Questioning the Heiress

The breath swooshed out of her, and her hand was suddenly shaking so hard that she sloshed some coffee on her fingers when she set the cup on his desk.

“Good. That’s good.” A moment later, she repeated it.

He debated if he should check her fingers, to make sure she hadn’t scalded them. She certainly wasn’t doing anything about it. Egan finally reached over and caught on to her wrist so he could have a look. Yep. Definitely red fingers. He rolled his chair across the floor to get to the small fridge, retrieved a cold can of soda and rolled back toward her. He pressed the can to her fingers.

She didn’t resist. Caroline just sat there. Her head hung low. Probably numb. Maybe even in shock. “I didn’t want anyone else’s death or injuries on my hands,” she said under her breath. “I couldn’t live with that.”

Since she seemed on the verge of tears, or even a total meltdown, Egan decided to get her mind back on business. His mind, too. He didn’t like seeing her like this.

Vulnerable.

Fragile.

Tormented.

He preferred when she had that aristocratic chin lifted high and the ritzy sass was in her eyes. Because there was no way he could ever be interested in someone with a snobby, rich, stubborn chin. But the vulnerability and the genuine ache he heard in her whisper, that could draw him in.

Oh, yeah.

It could make him see her as an imperfect, desirable woman and not the next victim on a killer’s list.

And that wouldn’t be good for either Caroline or him.

He needed to focus.

That was the best way to keep her alive and catch a killer.

He wrapped her fingers around the soda and leaned back to put some distance between them. No more touching. No more thinking about personal stuff. “The timer on the explosive was set for 8:10 p.m. Where would you normally have been at that time?”

Her head came up, and she met his gaze. “Since it’s Monday, I should have been in the car, driving home from work.”

He was afraid she was going to say that. “That’s your usual routine?”

She nodded. “I always work late on Mondays. The security guard walks me out to my car at eight p.m., because that’s when his shift is over. I leave at exactly that time so he won’t have to stay any longer, and it takes me about fifteen minutes to drive home.” She put the soft drink can aside so she could touch the necklace. “But the security guard wasn’t feeling well tonight. He wouldn’t go home until I did so I left about forty-five minutes earlier than I usually do.”

That insistent sick guard had saved her life. Egan didn’t need to spell that out for her.

“Who knows your work routine?” he asked.

The color drained from her cheeks. “Anyone who knows me.”

Well, that didn’t narrow it down much, and it certainly didn’t exclude Kenneth Sutton. There was just something about Kenneth that reminded Egan of a snake oil salesman. Egan only hoped that his feelings weren’t skewed that way because the guy was stinkin’ rich.

“So did the same person plant that bomb and then break into my house?” Caroline asked.

“Possibly. Maybe he set the explosive to make sure you didn’t come home when he was there.”

She shook her head. “Why? If that explosive had killed me, why bother to break into my house?” She waited a moment, her gaze still connected with Egan’s. “Unless he was there to make sure I hadn’t survived.”

It was Egan’s turn to shake his head. Egan had already played around with that theory, and it had a major flaw. “Then the intruder would have been lying in wait and would have attacked the moment you walked in. You wouldn’t have had time to make that 9-1-1 call or grab a knife.”

She closed her eyes a moment, and her breath shuddered. “So, this intruder perhaps not only wanted me dead but also wanted something from my house?”

“Bingo.” That was the conclusion he’d reached as well. “He probably thought you’d died in the car bomb, but when you came driving up, he’d perhaps already gotten what he came for or, rather, had tried to do that, and he fled because a person who sets a delayed explosive isn’t someone who wants a face-to-face meeting with their victim. Now, the question is—what did he take? The usual is either money or jewelry. Something lightweight enough to carry away.”

“I already told you I don’t keep large sums of money in the house, or on me. I use plastic for almost everything I buy. And I don’t own a lot of jewelry.” Caroline held up her hands. “These pieces are all from family members. Aunts and my mother. My grandmother,” she added, pointing to the gold heart necklace.

Family stuff. Something else he knew little about. “What about any small valuable antique that the intruder could have taken from your house?”

Another head shake. “I run an antiques business and love vintage cars, but I prefer modern decor.” She paused. “Or rather, no decor. I’m not much for fuss or clutter.”

He thought of her virginal white bedroom and glistening black kitchen and agreed. Modern, uncluttered and maybe even a little anal. Everything perfectly aligned and in its place, like the cool crystal.

Everything in place but those cookies.

Store-bought. Not the gourmet kind from some chichi bakery. Normal ones. Egan had a hard time imagining her standing in her kitchen. Surrounded by all that expensive glitter. Wearing silk designer clothes. And eating Oreos.

“Wait. There is something,” she said a moment later. “I have a small clock that was a Christmas gift from my mother. It’s portable and probably worth a lot. It’s on the nightstand, next to the dream journal I’ve been keeping for the psychiatrist.”

Egan didn’t remember seeing a clock or a journal, but then his attention had been on those open French doors, not the nightstand. He grabbed his phone and punched in the number to the SAPD dispatch, who in turn connected him with Detective Mark Willows.

“This is Sgt. Caldwell,” he said when Willows answered.

“Glad you called,” Willows interrupted before Egan could explain. “I just got an update from the CSI guys. They took Ms. Stallings’s lock from her bedroom door so they can test it to see if it was picked. They’ll replace it with a temp so we can secure the house.”

“Thanks. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”

“Well, we don’t want another break-in. This is just preliminary, but those shoe prints left on her bedroom floor are about a size eleven. Some kind of athletic shoes. So, we’re probably looking for a male.”

Egan made a note to check Kenneth Sutton’s shoe size. “I need you to check on the nightstand in the master bedroom and tell me what’s there,” Egan said to the detective.

“Give me a minute. I’m walking that way.” Egan heard the sound of the man’s movement. And waited. “There’s a phone and a clock,” Willows reported. “The phone is white, and the clock is about the size of baseball. It’s gold, and it’s got pearls and what looks like emeralds all around the dial. Heck, the friggin’ hands look like they’re made of diamonds. Caldwell, this is some clock.”

Yes, and the intruder didn’t take it. “Is there anything else on the nightstand?”

“Just a pen. Common, ordinary variety.”

Oh, man. “There’s no paper or notepad?”

“Nada.”

“Thanks. Make sure CSI checks that nightstand for prints.” Egan hung up, ready to relay that to Caroline, but he could tell from her expression that she already knew.

“My dream journal is missing,” she mumbled.

“Yeah. The expensive clock is still there, though. So, let me guess—everyone at that lunch today heard that you’d been keeping a journal.”

The color crept back into her face, and she looked as if she wanted to curse. She nodded.