Deadly Fall (17 page)

Augusta sat back down. “I’ve already been through this with Drew. When he came to me about the affair—”

“A one-night stand does not equate to an affair,” Jana said, “especially when both parties couldn’t have hated themselves more in the light of day.”

Augusta was back on her feet. “But the point is that the one night
did
occur.”

Jana all but loomed over Augusta, her frame vibrating with emotion. “And that was the excuse you needed to ask for a divorce. Until then, you were content to be…content, and you were content to keep Drew by you with the faint hope that one day you might feel for him what he felt for you. You didn’t have the courage to make a clean break, to give him the chance to find a woman who would love him the way he deserved to be loved.”

“The way you did, is that what you’re saying?” Augusta’s chest rose and fell with her breaths as she tried to rein in her temper. “If you loved him as much as you say you did, then you should have fought for him. I don’t recall you putting up any sort of fight to keep him. I might’ve been selfish for holding onto him, but you’re a coward, Jana Westenberg.” Her eyes narrowed, lips curved into a humorless smile. “But I forget that one-night stand. Maybe you’re not such a coward, after all.”

Augusta inhaled sharply. As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to take them back. There was a look of horrified guilt on Jana’s face. If she could’ve, Augusta would’ve kicked herself.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“If you didn’t, you’re a better person than I am.”

That humorless smile once more. “We both know that’s not true.” She took a step toward the door. “And I have to leave. Thank you for talking to me.”

Escaping that room felt like escaping a prison. But she wasn’t through the gates, yet. Augusta quickened her steps as she descended the stairs.

A voice stopped her descent. “Augusta.”

She turned and looked up. Jana was leaning over the railing, hands resting lightly on it. A puzzled look marred her brow.

“A phone call for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. It sounds like Detective Markov. You can take it in my office.”

Who else could’ve tracked her down?

“Thank you.” She retraced her steps.

It was indeed Nick Markov. And he was not in the mood for small courtesies.

“Why aren’t you at home?”

The tongue-in-cheek tone came naturally. “Hello to you, too.”

“Damn it, Augusta. I don’t have time for this. You should be at home. Joe’s supposed to be installing your security system this morning.”

“He called and said he was going to be late.”

“You still shouldn’t be wandering around the city, interfering in police business.”

“I’m not interfering in police business. I’m visiting an acquaintance.” She switched the phone to the other ear as she shifted her weight from her left leg to her right. “And since when was I under house arrest?” A light turned on. Her tone sharpened. “How did you know I wasn’t at home? Do you have someone following me?”

If not for the hectic background sounds of the police station, there would have been silence.

“Nick?”

“After last night, I thought it’d be smart to have someone keep an eye on you. Or have you forgotten the attack? How about the break-in?”

She bit her tongue before she could tell him that her foremost memory from last night was not of the attack or the break-in. But that didn’t stop the heat from flaring in her middle.

“Augusta?”

“I’m still here.”

“Go home. I’ll be by after I finish up here.”

“Did any of my neighbors see anything last night?”

“I haven’t finished reading the reports from the officers who canvassed your block.”

“I see.”

“Aug—”

“I’m going home, now. Bye.”

She hung up on him before he could protest.

* * * * *

“Anything?”

Nick glanced up.

“I was on the phone with Augusta. She took a trip down to the Westenberg Gallery.”

Ethan leaned against the edge of Nick’s desk, a half-eaten whole-grain muffin in one hand. He’d once remarked donuts were clichéd. “Does the lieutenant know you have a uniform on her?”

“Not yet. I thought I’d run it by him after I gave him the good news.”

The muffin stopped halfway to Ethan’s mouth. “What good news?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you have.”

“I have nothing. Nothing on the murder or last night’s break-in. With the security tapes gone and no prints to compare, we have nothing. The forensics reports on the break-in haven’t come in yet. And Augusta has no security system to speak of—”

“That’s being taken care of today.”

Ethan lifted a brow but didn’t remark on that. “Anyway, no one saw or heard anything in either case. And I called the hotel in Chicago. They confirmed Jana Westenberg’s stay.”

Nick’s brows drew together. “We need to find Charlie Medina.”

Ethan shook his head. “I called the supe and our suspicious neighbor lady. They haven’t seen him.”

“I don’t think they’re the most reliable people,” Nick said dryly.

“You got a point.”

“I think it’s time to get our hands on Langan’s agenda for at least the past week.”

“Do we get a warrant or do we ask his brother nicely?”

“We’ll ask nicely first. The Langans said they would cooperate fully with the investigation.”

“Augusta could’ve staged the attack and the break-in,” Ethan suggested quietly, eyeing Nick closely.

Nick rose and grabbed the leather jacket hanging on the back of his chair. “My gut says otherwise.”

Ethan muttered something unintelligible into his muffin. He swallowed. “Where are you going?”

“To find a punching bag.”

Ethan inhaled the rest of his snack. “Literal or figurative?”

Nick gave him a look.

“Okay. I’ll hold it for you.”

* * * * *

Augusta’s heart leapt into her throat when she saw a man she didn’t recognize on her front steps. Below average height, middle-aged and rough. Before she could backtrack, he noticed her and rose.

“Dr. Langan?”

She didn’t speak and glanced behind her, searching for the patrol car. It was parked a few houses down. The stranger moved down the steps slowly, as if not to spook her.

“Joe Doyle,” he said. “Nick sent me.”

Relief flooded her as she recalled the appointment. The man in front of her matched Nick’s description: five-six, going soft in the middle, salt-and-pepper hair. She smiled shakily. “I’m sorry. I’m a little jumpy today,” she said and extended a hand. “Please call me Augusta.”

He shook it, grip dry and firm. “Joe. And after what Nick told me, your reaction is understandable.”

She went up the steps and unlocked the door. “Please come in.”

He stepped inside and glanced around. “Nice place you have here.”

“Thank you.”

“You live alone?”

“I like my space. I keep thinking I should sell this place and move into a condo, but…” She shrugged as her voice trailed off, a hint of a sheepish smile on her lips, embarrassed by her spatial extravagance.

Joe nodded. “It’s a nice neighborhood.”

She shrugged off her jacket and hung it in the hallway closet. “Nick told me you’re retired from the NYPD.”

“Stray bullet forced me into early retirement, but once a badge, always a badge.”

“Hmm. Do you need me to show you around?”

“If you’ll walk me around the house, I can explain what I’ll be doing.”

“Where would you like to start?”

“Anywhere is fine.”

“Let’s start in the kitchen so I can grab something to drink. Would you like anything?”

Joe shook his head. “Lay on, Macduff!”

The faint smile returned. How often do you hear a cop, retired or not, quote Shakespeare?

For the next hour, she trailed after Joe as he systematically went through each room, nook and cranny in her house, making copious illegible notes in his spiral-bound notebook.

“I’m going to install glass-break sensors on all the windows in the house and the French doors in the kitchen,” Joe said, as he stood in the middle of the living room and deciphered his script. “Motion sensors in this room, the kitchen and the dining room. Hidden surveillance cameras outside in the front and back of the house. The feed will be available on the television in the living room. I recommend you get a television for your bedroom so you can get the feed there as well.

“Nick said that he wanted the system installed before the end of today, so I can’t do everything I want.”

Augusta’s eyes were round. “There’s
more
you want to do?”

Joe looked up from his notebook, brows raised. “This is just the tip of the iceberg. I recommend you have pressure plate sensors installed outside the windows and the French doors on the ground floor. Frankly, I think you should replace those French doors with something big and solid, but I don’t think I’d win that one.”

“We’ll see how it goes,” Augusta said wryly. “You didn’t mention anything about the basement.”

“I think we can leave it alone for now. There are no external entry points there.”

“All right.”

“Do you want the alarm to be silent or do you want it loud enough to wake up your neighbors down the street?”

“I want it loud enough to wake up the neighbors down the street. I want to scare off intruders. I have no intention of trying to take them out myself.”

“I heard you did a pretty good job of rescuing yourself last night.”

She shuddered and swallowed past the sudden dryness in her throat. “That was sheer luck. I’m essentially a coward at heart. I have no desire to go through that again.”

“People who think they’re brave are usually all hot air. They like to fantasize about how they’d be cool, calm and collected and easily come out on top in situations like yours, with maybe a battle scar as a memento. But in reality they would’ve panicked and lost their heads.”

Joe’s eyes went past Augusta and into the hall. “I saw stairs leading up to another floor.”

“My attic.” Her voice turned grim. “With a skylight and lots of floor-to-ceiling windows. You’d better check it out.”

They made their way up the stairs. Augusta waited just inside the room while Joe checked out the door.

“I’ll replace this door with a solid core one and get a sturdy lock for it.”

“To keep them in or to keep them out?”

Joe glanced at all the glass in the expansive open space and gave a long, low whistle. The entire floor was two rooms—a good-sized bathroom in the far right corner and the remaining space made up an artist’s fairytale studio that was bigger than most Manhattan apartments. The studio was complete with an industrial-sized double sink, built-in cabinetry along one wall, a microwave and a mini-fridge. Natural light poured down from a large skylight in the roof. The front and back walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, with the heavy, cream-colored weave curtains pulled back.

He gave another low whistle. “This is some room.”

Augusta did a quick sweep, feeling a small measure of pride. “The renovation took three months of arguing with the architect and contractor and living in a studio apartment, but I think the end is definitely worth it,” she told him, stepping out of her heels and setting her feet on the smooth surface. The floors were an impractical mahogany because she couldn’t stand the thought of being barefoot on a concrete floor.

“Back to the door,” she said.

“To keep them in. This attic is nicer than my apartment, but it’s a security nightmare.”

“I need all the natural light I can get in this room.”

Joe noted the canvases scattered throughout the room. Most were covered, but the few that weren’t made an uneasy look cross his face. He tried to cover it with a polite smile, but Augusta was used to his reaction to her work. He’d probably been expecting some pretty watercolors of cute animals and seascapes, not images so dark and ominous and seething with such suppressed violence that it could’ve been a frame out of a Punisher comic book.

“They’re nice paintings.”

“It’s okay to be honest with me. My ego’s taken enough beatings to develop a pretty thick armor.”

He grinned at her and shrugged. “I don’t know much about art.”

“You don’t need to know about art to enjoy it. I feel sorry for the people who buy stuff they’ve been told they have to admire by critics. Usually they’ve just spent a fortune to hang something in their home they probably hate. That’s a waste of money—unless it’s an investment that’s guaranteed to pay off.”