Incriminating Passion

“Certainly.” He spun around and almost skipped to the tall desk looming in the center of the sales floor. At least John didn’t have to worry about this one hiding anything from him. On the contrary, this guy would probably be calling him all next week with meaningless details he remembered about the transaction.

John followed him. Once he had been that eager to prosecute the bad guys and lock them behind bars, that eager to make a difference in the world. Ages had passed since then.

Andrea stepped up next to him at the desk and leaned close, trying to see the manager’s computer screen.

Awareness prickled John’s skin like static electricity. Forcing himself to step a safe distance away, he peered over the manager’s shoulder. Dates, numbers and names were arranged in neat columns on the computer screen.

“Here it is,” the man pointed at the screen. “Wingate Kirkland, delivery. If there had been a pick-up, it would be noted here.”

Maybe Ruthie Banks was mistaken. Maybe she hadn’t seen Ryman’s delivery van hauling away a rug. Maybe she’d seen them delivering it.

Or maybe the computer wasn’t telling the whole story. “Who was the employee who delivered the rug?”

The manager squinted down at the screen. “Sutcliffe. Hank Sutcliffe.”

“Where can I find Mr. Sutcliffe?”

Ryman shrugged his bony shoulders. “Can’t help you, I’m afraid. Sutcliffe quit last week.”

Damn. Just his luck. Now he’d have to track the man down. “What day did he quit?”

“Monday. Didn’t even give two weeks notice. In fact, his last delivery was the one you’re asking about. The one to Wingate Estate.”

“Do you have a forwarding address for him?”

“Afraid not. He said he was moving back to Chicago, but he didn’t leave an address.”

Damn. The lack of a forwarding address would make the job of tracking him down tougher. Not impossible, but more time-consuming. “Where are you going to send his last paycheck?”

“He told me to keep my money. Said he didn’t need it. So unless he changes his mind and comes to collect the check, I’m taking him at his word.”

Interesting. Doubtful a man who worked delivering rugs made so much money he didn’t need his last paycheck. Unless he’d come into a lot of money from another source.

A source that paid him to haul away a blood-soaked rug.

John glanced at Andrea. She watched Ryman, her gaze steady, open, as if she had nothing to hide.

Or was that just what he wanted to see?

Ryman popped his head up from the computer. “I do have a picture of him.”

“A picture?” John glanced at Andrea again. A picture might be helpful for jogging her memory. “Can I see it?”

The manager reached for a stack of glossy advertising flyers balanced on the edge of the desk. Grabbing a flyer, he gave it to John. “Here he is, carrying the rug.”

The flyer was an ad for free rug delivery and pickup with cleaning or purchase. In the center of the photo, a beefy blond Adonis grinned at the camera, his trunk-like arms wrapped around a rolled rug. He handed the advertisement to Andrea. “Recognize him?”

A crease dug into her forehead. Releasing a breath, her face fell. “I’m sorry.”

John fought the need to trace a finger over the lines of frustration tooled in her forehead and around her mouth. As if he could erase them. As if he could make things better for her with the touch of his hand.

He forced himself to turn back to Ryman. If the man had sold the rug to Andrea, he would have recognized her when she walked in the door. But some one must have bought the rug. “Do your records show who bought the rug?”