3

Night shift stunk.

Smothering a yawn, Detective Colin Flynn hung a left and guided his Taurus down a street lined with high-end homes. You’d think after twelve years with the St. Louis County PD, a man would adjust to the rotating schedule.

Instead, night work got harder instead of easier—especially when you drew the shift that ended at four in the morning.

On the flip side, he wouldn’t trade his gig with the Crimes Against Persons Bureau for any other job on earth. There were a lot of ways to make the world a better place, but this one fit him to a T.

Easing back on the gas pedal, he peered at the address of the house he was passing. He was getting close to the scene.

As he accelerated again, he did another sweep of his surroundings. Night and day from the seedy bar where he’d spent the past hour sorting through an assault and battery involving two drunks—one of whom had done some serious damage with a knife. For once, the witnesses had all told the same story. It had been a simple case for him, if not for the guys being hauled to the station. That stupid knife stunt had made one of them a felon and would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Some people sat on their brains.

Colin stopped in front of his destination—a gracious two-story colonial house with muted accent lighting. The kind of home designed to host black-tie cocktail parties and Norman Rockwell–type Thanksgiving dinners, with generations of a family gathered around a laden table.

Also the home of a suspicious death.

He set the brake, snagged his sport coat from the passenger seat, and strode toward the front door, passing a CSU van on the way. The neighborhood might be posh, but as he’d learned through the years, ugliness didn’t have a zip code. Crime happened everywhere.

A young patrol officer met him at the door with the crime scene log, and he flashed his creds.

“Where’s the action?” He scribbled his name and filled in the time.

“Make a left off the foyer. Last door on the right at the end of the hall.”

“Is Meyers back there?” Talking to the responding officer was his first priority. Sarge had given him a topline briefing, but it was always better to hear directly from the person who’d been first on the scene.

“He’s in the living room. On your right after you enter.”

“Thanks.”

Colin passed through an ornate wooden door, crossed a parquet floor, and stopped on the threshold of a great room that would hold his entire condo with space left over. On the far side, a sandy-haired, thirtysomething man perched on a side chair, elbows resting on the arms, hands clasped in front of him. One wrist was in a brace, and there was a healing gash on his forehead.

Meyers joined him.

“Sarge gave me the basics.” Colin shifted away from the other occupant of the room and lowered his voice. “But I’d like to hear it from you. Is this the boyfriend?” He cocked his head toward the guy on the chair.

“Yeah. Matt Parker.”

“What’s with the injuries?”

“He said he was in a car accident three weeks ago. I checked. It’s legit.”

“Where’s the daughter?”

“Packing a bag. Wilson is with her.”

“What happened?”

He listened while Meyers repeated what Sarge had already told him. Straightforward, factual police report stuff minus conjecture or assumption.

“Okay. Now give me your take.” Meyers had been on the street for two decades, and the people insights from that kind of experience were invaluable. “I want the stuff that wasn’t in your report. Why did you think this might be a homicide?”

“I didn’t, at the beginning.” The officer rested one hand on his holster. “The deceased was in her midsixties and had a lot of health issues. There was no sign of forced entry or a struggle. At first glance, it appeared she died in her sleep. But the daughter dispenses her mother’s pills—and apparently she’s become forgetful.”

“How do you know?”

“Parker mentioned it. That’s when a little red flag started waving. I’m not suggesting it was murder, but I’m not certain the death was from natural causes, either. Since the daughter is the only heir, and this place”—he swept an arm around the house—“isn’t too shabby, I’m assuming she stands to inherit a lot.” He shrugged. “You get suspicious after you’ve been in this business a while.”

“I hear you.” Colin tipped his head toward Parker. “Keep him here while I touch base with the crew in the bedroom and talk to the daughter.”

“Will do.”

Colin continued down the hall, stopping at the last door on the right. Lacey Stephens from the ME’s office was conferring with Hank, the crime scene tech, as she stripped off a pair of latex gloves.

“You finished already?”

“Yep.” Lacey brushed a tight, gray-streaked ebony curl off her forehead. “And before you ask . . . no, I didn’t see anything suspicious. On the surface, it appears as if death could be due to natural causes. We’ll have to wait for the autopsy and tox results for more definitive answers.”

“What’s your estimate on time of death?”

“Based on body temperature, absence of rigor, and state of lividity, I’m guessing two to three hours ago—pending lab results. Hank, let me know when you’re done in here so we can remove the body.”

The tech, who had gone back to taking photos, grunted.

Colin’s lips quirked. With his gray flyaway hair and brusque manner, Hank definitely did not fit the media stereotype of a CSU technician.

Rolling her eyes in the direction of the cantankerous tech, Lacey edged past him. “See you around, Colin.”

“Yeah.” He strolled toward the bed.

“Keep your distance until I’m finished.” Hank barked out the order without looking up. “And don’t touch anything.”

“I know the ropes.” But he halted anyway.

“Never hurts to be reminded. I don’t want any slipups on my crime scenes.”

“You think that’s what this is? A crime scene?”

“Not my call. That’s your job. But if you’re asking whether I see any obvious evidence of foul play, the answer is no.”

Lacey was right; it appeared they’d have to wait for the autopsy and tox screen results to get any concrete answers.

“How long are you going to be here?”

“No idea. It’s a big house. I called for some backup, but I expect it could be a long night.”

A click sounded in the hall, and Colin backed toward the door. “I’m going to talk to the daughter and her friend. We’ll stay out of your hair.”

“Good.”

Colin escaped into the hall—and came face-to-face with a pale, slender woman in her early thirties, about eight inches shorter than his six-foot-three height. Faint streaks below her lashes were all that remained of her mascara, and only a few flecks of color clung to her generous lips.

Deb Wilson emerged behind her from the room on the other side of the hall, carrying a small overnight bag.

“You must be Detective Flynn.” The woman’s voice was shaky, her shock-glazed eyes the color of a cloudless summer sky.

“Yes.” The word came out a tad rough, and he cleared his throat.

“I’m Trish Bailey. The officer said you’d want to talk to me.”

“That’s right.”

She appeared to be on the verge of folding, and a powerful urge to take her arm rolled through him.

Fighting back that unsettling impulse, he motioned down the hall. “Why don’t we sit in the kitchen?”

Her irises began to shimmer. “Is she . . . is my mom still in the bedroom?”

“Yes.”

Her throat worked, and she steadied herself with a hand against the wall.

Once again, he had to wrestle down the inappropriate inclination to offer her his arm.

He transferred his attention to the uniformed woman. “Why don’t you join us, Officer Wilson?”

She nodded and fell in behind as he took the lead down the hall.

“Make a left.”

He followed Trish’s instruction, taking a quick inventory of the huge kitchen as he entered. Granite countertops. Restaurant-quality stainless-steel appliances. Slate floors. Ceiling-height wood cabinets that had to be custom.

Yeah, there was some serious money in this family.

And based on what Meyers had said, the sole heir was the woman behind him.

People had killed for a lot less.

Yet as he and Trish sat at the glass-topped table while Officer Wilson melted into the background, it was hard to believe the distraught daughter across from him could be a killer.

“I spoke with Officer Meyers, who took your statement.” Colin pulled out a small notebook. “He gave me a quick briefing, but I’d appreciate hearing the events of the evening directly from you.”

She tucked her shoulder-length, light-brown hair behind her ears, knitted her fingers together on the table, and recited the same story he’d heard from Meyers.

“I understand there was some concern about medication dosage.”

Her complexion lost a few more shades of color. “I manage . . . managed . . . my mom’s medication, and Matt thinks I might have miscounted.”

“What do you think?”

Distress tightened her features. “I don’t think I did—but I have made a few mistakes lately . . . and I’ve been under a lot of stress. I suppose it’s possible.” She choked on the last word.

“Tell me about the stress.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she regarded him. He met her gaze straight on, keeping his posture open and receptive. It was possible they were dealing with murder, but every instinct he’d honed during his years in police work told him this woman wasn’t capable of killing a mouse, let alone her mother. And he wanted to convey through body language that he wasn’t judging her at this point.

At last she looked down at her interlaced fingers. Swallowed.

“Two years ago, my husband, John, and I were in town for my mom’s birthday. My dad had bought tickets to Phantom of the Opera at the Fox for all of us, but I came down with the flu hours after we arrived. My mom had been excited about the show for weeks, and I insisted they all go without me. It was snowing that night. Being from Minnesota, John never let bad weather stop him.”

Her voice rasped, and Colin angled toward Deb. “Could you get her a glass of water?”

While the officer complied, Colin turned back to Trish. “There was an accident.”

“Yes.” She waited until Deb handed her the water, took a drink, and set the glass on the table with both hands when the liquid sloshed close to the rim. “A tractor trailer crossed the median. It was a head-on collision. John and my dad were in the front seat. They d-died at the scene. My mom was critically injured. She already had heart issues, and the doctors weren’t certain she’d survive. But she came through surgery, began to recover . . . then had a stroke.”

As Trish took another sip of water, Colin fisted one hand. His own history wasn’t exactly the stuff of storybooks, but this woman had endured enough blows to fell Goliath. The word stress didn’t begin to capture what she’d been through.

“You’ve had some tough challenges.”

“Mom more than me.” She regarded the half-empty glass. “She lost her husband of thirty-eight years, suffered terrible pain, spent six months in rehab, and ended up in a wheelchair.”

“I understand you moved back in here after the accident.”

“Yes. After I finished out the school year. My house felt empty without John, and Mom was all I had left. Moving home felt right.”

“Where did you and your husband live?”

“Cincinnati. We met in college, married soon after, and moved there for his job. He was an engineer.”

“Any money concerns after he died?”

“No.”

“You’re a teacher?”

“Yes. Art.” She named a school in a risky part of town.

“Not the safest area.”

“I’m careful.”

“Why that school?”

“Why not that school?” Faint creases appeared on her brow.

“There are plenty of schools closer to home.”

“That have plenty of qualified teachers waiting in the wings.” She took another two-handed sip of water. “Schools like the one where I teach have more difficulty finding skilled staff—and those kids deserve a quality education too. Like the one I had.”

A woman who believed in giving back.

Nice.

“How does . . .”—he consulted his notebook—“Matt Parker fit into the picture?”

“He’s my parents’ accountant. He does their taxes and handles the day-to-day financial oversight of their charitable foundation.”

Charitable foundation?

Another indication of wealth.

It also meant Trish wasn’t going to inherit her parents’ entire estate.

“Tell me about the foundation.”

“Mom and Dad set it up six years ago. He was a senior executive, and during his career he made a lot of money—salary, stock options, bonuses.”

She named the Fortune 500 company, and Colin jotted it down. Apparently the stories he’d heard about the handsome benefits and perks offered by that firm were accurate.

“Were you upset that they didn’t leave their entire estate to you?”

“Of course not.” No hesitation. “It was their money. And it’s not like they intended to leave me penniless. They set aside more than enough for me to have a comfortable life. But my parents believed that if you’ve been blessed, you have an obligation to make a positive impact on the world.”

Altruism must run in the family.

“Has Parker always been their accountant?”

“No. Only for the past year. Their previous finance guy died of a heart attack, and our pastor recommended Matt. He does a lot of pro bono work for the church and came with impeccable credentials.”

“And now you’re dating him?”

She traced the circle of condensation on the table with an unsteady finger. “We’ve gone out twice. My mom liked him a lot, and he is a great guy, but there’s no . . . he doesn’t . . .” She exhaled as a touch of color crept back into her cheeks. “Things aren’t clicking.”

“Yet you went out with him tonight.”

“For the last time.”

For some reason, Colin found that news pleasing.

“Does he know that?”

“I was going to tell him before he left. And then . . .” She bit down hard on her lower lip.

He assessed the woman across from him. In view of tonight’s trauma, she’d held up well. But her composure was beginning to fray—and unless his intuition was failing, a meltdown was imminent. He needed to cut this off now.

“Where are you planning to stay tonight?”

“I . . . I don’t know. Somewhere close. The Hilton, I guess.”

“Give me a few minutes to talk with Parker and you’ll both be free to leave.”

“Could I . . . do I have to wait? Are you finished with me?” She wrapped her fingers around the glass. Tight.

It didn’t take a genius to realize she didn’t want to deal with the soon-to-be ex-boyfriend tonight on top of everything else that had happened.

But she was in no condition to drive, either. Even from across the table, he could see the tremors running through her body. And if she increased the pressure on that glass a hair, they were going to be dealing with cuts from the broken fragments.

“We’re finished for now. But if Parker’s willing to drop you at the hotel, you might want to accept.” He flicked a glance toward her white-knuckled grip on the water. “It would be safer.”

She looked down. Loosened her grasp. Examined her trembling hands. “I’ll get a cab.”

A smart suggestion. It was a safe option, and the lady could afford it.

Nevertheless, it didn’t sit well.

“I’ll tell you what. I have to pass by the Hilton on my way back to headquarters. If you’re willing to wait another ten minutes, I can drop you there.”

He could feel Deb Wilson’s speculative gaze, and his neck warmed. Giving a potential suspect a ride might not be standard operating procedure—but it wasn’t against the rules, either.

Yet Trish didn’t jump at the offer. Not surprising. Considering how law enforcement had invaded her home tonight, she might want to get as far away from all of them as fast as she could.

And perhaps that was a wiser choice—for him and for her. Because he should not be noticing her sky-blue eyes . . . or the willowy figure that curved in all the appropriate places . . . or those soft-looking lips.

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate it.” Tears once more dewed on her lower lashes. “I don’t think I could handle it if I got a chatty cab driver.”

So much for wise choices.

Yet despite his reservations, he wasn’t backing out on his offer.

“This won’t take long.” He stood. “Officer Wilson will wait here with you. I’ll talk to Parker in the living room and see him to the door after we’re finished.”

“Thank you. I’m not up to dealing with him tonight.”

“That’s what I figured. Sit tight and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Notebook in hand, he left the kitchen. It was doubtful Parker would have anything of substance to add to the story, and based on Trish Bailey’s obvious anguish and sound financial footing, there was no apparent motive for foul play. If she had played a role in her mother’s demise, it was likely a tragic mistake.

But he wasn’t rushing to conclusions, either. He’d been in this business long enough to know that things weren’t always what they seemed. Evil intent often lurked beneath a veneer of respectability.

And if the pieces didn’t fit together the way he expected . . . if Trish Bailey wasn’t as innocent and grief-stricken as she seemed . . . he’d make sure justice was served.

Yet as he entered the living room, he couldn’t help hoping the ME would determine that Eileen Coulter’s death was due to natural causes. That ruling would not only clear Trish’s name and help assuage her guilt, it would free her to go on with her life—minus Parker.

A pleasant thought on this eventful night . . . for reasons he’d analyze another day.