In Harm's Way

“We’ll need another, more formal statement, ma’am. In more detail, and in writing this time.” He held up a hand when she started to object. “I realize you have other things to do, but I know you want to help us all you can.”

“Of course,” she replied. What else could she say?

“Good. You’ll be able to call his family, yours and anybody else you want to once we get to the precinct, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t touch anything else in here. You know, like the phone over there? I need to look around a little more before we go. You just sit right there for a while longer.”

She knew she had already contaminated the crime scene, even touched the gun. A stupid thing to do. How many times had she seen people do that on television and thought they were absolute idiots? Now she figured it must be a reflex or something. God, she wished she had left it alone.

She had felt James’s neck for a pulse. How could she not have done that? He might have still been alive and she could have helped him. But she couldn’t. He was already cold. The memory of his chilled skin made her fingers twitch.

Then she’d grabbed the phone in the living room to call for help. To make matters worse, she had rushed into the bedroom to get away from the terrible sight of death and wait for the police to arrive.

The covers had been torn off the bed and she was sitting on the bare mattress, so hopefully she hadn’t disturbed much in here. There would be fibers from her clothing, she guessed. She glanced at the satiny surface of the bedding. Could they take fingerprints from this? Why hadn’t she just backed out of the apartment and called from an outside phone?

As many times as she had seen it happen on TV and in movies, watched stupid people walk in after a murder and handle the very things that would incriminate them, it had never once occurred to her that she shouldn’t touch anything until after the fact.

She looked at her hands with the traces of wax residue on both sides. Why had they done that? Had the policeman said why? He had mumbled something about the fingerprinting, she thought.

There was also blood on her hands. James’s blood. On her hands. From the carpet where she had knelt beside him.

Suddenly Robin felt sick, ready to throw up. There was little time to debate whether she would destroy evidence in the bathroom. Better there than in here. She jumped up, rushed for the toilet and heaved until she couldn’t. Since she hadn’t eaten anything after breakfast yesterday, there was nothing in her stomach to lose.

Robin straightened, brushed her hair back behind her ears and turned to wash her face. The sight of James’s bottle of favorite aftershave sitting there on the counter top was the trigger. She saw it, sank to her knees, clutched the detective’s handkerchief to her face and wept uncontrollably for the man she had once thought she loved.

James shouldn’t be dead. He was only thirty-seven, too young to die, only six years older than she. Who would do such a thing to him? To anyone? He wasn’t bad. He didn’t deserve this.

She recovered from her crying jag, washed her face, scrubbed the blood off her hands and sat down on the closed seat of the commode to wait. Her legs felt too unsteady to carry her back into the bedroom just then.

After what seemed an eternity, the detective approached the open door of the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, I’m not okay.”

He came closer and frowned down at her with what looked like worry, then brushed her bangs off her forehead with the tip of one long finger. She should have avoided his touch. It was inappropriate, certainly, but it seemed oddly comforting and not in any way threatening or suggestive.

At that moment the thought reoccurred that he was very dangerous. Handsome men almost always were in one way or another, and she rarely met one she liked. Usually she could figure them out, however. Not this one, not this detective.

He was being nice to her, but only sporadically. He believed she had killed James. She could see it in his eyes and tell from his questions.

If he considered her guilty of murder, why would he bother to pretend concern? To win her trust, Robin supposed. To trick her somehow. Yes, that must be what he was doing. She had to be very careful.

“Let’s go on downtown now and get you a good shot of caffeine. I could use some of that myself. It won’t take long to do the statement, I promise.”

Gently he took her by her elbow and helped her stand, his grip steadying rather than forceful. He slid the strap of her purse, which she had left lying on the bed, over her shoulder. Then he escorted her out through the trashed bedroom and the dreadful scene of the murder, remaining between her and James’s body, so she couldn’t see it, even peripherally. No matter what else he might do later, she did thank him for that small kindness. He could have made her look again.

She wondered where her suitcase and laptop computer were, but was afraid to ask. Robin guessed they would both have to be searched before she was able to retrieve them.

She wondered if the detective had searched her small shoulder bag while she was in the bathroom. Winton, she reminded herself. Detective Winton. She must try to remember his name.

The upstairs apartment opened to a breezeway with stairs back and front that connected the two buildings of the four-plex. Neighbors in nightclothes stood in their doorways, observing as she and Detective Winton exited the building. He led her straight to a light-colored sedan parked beneath the streetlight.

An ambulance had pulled up on the sidewalk, lights flashing, back doors open, waiting. There were a number of uniformed police and several other vehicles forming a kind of perimeter around the building’s entrance. Beyond the semicircle of authorities, a news team interviewed people within the small crowd that had gathered.

Robin wished she had rented a car, and that she could get into it now, drive back to the airport and fly on to Florida. There was nothing she wanted more than to dismiss this entire night like a bad dream.

When Winton opened the back door of his car, she obediently slid in and suddenly found herself caged. Though it was unmarked on the outside, he was definitely driving a police vehicle, complete with the barrier to protect the driver and front-seat occupant from the criminals they transported. Without even trying them, she knew the back doors would only open from the outside.

He had not handcuffed her, but she was definitely a suspect, Robin realized. The only suspect. Were they even considering that anyone else might have done it?

Chapter 2

Mitch hated this part of his job, but he was damned good at it. His interrogation techniques worked, and his instincts had been honed by twelve years on the force, the last four as a detective. If he couldn’t drag a confession out of a suspect in her condition, then she was, by God, not guilty.

“Are you booking me? Should I call a lawyer?” she asked after they’d entered the precinct.

Oh, great. Now she was going to lawyer up. “If you want to call one, that’s fine, but you’re not under arrest. All I want to do is get on record what took place. It’s standard procedure.”

Mitch didn’t want to hang around here the rest of the night waiting for her attorney to show up and then be advised he’d have to either arrest her or turn her loose. He was ready to get down to business. “We’ll be in room three,” he notified Nick Simon, who was manning the desk.

He took Robin Andrews’s arm and guided her down the hall. He hoped her written statement and the following interrogation didn’t turn up anything new and he could simply release her.

Mitch didn’t want her to be guilty, and truthfully didn’t think she was, but she had a lot going against her. She had possible motive and opportunity. She had been at the scene, had the victim’s blood on her hands and prints on the weapon.

She was the spouse and the most likely perpetrator according to statistics, he reminded himself. Sure, she’d phoned it in herself, but as he had told her earlier, she could have done that to try to divert suspicion.

Mitch supposed it could be a crime of passion. A shot to the head. Weapon dropped on the floor by his body. The apartment had been trashed.

That last aspect bothered Mitch a little, however. The mess wasn’t exactly consistent with the tossing an angry wife might do after shooting her husband in a fit of anger. It looked more like a quick, frantic search. Maybe she’d been looking for something. But if she’d found it, where had she put it? And if she hadn’t found it, why had she called 911 and just sat there on the victim’s bed until they arrived?

Oh well, he would take her statement, read it, then do his best to find holes and inconsistencies.

Robin Andrews was an exquisite woman, a pale, slender blonde with aristocratic features, who, in spite of her height of around five-ten, appeared to be as fragile as thin crystal. But he couldn’t allow that to color his opinion of her one way or the other. He should be the last man on earth to be taken in by beauty and a look of vulnerability. Given a fit of rage, she could have shot her husband.

But she didn’t. You know she didn’t, said the insistent voice in his head. Gut instinct aside, Mitch intended to bend over backward to counteract that feeling, to leave no doubt about her innocence or guilt when he was finished with her.

“This way,” he directed, releasing her arm and pointing to the door at the end of the hall. She preceded him wordlessly and hurriedly, obviously wanting it to be over. He could tell by her body language that she was terribly afraid. The question was why? Fear that she’d be railroaded for a crime she hadn’t committed, or fear that she would let something incriminating slip out?

She had made no further mention of a lawyer.

He took his time seating her in the uncomfortable straight-back chair. “Just take it easy, Mrs. Andrews, and we’ll get this out of the way as soon as we can. Don’t you be nervous now. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

Mitch went down the hall to the coffee room and poured two cups of sludge that had been steeping for several hours by the smell of it. He loaded both cups with sugar and powdered creamer, then returned to the interrogation room.

“Here you go,” he said, placing one of the cups in front of her. She just stared at it, wide-eyed, then slowly cupped both hands around it, probably seeking warmth. The air-conditioning was working overtime.

Her long, elegant fingers were free of the blood now, but their tips still bore faint traces of the ink used to fingerprint her again when they’d first arrived. This time they’d taken three sets, for local, state and FBI use. He’d told her that was so they could distinguish her prints from any others that shouldn’t be there at the scene. The explanation hadn’t reassured her.

He had explained what the paraffin test was for and she had seemed almost eager to have that done again, assuring him they wouldn’t find any gunpowder on her anywhere. Of course, she might be under the impression water and soap would have washed it off.

Mirandizing her would probably scare her to death, but it was necessary. Kick might have neglected to do it. Mitch had to do this by the book in the event she broke down during questioning and admitted to the murder. So he began, trying not to sound too gruff. “You have the right to remain silent…”