it herself.
Maybe it was because she really hadn’t known Desmond well. Not the man he’d become after he left home. Maybe she had used up all her grief over losing him when he had left the family without a backward look.
Her little-sister grief had turned to anger eventually, then finally to acceptance. The victim of this crime was a virtual stranger to her. While she truly regretted Desmond’s death, Nina knew she would feel almost as distressed about anyone who died so needlessly.
She was doing this for the memory of that brother she had worshiped so long ago, for her mother’s son and especially for a boy who had been so angry he’d allowed no one to get close to him.
She hefted the slender little sculpture to feel its considerable weight. It was only about sixteen inches high, but could no doubt make a truly serious dent if wielded with some force. Desmond’s wound had not looked terribly deep, just lethally placed.
“Hold it like this.” Ryan took her hand and positioned it. “That puts your thumb where we found a partial print. Stand here like this,” he told her, moving her in front of Franz. “He’s about the same height as Desmond. Draw the thing back naturally and swing in slow motion.”
“Very slow motion, please,” Franz said, exhibiting the first sign of full awareness she had noticed in him. She’d pegged him as a space cadet, wrapped up in his work to the exclusion of everything else. She was glad to know he at least had a sense of self-preservation.
She raised the object and swung. When the plastic-covered arm of the statuette touched the technician’s temple, she immediately saw that the angle was wrong to inflict the same kind of blow Desmond had suffered.
“See that? Your mark would be too vertical,” Ryan said, following the angle of the protrusion on the statue with one long finger. “The person who struck him must have been taller than you. Say, around five-seven or -eight, we think.”
“Nearer Desmond’s height,” she confirmed and he nodded his agreement.
Nina gladly released the thing when Ryan closed his fingers around hers and took the object with his other hand.
“It was a woman,” she said conclusively. “This demonstration and the earring convince me.”
He shrugged. “Well, you have a fifty-fifty chance of being right.”
“More like eighty-twenty,” she argued, hitching herself onto a stool next to the counter by the lab table. “You said a man would probably have hit harder, too, and made a deeper wound. I agree.”
“Okay,” he said. “There’s a good chance our perp is female. But it could still be a man with a weak swing. Hopefully we’ll get something useful on the earring.”
He penned a note in one of the folders and snapped it shut. “We’re finished here for today. Let’s go back to my place.
“I’m taking copies of the files with me to go over some of the interviews tonight,” he told Franz. “I need to make lists of further questions before I reinterview. You check out the rest of those things that were bagged out of the bathrooms. I want the results in the morning.”
They left Franz bent over a microscope, either engrossed in his work or sulking. Nina couldn’t tell. The man was none too happy with their long interruption of his afternoon, or Ryan’s berating him for his premature report on the earring to the king’s office.
Despite Franz’s pouting and Ryan’s gruff manner, Nina realized she was beginning to feel a part of the team. Ryan was now being fairly generous with information and in allowing her access to everything he and his men had discovered.
“Thanks for not shutting me out,” she said as he deposited the box of folders in the back of his SUV.
“No problem,” he muttered, slamming the hatch and walking her to the passenger side. He opened the door, waited for her to fasten her seat belt, then closed it.
He was lying. He had a problem with it, all right. Though he had apparently relented, he didn’t look very happy about it. He hated to relinquish one ounce of control, she decided.
She had really misjudged him at first, when she’d assumed he didn’t care one way or the other about apprehending Desmond’s killer. Everything he did seemed directed toward that end. She could see by the volume of files alone that he had put forth a bigger effort than she could have expected from any police department this quickly.
After a silent drive through the city, Nina followed him into his apartment without waiting for an invitation. She stood by as he set the box of files on the dining table.
“I’ll help you go through them,” she offered. “A fresh eye might help, don’t you think?”
“Right,” he snapped. Then, almost as an afterthought, he tossed her a half smile to soften the reply.
That wasn’t exactly a plea for assistance, but she wouldn’t quibble. At least he wasn’t chasing her out of the place with the broom.
She looked around. His apartment had the same floor plan as hers, only reversed. There was a living room/dining room combination, separated from the small kitchen by a waist-level bar with stools.
It looked very similar to any midpriced apartment in the States, only the rooms were more spacious, the unscreened windows larger, offering a view of the distant ocean. And there were no closets, making her wonder whether Montebellans were taxed by the number of rooms as they were in some European countries.
His furnishings looked expensive, but not outrageously so. The color scheme consisted of beige and browns, more masculine than her rose and green. This decor seemed incredibly boring for a man such as Ryan.
She noticed no personal items at all. No photos, plants, no original art, no brass or bright colors to spice up the monotony. Maybe he was going for restful here. It was enough to put anybody to sleep immediately, she thought with a yawn.
“Sleepy?” he asked, almost hopefully.
“No, wide awake.”
“Hungry?” he asked, this time reluctantly, as he shucked his jacket, hung it on a dining room chair and headed around the breakfast bar to the kitchen.
“Not much. Lunch was substantial.”
“It will have to be soup and sandwiches, then. I’m not much of a cook.”
“Can I help?”
“No, I’ll get it.” He rummaged through the few cans she could see on a shelf in one of the upper cabinets, his back to her. “Tomato or chowder?”
“Tomato. I hate clams.”
His actions stretched his shirt smoothly across his broad shoulders, emphasizing their width. Nina hitched one hip onto a stool and propped her elbow on the counter, resting her chin in her hand.
No question, the man was very easy to look at. Incredible buns, she thought, idly tracing her smile with one finger.
Every move he made was a study in graceful economy. Amazing how much he accomplished and how quickly he did it without seeming to hurry.
“When I do the interviews, I guess you’ll want to sit in,” he said.
“You bet.” She continued to watch as he bent over, retrieving sandwich things from the small, European-size refrigerator. “Do you realize that almost every conversation we’ve ever had has centered on the case?” she asked.
He straightened and turned around, frowning. “So?”
Nina shrugged. “So, I thought maybe we could take a break from it. Talk about something else for a change. Sort of rest and regroup.” Ryan yanked open a drawer and fished out the silver ware. “I don’t break until the case is closed.” He met her eyes directly. “To me, that means solved.”
She flared her hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. It was just a thought. How is your solve rate, McDonough?”
“Pretty damn good. I mean to keep it that way.”
“A fanatic, huh?” she guessed. “Pitbull tenacity?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he admitted, methodically slicing a thick loaf of crusty bread.
Nina reached across and grabbed one of the knives, the mayo and the plate of bread. “I’ll do that. You do the soup.”
He placed a slice of bread on the plate just as she took it and their fingers touched. For a second, neither of them moved. With a short embarrassed laugh, Nina pulled the plate toward her and Ryan turned away.
She began spreading the condiment, slowly to make the task last since it was all she had to do. “You know, you had me fooled in the beginning. The way you move. The way you talk. I admit I worried you might have an idle streak.”
He gave a self-deprecating grunt, plopped the tomato soup into a pan and ran a canful of water to add to it. He stirred while she watched the subtle play of shoulder muscles beneath his shirt.
Nina continued. “But you don’t have. I guess you’re the proverbial duck. Serene and smooth on the surface, and paddling like hell underneath.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “That’s how you see me? A duck?”
She grinned back at him, loving his Southern drawl, now knowing how deceptive it was. The guy was no duck. If he only knew how she saw him. What would he do?
“How do you see me?” she asked.
He drew his mouth to one side and frowned in thought. Then he held up one finger. “Cat,” he said with a firm nod and a reluctant smile. “Yeah. Sly. Independent. Unpredictable and untamable.”
“Lots of ‘uns,”’ she remarked, not totally displeased with his comparison. He couldn’t seem to hold on to that determined resentment of his for long. Nina decided doing that just went against his nature.
“And you’re a little bit wild and scary when riled,” he added.
She also purred when she was stroked, but he hadn’t found that out yet. Probably never would. But she figured it was smart to drag him out of that mood of his if she ever planned to get on his good side.
“See there?” she said. “I’ve tricked you into a break after all.”
He had put down the spoon he’d used to stir and was now propped against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. “You always get your way, don’t you? Smiling like the kitty that ate the canary.”
His intense gaze lingered on her mouth, then roamed every inch of her visible above the bar. Nina had the distinct impression that he was filling in the rest from memory, since he had undressed her after the fire.
His voice was a near growl when he spoke again. “Yeah. Definitely a cat.”
Nina pursed her lips and raised her brows, not certain whether she should read more into this sudden rapt attention than simple teasing.
Then she looked past him. “You might want to paddle around to that soup, Ducky. It’s about to boil over.”
They laughed together as he rescued their dinner and began dishing it up. She loved his laugh, the spontaneity of it. He always sounded a little surprised by it, as if he’d never expected it to happen again.
“Tell me, Chef Duck, what brought you here to Montebello?” she asked, satisfied that she was making real progress, establishing camaraderie.
Suddenly he ceased what he was doing and slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. His were as cold and desolate as midnight in the desert. Though he refused to offer even one word in answer to her question, Nina understood the break was now over. She had encroached on forbidden territory.
The familiarity he’d allowed a few moments ago no longer existed. There would be no more banter about ducks or cats or long, sensuous looks or accidental touches that generated sparks. It was as if he’d thrown up an impenetrable fire wall between them.
Nina knew her question had caused the sudden turnaround, but told herself she should be glad it had happened. While a brief fling with a man like Ryan might be an experience worth remembering, Nina was all too afraid it would be impossible to forget when the time came to do that. She never had brief flings anyway, so it was for the best if nothing happened. If he could pretend no electricity passed between them, she could, too.
The man obviously had baggage. Big-time baggage she had no business exploring. He was an admitted workaholic, a man who lived for his work. She could see it clearly now.
He would never give up. He’d keep doggedly at it until he got all his answers. Then he would dive directly into another case without a pause, she would bet.
Had he always been that way, or was it connected to his leaving his job with the police force in Savannah and coming here to live? Beautiful as it was, she doubted he’d come here for the scenery. Savannah was a beautiful place, too, or so she had heard.
Something life altering must have happened, given his reaction to her question, but she wouldn’t ask him again what it was. She knew what curiosity did to cats.
Despite her decision to leave well enough alone, Nina had to admit that she enjoyed—and, at the same time, was annoyed by—the sudden, unfamiliar, and almost overwhelming thrill of anticipation that surged through herwhenever they had what she liked to think of as a moment
Well, that needed to stop. No more of those moments. She would focus only on helping discover who’d killed Desmond. That was why she was here, she reminded herself.
Someone ought to teach Ryan how to pause and celebrate the small successes the way she had learned to do, but Nina didn’t figure that someone would be her.
