In Harm's Way

She hung on his every word, nodding, and in the end, decided against calling an attorney or having one appointed.

The woman didn’t know any lawyers in Nashville. As far as he knew, she didn’t know anyone south of the Mason-Dixon line other than her dead husband and her mother in Florida.

Calling for legal counsel was the smart thing for her to do, and he had no right to prevent it or even discourage it.

“Do you want me to get a lawyer for you, Ms. Andrews?”

She glanced up at him and swallowed hard, meeting his eyes with a bravado he knew she was faking. “Are you sure I’m not under arrest?”

“No, ma’am, not under arrest, but you are in custody for questioning at the moment, so if you think you might say something that could incriminate you during this interview, you’d be wise to have legal counsel present.”

It was a mind trick, of course. He couldn’t, by law, say as much, but the implication was there. Ask for a lawyer and look guilty as hell. Waive the right and take your chance on outwitting the law. Mitch hated games, but he knew how to play them.

“No, I don’t believe I need an attorney,” she said, just as he’d expected her to. “I haven’t anything to hide, Detective Winton. Ask me anything you want to know. I’ll cooperate fully.”

He smiled at her, part of the act to put her at ease. Or was it? Reaching into the drawer of the gray metal table, he withdrew a tablet of lined blank forms and a ballpoint pen. When he had filled out the top portion, he slid the pad across the table to her and handed her the pen.

“Just write down everything you remember happening from the time you arrived at the airport.”

She eyed him warily and then stared at the writing instruments. “All right.” She picked up the ballpoint.

He watched her gather her thoughts, knowing that would be like herding butterflies at the moment. She was sleep deprived, barely over a case of shock and she was scared. He felt cruel for putting her through this, but he had no choice.

In the end, after she had written her statement and he had filled in the gaps by questioning her further, Mitch’s instinct assured him once again that she’d had nothing to do with Andrews’s death.

He had tried every trick he knew, even assuring her he could well understand how an estranged wife might fly off the handle and do something she would never consider doing without provocation. She’d looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, advocating murder that way. He had preyed on her conscience. Apparently it was clean as a whistle. Or nonexistent. He had accused her outright. She had stuck to her story like Scotch brand cellophane tape and, in an uncharacteristic flare of anger, flat-out demanded that he stop wasting time and get out there and find whoever had killed James Andrews.

If he was wrong about her innocence and she had killed the man, the physical evidence would have to point it out, because she had perfectly logical and believable answers to all his questions and accusations. Her reactions were totally consistent with those of an innocent. So she was that.

Or she was very, very clever.

They would have to keep her around until all the evidence was evaluated, of course, but at the moment there was nothing that would justify placing Robin Andrews under arrest.

The tests on her hands showed no powder residue consistent with her discharging a weapon. Her prints were on it, but not in a configuration that would indicate she had gripped it in a firing position. She could have worn gloves, disposed of them, then touched the gun. But where were the gloves? And where was the blood spatter she would have gotten from shooting Andrews at such close range? On someone else, of course. She hadn’t done it. He was convinced. Almost.

In the meantime he and Kick had a murderer to catch.

Kick would be interviewing the neighbors as instructed. Tomorrow he would start running down all of the victim’s contacts, checking his finances, looking for enemies. They would both be on it. The caseload was low right now and they could give it full attention.

But it was very early morning, not even daylight, and he couldn’t just cut Robin Andrews loose to fend for herself in the shape she was in. She didn’t even know her way around town. He had an idea.

“Do you have a place to stay?” he asked her. “You know, you can’t leave town until we wrap this up, and you sure can’t stay at your husband’s apartment.”

Her eyes grew large, the shadows under them emphasizing their redness, and she was biting her lip again, shaking her head, looking confused.

“No, no I hadn’t planned to stay there. Even before…” Her voice drifted off, then strengthened. “James promised to arrange for a hotel, but I’m afraid I don’t know which one he chose.”

She was too tired to think straight, totally wiped out and barely hanging on to her composure. Mitch had the absurd desire to hug her and tell her that everything would be all right. He’d been fighting that urge since the minute he first laid eyes on her. But everything might not be all right, and he had no business hugging her even if he knew it would.

“Come on with me,” he said, rounding the table and reaching for her arm. “I’ll find you a place to crash. Trust me to do that?”

She looked up at him like a little lost girl and nodded. He knew she didn’t trust him any further than she could pick him up and throw him, but she was too frightened to say so. She was afraid he would take offense and lock her up. He could read her right now as clearly as the big print on a wanted poster.

It reassured him that she was exactly what she appeared to be, a frightened woman in a terrible situation over which she had little, if any, control. His early training kicked in big-time, totally overriding anything he’d ever learned at the police academy or later on the job.

Treat every woman with the respect you show your mother and your sisters. The golden rule applies here, Mitch. Every female you meet is some mother’s daughter. Mitch could hear his father’s words of wisdom as clearly as if the man were standing there looking over Mitch’s shoulder at Robin Andrews. What would Pop think of her? She certainly was unlike any woman Mitch had invited to dinner so far. The thought made him want to smile.

“You should get a little rest before you phone your mother,” he told her. “It’s still too early, anyway. Give me the address and I can get a local minister or family friend in the city where they live to go and tell your husband’s family if you like.”

She fumbled inside her purse for a small address book, riffled through the pages and handed it to him, open. “James only has a half sister. If you could get someone to inform her personally, that probably would be better than if I called. We’ve exchanged Christmas cards, but I’ve never actually met her.”

“Consider it done. Will your mother be badly upset? Maybe we should send a minister or priest to tell her. I know how mothers can be,” he said.

“She’ll worry about me, I suppose, but she didn’t know James very well, so there shouldn’t be any grief involved. I’ll call her.”

She supposed her mother would worry? Very interesting. And Mitch couldn’t imagine marrying anyone when you didn’t know their family. His own had always been such a large part of his life, he rarely made a move they didn’t know about. All their advice and interference might be a little over-bearing at times, but Mitch was as guilty of that as they were. That’s what families were for. His, anyway.

Captain Hunford was waiting in the hallway when they exited the interrogation room. Mitch had known someone had been observing through the one-way mirror. He had sensed it even while he was working.

“Hey, Cap’n. What’re you doing down here at this hour?” The three of them walked down the hall to the bullpen. The lighting seemed eerie and uneven with the flickering of screen savers on the computers. The desks were deserted, their surfaces stacked with case files and the usual assortment of pens, coffee cups and the occasional family pictures.

“Taylor called and filled me in when he first arrived at the scene,” Hunford said in a tired, gravelly voice. “I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“This is Robin Andrews,” Mitch said by way of introduction. “Wife of the victim. Ms. Andrews, Captain Hunford.”

“Ma’am,” the captain said with a nod, his only acknowledgement of her. He looked at Mitch. “Since you’re here, I need to see you for a few minutes,” he ordered, leaving no room for delay or argument.

Hunford was okay, maybe a little too conscious of public opinion at times, but Mitch supposed the boss had to be. The man had been on the job nearly twenty years now and obviously knew what he was doing. Judging by his expression, this was probably going to be one of those times when Mitch wouldn’t think so.

Mitch spared a look at the woman and saw she was almost asleep on her feet. “Wait out here,” he told her after he had guided her to a chair beside one of the vacant desks. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He crossed the room, glanced over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t leaving, then entered Hunford’s office and closed the door.

Mitch briefly detailed the findings on the prints and lack of powder residue. “So, what do you think?” Mitch asked. “You hear the entire interview in there?”

“Most of it. There’s not enough for an indictment. Not yet, anyway. I’ll read what you got from her earlier and get with Taylor on it. I was looking for you this afternoon. You’re on suspension, pending an inquiry.”

Mitch blew out a frustrated breath and ran a hand over his face. “The review board? About yesterday,” Mitch guessed.

“You know to expect it, Winton, any time you fire that weapon. You shot that boy in the arm and the leg. The doctors say he might have a permanent limp.”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “He’s damned lucky he won’t have a permanent nap. He shot two people right there in the restaurant before I took him down.”

“I know. You did what you had to do.” Hunford leaned back in his chair, his palms flattened on the desktop. He stared at them and frowned. “But his victims didn’t die. And the kid you shot—”

“—was thirty-one years old and holding a smokin’ nine-millimeter,” Mitch finished. “I identified myself and he turned on me. When a guy’s that hyped on coke, you can’t talk him down, sir. You try, you die. I could have killed him and been justified—and you know it.”

“Just the same, I’ll need your badge and piece. You were planning to be gone for a couple of weeks, anyway, so it’s not like you’ll miss it. Take your vacation, let the review board do their thing, and we’ll get this ironed out soon as you get back. Don’t worry, I’ll go to the mat for you. You know that.”